Not Half Plaid (Bad in Plaid 2)

“Disturb me? ‘Tis yer garden.”

She hesitated, then stepped through the gate. This section was where she—or someone—grew herbs, and the summer air was alive with their scents. Over the little stone wall, between here and the castle, were the vegetables, but Brodie preferred this area because of the scents.

And it seemed she appreciated them too.

He doubted anyone else would’ve noticed the way her nostrils flared when she stopped at the cross-path, and the way her eyelids fluttered just slightly, as if she were enjoying whatever she was smelling.

But he did.

“I ken…” Her voice began weak, but grew stronger when she said, “I ken ye sometimes come out here to practice. I’ll no’ disturb ye. I just need some scallions.”

He wanted to ask, “For what,” but what came out was, “Practice?”

Her gaze had dropped to his chin, and now she was inching forward. “Walking.” She swallowed. “Practice walking.”

Shite. She’d noticed?

“I’m sitting now.” His tone was gruffer than it should’ve been.

Her eyes could be all sorts of colors. He’d noticed that the first sennight he’d sat in the kitchens, watching her. When she was in command, or excited, they flashed a greenish color which made her seem alive. But when she was uncomfortable, or shy, or whatever the hell she was when she had to speak to him, they mellowed to a mysterious gray which made him want to comfort her.

Protecther.

Like now.

Her gray eyes darted to his, then away again, locking onto something to his left. Not his knee, thank fook.

“Aye, I can— I see.” She inched closer, each step hesitant, as if ready to flee. “I shouldnae have disturbed ye.”

Damnation, she was being all shy with him again, and he didn’t want her to be. He wanted her to raise her chin, her eyes spitting green fire, and challenge him.

Instead, he reached for his crutch, which had been leaning against the stone bench. “Nay, I’ll leave ye to yer gathering.”

Her head jerked up. “Nay,” she exclaimed with a gasp. “I didnae mean to push ye out. Dinnae get up, I’ll just— I’ll just gather my scallions and go.”

Bah. He didn’t need her treating him like an invalid, nor leaving him to wallow in his loneliness.

So he jammed the crutch under his arm and pushed himself to his feet, releasing a little grunt of effort as he did so. He was gratified to see her gaze slowly travel up his chest to land on his chin once more, her lips pulled into a little “oh” shape.

Inclining his head, he muttered, “Milady,” just as she reached out her hand. Her fingertips landed on his forearm, and he froze.

Something warm and strange traveled up that limb and lodged in his chest.

“Brodie, I really didnae mean to chase ye away,” she said in a low voice. “Ye have a right to sit and enjoy the sunshine, wherever ye like.”

One brow rose. “A right, milady?”

Her hand dropped, but he couldn’t forget the strange tingle her touch had caused.

“Nichola has only just recently released ye from the sickroom—”

“Weeks ago, milady.” He liked the way she winced just slightly whenever he used her title, so of course, he did his best to use it as often as possible.

“Weeks, aye,” she repeated, then sighed and rolled her shoulders. Her gaze met his, and it appeared as though she were irritated at herself for wavering. “Brodie, ‘tis only been a few weeks since ye faced death. ‘Tis a miracle ye can walk at all, and I’ll no’ chase ye away from my garden if ye are out here practicing how to use yer brace.”

He’d been about to object that he hadn’t been practicing, but her mention of his brace had him hesitating, then glancing downward to where his left leg stuck out awkwardly straight. “What’s wrong with my brace?”

She shrugged, fiddling with the handle of her basket, although at least she wasn’t blushing. “Wynda mentioned to me ye didnae seem inclined to use it to its full capacity, bending yer knee…”