Page 32 of The Blacksmith’s Wish
Was she?
Most lasses wed somewhere between sixteen and twenty, many before they’d even learned who they truly were. At twenty-two, Effie had only recently begun to imagine what sort of man she might willingly promise her life to. She had no desire to become one of the weary-faced wives she saw on market day, women who hurried from stall to stall with fretful children clinging to their skirts and husbands who barked more orders than kind words.
No. If she ever married, it would be because she chose wisely; not because the village expected it. Which, unfortunately, brought her thoughts straight back to Gowan Black.
She sighed.
He was handsome beyond reason, even if he’d likely argue otherwise. Beneath the burn scars and perpetual scowl lived a quiet kindness few people bothered to notice. He worked harder than any man she knew, treated his sister with unwavering devotion, and had kissed her as though she were something precious rather than merely another village lass.
Her cheeks warmed despite herself.
Still… None of that meant they belonged together.
For one thing, Gowan seemed like the sort of man who would have to be dragged to the chapel with a dagger pressed to his throat before agreeing to stand before a priest.
And secondly, the man carried enough anger to fuel every forge in the Highlands.
Yet when they’d danced at the fête… A smile tugged at her lips.
For those few stolen moments, the blacksmith had forgotten whatever shadows haunted him. He had smiled. And actually laughed. The memory transformed his usually stern face into something dangerously appealing.
Perhaps that was the true danger. Not his temper. But the rare smiles he bestowed so sparingly.
As the wagon rolled into the village square, the familiar music of daily life greeted her. Merchants called cheerful greetings across the cobbled street. Women carried baskets of herbs and vegetables on their arms, while their children darted between stalls, playing games only they understood.
When she passed the blacksmith’s shop, her wandering thoughts came to an abrupt halt. There he was.
Gowan stood before the blazing forge, his broad shoulders illuminated by dancing orange light. Beside him, his young apprentice watched with open admiration as Gowan gripped a glowing length of iron with heavy tongs.
The blacksmith raised his hammer.
Clang!
The sound rang through the square.
Clang!
Each powerful strike sent a shower of golden sparks bursting into the air like tiny stars.
Sweat glistened across his brow despite the morning breeze. It traced slow paths down his temples before disappearing beneath the collar of his linen tunic. The damp fabric clung to the hard muscles of his chest and arms, revealing every flex as he worked with practiced precision.
His forearms tightened.
The hammer rose.
Fell.
Rose again.
Effie forgot to breathe.
Everything around her faded.
The bustling square.
The merchants.
The chatter.
