Fergus froze for only a split second before he continued slamming the stone into the metal.
“This can hardly be considered pressure.”
“Aye, it is,” Jeane argued. “Ye could pull yer stitches out again.”
Fergus finished his task and turned to her, chest heaving with the effort.
“Then it’s good I have ye, isnae it? Ye can check the wound.”
Jeane walked closer to him, her heart pounding in her chest, her head spinning from the heat in the forge.
She trailed her fingers across the wound, and Fergus’ sharp intake of breath was not pain but something else. Something she did not quite recognize as desire.
It was clean, the stitching efficient. She had done a good job, and he had not pulled any of them loose.
“It’s fine,” she said.
Fergus smirked at her, showing his teeth. “Told ye it was barely pressure.”
“Are ye nearly done?”
Fergus looked down at her. “Aye. Did ye want somethin’? Another walk in the woods, perhaps?”
“It’s too dark now,” she said. “I wanted to give ye a report on Lottie.”
“Oh, aye. It’s been a few days. Is she poorly?”
“Nay, nae at all,” Jeane assured him with a smile. “In fact, I think she can start going back to her old activities. She’s been getting out of bed and going for little walks. She’ll do well as long as she takes it slow.”
Fergus broke out in a smile, maybe the first genuine smile Jeane had ever seen from him. It made him look ten years younger,almost boyish, and Jeane could not stop herself from reaching out to touch his face.
Fergus leaned into her touch, but as her thumb swept across a jagged scar on his face, he pulled away, clearing his throat.
“Is that all, then?”
His voice was back to that low bark again, as if they had not shared romantic moments together recently.
“I’ve never seen anyone forge a sword before,” Jeane said curiously, not wanting the conversation to be over.
“Yer father doesnae forge his own swords?”
“Nay. He hires people to do it.”
Fergus snorted. “I cannae imagine swingin’ a sword I didnae forge. It would seem… wrong, somehow.”
He looked at her for a moment longer before sitting down in front of his sword, beckoning her closer.
She moved toward him and squeaked in surprise when he pulled her into his lap.
“Quiet, little mouse. I didnae hurt ye.”
“Ye scared me,” she mumbled, but her cheeks flushed as he put his arms around her waist.
“See how the edges of the sword are glowin’ red? They’re still hot. Daenae touch them.”
“Of course nae.” She tilted her chin up, turning to look at him. “I’m nae a child.”
He chuckled low in his throat. “Aye, I suppose ye’re nae. Ye can use a hammer to forge, but I like the ragged edges that a stone gives me. They cut deeper.”
