Lady Cairstine was laughing and dancing around the Maypole with several other women, some noble born like her, and some of the common folk from the village. It was harvest and the festival was in full swing. Breathless from the exertion, she went for her wine which was sitting on the trestle table set up for her family. Drinking deeply from her cup, she had looked up to see a man standing in the doorway of the blacksmith’s shop, shirtless, with arms crossed, watching her intently. She quickly looked away but was taken aback by the way the muscle in his arms bulged as he stood there leaning on the door-frame. Her eyes had captured the strong set of his shoulders and the brown hair that covered his chest before she had looked away. Her stomach flipped around, and she cursed herself for acting like one of the girls that were out there flipping their hair and fluttering their eyelashes at the various young men of the village. She was no girl. Widowed and a mother of three, she had said goodbye to the days of fluttering eyelashes a long time ago.