Well that got Brodie’s attention.
“How?” he barked. Years of protecting his laird on their missions had made it second nature to want to help.
“I need yer opinion of the man. I’m impressed with him, but—”
Brodie’s toe hit the lip of a stair, and he grunted out a curse. “Why do ye need me?” He was barely a step above—heh—useless.
“Because I trust ye. And because ye need to get out of yer funk.”
Brodie shifted his weight to his bad leg and lifted his right foot, checking under the sole. “I didnae step in any funk.”
“No’ that kind of funk.” Kenneth shook his head, even as he waved his hand. “Ye’re moping around like a hound who’s lost a bone.”
With a frown, Brodie continued to climb. “I’m trying to decide if I’m going to be offended by that analogy. I’m the hound?”
“Better than the bone,” Kenneth quipped.
They finally reached the top of the steps and Brodie stifled his sigh of relief as they stepped into the great hall. There was a group of men gathered near one of the hearths, but Kenneth placed a hand on his arm and stopped him from moving in that direction.
“Brodie,” he began, his voice uncharacteristically somber, “ye have yer leg. ‘Tis a blessing.”
Of course the man would know exactly what bothered him, after all their years together. “Ye think I dinnae remind myself of that?” Brodie growled. “I just…dinnae ken who I am anymore.”
Kenneth nodded. “I ken,” he said quietly.
Brodie smacked him in the back of the knee with his crutch, causing his friend to stumble.
“What the fook was that for?”
“That better no’ have been pity I heard in yer tone,” Brodie warned.
But Kenneth scoffed —and scooted a bit farther away before he spoke again. “Ye lived, Brodie, and now ye need to think about what ye want from yer life. Ye ken as well as I, we’re done with the Hunters.”
“Aye. Ye’re married and need to return to McClure Keep to get on with the begetting, and I’m…” Brodie shook his head, shoved his crutch back into position, and began to hobble across the room.
“Ye’ll always have a place at McClure,” Kenneth murmured when he caught up.
“Doing what?” He couldn’t run, or ride, or train, or even lift a blade the way he used to. What was he good for?
But Kenneth shrugged. “I’d make ye my cook, if it wouldnae piss off auld Ben.”
“He’s been there for years,” Brodie reminded him. “Dinnae push him out just because yer worthless bodyguard kens a thing or two about seasonings.”
Chuckling, Kenneth clapped his hand to Brodie’s shoulder. “Aye, I can recall ye said something similar the last time I made the offer. But I just wanted ye to remember, lad, yer talent with a sword has saved my arse more than a few times, but ‘tisnae all ye are. Ye have much to offer the world, and now that ye’ve decided to keep on living, ‘tis up to ye to decide how ye’re going to offer it.”
Brodie’s lips tugged downward as he tried to muck his way through that statement. “That makes nae sense, Kenneth.”
“It doesnae have to,” his friend said cheerfully. “I was being philosophical. Everyone kens philosophy is bullshite wrapped in fancy language.”
“Then ye’re the most philosophical man I ken.”
Kenneth was chuckling as they joined the gathered group. “Laird Oliphant, ye remember my man, Brodie?”
“Brodie, aye,” muttered the thin, white-haired man. Fen’s father had an annoying habit of repeating the last word anyone said, and today was no exception. “Come to join the feast, eh?”
Brodie nodded stiffly. “Thank ye for inviting me, milord.” He swung a hooded gaze over the rest of the men as Kenneth introduced him.
Laird Kester MacBain was about Brodie’s age, it seemed, and he wore a pair of blades like he knew what to do with them. He explained his clan was relatively small—a sept of the larger MacKay lands to the north—but they were prosperous.