Not Half Plaid (Bad in Plaid 2)

She wasn’t interested, and in fact, was visibly becoming more uncomfortable with each passing moment. She hadn’t touched her food, and Brodie could sense her retreating within herself.

A lifetime spent following his laird as he moved from castle to court to keep, had taught Brodie not just manners, but rules of hospitality. He was a guest at Oliphant Castle, and until given an undeniable reason, he’d do naught to make his host regret his welcome.

But Brodie had to do something to end her suffering.

His beast demanded it.

From the corner of his eye, he watched her wrap one arm around her middle, as though her stomach hurt. He remembered her doing the same the last time he’d seen her here in the great hall among many people, at Kenneth and Leanna’s wedding. Then, he thought it was a type of self-protection, and he saw no reason to change his opinion now.

As she hunched over—while Gordon was still complimenting everything from her hair to her nose to her eyes, the latter of which he absolutely couldn’t see since she had them firmly fastened onto her leeks—she dropped one hand to the bench beside her…and wrapped her fingers around his.

This time, it was Brodie who started, although years of training kept the reaction from manifesting for anyone else to notice.

She was holding his hand? She’d turned to him for comfort?

Nay, she wasn’t holding his hand, not exactly. ‘Twas like having his hand crushed between two rocks.

He managed not to wince.

Two rocks? Nay. ‘Twas like…if there was a cart, full of rocks, and atop those rocks were larger rocks, and the cart itself didn’t run on wheels, but rather some sort of rock. And then the whole thrice-damned thing ran over Brodie’s hand. While it rested atop another rock.

It bloody well hurt, was the point.

And it was a sign of how uncomfortable Fenella was feeling.

He might only have one good leg, but by God, he was going to save her.

Too bad he couldn’t leap across the table and strangle the worm. That would be fun—and with only one leg, might even make it a fair fight—but the Oliphants, and certainly the King, wouldn’t appreciate it.

So if he couldn’t save her physically, he’d use deception.

“Lady Fenella,” Gordon was saying, “I cannae help but notice ye’ve no’ been eating yer meal. Should I hope ‘tis no’ been poisoned?” He laughed smoothly. “I must also commend ye for yer defense of those less fortunate. The Bible tells us we must be charitable, and surely yer defense of a lamed, former bodyguard must—”

Brodie had had enough. “Uuuurgh.”

Gordon’s jaw snapped shut, and Fenella turned to Brodie. “What?”

His brows lowered. “What do ye mean, what?”

“Ye just said, ‘Uuurgh.’”

“I didnae.” He shook his head. “I groaned.”

“Sounded like an uurgh to me, Brodie,” Gordon pointed out unhelpfully.

But Brodie held Fenella’s gaze. “Definitely a groan.” His eyes narrowed. “Of pain. Milady.”

Her eyes were gray today, the way they always were when she was uncomfortable. “Pain?” she repeated in a whisper.

“Pain. Lots of it.” For good measure, he grabbed his shoulder. “Uurgh.”

“Yer shoulder is wounded too?” Gordon purred. “How interesting.”

“His shoulder and his knee,” Fenella snapped, without looking at the man; her shyness melting away as she turned concerned eyes on Brodie. “How much pain?”

“Uurgh,” he managed, keeping his expression somber. “So much.”

“Loads?”