Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
“Ye’re hurt.”
Isolda stiffened where she sat on the massive destrier in front of Ragnar, her spine going rigid where it pressed against his broad chest. They’d been riding for what felt like hours, the storm showing no mercy, and she’d been doing her best to ignore the sharp, insistent throb in her left ankle.
“Dinnae fash yerself about me.”
“Every time the horse stumbles, ye go stiff as Highland stone.” His voice rumbled against her back, too close, too warm despite the cold rain soaking through every layer of wool and linen she wore. “What is painin’ ye?”
“I said I’m fine.”
A pause. Then, quieter but no less certain: “Left foot. Ye’re keepin’ it clear of the stirrup.”
Isolda bit on her lip. The man noticed everything—every flinch, every hesitation, every breath she drew too sharply.
“‘Tis naethin’.” She said, keeping her tone clipped. “Just… a wee twist from when I fell earlier.”
“When ye ran, ye mean.” The correction held no judgment, just that same blunt honestly that seemed to define everything about Ragnar Ketilsson.
The horse shifted beneath them, the movement sending a fresh spike of white pain through her ankle. Isolda bit down on her lip hard enough to taste blood, but refused to make a sound.
“We’re nae far from the coast now,” Ragnar said, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear. “Can ye bear it?”
“Aye,” she said, the word sharp.
Behind them she could hear the other riders—Freyr and half a dozen of Ragnar’s warriors, their presence a constant reminder that she wasn’t fleeing anymore, but was being taken, claimed, carried off like spoils of war.
The rain intensified, turning from a steady downpour to something closer to a deluge. Water streamed down Isolda’s face, plastering her hair to her skull, soaking through the wool of her cloak until it hung heavy and useless against her shoulders while cold bit through to her bones.
She felt Ragnar shift his weight behind her, then his cloak—warmer, heavier, clearly better made than hers—settled over her head like a makeshift hood.
“What are ye—”
But his hands were already adjusting the fabric, pulling it forward to shield her face from the worst of the rain. “Ye’re shiverin’ so hard ye’ll make me teeth rattle, little wolf.”
The sudden warmth, accompanied by the scent of leather and smoke and salt, made her throat tighten unexpectedly.
She wanted to throw it off, to refuse this small kindness the way she’d refused everything else he had to offer.
But her body betrayed her, leaning ever so slightly back into the shelter of his chest, seeking warmth even as her mind screamed at her to pull away.
“I dinnae need—”
“Aye. Ye dae.” He said it simply, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world. “But I dinnae expect gratitude from ye.”
His words should have angered her. But instead, she found herself uncertain. She couldn’t quite name what it is she thought she heard beneath the gruffness and that unsettled her more than the words themselves.
He’s just protectin’ his property.
But the comforting heat enveloping her made the lie harder to believe.
They rode on in silence, the coast drawing nearer with every painful jolt. Each movement from the horse sent waves of pain radiating up her leg, and by the time they finally crested a rise that revealed the dark, churning ocean beyond, she had bitten the inside of her cheek raw.
“There,” Ragnar said, pointing to a small huddle of buildings by the shoreline. “We’ll take shelter fer the night.”
“I thought ye said we’re sailin’ tae Uist.”
“We are. At first light, or when the captain says it’s safe.” His tone brooked no argument. “I’ll nae risk ye drownin’ because I was too impatient tae wait fer calmer waters.”
Och, dinnae act like ye care. Ye just need yer bride alive tae satisfy the King’s decree.
The short ride down to the village felt endless. By the time they reached the small cluster of buildings, Isolda’s entire leg throbbed in time with her heartbeat.
Ragnar dismounted first, his boots hitting the muddy ground with a solid thud. Then, his hands were at her waist—broad, warm, and impossibly gentle.
“Easy,” he murmured, lifting her down as though she weighed nothing at all.
The moment her left foot touched the ground, white-hot pain exploded through her ankle. Isolda’s knee buckled, and she would have fallen if Ragnar’s arm hadn’t immediately locked around her waist, pulling her against his side with enough force to drive all the air from her lungs.
“Helvíti,” he swore, the Norse rough and harsh. “Why dinnae ye say it was this bad?”
“Because ‘tis none of yer concern—”
“Och fer the love of…” he pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Ye cannae walk, woman!”
“I can walk fine—”she tried to take a step and nearly crumpled again, saved only by the iron band of his arm holding her upright.
“Aye.” Ragnar said dryly. “And I’ve just been named Thor’s favorite drinkin’ companion,” he said, already scooping her up, despite her breathless protests.
His one arm slid beneath her knees while the other supported her back, cradling her against his chest with a matter-of-factness that somehow made the whole ordeal worse.
“Och! Put me down, ye big oaf!”
“Nay”
He was already walking toward the largest building—an inn, by the look of it, though ‘ramshackle’ might have been a more accurate description for it. “I’ll nae have ye makin’ it worse by stumblin’ about in the mud.”
The inn’s door opened before they reached it, revealing a round-faced man with thinning hair and the look of someone who’d spent their entire life fighting against ocean winds.
His eyes widened at the sight of them—Ragnar soaked and imposing, Isolda bedraggled and clearly being carried against her will.
“We need rooms,” Ragnar said without preamble. “Food. And hot water—if ye have it.”
The innkeeper’s gaze darted between them, then to Freyr and the other warriors filing in behind. “Och… me laird, I… most of the rooms are nae fit fer—”
“How many d’ye have?”
“Well, truth be told, just the one, me laird. The others are all torn up fer repairs, and with the storm…we couldnae get the thatch finished before—”
Ragnar shifted his grip on Isolda, shifting her weight as though she were no more a burden than his sword. “We’ll take what ye have.”
The innkeeper looked relieved. “Aye, me laird. Yer men can take the stables if that suits them.” he headed toward the back. “‘The room’s just up the stairs. I’ll have me wife bring up some hot water fer ye and—”
“We’ll nae be sharin’ the room.” Isolda’s voice cut through the conversation like a newly whetted blade. Every head in the room turned toward her but she kept her voice steady with all the dignity she could muster while being held like an invalid. “Find another. Please.”
“Me lady, as I said, there isnae another room fit fer—”
“Then I’ll sleep in the common room. Or the attic. Or the street if I must, but I willnae be forced tae—”
“The street?” Ragnar’s voice remained infuriatingly calm. “With men huntin’ fer ye?”
“Right now, I’d rather take me chances than bein’ forced intae spendin’ a night in a closed room with a man I dinnae ken!”
Something flashed across his face, there and gone before she could identify it. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, meant only for her ears.
“D’ye truly think I’d harm ye?”
She blinked at him.
Nay. At least nae in the way Viking warlords usually dae.
But admitting that felt like conceding ground she couldn’t afford to lose.
“I dinnae ken what ye would or wouldnae,” she said instead. “But I’ll nae be offerin’ meself up like a lamb fer slaughter.”
Ragnar’s steady blue eyes drifted from her eyes to her mouth and back again. Then he turned his attention back to the innkeeper.
“There’s truly nay other option? Even a storage room or—”
“Just the one room, me laird. Me apologies, but ‘tis all I have tae offer.”
A single muscle jumped in Ragnar’s jaw. For a moment, Isolda thought he might argue further, might demand the impossible the way most men of his station usually did. Instead, he simply nodded once.
“The key, please.”
The innkeeper handed it over swiftly, as though eager to be rid of it. Ragnar started toward the stairs, still carrying Isolda despite her increasingly furious protests.
“Och, this is ridiculous. I can walk on me own!”
“And I said nae.” He took the stairs with the same measured pace he seemed to approach everything—steady, unhurried, utterly immovable. “Ye can barely stand, and these rotten steps are death traps even fer someone who isnae injured.”
“Aye, well, I’d rather—”
“Die than accept help. I ken. Ye’ve said so. Multiple times.” They reached the landing, and he carried her down a narrow hallway to a door at the end. “Unfortunately fer ye, I dinnae have any intention of lettin’ that happen.”
He pushed the door open with his shoulder, revealing a tiny room that was, at least—mercifully—dry.
A narrow bed hugged one wall—barely large enough for one person, let alone two.
A solitary chair sat beneath a slightly crooked window whose shutters rattled in the wind.
Her eyes darted to the corner. A washstand. A chamber pot. Nothing else.
Ragnar set her down on the edge of the bed with surprising gentleness, then stepped back immediately, putting distance between them as though he could sense how close she was to lashing out.
“I can sleep on the floor,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Or outside the door if ye prefer. But ye’ll be stayin’ in this room, where ‘tis dry and I can ensure ye’re safe.”
Isolda’s looked him in the eyes. “How am I meant tae feel safe with ye after—”
Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. “Everythin’ I’ve done is keepin’ ye safe, whether ye care tae see it that way or nae.”
Before she could respond, he turned and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him. Isolda heard him speak to someone in the hallway, and then there were footsteps retreating down the stairs.