Page 9 of The Blacksmith’s Wish

“Ye should have pretended to forget about taking me and left,” she snapped, the silence between them stretching far too tight for comfort.

Gowan did not even glance her way. “Why would I do that? Yer mother would nae have it, and I am going to the village regardless.”

His calm, practical tone made her wince. “I wished to linger. Take my time doing my hair,” she muttered, lifting her chin. “Enjoy the morning. Not be rushed along because of ye.”

At that, he turned.

It was a simple movement, yet it sent a ridiculous flutter through her chest. His hazel gaze settled on her, slow and deliberate, as though he were taking stock of every inch of her face.

“Ye look well enough,” he said.

Effie blinked. “Be still my heart,” she replied dryly, though a small, traitorous part of her preened at the words.

At least they had returned to familiar ground, bickering and barbs, far safer than whatever madness had taken hold of them earlier.

They rode beneath a canopy of trees, branches weaving overhead to filter the sunlight into soft, shifting patterns. A breeze swept through, carrying the sweet scent of flowering jasmine, and lifted strands of Gowan’s dark hair, tossing them across his face.

Effie’s gaze lingered, purely out of observation, of course, as he lifted a hand to push the strands away.

That was when she noticed it. A slight tremor. So small she might have imagined it. Though she didn’t think she had.

Her eyes narrowed. He sat too rigidly. His jaw was tight, the corners of his mouth drawn. A faint line between his brows. Gowan scowled often enough, but this was… different. This was… strained.

“Are ye ill?” she asked, tilting her head.

His gaze flicked to her. “Nay.”

“Then why do ye look as though yer in pain?”

“It is the way I always look.”

Effie considered that, then shrugged lightly. “True. Ye do often resemble a man in desperate need of finding a bush.”

For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then Gowan barked out a laugh. A real one.

Rich and deep, it rolled from him like distant thunder, warm and unexpectedly delightful. Effie blinked, startled. She had never heard him laugh before. Not like that. It softened him, and carved dimples into his cheeks she had never taken notice of. They made him seem far less forbidding, and unfortunately, far more dangerous in an entirely different way.

“Ye have a strange way of seeing things, Effie McRay,” he said, shaking his head, though the hint of amusement lingered in his voice.

Effie allowed herself to relax, just a little. It was a mistake.

The wagon hit a rut, and she pitched sideways with a startled gasp, straight into him.

Her shoulder collided with his chest, her hip brushing his thigh, and suddenly she was very aware, painfully aware, of the solid heat of him. The strength beneath his shirt, the scent of leather and iron and something uniquely Gowan. Her hand shot out instinctively, landing against him to steady herself.

For one suspended moment, neither of them moved. Then she scrambled upright, releasing him as though burned, her fingers snapping back to grip the seat once more.

Neither spoke.

They continued in silence. Though it was no longer the comfortable kind. The air between them felt charged, humming with everything unsaid. Effie stared straight ahead, jaw set, as if sheer determination might force her thoughts into obedience.

It did not. Her curiosity had been satisfied, had it not? She now knew what it felt like to be kissed by Gowan. To be held by him. That should have been enough.

But it was not enough.

Her traitorous mind wandered where it should not, imagining the slide of her fingers into his hair. The press of his body fully against hers. The warmth of skin to skin without the barrier of linen and restraint. Each thought came unbidden, vivid, and persistent, making her shift ever so slightly on the bench. Very dangerous, indeed.

When the familiar outline of Tokavaig came into view, Effie released a slow breath she had not realized she’d been holding.