The pair of them settled into an easy corporation as she told him all about Da’s plan to get his daughters married, and Brodie offered surprising insights and dry humor, which had her chuckling more than a few times.
As the tarts took shape and the water began to bubble for the morning porridge, she learned more about his childhood and his years with the Hunters. His grandfather on his father’s side had been the unfortunate—or perhaps fortunate—shipwrecked sailor from the Outremer, which explained Brodie’s darker skin. His wife, the woman who’d convinced him to stay, had been the daughter of a fisherman, and the two had fit well together.
Brodie’s father and his brothers had followed in the man’s footsteps—the sailing, not the shipwrecking—but he’d followed a different path. His training with Kenneth McClure was fascinating, and Fen delighted in the stories of his missions he was able to share.
He enjoyed fennel, flute music, using his left and right hands interchangeably, and “big tits” on women.
She’d laughed out loud at that last preference, because he was just so refreshingly honest, once one got past his seeming lack of expression.
Also, he’d glanced down at her own bosom when he’d said that, and she’d felt a flush climbing her neck.
She was used to being embarrassed and awkward. Whenever she was in public, it was basically her default, to be worried about what others were thinking. But with Brodie, for some reason, that hadn’t happened.
Mayhap ‘twas because they were in her kitchen, where she ruled. Mayhap ‘twas because he was wounded, and her heart kept pulling at the thought of his pain.
Maybe ‘tis because ye like him, ye ninny.
Like him? Nay, he was insufferable, always trying to usurp her power in the kitchen.
Wasn’t he?
Her musings were interrupted by a horrific screech, which echoed from above, and startled her into dropping the spoon into the porridge and caused the cream to slosh over the side.
“What in all the seven hells was that?” Brodie had pushed himself to his feet, his palms flat on the counter, looking as if he were about to launch himself to her rescue.
She just smiled and shook her head. “Some places have cocks which crow to greet the dawn, aye?”
He was still staring up at the ceiling, where the screeching continued, albeit at a lower tone. “Aye, and I’m oft awakened by a cock, hard and insistent, but”—one finger rose accusingly toward the ceiling—”that was nae cock.”
Fen, who’d understood his reference, thanks to the Gray Lady’s book, tried not to giggle. “No, it wasnae.”
He dropped his reproachful glare to her. “Then…what is it?”
“Ye cannae mean ye havenae heard the sound afore now? Och, well, I suppose no’. Our corridor is better insulated from the parapet noise and—”
“Fenella,” he interrupted sternly, “if the Saracens are attacking on war elephants, I must gather my sword and defend the back door.”
“Ye think to stand against a battalion of war elephants alone?”
“It depends what kind of cocks ye have around these parts,” he snapped. “What is it?”
Giggling, she gave up her teasing. “’Tis the bagpiper.”
She watched his lips form the word bagpiper as his brows rose. Then, above, the piper hit a particularly high note, and Brodie actually winced.
“That is a bagpiper, lass? Another of yer ghosts, I suppose?”
She shrugged, her smile still in place. “The poor thing needs practice sometime, and dawn is as good a time as any, if ye dinnae have plans to sleep late.”
He slowly shook his head. “I cannae imagine anyone has that plan, no’ with that unholy din.”
A giggle slipped out, then another one. Without thinking, she lifted her spoon—a glob of half-whipped cream clinging to the tip—and pulled the top back with her other hand. Then, as if she was a child again, battling with Leanna, Fen loosed the top of the spoon.
The glob didn’t hit Brodie, but only because his instincts had him ducking to the side to avoid the flight of cream.
“Did ye just…?” He shook his head incredulously, narrowing his eyes at her. “Lass, that was a bad idea.”
Feeling as if she could handle anything in that moment, Fen rocked her weight from side to side, a slightly hysterical giggle trying to claw its way out of her throat. “Is that a threat?”