“Ye’re the sister who cooks, aye?”
Oh St. Jennifer, help me! He knew who she was?
She swallowed.
“Fen—Fenella,” she offered in a whisper.
A long scar cut across his right cheek and across the bridge of his nose. It pulled his expression permanently in one direction, but as Fen watched him from the corner of her eye, she swore she saw his lips twitch.
“Well, Fenfenella, I’m Brodie.”
Her voice caught in her throat, so Fen just gave a quick nod. She knew who he was—how could she not—but she hoped it appeared she was just responding to his introduction.
“A pretty lass shouldnae be hiding in the corner, Fenfenella. Would ye care to dance?”
She gasped, her gaze snapping up to him. “With ye?”
‘Twas difficult to tell, thanks to the scar, but it looked as if he winced.
“Och, I understand,” he muttered as he turned away.
Although the idea of drawing attention to herself made Fen’s stomach churn, she blurted, “Nay!” and reached for him. She didn’t touch him, but he did glance back at her with a scowl. She swallowed. “I just meant…I dinnae dance.”
He scoffed, clearly disbelieving her. “A pretty lass who doesnae dance, aye, for certes.”
Did he think she’d turned him down because…because why? His shattered leg?
She twisted her fingers together and glanced down at them. “Truly, Sir Brodie. I dinnae dance.”
When he cleared his throat and re-settled his weight on his crutch, she thought he might’ve looked a little begrudging. “Well, for that matter, I suppose I dinnae either,” he grumbled.
He seemed less angry, but Fen wasn’t sure what she could say to make him feel better. Wasn’t sure why she wanted to make him feel better. All she knew was that she’d been fascinated by the McClure’s big bodyguard ever since Nicola had installed the wounded man in the sickroom.
So she peeked up at him, and hesitantly offered, “ ‘Tis good to see ye walking, Sir Brodie.”
“Brodie,” he corrected gruffly. “And this isnae walking. ‘Tis limping with a stick.”
“Aye, but ‘tis a nice stick.”
A nice stick? Oh tarts! Now he’ll think ye a clot-heid.
But his lips twitched again, and he ran his free hand over the network of scars on his shaved head. “Aye, mayhap. As sticks go, I’ve no’ had better.”
Was he…teasing her?
Fen grew flustered, trying to come up with a response.
Oh, why did this have to be Leanna’s wedding day? If she weren’t upstairs with Laird McClure—likely introducing him to The Clinging Vine—she’d be able to offer Fen tips on how to react to the teasing from a handsome man!
“I’ve no’ either!” she blurted, then winced, then tried to explain. “Sticks, I mean. No’ had one better.”
Oh God in Heaven, ye are a clot-heid!
“No’ that I’ve had many sticks. Any sticks really.”
Stop stop stop! Stop talking!
‘Twas as if she’d dug herself into a hole, and instead of climbing out of it, she was continuing to dig in the wrong direction.