Splintered.
To support Margaret’s strategy, Fitzroy had appointed me keeper and protector of the forge—a title he devised to allow me time alone in the smithy without raising Red’s suspicion.
He even had his knights erect a small bedstead in the corner so I could work late into the night, hexing the weapons and armor I’d tirelessly forged by day.
Seeing my struggle to keep up with the workload, Bash offered to help, and I eagerly accepted the extra set of hands.
This evening in the smithy was the first time we’d been alone since the kiss.
Neither of us had mentioned it. I felt relieved Bash behaved as usual; otherwise, I would’ve convinced myself he regretted our moment of intimacy.
Yet as time passed without either of us acknowledging it, I began to wonder if my desperate need to feel his lips on mine meant I’d imagined it.
“Ugh,” Bash groaned from the anvil as he struggled to sharpen the weapons.
His assistance gave me a moment to rest my blistered hands and focus on the protection incantation Margaret had provided to strengthen the swords.
“Paeer pa neil beatan thee ne meaht niman. Thee scealt bugan ac naefre braecan. Strengra ponna iren, heardra ponna stiele. Fram eall spaerc, thee scealt halen.” There is no blow you cannot take.
You shall bend but never break. Stronger than iron, tougher than steel.
From every splinter, you shall heal,” I murmured.
I’d lost count of how many times I’d recited that spell, but the numbness of my tongue told me it must’ve been hundreds.
“Am I doing this right?” Bash asked from the anvil.
Peering across the smithy, I noticed he had let the whetstone dry out.
I sighed softly. “No,” I said, moving closer to assist him. “Wet it first, then stroke it slowly.” I took the stone over to the trough and dunked it in the water before passing it back to him.
Bash smirked as he resumed rubbing it against the blade. “I hope you haven’t been instructing all the blacksmiths to stroke slowly.”
I playfully thumped his shoulder. “Get back to work,” I demanded.
“Or what?” he challenged.
“I’ll beat you,” I teased, holding up my clenched fist in a mock threat, though I was hardly intimidating to a man of Bash’s stature.
“Fast or slow?” he quipped, unable to keep a straight face.
“Till you are blue,” I shot back.
With a coy grin, Bash raised his hands in surrender and returned his focus to the whetstone. Yet despite my advice, he continued grinding the blade at the wrong angles, making my fingers itch to take over and complete the task properly.
I gave him a gentle pat on the head. “Not bad,” I offered politely. “But let me finish it, or we’ll be here all night.”
He didn’t protest; instead, he stepped aside, and I swooped in to claim his still-warm seat.
As I hunched over the workstation, heavy-headed with fatigue, my hair fell across my face.
I flicked it back, irritation bubbling as the strands refused to stay put.
The long hours and lack of sleep had made me short-tempered, and if one more lock floated into my vision, I was ready to hack the whole lot off.
Bash chuckled, amusement lighting his eyes as he watched me.
“Let me help you,” he offered, sweeping stray hair from my face.
His fingers grazed my scalp as he gathered the strands at the back of my head, sending a prickle across my skin that made it impossible to concentrate.
“You should grow it out,” he said, tickling the nape of my neck with the ends of my hair.
“It’d be easier to tie back when you’re working. ”
I’d always known if anyone was going to divert me from my ironwork, it would be a man—but I never imagined the distraction would come in the form of gentle touches.
“If my hair was any longer, I’d be mistaken for a woman,” I muttered, recalling the night Mother had sliced away the lengths.
Bash chuckled again. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you already look like one.”
My face fell. I feared I’d grown too comfortable among the men at Cambas and let my Finn disguise slip.
“I’m only teasing,” Bash quickly added, concern etching lines between his brows. “You need to rest.”
I nodded—he was right.
“After I finish sharpening these blades for the witches, I’ll sleep.”
Bash picked up one I’d completed. “You’ve more than sharpened them—they look as good as new.”
I smiled, knowing my craftsmanship was of a high caliber.
“Are you trying to impress someone with your talent?” Bash asked teasingly.
A soft laugh escaped me. Another source of my exhaustion was a secret project I’d undertaken for him. With the winter festivities of Yuletide fast approaching, I knew Bash would miss his family. I was forging him a gift—a pocket blade like mine, recalling how he had admired it when we first met.
“Possibly,” I smirked.
Bash raised a questioning eyebrow. “Who?”
I tilted my head back to meet his gaze. “Do I hear jealousy in your voice?” I mocked.
His expression remained the same. “Who?” he probed.
I shook my head. “I cannot tell.”
“We’re friends,” Bash said, pulling up a stool beside me. “You’re supposed to confide in your friends.”
“You thought we were friends?” I gasped, feigning offense. “We’re not.”
“What are we, then?” Bash’s tone had shifted. Where there had been playfulness, now there was only sincerity.
My heart thudded.
“I—I don’t know,” I hesitated, frightened at the prospect of being vulnerable. “I care for you more than I would a friend,” I admitted.
Bash nodded. “So do I.”
I set down the whetstone, knowing I was far too distracted to continue working.
Bash placed a hand on my waist. “I would be deeply hurt if you were no longer a part of my life,” he confessed.
“So would I,” I whispered, locking my gaze with his.
Bash’s knee slipped between my legs, parting them as he drew me closer.
I placed an encouraging hand on the back of his neck and guided his mouth toward mine.
Our lips met in a tender, longing kiss. One I’d been craving since the last. There was no urgency, with us both indulging in the intimacy—until, suddenly, there was.
Our kisses quickened. My tongue was in his hot mouth one moment, then his in mine the next.
Bash’s hands found their way back into my hair, but they weren’t gentle this time—he was pulling at it, desperate to keep me close, while I clasped my arms around his neck, holding him tight.
Then, Bash grazed his teeth against my lip before gently tugging on it.
I copied him, taking his soft skin between my teeth and giving it a tender pull.
Bash groaned. “Come closer,” he said before muffling his noises into my mouth.
He released my hair, his grip shifting to the backs of my thighs as he pulled at them, edging me nearer.
I obeyed, shifting from the stool to his knee.
“Look at what you do to me,” Bash growled against my lips.
He took my hand in his and guided it into his lap. His manhood strained against the fabric of his breeches, pulling them taut. My heartbeat thrummed in my throat, and I almost choked on my own desire.
Gently, I stroked my fingers along the length of him, while Bash’s breath—short and shallow—panted into my mouth.
Living as Smith, I felt liberated from the shackles of womanhood—free to touch Bash without earning an unshakable label. But there was one problem. And as his hand traced my inner thigh, I was reminded of it more than ever.
I might have worn breeches and a tunic, but I was not a man.
Without a second thought, I pried myself from his mouth, stopping his teasing fingers in their tracks.
“I need to tell you something,” I said, slipping off his knee, and reclaiming my stool.
“What?” Bash asked, his palm gently caressing my cheek as concern flickered in his eyes.
I drew a steady, courageous breath, ready to confess. “I…”
Before I could finish, a clang shattered the moment. My head snapped toward the noise, and there stood Finn at the entrance to the tent. His eyes darted between our flustered faces before locking onto mine.
Bash cleared his throat and stumbled to his feet. “Good eve,” he said.
“Can I talk to my brother alone?” Finn asked.
He didn’t have to press—Bash was already heading for the exit before Finn had finished speaking.
Finn shook his head in disbelief, his mouth opening as if to speak, but all that escaped was a disappointed sigh.
“What?” I uttered, returning to the anvil.
“What?” Finn mimicked me. “What do you mean, what?”
I picked up the whetstone, trying to ignore him, but Finn strode over and snatched the file from my hand.
“Am I not allowed to make friends?” I asked, attempting to reach for it.
Finn held it above his head, tantalizingly out of reach. “I’ve never stroked the faces of my friends,” he remarked pointedly.
I shrugged, unwilling to admit the affection I felt for Bash.
“I was hoping to make amends with you,” Finn continued, finally handing back the file.
“I didn’t mean it when I said I wished you’d died so Avice could live.
I was angry because you were right. If Avice had known I was a wizard, she would’ve had me hanged—the Lord raised her on lies.
” His lip curled as his fists clenched. “I hope one day he’s held accountable for the hatred he’s incited. ”
I gave him a solemn nod. “So do I.”
“I understand your reasons for pretending to be me,” he said as he took my shoulder in his grip. “Being a man ensures your safety—especially while the Lord searches for Niamh. What I cannot understand is why you’d risk your life and tell the carpenter you’re a woman. I never took you for a fool.”
“He doesn’t know,” I murmured, defending my unfoolish status.
Finn gave me a puzzled look. “Pardon?” he asked, though I doubted he needed clarification.
“He’s not privy,” I replied, quickly turning my attention back to the blade.
“How do you think he’ll react when he discovers—” Finn began, then cleared the fury from his throat. “Don’t you think he’ll be deeply hurt when he learns that you’re a woman?”
“I’m trying not to think about it,” I mumbled into the blade as I resumed my work.
“Poor man. You’ve led him to believe you’re something you’re not,” he said, chiding me in a patronizing tone, like a father scolding a child. “That’s deceitful.”
I scooted my stool around to face him. “I act no differently here than I did back in Green Vale,” I retorted.
Finn pointed an accusing finger at me. “He thinks you’re a blacksmith named Finn, but you’re just a woman named Niamh.”
I froze, taking a moment to digest his words.
“Just a woman,” I repeated, my voice breathless with shock at his audacity.
Finn shook his head. “That’s not what—”
“I taught you how to be a decent blacksmith, helping you maintain Father’s legacy without any praise,” I interrupted, uninterested in his backpedaling.
I grasped the blade I’d been filing and pointed its tip at him.
“I sat with you for hours, painstakingly going over the simplest iron-forging tasks because you couldn’t grasp them. ”
I hurled the blade across the tent, narrowly missing Finn’s head before it clattered against the ground.
“I might be just a woman,” I declared, “but without me by your side, you’d be no man.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Finn insisted, trying in vain to douse the fire he had ignited inside me.
But it was too late—I was already engulfed.
I stormed through the tent, my shoulder colliding with Finn’s as I went to retrieve the blade.
“Niamh,” he called after me. “Please, listen.”
I pointed the freshly sharpened tip at his face once more. “Don’t call me by that name.”
As I reclaimed my seat at the anvil, my foot caught on the stool’s leg, kicking it out from beneath me. I lost my balance and slipped forward, my face meeting the cold, unyielding edge of the iron slab. A sharp yelp escaped me as I collapsed into a heap on the muddy planks.
“Niamh,” Finn gasped, edging toward me. “Are you hurt?”
“May the gods damn you,” I murmured through my gritted teeth. “Get out.”
Finn obeyed, leaving me alone on the damp floor, writhing in agony.