Page 13 of Steel & Surrender
As usual, Brìghde Boyd was hard at work.
Unlike Alistair, Greig hadn’t made many visits to the smiddy over the years. The castle had its own weaponsmith who forged all the weapons the castle needed. However, Brìghde made everything else.
He limped on, the rain slackening now. It was moving on as suddenly as it had begun, and by the time Greig tied Tàirneanach up to the railing outside the forge, the sun warmed his wet hair. The weather was as capricious as a beautiful woman today, and he wouldn’t be surprised if it rained again before he got home.
Then, pushing himself forward with his good leg and steadying himself with his stick, he hobbled over to the forge doorway. Above it hung the blacksmith’s trade sign. Four upward facing horseshoes—supposedly to keep ill fortune from entering from any direction.
The blacksmith hadn’t seen or heard his approach yet. Inside, the forge glowed orange-gold against the gloom. Brìghde stood before the anvil, sweat sheening her temples despite the cool day, sparks flying around her with every swing of the hammer. The muscles in her forearms flexed beneath rolled sleeves as she worked the heated steel with fierce concentration.
He knew at a glance—for, as a bairn, he’d often watched the weaponsmith at Duart work—that she was making a sgian-dubh, or ‘hidden knife’, a wee blade that slipped neatly into a boot or clothing. A useful weapon indeed.
Greig hesitated then, about to hail her. He just wanted to get Tàirneanach’s shoe replaced so he could go home, but something stopped him.
Win the Forge Maiden’s heart.
He dragged his gaze down the lass from the crown of her head to her heavy, soot-covered boots.
What was Al thinking?
Brìghde was taller than any woman he’d ever seen. She easily stood at six feet, almost as tall as him. Her body was strong—broad-shouldered, short-waisted, and narrow-hipped—with not much of a bosom to soften her shape. She wore a heavy woolen kirtle and a soot-covered apron. Her rolled-up sleeves were fastened in place with arm rings, and she’d looped her skirts into her belt. Underneath, he caught a glimpse of long, strong legs encased in thick woolen hose.
His gaze rested on her face. It was pale with broad cheekbones and a straight, proud nose. Her hair was long and fine, and so pale it almost appeared white. She’d braided it down her back.
There was nothing soft about her, nothing that fit the shape of what a woman ought to be.
His brother had singular tastes.
He cleared his throat then, and Brìghde’s chin jerked up, her gaze swiveling to him. Cool grey eyes settled upon him, a fitting color for a blacksmith, he thought: the flinty hue of iron.
She hesitated, her lips parting as if she thought he was someone else, and then tension rippled through her strong frame. Her face paled.
“Apologies if I startled ye,” he said gruffly, “but my horse has thrown a shoe.”
Recovering, she nodded, straightening up from her work, and put down her hammer. Her gaze roamed over him then, no doubt taking in his wet, bedraggled appearance. “Did ye retrieve the shoe?” Her voice was low, with a husky edge.
He shook his head. “Didn’t see when he lost it.”
“Right then.” Turning from him, she moved over to a bench where a collection of premade horseshoes hung on the wall, of varying sizes from a garron to a plow horse.
Without asking him the size of the beast he rode, she plucked a horseshoe down and approached him. “Let’s have a look then.” A brittle pause followed. Then, as if remembering her manners, she added, “How fares yer mother?”
Greig inclined his head at the question. “As well as can be expected.”
Brìghde nodded, gaze lowering. “I’m sorry for yer loss,” she murmured.
Something deep in his chest tightened. “Aye … thank ye.”
Greig stepped aside to let her pass, and as she did, he caught her scent.
Ash and iron.
And something surprisingly feminine.
Lavender.
Perhaps Brìghde Boyd hadn’t forgotten she was a woman after all.
Wordlessly, he watched as she walked toward Tàirneanach. The horse saw her and gave a welcoming whicker.
