Page 29 of The Merciless Laird
"From the wind, unquestionably."
"Only because ye're too large tae dae otherwise."
"Ah," he said. "So now me size is useful. It could be useful in a lot of other instances also."
He clearly intended for her to use her imagination in that instance, and she hated how easily that moved into dangerous territory. She cleared her throat. "Nae useful. Unavoidable."
His laugh this time was low and real, and it immediately filled the air between them with even more tension.
Torvald reappeared with a waterskin and handed it over. "Drink. Before the pair of ye freeze out here or something."
She took it gratefully, if only because it gave her something to do besides being overly aware of the growing tension between them. The water helped. Or perhaps enough time had passed that her body had decided not to revolt after all.
Either way, the crossing became marginally less miserable, and the horizon steadied into something she could tolerate.
When she lowered the skin, she caught a quick look between Torvald and Ivar over her head. It was the sort of look shared by two people who had known one another for so long they could communicate without speech.
"How long have ye served him?" she asked Torvald.
"Since we were lads."
"Long enough to ken the fish is terrible," Ivar said.
Torvald nodded gravely. "The fish has always been terrible. He refuses to admit it because he is too proud."
"I've nay pride in the fish."
"Then what possible reason remains?"
Matilda glanced over her shoulder. "Stubbornness, I assume."
"That," Torvald said, "is always a safe guess with him."
He moved off again, and the boat settled back into the rhythm of oars and water and wind.
She looked out at Mull, closer now, it’s dark hills resolving into something she could read.
"How much longer?" she said.
"An hour. Maybe less."
Matilda nodded and faced forward, hands on the rail, and let the crossing do what it was going to do. The boat rocked then, enough to shift her balance, and his hand came to her waist to steady her. It should have been nothing. A practical touch. Brief. Necessary.
Instead, she felt every aspect of it.
The firmness of his grip. The warmth of his palm through the layers between them. The slow, deliberate way his thumb moved once against her side before his hand eased away, leaving behind the distinct and maddening impression that he had done it on purpose.
She did not turn around. She did not trust herself to.
Mull had grown larger while she was not paying proper attention. Its shore had begun to separate into detail, stone and slope and the suggestion of a life waiting on the other side.Somewhere on that island stood a castle she had never seen. Somewhere behind her lay the shore that had let her go.
Ivar remained close behind, his chest still just shy of her back, his arms still on either side of hers, the wind still forced to go around them both.
She was aware of every place they nearly touched.
More troubling still, she was no longer entirely certain she wanted him to move.
CHAPTER SEVEN
