Her “techniques” arenae all ye’ve been studying.
Scowling again, he bit down on his subconscious’s unhelpful observation and shifted again on his stool. This time, he hooked his left hand under his thigh and lifted the leg so he could stretch it as much as he could.
The same attack which had left an arrow in his shoulder had also destroyed his knee, and he knew he’d never walk properly again. So there he sat, angry at God and the saints, and whittling uselessly.
When he glanced back up, he was surprised to find Fenella glaring at him. He was taken aback by the fierce gleam in her gray eyes. This was not the uncomfortable lass he’d first met in the great hall.
“What?” he finally growled.
Her frosty glare took in him, the stool, and the little bowl he’d placed between his feet to catch the shavings as he carved.
“What are ye doing?”
Brodie lifted the hunk of pine so they could both stare at it. “I’m carving.”
“What are ye carving?” she demanded.
What was he carving? Naught useful, that was for certes.
“Kindling,” he answered drily.
Was it his imagination, or had her lips twitched before she’d whirled away?
Nay, wishful thinking on yer part, lad.
He didn’t expect to hear more from her, so when she stomped over to him a moment later, a big bowl in her arms, his brow rose.
Her apron and skirts brushed against his working leg when she stopped close enough to him, he could see the flour on her hands from where she’d just kneaded the bread dough. Trying to hide his reaction to her nearness, Brodie tilted his head back, reminding himself this was all he could do now without his crutch, and scowled.
“Aye?”
“Here,” she blurted, her cheeks pink and her jaw determined. She thrust the bowl at him, and he was able to take it even with both the pine and knife in his hands.
He peered in to find the bowl was full of raw carrots.
“I’m no’ hungry,” he said, speaking to the carrots.
She clucked her tongue, reminding him of the old woman who was grinning over her shoulder at them.
“They’re no’ for ye to eat— Och, nay, ye’ll eat them with the rest of us later tonight, with butter and salt—”
“And honey,” he interrupted, tilting his head back up to watch her.
She frowned. “What?”
“Honey. With the carrots. It’ll bring out the flavor. Everything’s better with honey.”
Now her fists were on her hips again. “Are ye presuming to tell me how to run my own kitchens?”
Brodie shrugged. “I’m telling ye to add honey and butter to the carrots after ye cook them.”
She didn’t say anything for a long moment; her gaze traveling over the scars on his face and head. Was she intimidated? He didn’t think so, but the two sides he’d seen of Fenella Oliphant made him wonder who the real lass was.
“Just peel them,” she finally snapped, her gaze flashing down to the root vegetables in his bowl. Then, with a huff, she turned and flounced back to check on her bread dough.
Brodie watched her go. Then, slowly, he bent and placed the big bowl between his feet, nudging the other bowl out of the way after he dropped his useless pine chunk into it.
When he picked up a carrot, he had to admit the damned thing felt much better in his palm than the pine had.
His knife flashed as he skimmed the blade across the tough skin of the carrot and watched the peelings flutter down into the bowl.
Peeling carrots.
Him, a former bodyguard to Laird McClure, one of His Majesty’s Hunters…peeling fooking carrots.
But as he finished one vegetable and dropped it into the bowl, then bent to pick up another, Brodie realized there was the faintest hint of a smile upon his lips.
At least peeling carrots is useful.