Chapter 3
The flagstones werecold against her bare feet, but it was a soothing sensation Fen was used to, even in the wee hours of the morning.
This wasn’t the first time since her and Brodie’s kiss that she’d been unable to sleep, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. Oh, she was used to interrupted sleep and grabbing naps where she could, but this was something different. In the two days since she’d interrupted Brodie McClure in her garden, in the two days since she’d thrown herself at him like the harlot the Gray Lady’s book described, she’d been sleeping a lot less.
Mainly because, when she did, her dreams were…
Disturbing.
Erotic.
Wonderful.
Dreams of limbs entwined, of lips, of caresses. Dreams which woke her, sweating and breathless, her hand already cupping her mound, trying to stroke herself to completion through her linen chemise.
It was downright frustrating.
Because, well…it was Brodie McClure!
He was handsome, aye, despite the scars which crossed his face and head, and he was very well-built. Enough to turn any lass’s head, Fen suspected.
But he was infuriating, with the way he insisted on challenging her authority in her kitchens and arguing with her over the silliest things. Why, just last week he’d had the gall to tell her she was seasoning the mutton improperly, that she’d used too much ginger and not enough mustard.
Mustard? She’d been seasoning mutton with ginger for years and would continue to do so, thankyeverramuch.
Huffing quietly in irritation, Fen lit the candles and began to gather the supplies to make pastry crust. It was time-consuming, aye, but her family had eaten more pastry in the last two days than they had in the last month, thanks to the fact she had naught but time on her hands now.
What with the not sleeping and all.
It was still at least an hour before her first helper would stagger into the kitchen. Fen was the only one who lived in the castle, so she was often the first to arrive, and would begin stoking the fires and setting the water to boil for morning porridge.
Today though, she decided she would lose herself in pastry once more.
The lard crumbled easily into the flour, and the sensation of it squishing around her knuckles was exactly the satisfaction she needed, especially after her latest dream.
Ye were riding him, yer knees locked around his hips, as he held yer waist and groaned yer name.
Acutely frustrated—both with her subconscious’s reminder and the lack of sleep—Fen punched at the dough forming atop the board.
Brodie’s a fit man, aye? Even without a working leg, he’d be able to manage The Creeping Vine or Two Spoons and a Fork.
She needed to drown out her subconscious’s useless prattle.
His chest! Imagine his chest under yer fingertips, the way the scars will feel as he thrusts up into ye! Imagine the expression of wonder on his face as he spills his seed deep inside—
Bah! The dough had come together, and despite her frustration, she managed to push it into a ball to work smooth, as she’d done hundreds of times before.
Brodie’s look of wonder?
Ridiculous.
The man didn’t have any expressions at all, that she’d ever seen, beyond a vaguely challenging air whenever she didn’t agree with his “suggestions.”
Nay, but all that’ll change when he’s got yer nipple in his mouth.
Oh, by St. Jennifer’s eyeballs!
She punched the dough again, needlessly, and released a little groan.