Page 95 of The Merciless Laird
The hall was mid-morning busy. The frantic energy of a keep under observation. Household traffic, two of the King’s men at the far table over a meal, Sigrid directing a servant with a basket near the stairs.
Ivar clocked it in one sweep. Every presence, every position, and every potential threat.
As usual he found Matilda without looking for her, his gaze gravitating towards her.
She was standing near the window at the far end, the place she favored when she wanted the morning light and a solid stone wall at her back. He understood that about her now. He understood most of her habits. The small calibrations she made to every room she entered, and he registered them without comment because they required none.
What he registered now, however, was different.
One of the King’s men was beside her. Not the one who spoke at Councils, but the younger one. The one with the smooth face who had said very little since their arrival and whom Ivar had therefore been watching more carefully than the rest.
He was standing close. Not aggressively close, nothing that could be named or challenged directly, but it still made Ivar’s blood boil. He was speaking softly, his head inclined toward her, smiling the smile of a man who believed his own charm was irresistible.A fool!
Matilda’s face was a mask of composed politeness. Her hands were still at her sides. She was nodding at something the man had said with the exact expression she used when she was being courteous to someone she did not particularly wish to speak to. A specific, frigid quality Ivar could read from thirty feet.
Ivar crossed the hall.
He did not move quickly. Quick would have given something away and it would have made it a scene, which would have given Henry’s prying quill something to record.
He moved at a perfectly ordinary pace, arrived at her side, and placed his hand at the small of her back. It wasn’t a grip, it was his palm flat and present through the wool of her dress.
The envoy looked up, the smile faltering.
Ivar met the man’s eyes.
"Keeping ye occupied?" Ivar asked. His voice was conversational, mild, yet it held the weight of a stone.
The man stepped back. Not immediately, there was a beat of resistance, a small, foolish assertion of position. But he stepped back. "Laird Gunnarsson. I was just speakin' with Lady Matilda about?—"
"Aye." Ivar’s mouth curved into a smile that did nae reach his eyes. "I’m sure ye were."
Another beat. Then the man excused himself and moved away toward the far table. Ivar tracked his exit with his peripheral vision, keeping the "pleasant" expression in place until there was no further need for it.
He became aware that Matilda had turned her head and was looking at him.
He removed his hand from her back. Unhurried. As though it had simply fulfilled its purpose and had no further business being there.
"He was askin' about the mainland trade routes," she said, her voice holding a hint of a challenge. "He has an uncle who runs wool from Stirling."
"Fascinatin'."
"He was perfectly polite," saying it in the tone she used when she was enjoying herself and not advertising it.
"Aye. He was."
She looked at him for a long moment, her hazel eyes searching his. Then she turned back toward the window and the grey morning light off the water.
"Did ye find him charmin'?"
"What is this question?"
"I’m just asking if ye found him charmin'."
Ivar looked at the window, his jaw working. "He was adequately turned out. Pleasant enough manner. Bit too much hair oil for a morning council."
The corner of her mouth moved. "That’s a description, Ivar, nae an answer."
"I answered."
