Page 103 of The Merciless Laird
Ivar found himself watching the way the torchlight caught the strands of her hair when he should have been listening to Aldric. He had to redirect his attention twice, his pulse erratic.
They discussed strategic moves, and when they finished, the elders filed out. Ivar caught Torvald's arm at the door.
"Double the watch on the north approach," he said quietly. "If Callum's camp was where we found the plaid, he's close enough tae hear what's being planned."
"Already done," Torvald said. "Since this morning."
Ivar let him go and turned back to the table. Matilda was already there, rolling the documents carefully. Her movements were precise, economical, and incredibly graceful. She handed themto him without being asked, because she'd understood without being told that they needed to be locked away.
He took them from her. Their fingers crossed briefly over the paper, skin against skin. She didn't pull back. Neither did he. The touch was brief, but it scorched.
Then she turned and went out the door. He watched her go, the sway of her skirts a rhythm he found himself following, and he stood in the empty hall for a long moment before he went to lock the secrets away.
The afternoon wore itself out in preparations.
Guard rotations were adjusted, messages drafted for the island elders, and the harbor master brought into the fold. Ivar moved through it all.
By the time the light had gone grey and the evening torches were being lit throughout the keep, he'd done what could be done. He went to find Matilda.
She wasn't in the library. Not in the upper corridor. Not in the garden, which was far too cold at this hour for lingering. He went back through the Great Hall and was crossing toward the east stair when Sigrid appeared from the cross-passage. She placed herself in his path with that quiet, deliberate efficiency she applied to everything.
"She's in the inner passage," Sigrid said. "Off the west stair."
Ivar knew the one.
It ran between the old storage rooms and the lower hall, narrow, windowless, and poorly torched even on the best nights. At this hour, it was a throat of absolute black.
"How long?"
"A few minutes. I followed her." Sigrid paused, her eyes searching his. "She daesnae have a candle."
He looked at Sigrid. The gravity of the statement hung between them.
Sigrid looked back at him. "Wait," she said, before he could move. "Let her finish."
Ivar went to the passage entrance from the east side. He moved like a ghost, giving him the angle without crowding her. The torches at both ends were unlit. The only light was the thin, pathetic grey that crept under the far door. Barely enough to see shapes, nowhere near enough to call it light.
She was at the midpoint.
He stopped, his heart hammering against his ribs.
She was walking slowly. One foot after the other. Her hand was trailing the wall at shoulder height, her fingers skating over the cold, rough stone. Her shoulders were up, carrying the agonizing tension of a body doing something the mind was loudly arguing against.
He didn't move. He didn't breathe more than he had to.
She reached the three-quarter mark. Her hand dropped from the wall. She stopped. She pressed her palm flat against the stone, fingers spread wide and stood there. Her back rose and fell, faster, shallower.
Two breaths. Three. Her fingers stayed spread against the stone, grounding her.
Then she pushed off it and kept walking.
Something shifted in Ivar’s chest. A raw, heavy pull of admiration. He watched her reach the end of the passage and stop, her hand on the door frame, her back to him.
For a long moment, she just stood there, facing the door she'd walked all the way to through the dark.
Then she turned around.
She saw him immediately. And Sigrid, a step behind his shoulder. Her chin came up by reflex. The instinct of a womanwho'd spent years managing what other people saw, and then, slowly, it came down again.
