Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
“That cannae be comfortable.”
Ragnar’s eyes opened slowly from where he was sleeping in the corridor. Isolda stood above him, a steaming cup cradled in both hands. He blinked, taking in his position, his broad shoulders wedged firmly against the doorframe.
“How long have ye been watchin’ me sleep?”
“I havenae been watchin’ anythin’.” Heat crawled up her neck as she thrust the cup at him. “Ye look half dead.”
“Ye brought me tea?”
“I brought meself tea.” She lied. “Ye just happened tae be in the way, sprawled out like some hibernatin’ bear. By the look of ye, ye need it more than I dae.”
His mouth twitched. “Hibernatin’ bear?”
“I’ve other names fer ye, none fit fer sayin’ aloud.”
“Now I’m curious.”
“And ye’ll stay that way.” She watched him stretch with careful movements, heard the quiet grunt he tried to smother. “Ye spent the entire night out here.”
“Aye.”
“Did ye think I’d suddenly sprout wings and fly off intae the night?”
“Well, ye already tried runnin’ once.”
“Aye. And ye caught me. What’s the use in tryin’ again?”
“Dinnae ken.” Something that might have been amusement flickered across his face. “But ye’re a clever lass. Thought ye might surprise me.”
Isolda’s brow arched. She should go back inside.
Should shut the door and pretend she hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes standing in the common room convincing the innkeeper’s wife to part with her last bit of decent tea leaves and carrying the brew up the stairs like some sort of offering to a god she didn’t believe in.
He took the cup, fingers brushing hers.
Ragnar’s gaze dropped to the cup, then back to her face. For a long moment, he said nothing. Just looked at her with an expression she couldn’t name.
“The tea’s terrible,” she said. “It’ll probably give ye stomach cramps. Which would serve ye right fer blockin’ the way.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. He lifted the cup to his lips. His eyes closed briefly, but whether from the warmth or the taste, she couldn’t tell.
“I appreciate ye goin’ tae the trouble of acquirin’ this terrible brew fer me.”
Her pulse jumped.
Who would have thought… the savage has manners!
“I already told ye—”
“I ken what ye told me.” He took another sip, watching her over the rim with those steady blue eyes. “Daesnae make it true, little wolf.”
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant sounds of the inn waking—boots on floorboards, the creak of shutters being opened, someone coughing in a nearby room.
Isolda suddenly became acutely aware that she was standing in her borrowed nightshift and shawl, dark hair falling loose around her shoulders.
It was intimate in a way that made her pulse jump.
“The storm’s passed,” Ragnar said finally, setting the cup down. “We should set sail within the hour.”
She glanced away. “So soon?”
“Aye. We need tae get tae Uist.”
Isolda felt her stomach drop, felt the fear she’d been pushing aside come rushing back. She said nothing, her chin lifting as she glimpsed toward the grey water.
Ragnar watched her closely. “Ye dinnae like the water,” he observed.
“Och… I’m terrified of it.”
“Why?”
“Me last crossin’ was enough tae put me off it.
Three days of naethin’ but heavin’ and shiverin’, bein’ certain every wave would be the one tae drag us down.
” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I thought I was goin’ tae die before we reached shore.
Felt sick enough that at some point I wished I would. ”
“But ye didnae.”
“Nay. But that daesnae mean I’m eager tae tempt fate again.”
“I’ll keep ye safe.” Ragnar said.
“Ye keep sayin’ that. As if words mean anythin’ against the sea.”
“They mean somethin’ tae me.” He said with quiet certainty. “And I’ll nae let ye drown, Isolda. I swear it.”
He was looking at her like she mattered—not as a political necessity, but as a person whose fear deserved acknowledgment.
It cannae be. He’s just concerned fer the Pact.
“I should get dressed.” Her voice came out soft. “If we’re leavin’ soon… I should…”
“Aye.” He still hadn’t moved, his eyes firmly fixed on her face. “Isolda?”
She paused, her hand on the doorframe.
“The tea was kind of ye.”
Isolda didn’t know what to say. So instead, she did the only thing that made sense—she nodded, turned and walked away, back into the room, leaving him with his half-empty cup.
His soft laugh followed, warm as the tea she’d brought him, and twice as unsettling.
About an hour later the ship awaited them at the harbor, its single mast pointing toward the sky while men moved about the deck checking ropes and adjusting the furled sail.
The dragon-head prow stared toward open water with carved eyes that had witnessed things Isolda didn’t want to contemplate.
She found herself standing on the dock, trying to keep her hands from shaking.
“Me lady,” A young man appeared at her elbow, sun-bleached hair sticking up ad odd angles and shaved short on the sides. “Me name’s Ubbe. I’ll help ye aboard.”
She took his hand and stepped onto the gangplank. The wood shifted beneath her feet while below, the water churned gray-green, smelling of things that lived and died in darkness.
‘Tis fine… ‘tis just three steps… Her boot touched the deck and the ship swayed, making her stomach lurch and she tasted sharp bile.
“Here, me lady.” Ubbe guided her toward the mast. “Hold ontae this, aye?”
Isolda wrapped both hands around the rough wood and held on like it was the only thing keeping her alive.
Breathe… just breathe!
“Left side.” Ragnar’s voice came from behind her, low and close. She hadn’t heard him approach over the sound of her own thundering pulse.
“What?”
“Move tae the left of the mast. Ye’ll feel the pitch less there.”
She wanted to argue, but the deck shifted and her stomach churned over. Pride suddenly seemed less important than not humiliating herself in front of him and his crew, so she moved. He didn’t follow. Didn’t touch her. Just stood close enough that if she needed stability, it would be there.
“Eyes on the horizon, lass. Nae the water. Trust me.”
Two words. Spoken with such quiet conviction that Isolda’s feet moved of their own accord, doing as instructed.
She lifted her head toward the sky as the wind picked up, filling the sail. The ship creaked, cutting through the water with speed that made her heart leap into her throat. But Ragnar had been right—here, the motion felt less unsettling.
Then, a wave made the deck move sharply and her hand shot out, finding Ragnar’s forearm. Coiled muscles tensed beneath her grip and for a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then the birlinn steadied and she snatched her hand back, heat flooding her face.
“Sorry, I—”
“Dinnae be.”
Something in his tone made her look up. He was staring out at the water, his profile sharp against the gray sky, but there was a softness around his eyes that she hadn’t noticed before. Understanding, maybe? Or pity.
She wasn’t sure which was worse.
“The first time I sailed,” he said quietly, still not looking at her, “I was five summers old. Me faither took me out in a small boat, just the two of us. I screamed the entire time. I was terrified and wouldnae shut up until we’d made it back tae shore.”
Isolda blinked, surprised into momentary distraction from her misery. “Ye did? But ye’re… ye’re a Viking!”
The corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “Och, even Vikings have tae learn. And some of us dae so while cryin’ like wee bairns.”
“What changed?”
“Time. And me faither refusin’ tae let me stay ashore.” He paused, and something in his expression shifted, a shadow of grief, old and deep flashing once before disappearing again. “He said the sea was in our blood, and that fightin’ it was like fightin’ yerself. Ye’d only ever lose.”
Isolda wanted to ask more about his father, but before she could, the ship lurched again, and this time, she grabbed his arm deliberately, needing the anchor as her stomach flipped.
Ragnar didn’t pull away. Didn’t comment. Just stood there, solid as the mast itself, letting her cling to him while the water tried its best to shake her loose.
The sun broke through the clouds in thin shafts of watery light, turning the grey water to silver in patches. The coast they’d left behind had disappeared entirely, leaving nothing but endless rolling waves in every direction.
Around them, the crew worked. Someone was singing—a sailor’s song full of longing. Others joined in, their voices rough but harmonious, speaking a language she didn’t understand.
“What are they singin’?”
“A song about goin’ home.”
Uist isnae me home. Will never be.
The sun climbed higher, burning off mist but doing nothing for the cold spray. Isolda’s hands had gone numb from gripping the mast though they were only two hours into their journey. Ragnar stepped back to check their course when Freyr appeared at her elbow, two cups in hand.
“Mead, me lady.” He said, offering her one. “Fer yer stomach.”
Isolda eyed it skeptically. “How will that help me stomach?”
“It willnae. But at least ye’ll stop carin’ about it.”
Despite herself, she smiled and took the cup. The mead was warm and bitter and tasted faintly of honey. She took a small sip, then another, and grudgingly admitted—if only to herself—that it steadied her nerves.
“Ye’re daein’ better than I expected,” Freyr said, leaning against the mast beside her with a restless energy that seemed to define him.
“What did ye expect? That I’d be weepin’ and wailin’ by now?”
“Somethin’ like that.” His gray eyes studied her with uncomfortable directness. “Most ladies of yer station wouldnae have made it past the gangplank without faintin’.”
“I’m nae most ladies.”
“Aye. I’m startin’ tae see that.”
They stood in silence for a moment, watching the crew work. Ragar was near the prow, speaking with the captain about something. Even from where she was, Isolda could see the easy authority in his bearing, the way the men listened when he spoke.
“He’s nae as terrible as ye think,” Freyr said quietly and took a long sip from his cup. “I’ve seen him at his worst and his best. And I’m tellin’ ye—he’s a good man.”
“Good men dinnae drag women ontae ships against their will.”
“Fair point.” Freyr didn’t look offended, just thoughtful. “Though he did save yer life when he could have chosen nae tae. And he respected yer honor when he could have chosen nae tae.”
Before Isolda could respond to that, Freyr had already pushed away from the mast, draining the last of his mead. “Make of that what ye will, me lady.”
Time passed—though she couldn’t say for certain how much. Certainly enough that the worst of her fear had dulled slightly. Enough that her grip on the mast loosened from desperate to merely tight.
It was only when Isolda shifted her weight to ease the cramping in her legs that she realized something had changed. The waves that had been crashing against the side of the ship had grown quieter. Gentler. And when she glanced to her right, she saw why.
When did we move?
She had been so caught up in her seasickness that she hadn’t noticed, but now the ship’s hull blocked most of the wind-driven spray. Isolda turned to look at Ragnar.
He wasn’t watching her. His attention was on the sails, on the way the wind filled them. But there was something in his stance—a careful awareness—that told her he knew exactly where she stood and how she was doing.
The realization settled in her chest, heavy and warm and deeply uncomfortable.
Because accepting that he cared meant admitting that she needed it. Meant acknowledging that this man she was supposed to hate had spent hours making sure she didn’t suffer more than necessary.
“Why did ye—” she gestured at their position. “Ye moved us.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Took ye long enough tae notice. The wind had shifted. Made more sense.”
“The wind didnae shift that much.”
“Didnae it?”
They looked at each other—her defensive and confused, him carefully neutral—and Isolda realized he wasn’t going to admit it, wasn’t going to make a show of it. He would rather let her believe it was coincidence.
But they both knew the truth.
“Thank ye. Truly.” She said softly.
Ragnar’s expression softened slightly, and she glimpsed the man beneath the stoic warrior. “Ye’re welcome.”
If she were being honest with herself, it terrified her. Because she could fight force. Could resist commands. Could hate the man on principle.
But this—care given freely, protection offered without strings, showing kindness that expected nothing at all in return…
’Tis too good tae be true. He’s just pretendin’ tae soften me up.
And in ten days, she’d be bound to him permanently.