“Oh, yes, you said that.” She nodded, sounding a bit breathless.
He cast a glance at her, eyebrow raised. “I did.” After a pause, he added, “Jacob said ye were asking about our trade routes. Why?”
She took a deep breath. “I was thinking about an idea that Old Fergus and I had about supplementing the food the villagers have.”
He frowned. “I didnae hear about that.”
“Well, that is because I had not brought it up.” She smiled slightly.
He made a disgruntled sound, hammering the iron. The ringing filled the thick silence that followed her declaration.
“Well, are ye going to tell me about it now?”
She chuckled. “Are you amenable to hearing what I have to say?”
“Of course.” He smirked at her.
“Well, Old Fergus and I were thinking that if we could somehow find a way to replenish the food supplies stolen by the redcoats?—”
His eyebrows rose high. “Redcoats, ye say? It is strange to hear ye call them so.”
She fidgeted uncomfortably. “Would you prefer if I saidEnglishsoldiers?”
His smirk widened. “Nay, redcoats is fine. And it is a good idea. I will see about securing the funds.”
She nodded. “What of my dowry?”
He laughed. “Yer dowry is yers to use as ye please.”
“I would like to use it to get food supplies.”
“Ye care about me people that much?” he asked sardonically.
“They are my people too now, are they not?”
He stopped hammering to look her in the eyes. “Aye,” he said after a long pause and went back to his hammering.
He felt her eyes on him long before he turned.
The hammer stilled in his hand, the ring of steel fading into the thick heat of the forge. He did not look at her at first. He watched the glow of the fire instead, the slow curl of smoke, the way the air shifted when she moved closer.
“You are going to ruin that blade if you stare at it any harder,” she said quietly.
Her voice slid through him like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.
Kayden set the hammer down with deliberate care and wiped his hands on a cloth before finally facing her.
She stood just inside the doorway, the light catching the golden strands of her hair where they had slipped loose. There was a smear of ash near her wrist, as though she had forgotten herself enough to lean too close to his work.
“You are still here,” he noted.
“You did not ask me to leave.”
He did not answer that. Instead, he stepped around the anvil, closing some of the distance between them. The air felt tighter, heavier, filled with the scent of iron and something softer that he refused to name.
Her gaze dipped to the scar along his forearm as he reached for a cooling bucket. “Does it still hurt?” she asked.
“Only when I give it reason.”
