Page 28 of The Merciless Laird
That was what was truly difficult now. The awareness of him on all sides of her, without quite touching. His arms braced on the rail, his warmth cutting through the cold, the sense that if she leaned back even the smallest amount, she would discover exactly how firm his chest was and how little space there really was between them.
It was absurd that she should notice such things while trying not to disgrace herself on a boat, and more absurd still that noticing them seemed, in some strange way, to help.
Torvald appeared at her other side, holding a piece of dried fish.
"Nay," she shook her head firmly.
"It helps," Torvald said.
She glared at the object he was holding out to her. "It daesnae look like it will help."
"It will. Take it."
She took it with reluctance. The first bite was bearable. The second was much less so. By the third, the taste and the movement of the boat had combined into something that felt distinctly hostile, and she lowered the fish before matters became worse.
Torvald, to his credit, did not look triumphant. "Ye dinnae have tae finish it."
"I'm fine."
"Aye," Ivar said from behind her, "ye look wonderfully at ease."
She turned, with the intention to glare at him, and immediately regretted it because he was too close. Her face ended much nearer his than she found comfortable. It was now close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath despite the wind. Close enough that when his eyes dropped briefly to her mouth, the sea disappeared for one disorienting second.
Torvald glanced between them and said, with remarkable tactlessness, "I can come back later."
"Nay," Matilda said.
"Aye," said Ivar at the same time.
Torvald's brows rose. "Well. That's interesting."
"Go away, Torvald," Ivar said.
He took the fish back with dignity. "As ye wish. I'll leave ye tae the weather and whatever this is."
He moved off before she could think of a retort sharp enough to kill him.
She faced forward at once. "Islanders are intolerably smug about boats."
"Islanders survive on smugness, salt, and repetition."
"Mainlanders survive on manners, wine, and floors that dinnae move beneath them."
"And how are those advantages servin' ye just now?"
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. Half incredulous, half unwilling.
Behind her, she felt––rather than saw––his satisfaction. "There it is."
"What?"
"Proof that I can be amusing," He stated drily.
"I laughed at the situation, nae at ye."
"That seems ungrateful, given that I am currently protectin' ye from wind, drowning, and despair."
She turned her head enough to let him see her expression. "Ye are protectin' me from none of those things."
