The Blacksmith's Wife. Elisabeth Hobbes

shoulders sagged and she stifled a sob.

      ‘In truth, I have no real desire to marry you, knowing you are in love with him,’ Hal said. ‘However, as your uncle said, there are advantages for me. For both of us.’

      ‘What is the advantage for me?’ Joanna asked quietly.

      ‘Perhaps nothing,’ Hal admitted. ‘If you would prefer to wait and see which alternative husband your uncle can find for you I will not stand in your way.’

      Those words were all it took. He was right; Simon Vernon would find her a husband and, being anxious to be rid of her, would take less care than he did over choosing his belt. Thomas Gruffydd’s face swam before her eyes and she shivered.

      Joanna walked to the front of the workshop where the breeze cooled her cheeks and she could think more freely. Hal did not follow, though she could feel his dark eyes on her. She examined him out of the corner of her eye: a tall figure, handsome when he stopped frowning, but so like Roger that the sight of him tore her to shreds inside. Simon thought him honourable. Perhaps he was right. Hal had come to her aid in the camp when the guards had made their lewd comments and last night he had insisted on accompanying her home. For some reason known only to himself he had set himself as her protector.

      Uncle Simon came back inside. ‘You’ve had enough time to think, so what is it to be? Make your choice, girl.’

      Joanna swallowed, summoning the courage to speak. ‘I do not wish to marry this man, but you leave me no choice.’ Simon grunted his agreement. Joanna bunched her fists to stop her hands trembling and forced a smile she did not feel in the slightest.

      ‘Master Danby, I will be your wife.’