Page 78 of The Merciless Laird
Ivar stood for a moment with his back to Matilda, his shoulders broad and tight. He got himself together because his hands had been very close to fists, and the gathering was still being observed and he had to turn around without looking like he wanted to tip the man into the harbor.
He turned.
She was looking at him. Not with relief, not with the soft gratitude of a woman who'd been rescued. She was looking at him the way she'd looked at him in the library, straight and clearand letting him see that she saw him—all of him, the temper and the control and the precise line between them.
"Thank ye," she whispered.
He didn't have words for what was in him right then. He held out his hand instead, palm open.
She took it.
They moved back into the dance and Ivar looked out over the harbor and noted, with some distant and practical corner of his mind, that the islanders were watching her differently now. Not with suspicion, not with the careful reserve of a clan assessing a foreign woman, but with something quieter and more solid.
He noted it and said nothing.
He kept his hand at her waist and twirled her. Her shoulder settled against his doublet as they turned.
The explosion shattered the world without warning.
A violent, tearing roar ripped through the air, so loud it seemed to vibrate in Matilda’s very teeth. One moment, the harbor was music and laughter, the next, the ground shuddered beneath her feet with a concussive crack.
At the far end of the dock, the warehouse where the oil barrels were stored erupted. It wasn't a slow burn; it was a sudden, roaring wall of orange flame that climbed ten feet into the air in seconds.
The heat hit Matilda’s face in a searing wave.
"Ivar!"
A second explosion, sharper and higher, rocked the dock. A barrel going up.
The easy celebration dissolved into a frantic, directionless sea of bodies. People pushed away from the fire in shock and terror. Black, acrid smoke began to roll low across the harbor path, swallowing the lanterns one by one.
Ivar’s grip on her hand tightened until it felt like iron. "Stay with me!" he roared over the sound of the flames and the screams.
"Aye!" She gripped his hand back, her knuckles white.
But the chaos was too much.
A group of men ran between them, shoulder to shoulder, frantic to reach the birlinns. A woman pulling a screaming child shoved past. The pressure of the crowd was a physical tide.
Matilda’s fingers slipped against the leather of Ivar’s glove. She lunged for him, but her hand caught only the hot, oily air.
"Ivar!"
The smoke hit her face. Thick, black, and tasting of ash. She coughed, her lungs burning, and she was forced sideways by the crush of bodies into the narrow supply passage between two of the stone dock buildings.
She stopped, pressing her back against the wet stone wall, gasping for air. The passage was a throat of shadow. The roar of the fire was a muffled thrum here, and the orange light was just a smear at the far end.
"Ivar! I'm here!" she shouted, but the sound was swallowed by the stone.
She took a tentative step toward the light.
The hands came from the dark behind her. Cold, hard fingers clamped around her biceps with brutal force. She was yanked backward, her feet skidding on the damp stone, and slammed against a broad, solid chest.
Panic flared, white and blinding, but Matilda’s training, the years of being a woman alone, kicked in.
She drove her heel down with everything she had, aiming for the instep. She felt the solid thud, heard a sharp grunt, and felt the grip loosen by a fraction of an inch.
She twisted, driving her elbow back into the man’s ribs. She spun, raking her nails across a masked face, catching the edge of an eye. The man hissed in pain, and she was almost free, until a second pair of hands grabbed her from the left.
