Page 33

Brodie’s gaze shifted downward to his son. Angus was entirely white from the waist up. Flour was caked into his hair, smeared across his chin, and streaked down his linen tunic in paste-like stripes.

A heavy, profound silence fell over the kitchen.

“Father!” Angus broke the quiet, entirely unfazed by the terrifying figure his father cut in the doorway. He bounded forward, his flour-dusted shoes leaving little white footprints across the dark stone floor. “Look! We made the festival cakes! Sheona let me knead the dough, and Cook says I have a wrist like a MacFaris!”

Brodie looked down at the boy, his dark brow furrowing as he took in the sheer disaster of his son’s appearance. “Ye look like ye fell headfirst into a grain sack, lad.”

“I am a baker!” Angus declared fiercely, grabbing Brodie’s broad, leather-gloved hand with his white, sticky fingers. “Come bake with us! We are makin’ a horse with six legs!”

Sheona held her breath, watching Brodie closely. The image of the formidable warlord kneeling in the flour to shape oatcakes was absurd, yet a tiny, foolish part of her wondered whether he might step into the warmth of the room.

Brodie looked from his son’s sticky hands to the flour-covered table, and then up at Sheona. For a fleeting second, the hard, unyielding stone of his face seemed to soften, his dark eyes lingering on the smear of white across her cheekbone.

“Nay, lad,” Brodie rumbled, his voice low and deep, echoing off the low ceiling. “The perimeter watch needs me in the court. I have nay time for bakin’ six-legged beasts.”

Angus’s small face fell, his shoulders slumping. “Nae even one cake?”

Brodie paused. He looked down at the disappointed boy, then slowly unbuttoned his heavy leather glove, pulling it free to reveal his broad, calloused hand. He reached out, stepping toward the table where the freshly baked honey cakes rested on the wooden board.

Without breaking eye contact with Sheona, Brodie reached down and picked up one of the warm, golden cakes she had just pulled from the fire. He brought it to his mouth and took a bite.

The room remained dead silent, save for the crackle of the hearth fire. Brodie chewed slowly, his dark eyes fixed on Sheona’s face, watching her chest rise and fall as her cheeks flushed a deep, involuntary crimson.

“It is good,” Brodie said smoothly, his gravelly rasp dropping into a tone that felt entirely too intimate for a room full of servants. “Sweet. But a bit heavy on the flour.”

Sheona’s chin snapped up, her eyes flashing with instant, defensive heat. “It is nae heavy on the flour! It is made precisely as it ought to be!”

A faint, maddening twitch appeared at the corner of Brodie’s mouth, that same subtle, knowing smirk that made her pulse leap into her throat.

He swallowed the rest of the cake, wiping a small crumb from his lip with the back of his thumb. “If ye say so, Lady Sheona.”

He turned back to Angus, resting his broad hand atop the boy’s white, flour-caked head, giving it a rough, affectionate shake that sent a small cloud of white dust floating into the air. “Get yerself cleaned up before ye come to the yard, Angus. Ye’re a mess.”

“Aye, Father!” Angus chirped, his disappointment instantly forgotten.

Brodie turned and strode back up the stone stairs, his heavy boots echoing into the upper hall, the oak door swinging shut behind him.

Sheona stood by the table, her heart hammering against her ribs like a drum, her fingers tightly clutching her wooden dough scraper.

“Oh well,” Cook muttered softly from the hearth, a sly, knowing smile spreading across her wrinkled face as she flipped another bannock. “He certainly enjoyed that cake, Lady Sheona.”

“He said it was heavy on the flour,” Sheona grumbled fiercely, slamming her wooden scraper back into the trough to hide the hot, relentless flush creeping up her neck. “I am certain he did not like it.”

“Aye,” Cook chuckled softly, turning back to the coals. “And I’m the Queen of England.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The heavy iron key turned in the lock of the lower stone vault.

Brodie pushed open the thick oak door, and the cool, damp chill of the subterranean wine cellars instantly washed over him. The scent of damp stone, old oak staves, and sour, fermented grape skins clung heavily to the air.

Behind him, Angus came trotting down the steps, his small leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the worn flagstones. The boy was finally scrubbed clean of the kitchen flour, his damp hair slicked back, though a lingering smell of sweet honey still clung to his linen tunic.

“Hold the torch steady, lad,” Brodie rumbled, reaching down to hand Angus a small brass-bound sconce.

Angus gripped the iron handle with both hands, lifting it high. His wide, curious eyes tracked the rows of massive oak casks stacked three deep along the shadow-draped walls.

“Are all these filled with wine for the festival, Father?” Angus asked, his voice echoing in the low, vaulted chamber. He trotted over to the nearest barrel, reaching up on his tiptoes to press his palm against the dark wood. “Is it red or white? And where does it come from? Does it grow inside the ground like a turnip?”