When Wynda had subjected poor Craig to that humiliating measurement fiasco, Fen’s sister hadn’t measured what really mattered. Fen hadn’t been able to explain that at the time, and still couldn’t now. All she knew was, Craig was nowhere near as attractive as Brodie, and she didn’t know why.
As she returned to her station, she cast about for some topic. “So, yer family are fishermen and ye live on McClure land?”
“Aye,” he drawled. “My grandfather died afore I was born, but he was a sailor from the Crusader States, shipwrecked in the Hebrides. He met my grandmother and decided to stay.”
He’d said it so matter-of-factly, but Fen’s eyes had gone round as her gaze flicked over his dark skin. “That would explain— Och,” she interrupted herself before she said something rude. “’Tis a shame ye didnae have the opportunity to meet him.”
Brodie shrugged without looking up. “I kenned my grandmother, who said he was a stoic man.”
“As stoic as ye?” she teased.
Startled, his chin jerked. When he saw her smiling at him, his not-quite-a-frown eased and he shrugged. “Mayhap.”
Well, he’d never be considered expressive, but she liked that she could read his emotions. “So, a family of fishermen, but ye became a warrior, aye?”
“Aye.” Methodically, he began to lay out the small squares of pastry dough to be filled, then baked. “I dinnae care for the open sea nor the movement of the boat.”
He got seasick? That shouldn’t be as adorable as it was. A smile tugging at her lips, Fen asked, “But ye like fish, aye?”
“When ‘tis well-seasoned, like with—”
He broke off, his dark gaze flicking to hers. She smiled, and they spoke together. “Fennel!”
After a moment, he nodded. “Fennel is my favorite herb. Verra versatile.”
Oh, damnation! Her inside bits had gone all gooey again, like undercooked bread.
Delicious, delicious undercooked bread.
Eew! Ye’re thinking with yer carnal appetite again.
Yum.
He was watching her, so she forced herself to pick up the honey pot and carefully measure out what she needed, then begin to mash the honey into the strawberries. It was rhythmic and familiar, and she felt herself sink into the soothing routine as he began to speak.
“My father saw early on I wouldn’t follow in his footsteps, so he contracted with the laird—Kenneth’s father—to have me trained with his warriors. I remember thinking ‘twas far better than mucking about in the shallows with nets.”
“Did ye enjoy the training? Stabbing at flesh and all that?”
He snorted softly. “I was good at it. When Kenneth chose me as his bodyguard, ‘twas because I was the best. He joined the Hunters, and I went with him.”
The berry filling was almost ready, so she bustled about, collecting the last ingredients, as she called over her shoulder, “Tell me about them. The Hunters. Leanna’s mentioned a bit.”
He shrugged. “They’re a mysterious bunch. Most of them still follow the auld rule of covering their face during a mission.”
“Covering their face? With what?”
“With a helm.” He gestured, miming the action of pulling closed a helmet’s visor. “Like the English.”
Snorting at the image, she whipped the berries. “I suppose that makes them more mysterious. And scary.”
“Aye, ‘tis the idea. Men without faces, eh? I cannae believe ye havenae heard of them. Here, pass that to me and I’ll start filling while ye work on the cream.”
She started, surprised that he understood her intentions, then slowly passed him the filling. “I suppose the Oliphants have always been a bit of a strange clan to others, eh?”
“I’ve heard tales. Ghosts and drummers, and Kenneth said yer father is likely mad, although I suppose I shouldnae mention that to ye.”
Surprised again, she burst into low chuckles and noticed the way his chin jerked up at the sound, his gaze finding hers unerringly. “Aye, I suppose he likely is mad. Ye’ve heard of his newest scheme?”