Page 11 of The Blacksmith’s Wish

“I told him I am nae interested in the least,” Effie said firmly. “Kindly, mind ye. But firmly. Ensuring he understood there would be nothing between us.” The lie slipped from her tongue, leaving behind just a twinge of guilt as nothing of the sort had transpired between herself and Calum.

Beitris’s expression softened with sympathy. “The poor man.”

Effie shrugged, though a flicker of guilt tugged at her. “He did look somewhat stricken… but he will recover.”

“Men usually do,” Anne said dryly. “Eventually.”

Effie smiled faintly, though her thoughts drifted, unhelpfully, back to the wagon. To a pair of hazel eyes and a laugh showcasing dimples she had not known he possessed.

“Still,” Beitris said, nudging Effie lightly, “it is a compliment to be wanted.”

“Aye,” Effie murmured, her voice quieter now. She reached for another nut, only to realize her fingers had stilled halfway, her attention snagging on something across the square.

The rhythmic clang of hammer against metal rang out, sharp, familiar. Unavoidable. Gowan.

She would not turn, absolutely didnae turn.

…She turned.

Across the way, near the forge, he stood with his back half to them, sleeves rolled, muscles shifting beneath sun-bronzed skin as he worked heated iron with precise, controlled strikes. Sparks leapt with each blow, flaring bright before dying in the dust.

As though sensing her gaze, he paused. Just for a breath. Then his head tilted, slightly, subtly, and though he did not fully look her way, she knew that like her ability to sense him, he could sense her.

Effie snapped her gaze away, heart suddenly thumping faster, threatening to steal her breath. “Well,” she said briskly, brushing her hands together as if she had not just been caught staring like a lovestruck fool. “We have a fête to prepare for, do we not?”

Effie rose from the bench and dusted her hands on her skirts. “I had best collect the meat and baskets mother ordered before I forget,” she said, grateful for an excuse to move away from any more curious questions and from the line of sight to the smithy.

“We will go see about fabric this afternoon,” Anne called after her.

“Ye and Beitris can pick it. Just get enough for me, I trust ye,” Effie replied, already turning toward the row of stalls lining the square. The scent of fresh bread and spiced cider drifted past as she wove through villagers, but her steps slowed as she neared Peigi’s stand. Brightly dyed ribbons fluttered in the breeze, catching the sunlight, and neat stacks of woven baskets sat arranged with careful pride.

Voices carried from behind the stall. “…I am telling ye, I shall do it this season. I will find a way to get closer to Gowan Black.”

Effie paused. That was Peigi’s voice, low, determined… and entirely too conspiratorial to ignore.

“I cannae believe ye are still set on that foolishness,” another voice replied, lighter, amused. Moyra, the village trollop, no doubt.

Effie should announce herself. Instead, she lingered just to the side of the stall, hidden by a hanging length of cloth, telling herself it was only for a moment. Only until they finished speaking.

“…it is nae foolish,” Peigi insisted. “It is the fête. Everyone dances. Why should I not ask him?”

Effie’s breath caught.

“Oh, I can think of several reasons,” Moyra said dryly. “Starting with the fact the man barely speaks more than two words at a time, and one of those is usually a grunt.”

There was a soft thud, as though something had been tossed. “He speaks well enough when he wishes to,” Peigi retorted.

“And ye are sure he will speak to ye and accept whatever it is ye propose?”

Effie leaned ever so slightly closer, her pulse picking up in spite of herself.

“He will,” Peigi said, with the kind of quiet certainty that made Effie’s stomach twist. “Once he sees me in my new clothes and the extra care I will take with my hair. I will catch his attention; I have little doubt.”

“Oh?” Moyra tone turned teasing. “And how exactly do ye plan to accomplish this miracle?”

There was a pause. Effie could almost hear Peigi lifting her chin. “I shall ask him to dance.”

Effie’s breath caught.