She stepped closer. Her shoulder nearly brushed the wool of his doublet.
He felt it in his palm at her waist, the way the tension in her body changed, the armor she wore that he'd been watching her carry since the night at Kinlochaline dissolving by fractions into the music.
He turned her and brought her back. She came back closer than before and he let her, kept his face toward the crowd, kept his breathing even.
She looked up.
He had intended to be strategic about this. To do the thing the gathering required. Stand beside her, dance with her, present a unified front for Henry and the King's men, and every merchant in the harbor who had come to assess the stability of Mull's last alliance. He had intended to be practical about it.
He was finding that difficult.
She was warm against his hand, and the fiddle was moving into its third measure. She was looking up at him with that direct, hazel gaze that had been dismantling his better judgment since the night in the library.
The harbor and the torchlight and the scratch of Henry's quill all fell away until there was nothing in it except the smell of sea salt on his skin and the dark, dilated pupils of her eyes.
He was going to be an absolute disaster by the end of this gathering.
"Convincingly harmonious," a voice drawled from the edge of the circle. "One could almost forget the questions that brought us here."
Henry.
He felt the muscle jump in his jaw. He didn't miss a beat. Across from him, Matilda had gone still. Not the stillness of fear, the stillness of someone choosing their response, and her chin went up by a fraction.
"Let him say it," she said, her voice a steady thread of steel. "We ken what this is, Ivar. Dinnae give him the satisfaction."
He looked at her.
He looked at her and felt something in his chest that he was fairly certain was not annoyance at Henry. He let his jaw ease. They moved through the next measure in a focused, shared silence, and he thought about the fact that she had just talked him down from something he would have regretted, which no one had ever successfully done before.
The peace was a thin veil. To their left, a man red-faced and loose from ale was speaking too loudly to his companion. He wasn't looking at them, but he intended to be heard.
"Aye, she's bonny enough," the man scoffed, sloshing ale over the rim of his cup. "I'll grant the Raven that. But bonny daesnae explain why he willnae prove the deed. Makes ye wonder. Maybe she's nae as willin' as she looks. Maybe there's nay sheet because the great Raven of Mull cannae manage his own wife."
The heat came up fast. He moved before he'd decided to.
He was between Matilda and the man before the sound of it had fully finished reaching him.
One step. Controlled. He felt the whole harbor go quiet. The musicians first, then the voices, then even the tide seemed to hold itself, because it was the kind of thing that happened when he looked at a man the way he was looking at this one.
The drunkard's face drained to grey. His cup trembled. His hands were shaking so badly the ale was running over his boots.
"Say that again." Ivar's voice came out quiet, which was always worse than shouting.
"Me laird."
"Ye were speaking about me wife." He kept his voice low, each word placed with care, because he was not going to make a scene at his own gatherin’ for a fool with ale in him, but he was going to be very precise about it. "In me harbor. At me gathering. Finish yer thought."
The man's mouth opened and produced nothing.
"Me wife is Lady Matilda Gunnarsson of Mull." He heard himself say it and felt the truth of it in a way he had not particularly prepared for. "She is nae a subject fer yer speculation. She is nae a topic fer yer drink-loosened tongue. If I hear her name in yer mouth again, here or anywhere on this island, ye'll find yerself explaining tae me personally why ye thought that was acceptable."
He let a moment sit in the silence. "Dae ye understand me?"
"Aye, me laird," the man wheezed.
"Good. Now go home. Ye're finished here."
The man stumbled away.