Page 30 of The Blacksmith’s Wish

“So certain?”

“Tokavaig has room for all sorts.” His gaze moved past Hamish toward the village, thoughtful now rather than guarded. “Old men, difficult women, noisy bairns, drunkards, bakers, healers, blacksmiths, and more than a few warriors who cannae quite decide what to do with themselves once battle is no longer the center of their days.”

The words settled around Hamish with surprising lightness, seeming to lift a weight from his shoulders. The older warrior let the silence stretch for a beat before nodding. “And where would a retired guard fit into all that?”

Gowan’s answer came without hesitation. “Wherever he chooses.”

Something in the simple certainty of it eased a knot in Hamish’s chest that he had not realized had tightened so badly. He had expected polite reassurance at best, or perhaps a noncommittal shrug. Instead, the blacksmith had answered as though the matter were obvious, as though there truly might be a place for a man who had spent most of his life with a sword at his hip and duty on his shoulders.

“I’ve no trade,” Hamish said, though the protest felt weaker now. “No wife. No children. No cottage waiting for me.”

“Then ye’d have the freedom to choose one,” Gowan said. “There are empty cottages enough in the village, and if one needs repair, there are men who can see to it. If ye wish to work, there’s always need of strong hands. If ye wish only to sit outside the tavern and frighten the younger lads into behaving themselves, I imagine ye’d be very useful at that too.”

That coaxed a short laugh from Hamish, the first in days.

When the quiet returned, Hamish looked toward the village once more. The laughter and music still carried faintly through the night, softened by distance until it seemed less like revelry and more like the heartbeat of a place still awake and full of life.

“Perhaps I’ll do it then,” he murmured. “When the festival is done, I’ll speak to the laird again.”

Gowan dipped his chin. “Tokavaig would be a good place for ye.” The words were simple, but they held no false comfort. Coming from another man, they might have sounded like politeness. Coming from Gowan, who wasted neither words nor kindness, they felt like truth.

Hamish gave a slow nod. “Aye,” he said, more to himself than to the blacksmith. “Perhaps it would.”

Then he straightened, the moment of reflection passing as duty settled back over him. “I should continue my rounds before some drunken fool stumbles into the trees and blames the guards for his poor sense.”

“And I should get back before the moon is high.”

“Then go on with ye, blacksmith.”

Gowan touched his heel lightly to the horse’s side. “Good night, warrior.”

“Good night.”

Chapter Eleven

Effie slammed the mound of dough onto the table with enough force to make a cloud of flour billow into the air. The sharp thud echoed through the warm kitchen, earning her a disapproving glance from her mother.

Her mother paused from kneading another loaf and arched a brow. “Whatever did ye dream of that ye woke in such a sour mood?”

“I am nae in a sour mood.” To prove it, Effie shoved both fists into the soft dough with considerably more vigor than necessary. The pliant mixture yielded beneath her hands until she caught her mother’s watchful gaze. Clearing her throat, she forced herself to slow, pinching off even portions and rolling each into tidy rounds as though she’d been perfectly calm all along.

Her mother quietly stepped beside her and laid a gentle hand upon her arm. “I will finish these. Ye stir the porridge.”

Effie gladly surrendered the dough. She crossed to the iron pot hanging over the fire and stirred the thick mixture of barley, bits of meat, and peas watching as lazy curls of steam drifted toward the rafters.

She rarely remembered her dreams. Yet this one lingered with painful clarity.

She had been wrapped safely in Gowan’s strong arms once more, his rough hands surprisingly gentle against her back. His handsome face had softened as he lowered his head, and his lips had found hers with the same tenderness as during the fête.

Only this time, just as she leaned into the kiss…He disappeared. One heartbeat he was there. The next, he was gone.

Mist rolled around her feet, swallowing the world until there was nothing but endless white. She’d spun in frantic circles, reaching into the emptiness, calling his name, desperate to find him.

Then she’d fallen to her knees and wept. That was the part she could not forgive the Effie in her dream for. The kiss she understood. The longing embarrassed her. But the crying was disgraceful.

If a man had the audacity to disappear after stealing a kiss, then she ought to have cursed his hide or laughed at her own foolishness. She should have marched away with her pride intact. Not collapsed into tears. The very thought made irritation flare anew.

Without realizing it, she stomped her foot against the stone floor.