Page 86 of The Merciless Laird
Ivar pushed into the study and stood at the window.
He pressed his hand against the edge of the frame, his knuckles white, and looked out at the gray, churning water of the sound. The wind was up, the harbor showing its teeth in whitecaps, and the scent of the salt sea came in cold and sharp around the shutter.
He stood there and forced himself to breathe. He reminded himself that a man who couldn't be questioned today could be questioned tomorrow, and that losing his temper at a window was not a strategy.
He heard her before she reached the door. He knew her footsteps now, lighter than his, quicker, the cadence of a woman who moved with purpose. He didn't turn around.
"Ye should be in bed," she said from the doorway.
"I’ve been in bed fer four days."
"Aye. Because ye had a blade in yer side." She came into the room, stopping a few feet behind him. He could feel the heat of her presence. "The Council is over?"
"Aye."
"And the envoy?"
"Still here. Still watchin' and writin' things down in his silly little notebook." He paused, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
A beat of quiet passed. Then: "Come back to our chamber."
He turned. She was standing in the middle of the study in the dark wool dress she'd been wearing the last two days. Her hair was pinned back with less care than usual, stray wisps framing a face that had changed.
The careful composure she had maintained in the hall was gone. The deliberate neutrality she wore for the envoy was strippedaway. What was left was direct, tired, and not particularly interested in managing his reaction.
"Ye sat through a full Council," she said. "Ye walked here from the hall. Oswin said ye should always rest."
"I ken what Oswin said."
"Then ye ken that pushin' yerself today means another three days in bed instead of one." Her voice was flat. Not unkind, but as unyielding as the sea. "Come back tae the chamber."
He looked at her.
There were shadows under her eyes that hadn't been there before the harbor attack. Her hands were still, a sign he'd learned meant she was holding something steady inside.
He thought about the dried blood on her sleeve that she'd dismissed as nothing. He thought about waking in the dark to find her hand on his jaw, her voice anchoring him through the fever, the way she'd held him down with both palms flat and not been gentle about it.
He thought about what it would have taken for her to sit in that chair for four days, watching him bleed.
"Matilda," he said.
"Dinnae." Her jaw tightened. "Whatever ye’re about to say, dinnae. Just come back to the chamber."
He went.
They walked without speaking, through the corridor and up the stone stairs. She stayed at his shoulder the entire way. Not holding on to him, not hovering, but close enough that he could have reached for her without even extending his arm.
The wound pulled with every step, a sharp, physical grounding, and he was almost grateful for it. It gave him something concrete to manage.
In the chamber, she pointed at the bed with the certainty of a woman who was done making suggestions. He sat on the edge of it, and she pulled the small table close, setting the basin and the linen down with that unhesitating, practical calm he had come to realize was a shield.
"Take the tunic off."
He did. She unwound the linen at his side and checked the wound closely and thoroughly, her lower lip caught between her teeth. The stitches were holding. He watched her face while she assessed the damage.
"It’s clean," she said softly.
"Aye."
