She looked at him.
He pulled her closer, unhurried, giving her the same careful space he always gave her, and kissed her. It was in the warm kitchen, with flour on his tunic and the smell of burned oatcakes in the air and the three kitchen women finding the wall extremely interesting, and she didn't particularly care.
She smoothed the front of his tunic and let her hand rest there for a moment, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of him under the wool, the wound that was healing on his right side that she would check again before the afternoon.
"Come and eat somethin' that isnae those," she said.
"I ate two of those."
"Out of solidarity, nae enjoyment. Come and eat."
He looked down at her hand on his chest. He covered it with his own, brief and deliberate, and let it go.
"Aye," he said. "Lead the way."
She did.
Behind them, she heard Beira say something to the younger women in a low, private voice and heard one of them suppress a sound that was clearly a laugh.
She walked through the kitchen door with Ivar at her shoulder, into the corridor, toward breakfast, toward the day, toward whatever Henry and the Council and the grey water of the sound intended to bring next.
The keep smelled of burned oats and woodsmoke and the warmth of a home that had, without her entirely planning for it, become hers.
She found she didn't mind at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Torvald found him in the corridor outside the Great Hall.
"A word, me laird," he said, his voice low and gravelly.
They stepped into the shadows of an alcove off the east passage, well away from the hall traffic. Torvald kept his posture neutral, but his jaw was tight in the way that made Ivar worry.
"The rumors from Lorne are moving faster than we thought." Torvald crossed his massive arms over his chest. "Three mainland traders pulled Bronn aside at the harbor this morning before the hall opened. Separately. Same story, Callum’s been sending men into the coastal settlements fer two weeks. Nae fighters. Talkers."
Ivar stared at the cold stone wall, his mind already running the calculations.
"The message is the same each time," Torvald continued. "That ye orchestrated the harbor attack yerself. That the wound in yer side was staged. That ye’re using the instability tae argue fer more autonomy from the Crown and the Pact was nae something ye ever intended tae honor."
"And people are listenin'." It wasn’t a question.
"Some. Enough." A pause. "The traders who went tae Bronn werenae sympathetic tae Callum. They were warning us. But fer every man who warns, there are three who dinnae bother." Torvald’s jaw shifted. "He’s been at this a long time, me laird. Before the weddin', before the harbor. He’s been building this."
Ivar thought about the man in the lower room. Awake now, according to Einar. Waiting for a final accounting.
"How fast are they moving?" Ivar asked.
"Fast enough to reach the court. Henry’s been sending letters. Whatever he’s writing, he writes it every night." Torvald paused, his eyes narrowing. "That’s nae new information. But the pace of it has changed."
"Aye." Ivar pushed off the wall, the wound in his side giving a dull, rhythmic thrum. "I’ll deal with it."
"There’s more," Torvald said. "Two of the men who came through the harbor as traders the night of the fire, we’ve traced them tae a coastal holding two hours from here. The holdin'belongs tae a MacPherson. The MacPherson has nay obvious connection to Callum, but his second son spent three months in Lorne last year."
"Then find the second son."
"Already sent Bronn."
Ivar offered a short, sharp nod. He moved toward the hall, and Torvald fell into step beside him, then peeling off toward the outer passage, back to the dozen things he was always managing at once.