Page 85 of The Merciless Laird
Ivar could still smell the acrid scent of burning timber in the air, feel the oppressive heat of it clinging to his clothes.
The harbor had been in chaos, smoke curling thickly against the night sky, men scrambling in the disarray of the flames. He could picture it now. Figures in the dark, moving with purpose, slipping into the shadows, their knives hidden beneath layers of cloaks.
They had known exactly where to strike, where the fire would create the most damage, the most distraction. And all the while, the harbor's layout, the paths between the piers and the warehouse corners, the blind spots, each one had been studied and memorized.
The question the Crown now found itself compelled to ask was how men with such intimate knowledge had managed to infiltrate a public gathering. The harbor was not some back alley, it was a hub of activity, always under watch. Yet, these men had slipped past unseen. Henry’s voice was heavy with mock sympathy as he asked, his quill still poised above the paper.
He didn't look up. He didn't blink. He sat with his shoulders perfectly square, his spine a rigid line against the back of theheavy oak chair. His quill remained motionless, the tip hovering a hair's breadth from the parchment, as he watched Ivar with the flat, unblinking stillness of a predator waiting for a pulse.
There was no warmth in his gaze, only a clinical, sharpened focus that traced the tension in Ivar’s jaw and the set of his shoulders, recording every twitch of a muscle as if it were a tactical error. He was a man looking for a crack in the stone, his face an impenetrable mask of cold ink and judgment.
"A curious thing, Laird Gunnarsson," Henry murmured, the scratch of his quill finally breaking the silence as he made a single, slow mark. "That yer own harbor, a place ye claim tae rule with such… Norse efficiency… could be turned against ye so easily."
Beside him, the two flanking observers sat like statues carved from the same cold marble.
One held his breath, his chest frozen mid-rise, his eyes darting toward Henry with every shift in Ivar’s expression. The other kept his hands locked, white-knuckled, over his knees, his face a total void of emotion. They were mirrors waiting for an image, their gazes never straying from Henry’s profile, ready to mimic whatever scowl or nod he offered first.
Ivar met Henry's stare with a gaze that had weathered North Sea storms and Saxon steel.
"The harbor was turned against us because the enemy was invited intae our house," Ivar said, his voice a low, dangerousvibration. "They didnae slip past me watch. They were carried in on the payroll of a man who kens our blind spots because he helped map them."
He let the silence hang, thick as the oil smoke that had choked the piers. Henry finally lifted his head, the light of the fire catching the sharp, calculating glint in his eyes.
"And ye have proof of this invitation?" Henry asked, his voice thin as a blade. "Or are we tae rely on the word of a Raven who finds himself suddenly grounded by a fire he didn't see coming?"
Ivar let him finish, the heat of his temper rising to match the sting in his side.
"The men entered as traders," he said, each word a cold stone dropped into a deep well. "We’ve confirmed three names from the mainland. Two are known associates of Callum MacDougall. The third was the man taken in the passage." He paused, leaning forward just enough to make Henry blink. "He’s being held."
"Has he spoken?"
"He will."
Henry’s quill moved in a frantic scratch. "The Crown’s concern, Laird Gunnarsson, is not merely the attack. It is the pattern. This is the second coordinated strike since the marriage was announced. The court finds it difficult to––"
"The court," Ivar interrupted, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet rasp, "finds it difficult because it’s looking in the wrong direction."
He kept his gaze iron-steady. "Callum MacDougall has been working tae fracture this alliance since before the wedding. We have the names, the payments, and a living man in our custody who was there. What the court should find difficult is explaining why a Highland laird has been allowed tae run this kind of campaign while Mull has been the one fielding the consequences."
The room went tomb-quiet. Henry’s quill stopped mid-sentence.
"Ye will have a full account, in writing," Ivar said. "In the meantime, the Council will convene, the harbor will be secured, and ye are welcome tae remain as an observer." He let that sit for a heavy moment. "Or ye can return to the mainland and wait there fer the written account. Either is acceptable."
Henry looked at him, performing that same clinical assessment, searching for a crack. He didn't find one.
Ivar was in pain from the base of his ribs to the top of his hip, and his head was a swirling mist, but none of that was visible. He sat like the stone of Duart itself.
The Council that followed was longer. He sat through it, his side thumping with a dull, rhythmic ache. He answered what needed answering, dismissed what needed dismissing, and when it was finally done, he walked toward his study.
He intended to speak to the man they’d taken from the passage, the mercenary who had remained unconscious since the harbor fire.
Einar was standing outside the door. The look on the man’s face told Ivar what he needed to know before a word was spoken.
"Still out," Einar said shortly. "Oswin says maybe taenight. Maybe tomorrow."
Ivar stood in the corridor and breathed, saying nothing as his jaw tightened.
"He took a bad blow to the head when Torvald brought him down," Einar offered. "Oswin says there’s nay way tae ken if he’ll wake."
