Today, he told her the truth. “I’ve been to the great courts of Europe, Fenella, and I can say, compared to those cooks, ye’re no’ half bad.”
She gasped and leaned toward him, her weight resting on her palms on either side of her carefully arranged cooking implements. “Ye have? I want to ken all about it! Tell me about their menus!”
He might’ve chuckled at her enthusiasm, had he been the chuckling type. As it was, the corners of his lips tugged just slightly upward, as he tried to decide which anecdote to share from his missions with Kenneth and the other Hunters.
“I helped prepare peacock in Paris at a feast to honor the King. Well, I managed to avoid the feast, although Kenneth had to attend. But I’d made myself useful in the kitchens, and the cook allowed me to prepare the bird.”
Her eyes were wide. “How?”
He gestured as he explained. “’Tis the most magnificent presentation. The bird is re-dressed in its own feathers.”
To his surprise, she scoffed. “Och, aye, everyone kens that. I’ve no’ eaten or prepared the fowl, but I doubt there’s a reader of medieval romances out there who hasnae read a description of a feast where the centerpiece is a roast peacock, dressed in its own feathers.”
“Medieval romances, lass?” His brows drew in. “Readers? What are ye speaking of?”
But she merely waved dismissively. “But have ye noticed, they never mention peahens? Why do ye suppose that is, when the female of the chicken species is a better meal than the cock?” She leaned closer and nodded knowingly. “Feathers. Peacock are more beautiful, so dressing the roast in those feathers make it lovelier. Peahens are dull by comparison.” She shrugged, frowning. “Although the entire thing sounds tedious: pluck the carcass, then re-insert the feathers after roasting? Bah.”
He…had no idea what she was talking about. But he shrugged and answered her last unspoken question. “The peacock isnae plucked, ‘tis skinned. The skin and the feathers are removed, then laid atop the carcass after roasting.” He described how the cook he’d worked beside had rubbed the inside of the skin with spices before draping it over the roast.
Her nose wrinkled. “That sounds…” She gave a little shudder. “Unhygienic. I hope ‘twas worth it?”
Remembering the final result, Brodie frowned. “’Twas no’. The meat of the peacock is verra dry, no’ worth eating, no’ when other fowl are less dear.”
She gave a chuckle, then another one. When he cocked his head to one side, she just grinned. “Sorry. ‘Tis just the thought of someone going through that much effort for a dish which looks lovely but tastes like shite. I find that funny.”
He had to agree; it was amusing. “Mayhap ye’re right. Mayhap ‘tis just the fact that the female of the species is the juicier, more succulent.”
Her cheeks pinked again, but she didn’t back down from his teasing. Instead, her gaze dropped—just briefly—to the front of his kilt, before looking away. “Och, I dinnae ken,” she said breezily. “I personally dinnae mind putting a thick slice of cock in my mouth.”
He choked.
On his own spit.
He choked on his own spit, because of how nonchalantly she said something so wicked.
Slowly, his lips curled upward.
Wicked lass. He liked the sound of that.
Before he could come up with a way to get revenge, a commotion across the kitchen caught his attention.
Eppie called out, “Are ye ready for the big unveiling?” and both of them turned toward the old woman as she hobbled closer. She was trailed by most of the kitchen workers, and a few other Oliphants as well, each of them smiling and calling out encouragement.
Not just to Fenella, but to him as well.
When had they begun to welcome him? When had he gone from an outsider to someone they trusted?
“Lads and lasses, gather ‘round,” a smiling Eppie announced as she hobbled to their counter, carrying a covered basket in her arms. “I have here a collection from the garden of our first ingredient.”
A vegetable then, or possibly a fruit?
Eppie plunked the basket down between them, then continued to explain. “As ye ken, each of ye must make a dish using this ingredient. Ye can include anything else ye might wish, as long as ‘tis on hand, and it can be any combination—as much or as little of the ingredient as ye wish.”
Fenella’s attention was on the basket, and she was wringing her hands, her eyes a shadowed gray. “And ye’ve chosen the judges?”
“Aye, lass, they’ll taste each of yer creations at tonight’s meal. Laird MacBain has agreed to be one of the judges, and ‘tis been decided that yer sisters will rotate between them. I’ll no’ tell you which one will judge which night, so dinnae even ask.”
Did Fenella look relieved at that news? ‘Twas hard to tell, because she was chewing on her bottom lip again. Brodie shifted forward until his arse was barely perched on the stool.