“My misplaced cornea,” the hypochondriac woman immediately responded.
Wynda, who was seated beside Mother, made a show of looking around her trencher, even going so far as to lift her wine glass. “Funny, I could’ve sworn ‘twas around here somewhere.”
“What, dear?” Mother asked.
“Yer cornea.” Wynda winked. “Since ye misplaced it.”
“Misplaced it, aye.” Da nodded. “The fish was good. Like a harpist with nae legs.”
Around him, the guests waited politely an extra beat or two, in case he a) had more to say, or b) suddenly started making sense. When neither happened, Brodie leaned toward Fen.
“Harpist with nae legs?” he murmured.
Stifling a giggle, Fen nudged him into silence. “Look at Robena. She’s trying to decide if she should be offended.”
But before their musical sister—who was quite proficient at the harp, regardless of her leg status—could object, Eppie raised her hands again. “Tonight, we werenae blessed with two different dishes, but one. Lady Fen, if ye’ll explain?”
And just like that, all of Fen’s good cheer evaporated. Eppie wanted her to speak in front of all these people? Gulping, she grasped at Brodie’s hand.
He understood, as always.
When he cleared his throat, she felt everyone’s stares leave her, presumably to lock on him. Inclining his head the tiniest fraction, he managed to show respect, without lowering himself.
“My lairds and ladies, Fenella and I opted to combine our talents for tonight’s dish. She seasoned the trout with the pine nuts and the fennel. I created the sauce which it’s served in. We both candied the walnuts ye enjoyed afterward.”
Amazing how succinctly he’d managed to summarize a day’s worth of work. And had also managed to make it sound so…regal. As if he were proud of his work.
As if he belonged.
Here, with her, sharing the praise of a well-made meal.
“Well, I loved it,” Wynda declared forcefully. “’Tis difficult to decide which is better, but since I’m the one who gets to do it…” She shrugged, a little smile tugging at her lips. “I’m voting for Fen’s fish. Why? Because she’s my sister, and I can. Plus, I like pine nuts.”
The little joke made it easier. Fen felt her shoulders relaxing in a way which had absolutely nothing to do with concern about the contest. No matter what happened tonight, it wouldn’t change her feelings.
It had taken her this long to figure it out, but now she was certain: She was a good cook, and so was Brodie. She didn’t have to be better, because he wasn’t a danger to her. He cared for her—his touch, and his willingness to answer Eppie’s question said it all—as much as she cared for him.
On the dais, Eppie had turned her attention to Laird MacBain, who was shaking his head. “I’ve never tasted almond sauce as fine as tonight’s.” He offered a little shrug. “But ‘twas the fish which made it stand out. I cannae separate the two dishes, so I cannae determine which is better.”
Around the table, murmurs either agreed with the handsome man, or didn’t. The laird shrugged again, an apologetic smile on his lips as he sat back in his chair. “An excellent dish, eaten together.”
“Well, ‘tis an easy decision for me,” spoke up the last judge, Clement Gordon, the King’s messenger. He was staring at Fen with a sly grin twerking his lips.
The evening she’d met him, those lips had made Fen feel uncomfortable. He’d stared at her as if she were a delicious dish, and he was certain of his right to taste her. She was the laird’s daughter, despite the fact she’d never acted like it, and his attention hadn’t been at all comfortable or welcome.
Brodie had saved her that night, hadn’t he?
As everyone’s attention shifted to Gordon, the man’s grin grew. “’Tis clear McClure’s sauce was adequate, but Fenella’s fish was what made it so. Without her dish, his would have been boring. Therefore, she is the winner to my thinking.”
Around him, her family began to speak and laugh, but Gordon’s gaze never left hers. And rather than feeling elated by his vote, that gaze made her feel dirty somehow. Swallowing, Fen quickly dropped her head to look down.
But when she felt Brodie’s fingers tighten around hers, she peeked up at him.
“Congratulations, lass,” he whispered, something sparkling deep within those dark eyes. “Ye won.”
Had she? Och, he’d won the first round, with the cucumbers. She’d won the second round, the sausages. And now, with two votes for her and one abstention, she’d won the third round.
In Eppie’s little contest, she’d won.