Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
“Iassume ye have accommodations fer us, Maither Superior?”
The words came out colder than the storm howling beyond the stone walls of Iona Nunnery.
It wasn’t a question, but a statement that forced him to either confirm or correct her, giving her some illusion of control in a situation where she had none.
Isolda kept her focus on the elderly nun, though she felt the Viking’s gaze bore into the back of her head.
The Mother Superior’s brows lifted slightly. “Whether ye are tae take rest at Iona, or depart is fer Jarl Ketilsson tae say, child.”
Of course. I’m at his mercy now.
“We leave. Now.”
The deep voice reverberated through the tiny chamber—clipped with an edge that brooked no argument. Isolda’s teeth clenched, but she turned to face him.
He’d moved and was standing closer than before, and the proximity revealed details that shock had still blurred out moments ago.
His hands rested at his sides—large, their scarred knuckles telling of a man who fought with fists as often as blades.
A dirk hung at his belt, the hilt worn smooth from use.
When he shifted his weight, the movement was economical, purposeful, like a predator deciding whether to strike or simply observe.
He daesnae fill silence with words. He just… waits.
Most men of her acquaintance needed to prove themselves constantly—especially to noble ladies. Her brothers, her father, every single man she had met was loud and demanding attention. But this man, this Viking, simply existed, radiating the kind of authority that required no assertion.
“Ye cannae possibly expect me tae—”
“Immediately.” He said flatly.
“I’ve ridden three days without—”
“The storm gives us cover. We go while it holds.” His tone allowed no debate. “I am Ragnar Ketilsson, Jarl of Uist and yer husband by the King’s decree whether ye like it or nae. And I say we go now.”
Blunt oaf!
No pleasantries, no attempt to soften the blow. Isolda might have appreciated the honesty if it didn’t seal her fate so completely.
“Och, I ken perfectly well who ye are.” She met his gaze directly, refusing to look away. “The Stag of Uist. Every maither in the Highlands uses yer name tae frighten their wee bairns intae bed.”
“And yet ye’re nae runnin’.” Something almost like approval flickered across his features. “That’s a start, I suppose.”
But what surprised her—what she hadn’t expected from a man with his reputation—was that he made no move to block her path. Didn’t loom or threaten. He just stood there with that same rough certainty, as though he’d already calculated every possible escape route and dismissed them all as pointless.
Arrogant. Vikings seem tae excel at that particular sin.
“All right. But I need tae relieve meself before we go.”
The request hung in the air between them.
The Mother Superior’s expression flickered in surprise at the indelicacy—but Isolda was past caring about propriety.
Besides, if she was going to be dragged off to the very edge of the world by a Norse warlord, the least she deserved was one last moment of dignity. Even if it was just pretend.
“There’s a passage just beyond—”
“Aye, thank ye, Maither. I saw it when I arrived.” Isolda was already moving toward the door. “I willnae be long.”
“Perhaps Sister Margaret should escort—”
“I dinnae need an escort tae find a privy.” She pulled the door open, feeling Ragnar’s gaze track her movement.
“Five minutes,” he said, the warning clear in his tone. “Nay more.”
Something in the way he said it made her pause, hand still on the door. There wasn’t anger, not even suspicion, just… certainty. As though he knew exactly what she planned and was giving her enough rope to hang herself with.
Either way, she’d make the most of every second he gave her.
Isolda stepped into the corridor without answering, refusing to look back. The moment the door closed behind her, she lifted her sodden skirts and moved—not running but walking with the swift purposefulness of someone who knew exactly where they were going.
It’ll nae be long before he comes lookin’…
The nunnery’s corridors were empty and dim, most sisters already abed.
It stretched before her like a maze of salvation—or perhaps damnation, depending on whether she made it past the thick stone walls.
Rain hammered on the narrow windows as Isolda passed the turn toward the outbuilding and kept walking, her pulse loud in her ears.
Every shadow gave her pause. Every creak of timber made her flinch.
But the halls remained blessedly empty.
The small gate behind the herb garden! She’d spotted it riding in, and her heart leapt when she saw it was unguarded.
No one stopped her as she slipped across the courtyard.
The storm swallowed all sound, the wind tearing at her cloak as she pushed through the herb garden’s iron gate.
Rosemary and Thyme released sharp scents where she crushed them underfoot, mingling with the smell of wet earth and her own fear-sweat.
Then she saw the outer grounds, the road.
And Isolda ran.
She didn’t panic—she kept a steady pace.
The road was muddy and slippery in the darkness, but she pushed onward, toward the forest. Her boots squelched through puddles she couldn’t see, water soaking straight through to her wool stockings.
Coldness nipped through the fabric, but the discomfort barely registered.
Thunder cracked overhead, close enough to feel it in her chest. Lightning briefly illuminated the skeletal trees ahead—reaching, grasping—then swallowed again by darkness.
Freedom lay ahead of her. Distance. Escape from those intense blue eyes and that patient, predatory stillness.
Och, but what will he dae when… if he catches me!
The thought should have terrified her, but instead it sharpened her focus. She needed distance. Needed the storm to wash away her tracks. Needed…
Her foot caught on something in the mud—a root, a stone—and she stumbled, barely catching herself before falling.
Her hands scraped against rough bark as she grabbed a nearby tree trunk for balance.
Pain bit into her palms and she bit her lip against a curse that would’ve made Mother Superior faint.
She stood there for a moment, breathing hard, her heart thundering in her chest. Her hands shook, but whether from cold or fear, she couldn’t tell.
She straightened her spine, wiping her mud-slicked palms on her already filthy skirts. The road curved inland ahead, but the trees pressed close, offering her cover, but also concealment for—
Someone’s watchin’ me…
The certainty slammed into her like a fist to the gut and Isolda froze mid-step, every instinct painfully alert.
Suddenly, the storm sounds changed—became sharper, more sinister.
The rain wasn’t just rain anymore. Every droplet hitting leaves could be a footstep.
Every branch creaking could be a weapon being drawn.
Her breath came shallow. Quick. There were rain and wind, but beneath it all, something else. Something wrong…
Her skin prickled and the fine hairs at the nape of her neck rose. This was the same instinct that had kept her safe through years of reading signs of danger in her father’s face, in her brother’s sudden silences—and it was screaming at her now:
Run!
She dove toward the trees just as another flash of lightning split the sky, and in that flash, she saw them.
Four shapes. Men. Already moving toward her.
They’re too close!
A hand closed on her braid, yanking her head back with enough force to make her vision white out.
Pain like fire exploded across her scalp as she was jerked backward, her feet skidding in the mud.
Before she could scream, another hand clamped over her mouth—rough palm, dirt under the fingernails, reeking of sweat and old blood.
“Shhh. Ye’d better be quiet now, lass.” Hot, sour breath against her ear made her stomach lurch. “We cannae have ye alertin’ anyone—”
Isolda bit down hard on the fleshy part of his palm.
The copper taste of blood flooded her mouth.
“Shite!” The man’s grip loosened just enough.
She twisted, driving her elbow backwards toward where his ribs should have been.
Instead, she connected with what felt like a stone wall wearing armor.
The man grunted, but didn’t release her, and suddenly, there were more hands—grabbing her arms, her shoulders, forcing her to her knees in the mud.
Freezing cold seeped through her skirts instantly as her knees sunk into the muck.
Nay! This cannae be happenin’… there has tae be—
“Feisty wee thing, isnae she?” A different voice came now, amused and cruel.
The speaker crouched before her, hood shadowing most of his face.
She could see his smile though—wide and satisfied.
His teeth were surprisingly white in the darkness, almost friendly, if not for the knife at his belt and the way his eyes swept over her as if she were a piece of meat.
“I told ye lads she’d run. Highland lassies always think they’re cleverer than they are! ”
Isolda tried to jerk free, but the hands on her arm tightened, bruising.
“Now then.” The crouching man reached out to her, and grabbed her chin with an iron grip, forcing her to look at him.
His fingers were cold. Calloused. One thumbnail was black—dead from some old injury.
“Ye can come with us quiet-like, or force us tae bind ye, gag ye if need be. Though that’d be a waste of such a bonnie wee mouth.
” His grin widened. “But either way, ye’re comin’ with us now, lass. ”
“Who are ye?” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “What is it that ye want with me?”
The man’s smile widened. “What we want, is the Stag’s bride. Worth more than gold tae the right people, ye ken.” He released her chin and stood up. “And lucky fer us, ye walked yerself right intae our hands.”