“I used to be a warrior, Fenella,” he intoned gravely, leaning across the counter, reaching for the pile of scraps she’d left earlier. “I’ll no’ take lightly to being fired upon.”
“Used to be a warrior?” she repeated, thinking he looked very much like a warrior right now.
Dangerous.
Delicious.
“Aye.” He nodded solemnly as he straightened, his hands cupped in front of him. “And ye should never”—he flicked a strawberry top at her, which missed—“anger”—this one bounced off her chest and landed in her bowl of fruit filling—“a warrior.” The third one smacked against her cheek.
She grinned and scooped up another spoonful of cream. “Mayhap I’m a warrior as well,” she quipped, before she flicked the cream at him.
This time, he moved in front of it and opened his mouth. Clearly, he’d been hoping to catch the cream, but it didn’t quite work out. Instead, the white fluff smeared across his scarred cheek, and he cursed as he lifted a hand to wipe it away.
Only, at the last moment, he tricked her, and instead of swiping at his cheek, he used that hand to flick another barrage of strawberry tops her way. Squealing with laughter, Fen ducked and reached for the cream again, but accidentally knocked against the bowl, causing it to tilt alarmingly.
Both of them reached for the bowl, but when she caught it, Brodie instead flicked more pieces of berries at her. One caught her above the eye—the dribbling juices causing her to squint—and another smacked against her lips, which made her laugh even harder.
Almost breathless now, she cradled the bowl of cream to her chest and held her other hand palm out. “Truce!” She laughed. “Truce!”
He flicked one more strawberry top at her, then dropped the rest into the refuse pile once more. “Truce,” he agreed solemnly, reaching for a rag. “I hope ye learned yer lesson.”
“Aye,” she said with a chuckle, while snatching up the strawberry tops which had bounced off her onto the counter between them. “Next time I start a food fight, I should limit yer missiles ahead of time.”
He was wiping at his cheek, his expression impassive as always, but a sparkle danced in his dark eyes. “I think ye defended yerself well enough, lass.”
“With a spoonful of cream?” She was grinning hugely. “’Tis no’ the most effective of weapons.”
“If ye ever have need of something more substantial, call for me.” This time, the offer seemed…serious. “I’ll be there for ye, Fenella.”
“With berry pieces?”
He glanced down at the cream-covered rag. “’Tis about all I’m good with these days, eh?” Before she could answer, he shook his head and sighed. “Here.” He held out the rag. “For yer eye.”
Unwilling to consider the regret in his words and determined to hold onto the merry mood, Fen shook her head. “Ye toss that over the cream on the floor behind ye, and I’ll have one of the lassies clean it up! I’ll clean myself.”
Scowling now, Brodie turned to regard the first blob of cream he’d dodged, and she realized she was still giggling as she pulled a clean rag from her apron and began to scrub at the sticky juices on her face.
She’d tossed cream at him! She’d dirtied her own kitchen! Never before would she have considered such a thing, and she absolutely wouldn’t have tolerated it from any of her helpers. But…it had been fun.
She was still giggling when a new voice interrupted their solitude.
“Well, the piper has played, the sun is rising, and I’m seeing all sorts of new sights. The pair of ye laughing like bairns is enough to make an auld woman happy.”
Fen whipped around, steadying herself with one hand, to see Eppie grinning happily as she pulled an apron down from a hook.
“We’re no’—” Fen began, then turned to Brodie, hoping for some help.
His face unreadable, he dropped his chin once. “Laughing like bairns, aye. Completely uncontrollable,” he agreed in a deadpanned tone.
Well, that did it. Fen began to chuckle again, and she swore she saw a sparkle of something in those dark eyes once more.
Then the breakfast bustle began, and through it all, Brodie sat there on Eppie’s old stool and helped where he could. She didn’t even mind the impertinent suggestions he flung at her, because Eppie was there to laugh them off as well. And he was helpful, now that she knew he understood basic hygiene and how to knead dough, and between the two of them, they quickly prepared the evening’s brown bread.
Having him sitting there in her kitchens, working with her, a part of things, instead of just watching…well, it wasn’t as terrible as she’d thought it would be.
As long as she did her best to forget the way his mouth had felt atop hers, the way his lips had claimed her, the way she’d thrust herself at him…and the way she positively ached to do it again.
She wasn’t entirely successful, but at least the tarts were delicious.