“I’m no’ much of a stick collector,” she finished weakly.
Solemnly, Brodie nodded. “Stickless Fenfenella I’ll call ye.”
It was entirely likely she’d be able to fry an egg on her face, she was blushing so furiously. With her coloring, she likely looked like a ripe autumn apple.
Whyhad she continued to blather on like that? By St. Jennifer’s wimple, she’d never be able to look this man in the face again, would she?
From across the great hall, she heard that same drunken voice bellow, “More tarts!” and decided, Mother’s declaration or nay, this was Fen’s excuse to run from this horrible conversation.
“Excuse me,” she gasped gratefully, offering Brodie a fumbling curtsey without even looking at the man. “I must— The tarts— The kitchens are likely… Goodbye!”
She managed to stumble away from him before her eyes filled with tears, but she would have known her way down the steps to her domain even if she were blindfolded.
Once safely in her kitchen, she took the time to step through the outer door and into the garden, knowing any attempt at making more tarts would be ruined with the way her insides were churning. She needed to calm down but doubted ‘twas possible.
Exhaling, she pressed her forehead to the cool stone of the outer wall and prayed for the ground to open up and swallow her. She was never going to be able to speak to Brodie again. Which was a shame, because the man had featured heavily in her fantasies since her first glimpse of him.
How could ye be so stupid, lass?
Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—there was no answer.