Page 12 of The Blacksmith’s Wish

“Well,” Moyra said after a moment, clearly impressed despite herself. “Bold. Foolish. But, bold. I approve.”

“He will nae refuse,” Peigi went on, more softly now. “Men rarely do in front of a crowd. And once he dances with me…” her voice dipped, filled with hope. “He may see me differently.”

Effie swallowed. Something inside her tightened in a most uncomfortable way.

“And if he does nae?” Moyra teased.

“He will,” Peigi insisted again, though there was the faintest crack in her confidence. “I have seen the way he looks at me.”

Effie’s fingers curled against her skirts. Was that true? Was Gowan interested in Peigi? Why had she not seen it? A strange heat crept into her chest. Sharp and unfamiliar. Not quite anger… not quite hurt… but something close to both.

“Well,” Moyra said, lighter now, “ye will need clothing worthy of such an attempt. If ye are to capture the attention of a man like Gowan Black, ye must outshine the rest of the lasses. Of course ye can nae outshine me, but I am nae interested in him.”

“I intend to,” Peigi replied, and this time there was no doubt in her tone. “He will nae be able to look away.”

Effie straightened abruptly, her heart beating far too fast. That was enough of that. She stepped around the stall before she could think better of it, forcing a brightness into her expression.

“Peigi! I have come for the baskets my mother ordered,” she spoke much to brightly and much too loudly.

Both women startled.

Peigi turned quickly, her cheeks faintly flushed, whether from the conversation or Effie’s sudden appearance, it was difficult to say.

As if unfazed, she merely arched a brow, her gaze sharp with curiosity. “Are ye preparing for the village fête? Who are ye attending with?”

“Aye, I have them ready.” Peigi, bent to retrieve a neatly tied pair of baskets, setting them on the counter. Effie reached for them, careful to keep her hands steady.

“I am attending with my family,” Effie replied, forcing her lips into a soft smile.

With baskets in hand and heading to the butcher shop, Effie considered why anyone asking Gowan to dance affected her. If she were to be honest, nothing stopped her from asking him herself. However, she’d never seen him participate in any celebrations. Instead he preferred to stand in the periphery, drink in hand, watching.

No, he was not the type to be coerced into dancing or such. Peigi was foolish to think otherwise.

Chapter Five

The day’s end settled over the village like a hush drawn too tight, the kind of quiet that pressed in rather than soothed. Gowan paused in the yard, his gaze sweeping over the forge, the tools, the neat stacks of iron, everything in its proper place. His apprentice, Conor, had seen to most tasks before leaving, as he always did.

In the evenings there was only the lingering heat of the fire and the faint scent of smoke and metal that clung to the air.

A soft, insistent weight brushed against his legs.

Silas, the cat, wound himself around Gowan’s ankles with practiced determination, his sturdy body weaving in and out as though he meant to trip him into submission. A low, demanding meow followed.

“Aye, Silas,” Gowan muttered, glancing down. “Ye’ll not let a man forget, will ye? It is time.”

Silas’s golden eyes flashed up at him, bright and unyielding. Patience was not among the creature’s many talents.

With a final look toward the forge, Gowan stepped inside to check the hearth, ensuring the embers were banked safely, their glow contained. Only then did he strip away his heavy apron, setting it aside before moving toward the rain barrel tucked behind the rough wooden walls he’d built for privacy. The barrier was necessary. There were things he had no wish for wandering eyes to see.

He worked quickly, pulling off his boots and clothes, the evening air cool against his skin. The scars tightened faintly as he dipped the wooden pot into the barrel and lifted it overhead. Water cascaded down in a sharp, bracing rush, stealing his breath for a moment before sliding over muscle and marred flesh alike. He didn’t linger. He never did. By the time he stepped back into his clothes, the chill had settled in his bones.

Silas waited by the door, tail flicking in clear disapproval. The moment Gowan approached, the cat let out a loud, offended cry.

“Aye, I ken. Ye’ve suffered greatly,” Gowan said dryly, pushing the door open. Silas hurried inside, his feet padding soundlessly in the empty room.

Inside, the house greeted him in shadow and stillness. He left the door ajar to invite in the evening breeze, then crossed to the windows, shoving the shutters wide. Fading light spilled across the room in soft gold. A moment later, the scratch of flint sparked life into a lantern, and soon after, flames licked upward in the hearth.

Warmth spread quickly, chasing away the day’s lingering chill. The space transformed, as it always did, into his sanctuary.