Page 28 of The Blacksmith’s Wish

Gowan shook his head, though the old man’s laughter followed him all the way to his horse. Yet as he mounted and turned Rook back toward the forest path, the warmth of the cottage lingered with him, the scent of herbs and fire, the easy companionship, the sense that within those whitewashed walls the world had briefly become simpler.

Chapter Ten

Branches and old pine needles crunched beneath Hamish Quinn’s boots as he followed the now-familiar path circling the outskirts of Tokavaig. Night watch had never been his favorite duty, but tonight it sat heavier upon his shoulders than usual. The spring fête was in full revelry behind him, and with it came music, laughter, and the restless hum of a village determined to wring every last bit of joy from the warmer weather before work and routine called to them once more. The sounds carried on the wind in bursts, fiddles sawing out lively tunes, children shrieking in delight, the low roar of men’s laughter, and the occasional rise of a woman’s voice. To most, it would have been a comfort, proof that the village was alive and thriving.

To Hamish, it was a distraction. Every one of his senses had to remain sharp, straining to separate harmless merriment from anything that might signal danger. The woods beyond the village edge were dark and full of shifting shadows, and strangers had traveled from neighboring lands to attend the festivities. Most came with honest intentions, coin to spend, ale to drink, music to enjoy, but not all men who smiled by firelight could be trusted.

It was his duty to assume as much. He and the other Clan Ross guards had spent the day and now the night patrolling the roads, the tree line, and the open fields surrounding the village to ensure that those dancing, drinking, and making merry could do so without fear. The villagers understood, in the broadest sense, that the laird’s men kept them safe, yet Hamish doubted any of them spared the guards a second thought on nights like this. Why would they? Safety was easiest to take for granted when no threat presented itself. That was as it should be.

And yet, of late, Hamish had begun to wonder whether he was still the right man to shoulder such responsibility.

The thought had been plaguing him for months, long enough that he had finally spoken of it to Laird Ross not three days before. It had not been an easy conversation. He had served the Rosses for most of his life, first under the old laird and now beneath the son, and the idea of stepping away from the guard felt perilously close to cutting off a part of himself. But time was a merciless thing, and Hamish was no longer the man he had once been. He was older now, his body slower to recover from long rides and sleepless nights, his joints stiff in the damp, his sword arm not quite as swift as it had been a decade ago. He could still fight, God help the fool who mistook his age for weakness. But there was a difference between being capable and being good enough. That difference haunted him.

He had told Laird Alexander Ross as much. That he no longer felt certain he could defend his men as he ought. That if danger came swift and hard, he feared not for himself but for the younger warriors under his command, men who deserved a leader able to move as quickly as they did.

Alexander, to his credit, had listened in silence and with respect. The laird had not dismissed him, nor had he agreed outright. Instead, he had urged Hamish to think on it until after the festival, when they might speak again with clearer heads and fewer distractions.

Hamish had agreed. But in truth, his mind had already begun to settle.

The path bent slightly, and he slowed, his gaze sweeping the dark line of trees ahead. Above, the moon hung thin and pale, barely strong enough to silver the edges of the branches. Somewhere deeper in the woods, an owl called. Hamish listened and looked around and kept moving.

His wife, Lileas, had not been thinking of danger on the night she died. The memory came unbidden, sharp as a blade to the ribs.

His chest tightened at once, grief and fury twisting together so fiercely that for a moment he had to stop and draw breath. Lileas had been but five-and-twenty when she was taken from him, all bright smiles and warm hands and laughter that had once filled every corner of their home. She had been the sort of woman who turned strangers into friends within moments and made every room she entered feel fuller somehow, as if light itself followed in her wake.

They had expected years, a lifetime, children. Grey hair and old age and all the ordinary blessings that came with being granted enough time to love someone well. Instead, he had buried her.

Instead a stranger had killed her without warning, leaving a wake of questions. Hamish had buried her while rage hollowed him from the inside out. He’d gone in search of the man who had stolen her life. Whoever had attacked Lileas near her family’s home had vanished into the night as though the earth itself had swallowed him. No witness. No clear tracks. And ultimately, no justice.

Hamish shut his eyes for the briefest moment, forcing the old pain back into the dark corner where he kept it. If he allowed his thoughts to wander too far down that road, his focus would splinter. And if his focus shattered, some unsuspecting woman laughing by a bonfire or walking a dark path home could pay the price. He would not allow another family to suffer as he had.

A sudden sound snapped him back to the present.

Plop.

He froze.

The noise had come from somewhere ahead and to the left, just beyond the path. Hamish turned his head slowly, scanning the trees. Moonlight and shadow tangled together between the trunks, revealing nothing.

Then it came again.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

Not the snap of a branch beneath a boot. Not the rustle of someone moving through brush. Hoofbeats.

He lowered his shoulders and planted his feet, one hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. Every muscle in his body tensed, ready.

A few heartbeats later, a horse emerged from the darkness, large and dark against the pale ribbon of the path. Relief loosened something in Hamish’s chest when he recognized the rider.

It was the blacksmith. Even after recognizing the rider, he did not fully relax until the man drew near enough for his features to come clear in the moonlight.

“Blacksmith,” Hamish said, his tone serving as both greeting and question.

The rider dipped his chin. “Warrior.”

Gowan Black, was broad-shouldered and grim as ever, seated upon a large steed, his features looking as though carved there from stone. Moonlight caught the hard planes of his face, but it did little to soften the wary set of his expression.

Hamish let his hand fall from the hilt of his sword, though he remained alert.