"I cannae dae this with ye here."
The words came out sharper than intended. She tried again, more controlled. "Ye're too close."
One dark brow lifted. "I'm three yards away and facin' the opposite direction."
"Go to the path."
"There are men in these woods, Matilda."
"Then come back when I call."
"Nay."
She stared at his back.
His very broad, very stubborn, very unhelpful back.
"Then I'm nae goin'."
"Then we'll stand here until mornin'."
Same tone. Same maddening ease. As though he had suggested they wait for drizzle to pass instead of trapping her in a private hell.
She folded her arms. "Ye are the most infuriatin'—"
"Probably."
"Impossible—"
"Also possible."
"Big-headed man I have ever?—"
"Matilda."
He turned his head just slightly, not enough to look at her fully. Only enough for her to catch the hard line of his jaw in the dark and the hint, just the hint, that he was enjoying this.
Fine.
"Ye have tae sing."
That made him pause.
"Why?"
She lifted her chin. "Because ye cannae hear anythin' when ye're singin'."
A beat passed.
Then another.
He rubbed a hand slowly over his beard, as if considering whether this was a serious demand or a symptom of distress.
Finally, he said, "If ye say so, I will. I've already stopped in the middle of the woods so ye can preserve yer dignity. I think wisdom left us some time ago."
That traitorous twitch pulled at her mouth again. She suppressed it with effort.
"Then sing badly," she muttered.