But then he glanced up at her from under long lashes. “And then I washed my hands.”
She froze and peered at him. “After the pissing?”
“After the pissing,” he intoned.
Slowly, her hands dropped to her hips, and she frowned. “With soap?”
“Lady Fenella, I swear on my father’s grave, I washed my fooking hands with soap and water afore I hobbled my way down the corridor to see why in damnation ye were making so much noise.”
Well.
Well, she supposed she couldn’t be angry about that. But still, she muttered quietly to herself as she went about collecting the berries she planned on using to make the filling for the tarts.
“I can hear ye, ye ken.”
She swung back around, her arms full with a bowl of the strawberry harvest from yesterday. “Hear me what?”
He was methodically rolling the pastry into a rectangular shape on the board. Without looking up, he said, “Muttering about my hands and my father’s grave.”
Oh. Had she said those things out loud? Her gaze dropped to where his big hands gently—so gently—folded the dough over and began to roll it again.
Breathe, lass! He’s no’ going to ruin yer pastry!
But the pastry wasn’t why she’d been holding her breath.
Squeezing her eyes shut on a silent curse, Fen forced herself to inhale, and to completely ignore the tingly sensation between her thighs when she thought about what those callused hands might feel like against her breasts.
She wasn’t entirely successful.
“My father doesnae have an actual grave.”
Her eyes snapped back open. “What?”
Shrugging, still intent on his work, Brodie explained. “He was lost at sea a dozen years ago or so when his boat capsized. My youngest brother was with him, and we never found either body.” His hands paused in their rhythmic movements. “We did get the boat back, so that counted for something.”
“I’m…I’m sorry,” she whispered, pulling the bowl of berries tight against her stomach, trying to block out the ache she felt at his words. “That’s horrible.”
“Aye.” One shoulder hitched in what might’ve been a shrug. “But ‘tis part of the danger of being a fisherman. ‘Twas a clear day, and we never learned what happened.”
Slowly, she moved toward the counter, until she was opposite him and began to arrange her tools. “But ye made him a grave?”
His expression didn’t change of course as he explained in a matter-of-fact tone, “Of a sort. In the local churchyard, there’s a list of names of lost fishermen—most from a big storm which came up suddenly about twenty years afore my birth. Da and Johnnie’s name were added and prayers were said.”
As she sliced the tops of the berries, then quartered them to return to the bowl, Fen tried to imagine how hard it must be to mourn without certainty. “I’m sorry,” she whispered again, knowing it wasn’t enough.
“One of my aulder brothers had already taken over the cottage where we’d grown up, and he and his wife and bairns look after my mother now. The other one built his home near them.”
Another batch of berries joined the first in the bowl. “And yer sisters?”
His hands paused, as if remembering his family, before he began to spread the dough out evenly. “One took holy vows. The rest are all married to fishermen, except the one who married the village drunkard.” Instead of his usual tone, devoid of emotion, now she heard something else there. “Now that the useless sot’s dead, the rest of them help support her brood.”
“Ye have nieces and nephews?”
“Aye, too many to count. How do ye want this cut?” He reached for the knife.
“Small, please. I’m making sweet berry pastries.”
His lips twitched, though he didn’t look at her. “Beef would be better. Ye made sweet pastry yesterday.”