Page 25 of The Blacksmith’s Wish

Still a question lingered. Was she the one who would penetrate that carefully constructed wall that Gowan used to keep others at bay?

Chapter Nine

Morning came bright and brisk, the village already stirring long before Gowan believed any sensible person ought to be awake. From the open doorway of his shop he watched people pass along the road, their arms laden with baskets or bundles, their faces alight with the easy cheer that always accompanied a festival. Greetings were tossed his way as though the morning itself demanded merriment. Gowan answered each with little more than a lift of his chin, too weary and too out of sorts to offer more. It was the second and final day of the fête, and with it came the promise of more music, more laughter, and more coin changing hands at the market stalls. After the day’s end the village would return to its usual rhythm, everyone swallowed once again by the demands of spring. Fields to tend, animals to see after, roofs to mend, and stores to prepare for the coming months. For now, however, Tokavaig still clung to celebration.

A sharp yowl behind him shattered his thoughts. Gowan turned to find his apprentice hopping in a lopsided circle, clutching his hand to his chest, a stricken expression on his boyish face.

“I hit me thumb,” the lad gasped, pausing every few hops to inspect the damage with deep offense. “It hurts.”

Gowan cast him a flat look. “Aye, that tends to happen when ye strike yerself with a hammer.”

The boy grimaced and resumed his miserable dance.

“There’s no need for ye to work here today,” Gowan said at last, motioning toward the square. “We’ve enough nails to last a fortnight. Go back to the stand and tend the goods there.”

The apprentice did not need telling twice. He hurried off, still nursing his thumb and moaning under his breath.

Left alone once more, Gowan stared at the glowing coals in the forge and tried to settle the unrest that had been dogging him since the night before. He had no intention of spending the day at the fête. There was more than enough work to keep him occupied, and he was already behind on orders and visits to make repairs.

An elderly villager had sent word that his horse needed shoeing and his cracked dinner pot needed replacing, tasks Gowan considered far more worthwhile than standing in the square amid laughter and dancing.

And far preferable to seeing Effie. The thought landed like a blow to his chest.

He reached for a length of iron and set it in the fire, jaw tightening as sparks leapt upward. Work he understood. Work demanded nothing from him but skill and strength. It did not ask him to untangle the ache in his chest or make sense of the memory of the woman in his arms, warm and trusting, as though she belonged there. As though he had any right to hold her.

No, the forge was where he belonged. Among iron and fire and the honest weight of labor. Not in the village square, where every glance at Effie would remind him of what he could not have. Would never have.

He’d spent the night tossing and turning, until finally having to pleasure himself for relief. And yes, he’d pictured Effie straddling him, her pert breasts bouncing as she’d worked his length with her body. The plump lips that he’d covered with his own had been parted in his vision, her hazy eyes locked with his.

Release had come quickly, and he pictured her splayed over him, spent from lovemaking. It would be the only way he’d ever have her. By imagining it.

In Gowan’s opinion, there was no woman in Tokavaig who could rival Effie McRay. She was beautiful in a way that caught a man unawares. Slender and graceful, with curves soft enough to tempt and a face that could disarm even the sternest mood. Her mouth was full and expressive, her eyes bright with intelligence and mischief. But it was not her beauty alone that ensnared him.

It was the way the lass always seemed to have some clever remark on the tip of her tongue. It was her quick wit and warmth. It was the way she met the world with laughter and boldness instead of fear. A man fortunate enough to win her would never ken boredom. Never tire of her company. Never cease marveling at the fire she carried inside her.

And that, more than anything, was why he needed to stay away from her.

It was not for lack of wanting. God knew wanting her had become a torment all its own. But Effie deserved more than a man held together by scars and stubbornness. A man whose body had not been twisted by fire and whose movements would never again be easy or whole. She deserved a husband who could dance with her beneath the stars without pain gnawing at his side. One who could take her in his arms without first wondering if she would recoil once she saw what lay hidden beneath his clothes.

The dancing the night before had cost him more than he cared to admit. Every turn, every shift of his body, had tugged at the ruined muscles along his side until the pain burned deep and sharp. Yet with Effie in his arms, her laughter in his ears and her face alight with joy, he had found the discomfort almost bearable. More than bearable. Worth it. For those precious moments, with her fingers in his and her gaze fixed on his, he had almost forgotten himself.

But the truth remained, as unrelenting as ever. Gowan had no illusions about what would happen if Effie ever saw the full extent of the damage the fire had left behind. The scarred skin, the puckered flesh, the ugly proof that had changed him forever. No woman could look upon that and not feel revulsion, however kindly she tried to hide it. And Effie would be too compassionate not to hide it. She would soften her expression, temper her words, and pretend nothing had changed, while all the while pity would be plain in her eyes.

He could endure many things. Her pity would not be one of them.

*

By the time the sun climbed high overhead, Gowan was deep within the forest, guiding Rook, his horse, along the narrow path that wound toward the old widower’s cottage. Here the trees grew thick and ancient, their branches interlacing overhead in a great green canopy that shut out much of the day’s brightness. What sunlight did break through came only in slender shafts, spilling gold onto the mossy ground in scattered pools of light. Dust motes drifted lazily through the beams, and the air held the damp, earthy scent of pine needles, moss, and rich soil still cool from the night before.

The deeper they went, the quieter the world became.

No voices from the village reached this far. No clatter of tools, no laughter from the fête, no cry of merchants calling out their wares. Only the soft thud of Rook’s hooves upon the forest floor and the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by the breeze accompanied him. It was the sort of silence that felt watchful rather than empty, as though the woods themselves were holding their breath.

The path curved gently ahead, beckoning horse and rider farther into the shadows. Rook had just rounded it at an easy pace when the horse abruptly slowed.

Gowan felt the hesitation at once.

The gelding’s ears flicked back, then forward again, his muscles bunching beneath the saddle as he came to a wary halt.