Chapter 2
The kitchen gardenswere surprisingly comforting, and wasn’t that depressing?
There’d been a time in Brodie’s life—not so long ago—when he wouldn’t have even noticed the garden. More than a few times on missions with Kenneth McClure, his laird, he’d snuck in through the kitchens of a keep. In those cases, the gardens had served only as cover, as shadows to blend in with.
Now, they were one of the few places he could go to enjoy the sunshine.
He—who’d spent the last decade as the bodyguard to one of the King’s Hunters, who could ride and hunt and fight with the best of them, who’d saved Kenneth’s life as many times as the man had saved him, and who could catch, season and cook a brace of rabbits with just the bounty of the Highlands—was now sitting on his arse on a fooking bench in a kitchen garden, enjoying the sun on his bare head and the smell of rosemary.
Rosemary is a verra nice scent. Learn to appreciate the little things and stop moping.
Aye, at least he was alive to smell the rosemary, eh?
The arrow which had destroyed his knee, or the arrow which had found his shoulder, could have pierced his heart or neck. The infection could have taken his life, had Nichola Oliphant, the healer of this strange clan, not been able to cure him.
He could have lost his leg completely.
Aye, thank fook for small favors.
He tilted his face to the sunshine; the corners of his closed eyes crinkling, which was as close to a smile as he got these days.
One of Nichola’s sisters—the smart one, he couldn’t remember which was which—had devised a brace for him. He hadn’t been paying much attention when she’d bustled into the sickroom to explain it to him, but in the weeks since then, he’d become used to it.
Aye, the leather bands chafed at his bare skin under his kilt, the metal spokes holding his leg straight when he was upright—as long as he rested his weight on a crutch or cane—a bit cumbersome. But he could pull them out of the lower band, which allowed his lower leg to flop into a seated position, even if he rarely used that function. It was an ingenious invention, and he tried to appreciate it.
With a slight frown, he tapped at one of the moveable metal spokes, which he kept locked in the straight position. His leg was stretched straight in front of him, his bare heel propped in the dirt.
Boots weren’t worth the trouble when he only went between the sickroom, the kitchens, and the gardens he was currently inhabiting.
Bloody hell, he could barely manage the stairs!
But ye still have the leg, and yer life, and ye can walk somewhat.
Aye, and he could still enjoy the scent of rosemary on a warm summer’s day.
It wasn’t a sound which alerted him he was no longer alone in the garden; it was years of instinct which allowed him to hear—to feel—the silent breath she sucked in when she noticed him on the bench.
And he absolutely knew it was her. How could he not?
Slowly, Brodie lowered his head, then opened his eyes to see Fenella Oliphant standing at the little gate, a basket looped over one arm. If he were the type of man to smile at the way she looked—staring at him with wide eyes as if she couldn’t be sure how to react to him—this moment would have been the time for one to appear.
Instead, he just stared back.
God’s teeth, but she was lovely with all that red hair and freckles which made her look more than a little sun-kissed. Today, she wore a green gown— Nay, not a gown but a dress; something she could work in, not the silk concoctions most other ladies fancied.
Her feet were bare as well.
Interesting.
He’d noticed, a time or two, that she didn’t seem to mind working without shoes, especially on the cool stone floors of the kitchens she ruled. It made her more appealing. More accessible.
Accessible? Ye want access to her?
Aye, he wanted access to her—to her blushes and her smiles and her scowls, and the way she got everyone’s attention by banging on the table with that wooden spoon, and even her stubbornness. Even when she was refusing to admit he knew a thing, or twelve, about cooking, she was appealing.
Her lower lip was plumper than usual, as though she’d been chewing on it. And that made him jealous as hell.
“I’m— I’m sorry.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, her eyes still wide. “I didnae mean to disturb ye.”