I’m no’ even going to point out why that makes nae sense.
Good.
“Lass?”
Oh, St. Jennifer bless her, Fen had been staring at the man like an idiot, hadn’t she?
“Pastry!” she blurted out the first thing she could think of. “I’m making pastry crust. ‘Tis…” What excuse to use? “’Tis no’ cooperating.”
His chin lowered and one brow twitched. “Because ye’re beating it all to hell. Ye need to be more gentle, lass.”
He was already giving her instructions? This early? In her own kitchens?
This time, the sound she made was an unmistakable growl, nothing even close to a groan, when she flung her hand out to the side. “If ye think ye can handle it so much better, ye’re welcome to try!”
He’d already started hobbling toward the counter, when he agreed. “Gladly.”
What are ye doing? Ye invited him to help?
But…that wasn’t so strange, was it? He’d helped her plenty during the last several weeks, from his seat in the corner.
Peeling carrots, plucking fowl, stirring pottage. ‘Tisnae the same!
Well, perhaps he was ready for a bit more responsibility.
Fen said naught as she watched him prop his crutch against the counter and pull the pastry board closer. His large hands—dark and scarred and confident—began to gently knead the dough, and the sight sent a shiver through her body—nay—her soul.
Imagine how they would feel.
“Are yer hands clean?” she suddenly asked, desperate to distract herself. “I’ll no’ have ye making the whole castle ill because ye formed the dough with dirty hands.”
Without looking up, he rumbled, “Should I be offended, Fenella?”
Her stomach flipped over. It was the first time he’d called her by her name without the formal “milady” tacked on. But she swallowed, not allowing herself to think about what that might mean.
“Ye can be offended if ye choose,” she snapped, “but I have to ken. This is my kitchen.”
Finally, propping his hip against the counter, he looked up and met her gaze, his expression impassive, as always. “And in yer kitchen, nae one picks their nose or spits or scratches their arse?”
Her mouth dropped open. “That is—” She sputtered for a moment, alarmed by how closely his question matched her earlier fears. “That is disgusting,” she finally managed. “Nae spitting or nose picking is allowed. Now, go wash yer hands.”
One of his dark brows—the one bisected by the scar which ran up his forehead, twitched. “My hands are clean,” he said, as he lifted them to show her the back of his hands. “See?”
“They might look clean,” she huffed in exasperation, “but Nichola tells me there are tiny invisible things inside ye which can cause illness if ye give them to others.” Fen hadn’t quite understood the healer’s ramblings, but she still insisted on cleanliness.
Flipping his hands around so she could see his palms, Brodie shook his head. “I think I’ll keep my own invisible things to myself, thank ye, and no’ share them with anyone. They’re mine.”
“I dinnae think that’s how they work. Ye cannae see them, they’re just there, trying to be spread about— Och!” She broke off when she noticed the faintest sparkle in his eyes. “Ye were teasing me, were ye no’?”
“Aye, Fenella.”
Was it her imagination, or had his lips twitched slightly when he turned his attention back to the pastry dough?
“Besides,” he drawled, “I took a piss afore I left my chamber.”
She sucked in an outraged squeak. A piss? “’Tis— ‘Tis…!” She shook her head, her hands waving about as she tried to describe exactly how disgusting that was, while not actually using the words pig, lout, germ warfare, or penis.
Particularly penis.