Chapter 4 #2
She sat there on the edge of the bed, her ankle throbbing, her clothes soaked through, and her entire body shaking with cold and exhaustion and fury she had nowhere to direct.
The door opened again, and Ragnar entered carrying a bundle of clothes and a wooden bucket that steamed faintly in the cold air.
“The innkeeper’s wife sent these fer ye,” he said, setting the bucket down near the washstand and laying the clothes—a simple shift, a wool shawl and a blanket—on the chair. “They’re nae as fancy as what ye’re used tae, but they’re dry.”
Isolda stared at him. “I dinnae understand.”
He paused, his hand still on the blanket. “Understand what?”
“Why ye dae any of this?” she gestured helplessly at the room. “This show of supposed kindness. Ye could just… force yerself on me…”
Ragnar turned to face her fully, and the look in his eyes made her breath catch.
“I would never.” he said quietly.
Then he moved toward the door, pausing with his hand on the doorframe.
“Get yerself out of those wet clothes before ye catch yer death. The key’s over there,” he nodded toward the blanket, “Go ahead and lock the bolt on the door if it’ll make ye feel safer.
” His mouth curved slightly—not quite a smile, but close.
“Though ye ken if I truly wanted in, a wee bit of wood wouldnae stop me.”
Then he was gone and the door closed with another soft click.
Isolda sat frozen for a moment, her mind still racing. Then, she shot to her feet, ignoring the sharp protest from her ankle, and hobbled to the door. Her hands shook as she latched the bolt, then grabbed the chair and wedged it firmly under the handle for good measure.
She stood there, breathing hard, staring at her makeshift barricade.
From the other side of the door, she heard a low chuckle.
“Feel better?” Ragnar’s voice drifted through the wood, amused despite everything.
Isolda pressed her forehead against the door, scowling at him, torn between mortification and defiance. “Can ye please give me some space!”
“Cannae dae that lass. Someone needs tae make sure ye dinnae try crawlin’ out the window.”
“I wouldnae…” she stopped, realizing she might just have.
Another quiet laugh, warmer this time. “Mmm.” The sound was annoyingly knowing.
Isolda heard him settle against the door—the soft scrape of leather against wood, the quiet exhale of someone lowering themselves onto the floor.
He’s just goin’ tae sit there. All night. Guardin’ the door like some… some…
“Ye ken this is ridiculous,” she said to the door. To him. To the entire impossible situation.
“Aye,” he agreed easily. “But ‘tis what it is.”
She waited, listening. After a moment, she heard another voice—Freyr, speaking low. The words were muffled, but she caught fragments.
“…actually goin’ tae sit out here…”
“…where else would I go?” Ragnar’s reply, clearer.
“…actin’ like a fífl…” Freyr again, his tone sharp.
“…call me an idiot again and see what happens.”
Isolda caught the edge of frustration in Freyr’s tone but she couldn’t hear his reply. She pressed closer to the wood, her breath shallow as she strained to hear.
“…nae askin’ ye tae understand it. Just tellin’ ye how it is.”
“And how’s that exactly?” Freyr’s voice grew louder, sounding incredulous.
“She’s scared, Freyr. Rightfully so.”
“Ye’re the jarl. She’s the bride the king thrust upon ye. Ye could just—”
“I could.” A pause. “Daesnae mean I should or will.”
“Well, ye’re daein’ great so far. First time I’ve seen anyone win over their bride through a shut door.”
“There’s time yet.” There was some undercurrent in Ragnar’s tone that made her chest tighten, but she pushed the thought aside.
“Ragnar… ‘tis ten days until ye’re wed—”
“Aye. And if that’s nae enough time tae show her I’m nae what she thinks me tae be…” another pause, longer this time. “Well, then I suppose I’ll have years tae keep tryin’.”
Isolda pulled back from the door, her pulse hammering in her ears.
Her throat felt tight. Her chest ached. She looked down at her soaked clothes, at the dry shift waiting on the bed, at the barricaded door that suddenly felt less like protection and more like a wall she’d built between herself and something she wasn’t ready to face.
From the hallway, she heard the soft clink of metal. She limped toward the bed, lost her balance, and hissed loudly as pain shot up her leg.
Then, Ragnar’s voice came through the door again: “Get some rest, little wolf. We’ve a long journey ahead come mornin’.”
Isolda glared at the door. She wanted to tell him she wouldn’t sleep. That she’d spend the entire night planning her next escape. That his patient siege of her defenses wouldn’t work.
Instead, she found herself bobbing toward the dry clothes, her body making decisions that her mind wasn’t quite on board with yet. She peeled off her soaked garments, wincing as the movement jarred her swollen foot.
A little while later, after wringing her wet clothes out, Isolda climbed into the narrow bed and pulled the wool blanket up to her chin, staring at the ceiling’s dark beams.
Outside her barricaded door, the Stag of Uist settled in for a long, uncomfortable night on a hard floor. And despite everything—the fear, the anger, the bone-deep exhaustion—Isolda MacGregor found herself drifting toward sleep with a single thought:
What type of man kills without mercy, then stands guard all night fer a woman who clearly despises him?