Chapter 4 #2
He did not point. Of course he did not. Apparently, he intended to preserve her dignity whether she liked it or not.
"I ken where trees are," she said, gatherin’ the shreds of that dignity around her.
His mouth moved, not quite a smile. "Aye. Off ye go then."
She gave him a look sharp enough to draw blood, then turned and took three steps into the dark.
Then she stopped.
The brush whispered softly in the night. Cold air touched her face. Behind her, he had not moved.
Very slowly, she turned her head. "Ye're still there."
"Aye."
Her fingers curled into her skirts. "Go further."
"Nay."
She turned all the way around this time.
He stood with his arms crossed, weight resting back on one heel, eyes on the path ahead. Not looking at her. Not looking away either. Just standing there like some broad, impossible wall the world had decided to put in her path.
"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.
His shoulders moved once in a contained laugh, though no sound came of it.
"As ye command. I am very bad anyway, but ye’ll see fer yerself."
She stared at him. At the back of his head, the set of his shoulders, the absolute composure of a man who had just accepted to sing in the middle of a forest in the dark so his betrothed could relieve herself in private, as though this were a perfectly normal negotiation.
"Ye'd actually dae that?" she said.
"I'm already daein' it." And without further preamble, without embarrassment or performance, he began to sing.
He was not wrong about being bad.
It was a Norse thing, low and rhythmic and completely tuneless, delivered at a volume that suggested he genuinely couldn’t hear himself.
Matilda stood in the dark between the trees and pressed her lips together very hard and did what she'd come to do.
The strangest thing wasn't his singing, bad as it was. The strangest thing was that she wasn't afraid.
The dark between the trees was thick and genuine and she was alone in it, which was the combination that usually sent her pulse climbing before she could stop it.
She had her candle in her cloak pocket, unlit, and her hand found it by habit, the familiar shape of it.
She didn't light it.
She didn't need to.
She straightened her skirts, took a step, and looked back at him through the trees.
He was still singing.
Loudly. Completely without shame, facing resolutely away, his broad shoulders set against the dark like he had all night and no opinions about how he spent it.
She picked up a pine cone from the ground at her feet and threw it at the back of his head.
"Stop," she said.
He stopped. Turned around.
His expression was entirely composed, not a trace of amusement on it, which was somehow worse than if he'd been laughing openly.
"Better?" he said.
"Dinnae," she said, "ever speak of this. I’m mortified."
"Speak of what?"
He was already moving toward her. Already cupping his hands to help her remount.
She put her foot in his hands and let him lift her because her knee hurt, she was tired and she was, despite everything, fighting a smile so hard her jaw ached.
She was back in the saddle. His chest was warm against her back. His arms came around her on either side, loose on the reins, and the horse moved forward.
And then she heard it.
Small and quiet and quickly swallowed, but unmistakable.
A laugh.
Not performed, not offered to her, just a real one. Low and brief, like something had caught him off guard and he hadn’t quite managed to put it away in time.
It was the most unguarded she'd seen him.
In a courtyard full of violence, he'd been composed.
On a dark road with a stranger pressed against his chest he'd been composed. Singing badly into a forest so she didn't have to ask for what she needed, still composed.
But this small, helpless, quickly hidden laugh, this was something else.
She faced forward and told herself that the warmth in her chest was only the cold finally easing.
It wasn't the cold.