Eppie nodded. “Of course. Ye’ll roast them?”
Fenella was tapping her finger against her lips, and Brodie did his best not to be distracted by the memory of her taste. Or the memory of those lips wrapped around his cock.
“Fish, I think,” she murmured. “With fennel.”
“My favorite.” When she glanced at him, he made certain enough heat infused his gaze that she wouldn’t be confused by what he meant.
Her freckles all but disappeared under her blush, and he felt his lips twitch in response.
“And ye?” she asked, arching one brow in challenge. “What will ye make?”
Without dropping her gaze, he called out, “Eppie, can I borrow some almonds?”
“Aye, if ye’re going to return them in the same condition I lend them to ye,” she snapped back.
The thought made his lips twitch again, but he shook his head. “I thought to make almond milk.” He had plenty of time, but it was a labor-intensive process so he’d need every bit of that time. He knew it could be turned into a creamy sauce which would be completely worth the extra effort.
Fenella’s other brow joined the first. “That must be difficult.” Her eyes twinkled. “Getting them to hold still long enough to milk them.”
“Who, lass?”
“The almonds, of course! ‘Tis difficult enough to milk a goat when she doesnae want to see ye, and almonds are much smaller.”
He felt the laugh bubbling through his chest and felt his shoulders shake as it threatened to spill out. Keeping his expression impassive, he snorted.
She poked him again. “Ye’re allowed to laugh, ye ken. Nae one will think poorly of ye.”
‘Twas true…but after a lifetime of being stoic, ‘twas odd to imagine just allowing himself to laugh.
Eppie grabbed their attention again. “And what will ye be doing with yer almond milk, Sir Brodie?”
He shrugged thoughtfully. “I can make a verra fine sauce with it, the sweetness coming from dates— Ye have dates?”
Fenella slipped from under his arm, but didn’t go far. She peered eagerly into the basket. “Aye, a few. A sweet almond sauce would go well with my fish,” she pointed out. “I could serve it with pine nuts and fennel, with yer sauce around it.”
But Eppie was already shaking her head. “’Tis yer dish, Fen. He has to make his own dish.”
“Nay, we’re just making two complements to the same dish,” Fenella argued. “Brodie, do ye agree?”
He slowly nodded. “Both would pair well with trout, if the fishermen have brought any in from the streams. Ye dinnae mind sharing with me?”
To his surprise, she flushed slightly and lowered her eyes. “Nay, of course no’,” she whispered.
She was being shy again, but before he could ask why, Eppie was objecting. “’Twill make it difficult to judge! Last night, Laird MacBain voted for Brodie’s dry, mustardless sausage, but Gordon and Nichola voted for yer dish, lass. Tonight ‘twill be Wynda judging, and ‘tis yer last chance to win!”
Well, so much for impartiality, huh? Brodie raised a brow. “Eppie, is there a rule against us working together?”
She frowned. “Ye ken I’m making this up as I go along.”
“Good.” He nodded firmly, then turned his attention back to Fenella. “Well, lass? I would say we work better as a team than apart. And if we both made a second dish with the nuts—we have enough time…”
“Honeyed nuts?” she blurted, her cheeks still pink, but at least her gaze meeting his once more. “I do make delicious nuts.”
Unable to resist, he inclined his head. “As do I.”
Eppie snorted with laughter.
She might’ve had more to say on their strange flirting, but at that moment, two of the scullery lasses breezed through the door from the garden, chatting happily. Eppie gave him a good glare—although he wasn’t certain if she was warning him or just glaring in general—and hobbled toward them.