Not Half Plaid (Bad in Plaid 2)

“Coira, milord,” Lady Oliphant corrected her husband with a fixed smile.

“Coira, aye, and that’s her sister, our healer, Nicholas—nay—Nichola.” He chuckled. “A man with seven daughters is like a fish with a bicycle, eh?”

One of the lasses—Brodie thought it might be Nichola—nudged the one next to her. “…the hell’s a bicycle?” he heard, and saw the other sister shrug.

Lady Oliphant took over. “Wynda and Robena, my lairds. We are at yer service.” She—and her daughters—offered curtsies, though Brodie wasn’t sure how Robena managed, with as hard as she was studying MacBain.

For his part, the Highland laird did his best to be charming, Brodie could tell. “Ye’ve been blessed with seven such beauties, eh, Oliphant?”

“Six, milord,” Lady Oliphant managed past gritted teeth. “My husband can be absent-minded.”

“Minded, aye,” the laird agreed with a big smile. “From all the daughters, ye ken.”

When Kenneth began to chuckle, Leanna elbowed him, and that’s when Fenella showed up. She still wore her apron, and she was hurrying to tie a cord at the end of her braid, as if she’d not quite finished readying herself. As she slid into line beside Robena, he saw her bare toes curl into the rushes on the floor.

Her mother glanced down at her bare feet and presented her with a glare. “So kind of ye to join us, Fenella. Milord,” she said, as she turned back to MacBain, “please excuse my daughter Fenella’s tardiness. She was…busy.”

MacBain bowed, and Brodie watched Fenella blush. Not the pleased blush of a lass being fawned over by a powerful man, but the way she became when in the company of others, away from her kitchens. She didn’t like to be under scrutiny, and no matter how kind MacBain was, Fenella wasn’t going to appreciate it.

As Lady Oliphant ushered them toward the table, Brodie took the time to consider this. She’d never been that way in the kitchens, and hadn’t been that way around him in a long while. But…how had he known the explanation so easily?

Did he really just understand her so well?

One thing he didn’t have to be a genius to understand—thank the saints—was how uncomfortable Gordon made Fenella. Thanks to her mother’s machinations, the King’s messenger was seated directly across from her, while Brodie himself sat beside her.

Not touching, but he was sure he hadn’t imagined the way her shoulders had relaxed as he’d slid onto the bench beside her.

“Lady Fenella,” Gordon began as he reached for a thick slice of the bread Brodie had baked and began to mop up some of the gravy Fenella had prepared for the rabbit the falcons had provided, “I noticed ye were late to join us. Yer mother said ye were busy?”

Her attention was on her trencher before her, though she hadn’t yet touched a single bite of food. “Yes, milord,” she all but whispered, her freckles nearly disappearing behind a blush.

Gordon hummed as he bit into the bread, his elbows bracketing his own trencher, his gaze never leaving Fenella’s face, as around them, conversations swirled. “And what does a lady such as yerself do to keep…busy? I noticed yer apron.”

Brodie watched her swallow, watched her hand rise to play nervously with her hair, and curled his hand into a fist to keep from reaching out to comfort her. Gordon’s attention obviously made her uncomfortable, and Brodie would be happy to explain that to the man, since he seemed too self-centered to realize it.

“I…” She swallowed again, her gaze still on her rabbit as she answered Gordon. “I’m the cook, milord.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I helped prepare the meal.”

“Did ye now?” Gordon smiled hugely, and at the sight, Fenella paled further.

Brodie couldn’t stop the growl which curled its way from his throat.

She glanced at him, then jerked her chin suddenly, as if startled. “Sir Brodie made the bread. Which ye’re enjoying…milord.”

The man glanced with some surprise at the bread in his hand, but when he met Brodie’s eyes, a cruel smile curved his lips. “It is excellent bread, Brodie. I’m glad ye found a way to be useful after yer recent failure.”

The denial of any title—formal or not—was absolutely intended as an insult, but Brodie didn’t care. He just wanted the worm’s attention on him instead of Fenella.

Unfortunately, Fenella wasn’t going to let the insult pass. She sucked in a breath, and although she didn’t meet Gordon’s eyes, she did manage a rather impassioned, “Sir Brodie is no failure, milord. He’s a talented cook, as well as a verra fine warrior.”

Talented, eh? When she refuses to take my suggestions?

But Brodie didn’t want her wasting her energy on defending him. He didn’t care what the worm thought of him; it was gratifying enough to know she was willing to defend him.

His attention still on the spoon which held the creamy leeks, his other hand moved under the table to brush against her thigh. It was meant as a simple touch, but he saw her jerk at the contact. The next moment though, she exhaled and relaxed, and he didn’t move away, but simply rested his hand on the bench beside her, the tip of his smallest finger resting against her skirts.

Simply letting her know he was there.

Unfortunately, Gordon was still talking. His unabating ramblings contained a myriad of veiled insults towards Brodie, incessant bragging about his own connections, and mixing in numerous gag-worthy attempts to flirt with Fenella.