Page 92 of The Merciless Laird
She immediately hoped it didn’t sound like she was trying to cover something up. Ivar’s eyes scanned the room before landing on the table, then on her.
He raised an eyebrow and looked at the oatcakes with the kind of grave seriousness he usually reserved for battle strategy. Matilda’s heart gave a little leap, but she kept her expression as neutral as she could manage.
"So are ye."
"I've nae had a blade in me side."
"That ye've mentioned." He went into the kitchen, his gait unhurried, and stopped on the other side of the table. He looked at the board again with an expression that was doing a great deal of work to stay neutral. "Did ye make those?"
"I did."
"Yerself?"
"That's what I said."
"Aye. I see we’re having a breakfast of champions," he said, his voice even, but there was that slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"Aye," she said, her smile faltering just a bit. "Nae the usual, but they’ll fill ye up."
He picked up the one at the front of the board, the best of the lot, and turned it in his hand.
One edge was the color of a winter night. The crack down the second one was not, it turned out, hidden by its position. He examined it with the careful, grave attention of a man asked to assess a tactical map.
"I pressed them too thick," she said, her chin lifting. "The first batch. The second batch is better."
"Which is the second batch?"
"The ones that are only brown."
He looked at the board, appearing to do a small calculation. "Which one is this?" He held up the one in his hand.
She considered the question. "That one is transitional," she said.
Something moved in the harsh line of his face. He bit into it.
She watched him chew. He chewed for considerably longer than a well-made oatcake would have required. His expression remained thoughtful throughout.
"Well?" she said.
"They're…" He stopped, searching for the word. "They've got character."
"They're burned."
"The edges have texture." He took another bite with the commitment of a man who had made a decision and intended to honor it. "The center is…"
"Raw."
"Substantial." He finished it.
He put his hand out and picked up the second one, the cracked one, and bit into that as well, and she stared at him.
"Ye dinnae have to eat that."
"I've had worse."
"Ye have nae."
"Winter campaign, the year I was twenty-three." He chewed thoughtfully. "We ran out of proper rations off the coast of Tiree and Torvald made something out of barley and sea water that I believe removed a layer of me stomach linin'."
