"We both ken ye deflected." She turned toward him fully, and she was closer than he’d registered.
She had moved deliberately while he was looking at the window, and now their boots were nearly touching. She was looking upat him with that direct, clear gaze that had been his undoing since approximately the third day of knowing her. "Are ye concerned?"
He looked at her, at the specific quality of her expression, the held amusement and the genuine question underneath. He chose his words with agonizing care.
"Nay," he said.
"Ye’re sure?"
"I’m sure."
"Ye crossed the hall fairly quickly fer a man who’s sure."
"I walk at an ordinary pace, Matilda."
"Ivar." She said it the way she said it when she was telling him, pleasantly and without heat, that she was not fooled.
Her chin was up. Her eyes were bright. Their boots were still nearly touching, and neither moved back. He was having a conversation about a king’s man’s hair oil with what remained of his dignity, and he was losing.
"I like it," she said. "If that’s what’s making ye careful with yer words."
He looked at her, his pulse thrumming.
"The jealousy," she said, plain and unbothered. "I like it."
His jaw tightened. He was aware of it tightening and was unable to fully prevent the reaction, which was her point and which she had clearly clocked. Her mouth curved properly now, not the restrained version, but a real, teasing smile.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. "Ye’re insufferable."
"Aye," she said cheerfully. "Did ye want breakfast?"
He looked at the timbered ceiling briefly. "I’ve had breakfast."
"The oatcakes dinnae count."
"They were good." He stopped himself. "I’m going tae speak tae Torvald."
"Ye just spoke tae Torvald."
"I have more tae say tae him."
She stepped back and let him go, and he went.
He was entirely aware as he crossed the hall of the fact that he was smiling and could not stop it, which had not been true of him in approximately a decade.
Torvald was waiting at the lower passage. He took one look at Ivar’s face and had the decency not to comment, which was one of his better qualities.
"I was just looking fer ye, me laird. He’s awake," Torvald said. "Einar’s had him since first light."
"Finally, some good news! Let’s finish it."
The lower room was cold and smelled of damp stone and the sharp quality of a space that had been kept sealed for too long.
The man was against the far wall. Not chained, for he was in no condition to require chains, and he looked exactly like what he was, a hired sword who had taken bad coin and worse orders and was arriving at the final accounting of both.
Einar stepped back when they entered.
Ivar crouched in front of the man and looked at him. The head wound had left one eye tracking slightly wrong. His color was poor. But he was conscious and present, which was sufficient for what needed doing.