Page 39 of The Merciless Laird
She looked at his back. At the set of his shoulders, the absolute composure of a man who had already decided the conversation was moving inside and was simply waiting for her to catch up.
"That," she said, falling into step beside him because her knee was cold and the hall would have a fire, "is possibly the strangest reason anyone has ever given me to come indoors."
"Is it workin'?"
"Aye."
"Then it isnae strange. It's effective."
She said nothing. She walked beside him into the keep and told herself the sound she made walking into the keep was not a laugh. She was nearly certain of it.
The Great Hall was quiet, the long tables empty, the fire well built against the morning cold.
He poured ale from the jug on the sideboard and held a cup out without asking and she took it without being asked and they stood near the fire and she wrapped both hands around the cup and let the warmth of it do something useful.
"Ye watched the whole session," he said.
"I watched part of it."
"Ye came downstairs," he said, "which means ye watched from the window first and decided that wasnae close enough."
She said nothing. That was, more or less exactly, what had happened.
"What did ye think?" he said.
She looked at the fire. "Ye're different out there than the version I've been gettin'."
"Which version have ye been gettin'?"
"The one that sings in forests and tells Sigrid to keep the candles lit." She looked up at him. "That one daesnae run a keep."
"Nay," he said. "But it's the same person. The man who protects his own is the same man who leads them. There is nay division, Matilda."
She held his gaze. "I ken," she said quietly. "That's what I'm still workin' out."
Something changed in his countenance at that, something he quickly managed, and she looked back at her cup before she could read it too clearly.
She thought about his words, seeing the way the warrior and the man were woven together. "I saw ye with that boy. The one who couldnae find his footing. Ye were... patient."
"Losin' patience daesna? make him better. It makes me feel better. And anger is a wasted breath," he looked at her steadily. "He will stay alive because I stayed patient. That is the only metric that matters."
"Someone told me that recently."
"Wise person."
"Terrible singer."
He was quiet for exactly two seconds. The corner of his mouth moved and she looked at the fire.
"The singing was a strategic decision," he said.
"It was a catastrophe," she said.
"Also that."
"There's somethin' ye should ken," his tone had turned serious.
She looked up.
