Chapter 6
It wasquiet in this corner of the kitchens, and the business of meal-making went on around them. This evening’s meal was to be the first bout of his and Fen’s contest, and it felt as if the entire clan had become invested in it.
Yesterday, Eppie had announced she’d found the judges, and that she’d be in charge of tonight’s meal. ‘Twould be a simple one apparently, in order to allow the diners to focus on what really mattered: tasting the concoctions Brodie and Fenella created.
He glanced across the counter to where Fenella worked.
God’s teeth, but she was adorable, chewing on her lower lip as she arranged her knives and tools just so. The sight reminded him of what that lip had tasted like, and how much he wanted to taste it again.
That afternoon in the kitchens…
He swallowed down a shiver. It was bad enough he had to sit on a stool while he waited for Eppie to announce the first ingredient, but it wouldn’t do for everyone to see his kilt tenting in front of him.
God knew, any time he even looked at Fenella Oliphant, he got a cockstand. It was bloody well inconvenient, but intriguing as hell. Because after what they’d shared the other day, after the way she’d come apart in his arms, after the way he had her tit in his mouth…he wanted more. Much more. All of her.
And the best part was, she seemed to want the same thing. She hadn’t objected to his touch or his kiss—damnation, she’d kissed him. She’d been the one to move against him, to press her core against his aching cock, to stroke him with her own body.
It had been torture of the finest kind.
When she’d found her fulfillment, he’d been seconds away from spilling his seed against his kilt…which would’ve been unsanitary, to quote Eppie. He’d been tempted to make some excuse to return to the sick room, just for a bit of privacy, and take himself in hand. God Almighty, but he’d been already imagining tugging at his cock as he thought of sinking into her.
But then Eppie had proposed this ridiculous contest.
She might no’ have, if she hadnae seen ye arguing with Fenella.
Aye. ‘Twas a possibility. But he’d only said that about her rabbit in order to save her from having to explain what they’d really been doing. And in fact, he’d only brought up the topic in the first place—the salty rabbit, which wasn’t all that bad, and the buttery leeks, which really were too buttery—in order to rile her. When she was spitting fire at him, she forgot to be shy, and he liked that very much.
He had to admit, he didn’t love the idea of this competition. He knew he was an adequate cook, and had never seen the need to prove himself. But Fenella did, and he would oblige her. Because he wanted her to understand how talented she really was.
And he wanted her clan—her family—to see she belonged here, in command of her kitchens. She was a strong woman, and he wanted them to understand that too. She needed the self-confidence, to see herself as he did.
So he’d challenged her, and when she’d accepted Eppie’s proposal, it had been easy for him to, as well.
As if she could feel his gaze on her, a flush was beginning to creep up Fenella’s neck. The thought amused him, and perhaps he made a little noise, because she peeked up at him.
And perhaps she saw something in his expression no one else could, because she smiled shyly at him, that lower lip popping from between her teeth in a way which made him want to groan.
Instead, he inclined his head. “Are ye ready, lass?” His voice sounded hoarse, even to his own ears.
She didn’t seem to notice, but just glanced around the kitchen nervously. “I wish I knew what the ingredient was Eppie’s chosen. It would be better to have some recipes queued up in my mind.”
“But the point is that we dinnae have that opportunity, aye?”
She huffed in irritation. “I ken that, I’m just…”
When she trailed off, one of his brows twitched in challenge. “Nervous? But ye’re good at what ye do, lass. Why no’ trust yer talent?”
Her eyes—a worried gray today—had widened. “Ye think I’m talented?”
“Aye. In all sorts of ways.”
It wasn’t until her lips formed a little oh that he realized he’d said that out loud. “Like—like what?”
Like making me feel good. Making me feel welcome. Like caring about others and putting yer whole heart into something ye love and being passionate—och, lass, so passionate, about so many things.
Butter. Garlic. Him.
But he didn’t say any of that. Instead, he held her gaze and considered what to say. Yesterday, he’d distracted her with insults to her cooking, mainly because he preferred her angry over upset, and he knew just how to rile her. But today…?