She stared at the door and told herself very firmly that it did not matter to her whether it mattered to him.
She saw the slight tension in his shoulders.
She knew now that the heat in her chest was something much more dangerous.
She was still staring at the door when a servant tried to open the locked door
Matilda’s breath hitched, the old panic rising like a cold tide.
Matilda was off the bed before she knew she'd moved. Her movements were a blur of pure, survivalist instinct.
Her back hit the wall, and her hand went to her side where nothing was. No knife, nothing, and her heart was in her throat, and the air had gone thin. She stood gasping, her eyes wide and fixed on the door, her whole body trembling with the aftershock of the reflex.
"Me laird…" a voice came from outside.
"Nae now." Ivar's voice, from behind her. Not loud. Just final. The word was a razor, cutting through the servant’s stuttering.
The servant went.
The room was the same room. The fire was the same fire. Everything remained as it was.
Matilda stood with her back against the wall and her hand pressed flat to her sternum and breathed. Counted. One and twoand three. She focused on the rise and fall of her hand, trying to ground herself in the rhythm.
He looked at her. Not with the careful softness she'd spent years dreading. Just waiting. He didn't move toward her, which she found she was grateful for.
"I'm fine," she said. Her voice was a ragged whisper.
"Aye." He held her gaze for one moment. "It willnae happen again." The promise was certain, and she believed him.
She nodded. Looked at the floor. She felt the tremor in her knees, the slow receding of the adrenaline.
The counting had worked, the way it usually worked. The edges of the room had come back, the walls were where they were supposed to be. The air felt thick again, breathable.
"Thank ye," she said. She looked up at him, her expression raw.
He nodded once and crossed to the table and picked up his cloak, and the morning resumed around them as though nothing had shifted. But the way he avoided looking at her spoke more than any words could.
Something had.
She knew it. She thought he did too. The silence between them was no longer empty; it was full of the ghost of her scream.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The lairds left at first light.
The air in the yard was sharp, tasting of salt and woodsmoke—a cold, jagged clarity that mirrored the departure. Matilda stood by the gate, her fingers digging into the rough wool of her cloak as she watched the birlinns pull away from the dock. She followed the rhythmic dip and pull of the oars until her eyes ached from the glare of the grey morning water.
"They’ll be halfway to the mainland before the mist lifts," a brisk voice said behind her.
Matilda didn't turn. She knew the cadence of Sigrid’s step now. "The sound looks empty without them."
"It’s always empty until it isnae," Sigrid replied, stepping up beside her. She adjusted the basket on her hip. "Claricia left a mess of lavender in her chamber. I suspect she meant for ye to find it."
Matilda felt the ghost of Claricia’s hug—startling and warm.
Write tae me. I mean it.
"She’s a loud woman," Matilda murmured, though the lump in her throat betrayed her.