Prologue
Brodie McClure’shands cradled the blade easily enough.
Frowning, he tracked the sharp edge as it flicked against the block of pine cupped between his palms. He wasn’t certain what he was carving, but on the other hand—heh—he figured it didn’t really matter. Here at Oliphant Castle, he had everything he could ever ask for handed to him before he even knew he wanted it.
Except one thing.
A purpose.
A sharp voice jerked his gaze up, away from the amorphous blob of wood in his hands, and were he the smiling type, he would’ve smiled at the redhead who was bustling about the kitchens, calling out orders.
Fenella Oliphant.
She rarely left this warm and sweet-smelling refuge she ruled with an iron fist and abundant praise.
“Anna, keep an eye on that dough, aye? I want to pop it in afore it doubles in size this time, no’ after.” Fenella called with a knowing smirk to one of the kitchen lassies. “And, Eppie, mind the mutton drippings—”
“I’ll mind the dripping, lass, ye mind yer tongue!” the sharp-witted old woman shot back. “I was running these kitchens long afore ye were born.”
Fenella whirled around, her fists planted on her hips above her soiled apron. “Aye, and I’ll be running them long after ye’re gone!” she shot back teasingly.
As Brodie expected, Eppie didn’t back down. In the time he’d spent in the quiet corner of the kitchens, feeling warm and useless beside the auxiliary hearth, he’d been enjoying the verbal sparring between the two women.
Now, the old woman pointed a bony finger at Fenella from her place beside the spit near the main hearth. “Dinnae think ye’ll be here always, lass! Some man, with more brains in his head than the others ye’ve met, will steal ye away from all this!”
Brodie shifted on his stool, wincing slightly at the pull in his left shoulder where the healer had dug out the arrow’s head. He’d never heard either woman mention marriage before, but the curious thing was Fenella’s response to it.
The freckled woman paled even further and drew her arms across her body, as if to hug herself. But at the last moment, she crossed them in front of her chest and turned her frown into a scowl directed at her elderly assistant.
“What do ye ken of such things, auld woman?”
“I wasnae always auld!” Eppie cackled as she turned back to her work. “And I ken a thing, or three or twelve, more than ye do about how to find happiness with a fine-looking man.”
Instead of answering, Fenella made a little, “Fah!” sound under her breath.
Eppie must’ve heard it, because the old woman made a rude gesture over her shoulder. “And I ken what to do when a fine-looking man is looking at me.”
It took Brodie a moment to realize she was referring to him.
Fine-looking?
He mentally repeated Fenella’s fah.
Which is why he was scowling when the beautiful woman turned his way.
Resisting the urge to fidget, as though he’d been caught doing something wrong, Brodie kept his scowl in place and slowly raised a brow.
Fenella, as expected, flushed and looked away.
He’d been haunting her kitchens daily for the last sennight, since her sister Nicola—the healer—had given him permission to use his crutch to hobble about. His first excursion had been to the great hall to celebrate the wedding of his laird, Kenneth McClure, to Fenella’s sister Leanna.
Once there, he’d attempted conversation with Fenella, which he was now realizing had been a supremely stupid move.
So why was he torturing himself by coming here to the kitchens each day, the one place where she ruled?
‘Tis warm and out of the way.
Aye, and he couldn’t be useful anywhere else, so he may as well sit here not being useful, studying the cook’s techniques, and keeping his mouth shut when he was sure he could do it better.