The Blacksmith's Lover: The Clockpunk Trilogy, #2

By Heather Massey

New England, 1840
On the run after being caught in a scandalous incident, scullery maid Sarah Bailey must find refuge before her vengeful former mistress kills her. When she stumbles upon a blacksmith's shop in need of an apprentice, she applies for the position.

Viktor is a brawny, reclusive blacksmith who creates fantastical clockwork and steam-powered devices. The gruff man makes it clear that Sarah's plight is no concern of his, but ghosts from his past dictate otherwise. Viktor agrees to protect the spunky maid until her former mistress is no longer a threat—and not one second longer.

Sarah quickly discovers that the fire of this blacksmith's forge runs volcanic hot. Unable to resist one another, she and Viktor begin a steamy affair. But how long will their idyllic arrangement last before Sarah's former mistress destroys it?

 

In this workplace romance, there's only one bed for the grumpy loner hero and his sunshine heroine. Also features baby makes three and working class main characters.

Note: The Blacksmith's Lover was originally published by Red Sage Publishing in 2012. Edition 2 has been reformatted and rejuvenated with a new cover but has not been substantially changed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crackerjack Creatives, LLC
• Release date: Mar 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393924241

Heather Massey

Heather Massey (she/her) is a geek mom who's the proud parent of a terrific daughter and married to the love of her life. Heather is best known for her sci-fi romance blog The Galaxy Express.Though she’s neither an award-winning nor bestselling author (thank you for not judging!), her stories provide quality entertainment by way of fantastical worlds, action-adventure, and larger-than-life characters who fall in love while battling evils such as classist jerks, corporate greed, the patriarchy, and corrupt politicians.

Book preview

THE BLACKSMITH’S LOVER

The Clockpunk Trilogy #2

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Heather Massey

Copyright 2021 Heather Massey

Publisher: Crackerjack Creatives LLC, 2021

Cover image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay

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License Notes

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the author's imagination. Any resemblance to events, places, persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people on social media sites or through other means. Please don't reproduce it in any form including physical, electronic, or other (an exception is the use of brief quotations for the purposes of critical articles and/or reviews). The author has asserted her respective rights to be identified as the author of this book.

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The Blacksmith’s Lover was previously published at Red Sage Publishing in 2012 and has not been substantially altered or revised.

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Content Warning

Graphic violence and description of past sexual and physical assault

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

About the Author

Chapter One

West Boylston, Massachusetts, 1840

Shortly after sunrise, Sarah Bailey emerged from the trees and stumbled onto the edge of Maynard Lane. She drew her frayed brown shawl tightly against her body to ward off the early morning chill. Spring was still a week away—an eternity for a homeless soul such as she. Penniless, with naught but the clothes on her back and the shoes on her feet, she’d been trudging through the raw Massachusetts countryside for nearly three days.

Sarah winced as the cloth of her dress rubbed against the painful welts on her back. How long before they subsided? Her body ached for the bone-deep massage of a scorching summer sun, not the wan tendrils of light struggling to pierce the thickly forested land of West Boylston.

But she was being hunted; there was no time to linger on fanciful daydreams. With a fearful glance behind her, she quickened her pace. Stiff muscles creaked in protest, but Sarah knew a steadfast march would help circulate her blood and ward off the cold.

Something moved against her scalp. Digging through her hair, she picked out the culprit—a twig—and tossed it away. The previous night was the third time she’d had nothing but the cold, hard ground for a bed. A pile of pine needles had been her quilt, along with a swath of moss serving as a makeshift pillow. She was a right mess as a result, and smelled like she’d spent the night in the embrace of a bog. It could be worse. At least you’re still alive.

Her stomach growled, reminding her that incalculable hours had passed since her last meal. A number of streams along her journey had delivered opportunities to slake her thirst, but filling her stomach with water had done little good. She longed for a thick slice of hot buttered toast and a large pot of steaming tea.

Sarah fought back a moan. She would have to find work—and soon. She couldn’t risk collapsing in the middle of a public road where her former employer’s men might discover her. Elizabeth Reynolds, courtesy of her banker husband, possessed a vast amount of wealth and resources. Additionally, she wielded considerable influence over her peers. Strong arming is more like it, Sarah thought with a frown.

Would Mrs. Reynolds think to extend her claws beyond Worcester and as far as West Boylston? Sarah hoped not. Still, a violent shiver ran through her, and more from simply the cold. This wouldn’t be the first time the Reynolds had ordered their thugs to hunt and subdue rebellious employees. It might not be the last, either, but Sarah was determined to avoid being their latest victim.

She pushed forward, continuing her journey toward the heart of the town. As the chattering of birds increased in volume, a rhythmic clop-clop reached her ears. Something—and someone—was coming up the road. Her heart thumped in her chest. Should she dive into the woods for concealment? A swift glance behind told her the move would most likely cause suspicion. The buggy proceeding down Maynard Lane was less than a quarter mile away. This portion of the road was straight as an arrow. The occupants would have seen her by now.

Sarah fisted the edge of her shawl as perspiration beaded upon her forehead. Surely she was out of harm’s way by now. Stay calm. If anyone asks, your lady enjoys painting, and you’re out collecting suitable specimens for a still-life.

Sarah prayed the buggy would pass her by. Prayed the conveyance was transporting a local family or businessman and not the predators sent out to capture her. She forced her shoulders to relax and willed herself to be unworthy of notice, like a sleepy little caterpillar.

The buggy approached fast, about fifty feet away now. Sarah moved closer to the road’s edge. Schooling her features into a polite, yet distant expression, she turned her head to look at the driver. At the same time, she braced herself to leap into the safety of the trees if need be.

The driver was a dark-haired man, dressed in a smart top hat and gray wool coat. A youth of about ten or so, identically dressed, sat beside him, their features so similar that they were probably related. Upon seeing her glance their way, the driver tipped his hat. The youth did the same.

Sarah nodded in response as the buggy bounced past. The chestnut mare pulling the conveyance clopped-clopped ahead, spewing clouds of steamy breath into the air. In moments, the buggy had traveled far past her position. Sarah nearly cried from relief.

She allowed herself a smidgeon of hope. Perhaps in West Boylston she’d find the sanctuary she so desperately needed. Resentment filled her, then, at the thought that none of this should have happened in the first place. Sarah knew—and so did the good Lord above—that she wasn’t at fault. She couldn’t have known Mr. Reynolds’s intent when he’d asked her to bring him a tray of food to his study. She’d simply been obeying his orders like a respectful, obedient servant. Mr. Reynolds had taken advantage of that. As a result, his wife was furious with the wrong person. Regardless, Sarah now had a heavy cross to bear.

She shook off the painful memories. She’d been employed by the Reynolds as a scullery maid for five years. Adapting to a new family would be difficult, but adapt she must.

She walked for what she estimated was another hour. The air warmed, but only enough to thaw the tip of her nose. Sarah sighed. Was she even heading the right way? The lines of trees bordering the road seemed endless. She was strongly considering reversing direction when a sight at the next bend slowed her footfalls.

A white house occupied this section of the lane, a modest, two-story building. A weather-beaten post topped with an oversized horseshoe marked the beginning of a dirt path that disappeared around the left side of it. This must be the local blacksmith, or at least one of them.

As Sarah neared the post, she noticed a crude sign hanging from a thick iron nail beneath the horseshoe. Her brows slanted in confusion as she worked to decipher the words: Aprantis Vanted. She had to sound it out a few times before insight dawned. Sarah grinned as she plucked the sign from its perch.

After smoothing down her hair, she marched up the three steps. This is exactly the opportunity I need. With a newfound confidence, she rapped on the door.

Minutes passed. She knocked again. More time went by. She shifted from one foot to the other as she waited. After a few more knocks, there was still no response. She didn’t see