The Blacksmith's Wife. Elisabeth HobbesЧитать онлайн книгу.
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His voice was hoarse.
‘When you touch me like that it tips me over the edge of madness. I want you so much it hurts beyond endurance. I’m cautioning you—if you carry on touching me that way I’ll take you here and now. I won’t be able to stop.’
Joanna licked her lips and swallowed. She slid her hand down between their bodies, feeling the proof of his words. She brushed her hand against the hardness she felt and lifted her face. Hal was watching her intently. She recognised in his expression the desire that filled her.
‘Then don’t stop,’ she murmured.
This story takes place in and around my home town of York and the North York Moors, an area I consider one of the most beautiful and dramatic in Britain. I’d urge everyone to visit—especially when the heather is in bloom and there is purple in every direction.
All but two of the locations mentioned in the book are real. Around a third of the way through writing I was delighted to find a female blacksmith named Johane on the lists of guild members working from St Andrewgate. Ravenscrag and Wharram Danby are my creations, but owe a lot to the centuries-old villages on the moors, including Wharram Percy which is managed by English Heritage and can be visited.
Sir Terry Pratchett died while I was writing this book, saddening me more than I can articulate here. When Joanna decided to adopt a dog—nothing to do with me…I didn’t know she was going to!—he became my tribute to Gaspode the Wonder Dog. There’s also another of his characters I’ve borrowed. Please let me know if you spot him.
The dog belongs to a friend who agrees with me that dogs with human names are extremely funny, and that Simon is by far the best example. His name was an unplanned but amusing coincidence—I love it when completely unrelated areas of my life collide.
As with all my stories, a particular song acted as a focus for my writing. This time it was Every Day by Stevie Nicks.
The Blacksmith’s
Wife
Elisabeth Hobbes
ELISABETH HOBBES grew up in York, where she spent most of her teenage years wandering around the city looking for a handsome Roman or Viking to sweep her off her feet. Elisabeth’s hobbies include skiing, Arabic dance and fencing—none of which has made it into a story yet. When she isn’t writing she spends her time reading, and is a pro at cooking while holding a book! Elisabeth lives in Cheshire with her husband, two children, and three cats with ridiculous names.
To Jenni, Paul and Fredi.
Thanks for the entertaining conversation about vellum and parchment. And the accompanying caipirinhas.
Contents
Hooves thundered on the ground as the horses charged. Lances met armour, splintering on impact and sending shards of wood cascading across the lists. The riders wheeled their mounts round to face each other once more. The crowd roared, stamping feet, pounding fists against the wooden fences that separated them from the contestants. In the stands the women gasped in alarm, clutching each other’s hands in excitement and suspense. To watch was agonising, but not a watcher, high-or low-born, could bear to tear his or her eyes from the spectacle before them.
None more so than Joanna Sollers.
‘Sir Roger leads. Sir Godfrey must unseat him or deliver a strike to the head to win,’ muttered a man to Joanna’s left.
‘Sir Godfrey will win,’ his companion