Page 23 of The Blacksmith’s Wish

Slowly, reluctantly, his gaze lifted. For a brief moment, the sounds of the festival faded. There was uncertainty in his hazel eyes, something she’d never expected from a man who could bend glowing iron beneath his hammer.

“Better,” she whispered.

The next figure began. Forward. Back. Turn. This time Gowan followed more naturally. The stiffness left his shoulders little by little, and his feet found the rhythm as though remembering something long forgotten.

“I thought ye said ye’d forgotten,” Effie quipped over the loud music.

“I believed I had.” His expression remained thoughtful. They turned again, and he leaned closer. “My mother insisted that as children, Anne and I learn the festival dances.”

A faint smile touched Effie’s lips. “I remember.”

He looked at her, puzzled.

“She was forever dragging ye into the square to dance,” she continued. “Ye always looked so tortured but always danced with her.”

For the first time, the corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. “I’d forgotten that.”

Another turn brought them closer before the dance separated them again. When Gowan reached for her hands once more, there was no hesitation this time. His grip remained gentle despite his strength. The figures became more intricate, weaving between other couples before returning together. Gowan moved with quiet confidence now, no longer studying the steps but simply following the music.

“Ye have surprised me,” Effie admitted.

“How so?”

“I expected ye to spend the entire dance scowling.”

He didn’t reply, seeming to once again concentrate on the caller’s instructions.

“It suits ye,” Effie said.

“What does?”

“Looking as though ye’re enjoying yerself.” In truth, she’d not seen him so relaxed in a very long time.

His eyes drifted beyond her shoulder toward the bonfires beginning to glow around the edge of the festival grounds. The light danced across his face.

She saw it then. The shadows returning. The tightening of his jaw. The ease he’d found only moments before slipping away. Without thinking, she gave his hands a reassuring squeeze until his gaze returned to hers.

“The fires trouble ye.”

It wasn’t a question. Gowan was silent for several heartbeats, and finally he nodded once. “Aye.”

The single word carried more weight than a lengthy explanation ever could. Effie wished she knew how to chase away whatever memories haunted him. Instead, she offered the only thing she could. “Then keep looking at me.”

His brows lifted.

“Ye can ignore the fires for one dance.” For a heartbeat, he simply stared at her. Then, almost imperceptibly, he huffed out a breath. As the music carried them into the next figure, Gowan’s attention never again wandered toward the flames. It remained fixed on the woman standing before him.

And though neither spoke another word, both sensed something had quietly shifted between them. Not with the certainty of a thunderclap. But as gentle and undeniable as spring giving way to summer.

The lively tune came to an end, and the dancers applauded before drifting away in search of food, ale, or another partner. Laughter and conversation filled the square once more as the musicians prepared for the next dance.

Instead of heading to the stands or the blanket she’d been sitting on, Gowan led her quietly through the thinning crowd, away from the bustle of the festival until they reached the shadow cast by the butcher’s shop. There the sounds of merriment softened, replaced by the crackle of distant bonfires and the whisper of the evening breeze stirring the trees beyond the village. Tingles of awareness traveled up her arm; she never wanted to let go.

Gowan was watching her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. The familiar scowl remained upon his face, yet there was something different in his eyes. Uncertainty. Vulnerability. It was as though he stood before an obstacle greater than any he’d ever faced at the forge.

“Effie,” he began. “I must speak to ye about yesterday…”

“What of it?” She allowed her gaze to move to his mouth. “Must ye speak to me—”