Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Isle of Uist, Western Isles, Scotland
“Hold steady now. We’re nearly there.”
Ragnar kept his voice low and calm as the birlinn cut through the last stretch of grey water toward Uist’s rocky shore.
The island rose before them like a fortress carved from the bones of the earth itself—massive cliffs of dark stone, crowned with wind-bent grass that shimmered silvery in the weak afternoon light.
Home.
After days on the mainland and rough seas, the sight should have brought him relief.
Instead, his attention remained fixed on the woman standing three paces ahead of him, gripping the ship’s rail with white-knuckled intensity where she was now standing at the prow, her back straight despite the ship’s roll, her dark hair whipping free from its braid in the salty wind.
Ye have nay business noticin’ such things. Yet.
He looked away deliberately, fixing his gaze on the approaching shore instead.
“Oars up!” Freyr’s command cut through the wind as the birlinn glided toward the stone pier. Warriors moved efficiently, securing lines and lowering the gangplank before the ship had fully settled.
Ragnar moved forward, intending to offer Isolda his hand for the crossing, but she was already stepping onto the gangplank without waiting. Her movements were careful, deliberate—and he realized that she was trembling.
She had made it three steps before her foot slipped on the wet wood.
Ragnar’s hand shot out, catching her elbow before she could stumble. The contact lasted only a heartbeat—just long enough to steady her—before she pulled free with a sharp intake of breath.
“I’m fine.” She didn’t meet his eyes.
She’s freezin’.
But Ragnar said nothing, simply gestured for her to continue ahead of him. He followed close enough to catch her if she fell again, but far enough to preserve what remained of her pride.
Servants, warriors and a few curious villagers had gathered, all eyes turning toward them as they approached, and Ragnar noticed Isolda’s steps falter slightly.
“Me jarl,” Bjorn stepped forward with a respectful nod. The older man’s gaze flickered briefly to Isolda before returning to Ragnar. “Welcome home. We’ve prepared chambers as ye requested, and—”
“Dry clothes first.” Ragnar interrupted. “The lady’s soaked through.”
Bjorn’s weathered face showed no surprise at the command. “Of course, me jarl.”
“Now.” The word came out harder than Ragnar intended, sharpened by the sight of Isolda’s pale face and the way her teeth chattered.
Bjorn snapped his fingers, and a young servant girl hurried forward, eyes wide with nervous energy. “Fetch dry garments fer the lady. Quickly now!”
The girl bobbed a hasty curtsy and disappeared into a cluster of buildings that hugged the base of the cliff path. Ragnar turned to find Isolda watching him, her gray-green eyes unreadable.
“There’s nay need tae—”
He kept his tone matter-of-fact, refusing to let her turn it into an argument. “We’ll nae move util ye’re properly dressed.”
Something flashed across her face before she looked away, her arms tightening around herself. The wind gusted off the water, carrying with it the sharp scent of brine and kelp, and Ragnar watched her fight not to show how the cold cut through her wet clothes.
The servant girl returned within minutes, slightly breathless, clutching an armful of fabric. She curtsied again, this time to Isolda, and held out the garments with shaking hands.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, me lady, but these are what we could find on short notice.”
Isolda accepted the bundle with careful hands, unfolding what turned out to be a simple woolen dress in dark blue, somewhat faded, but well-kept. She held it up, and even from where Ragnar stood, he could see the problem.
She’ll drown in it!
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Isolda said, but her voice lacked conviction.
Freyr appeared at Ragnar’s shoulder, speaking low enough that only he could hear. “The men are waitin’ fer orders. We headin’ tae the keep?”
Ragnar’s jaw tightened. The castle was a solid twenty-minute climb up the cliff path on horseback, and Isolda’s wet clothes would freeze solid in the wind before they made it halfway.
His gaze swept over the assembled warriors, then landed on a cluster of village men who’d come to watch their jarl’s return. Some watched with open curiosity, others barely concealed as they took in the sight of the Highland bride who’d soon be their lady.
Something cold and sharp twisted in Ragnar’s chest.
Nay. They’ll nae see her like this.
The thought was unwelcome, primal and possessive in a way that caught him off-guard. He had no right to such feelings, not when she still looked at him as though he were a captor, rather than a husband. But the instinct was there regardless, fierce and undeniable.
Before he could second-guess himself, Ragnar reached up and unclasped the heavy fur cloak from his shoulders. It was slightly damp, but drier than Isolda’s sodden dress, and large enough to wrap around her twice over.
“Here.” He held it out to her. “Take this.”
Isolda blinked at the offered cloak, then up at him, confusion swimming in her eyes. “I dinnae think—”
“Those garments willnae fit properly, and I’ll nae have anyone see ye in such a state.” He kept his voice level, reasonable. “Me cloak will keep ye warm enough until we reach the keep.”
To his surprise, she reached out and took the cloak with both hands. When she tried to swing it around her shoulders, she stumbled slightly under the unexpected weight.
Ragnar’s hands moved before his mind caught up, reaching out to steady the fabric, to help settle it properly across her back. His fingertips brushed the bare skin at the nape of her neck—just for an instant, barely a touch at all—and felt her go absolutely still.
He froze as well.
The moment stretched between them, awareness crackling like lightning before a storm. She was so close that he could smell the lingering scent of honeysuckle in her hair, could see the faint dusting of freckles scattered across her cheekbones that he’d never noticed before.
Her lips parted slightly and Ragnar forced his hands to drop, willing himself to turn away. But not before he caught the way she drew a shaky breath and the way her fingers clutched at the cloak’s edges as though it were armor.
“Better?”
“Aye.” The word was barely a whisper. “Thank ye.”
The cloak engulfed her small frame, the hem pooling on the ground at her feet, the shoulders hanging far past where they should be. She looked simultaneously ridiculous and oddly endearing, like a child dressed in her father’s clothes.
The corner of his mouth quirked before he could stop it.
Isolda caught the expression, and her chin lifted in defiance. “I’m sure I look quite amusin’.”
“It suits ye well enough. We should go,” he said gesturing toward the cliff path.
Isolda nodded, gathering the voluminous cloak in both hands to keep from tripping. She took two steps, then paused, glancing around as though searching for something.
“Where’s me horse?”
Ragnar met her gaze. “Ye dinnae get one. Ye’ll ride with me.”
“That’s nae necessary. I’ll—”
“‘Tis a twenty-minute climb on horseback. How far d’ye reckon ye’ll get with that ankle of yers, little wolf?” Ragnar kept his tone practical. “Ye ride with me.” He stepped closer, gentling his voice slightly, aware of the watching eyes around them. “Please.”
She stood there, looking simultaneously defiant and exhausted, and Ragnar could see the moment she realized she had no real choice.
“Fine,” she said tightly. “But only because I’m too tired right now tae argue with ye properly.”
Ragnar signaled to the stable hand, who brought his stallion forward—a massive grey destrier named Termr, bred for both speed and steadiness. The beat tossed his head as Ragnar approached, clearly happy to be reunited with his master.
He swung into the saddle in one fluid motion, then turned to look down at Isolda. She stood a few paces back, eyeing the horse with open wariness.
“He willnae bite,” Ragnar assured her.
“‘Tis nae the horse I’m worried about.” The words tumbled from her lips, and Ragnar saw her immediately regret the admission.
“Come,” he said quietly, extending his hand down to her.
Isolda hesitated for a moment, but then she stepped forward and placed her hand in his.
Ragnar’s grip tightened around her ice-cold fingers, and he heard her sharp intake of breath. He hauled her upward with easy strength, and suddenly she was settling into the saddle in front of him, her back barely an inch from his chest.
Gods help me.
“Hold on,” he managed, his voice lower than he’d intended.
“Tae what?”
“The saddle horn.” He waited until her hands found it, then clicked his tongue to set Termr moving. The horse started up the cliff path at a steady pace, and Ragnar felt Isolda stiffen against him as the first jostle threatened her balance.
“Easy,” he murmured without thinking. “I willnae let ye fall.”
His left arm came around her waist while his right hand managed the reins.
‘Tis only fer her own safety.
The path wound upward in sharp loops carved from the cliff face generations ago. To their left, the stone wall rose grey and imposing. To their right, the drop fell away toward churning water far below.
Ragnar tried to focus on the path, on the castle waiting above, on anything except the woman sitting within the circle of his arms. But it was impossible.
Every breath filled his nostrils with the scent of her, every step of the horse pressing her incrementally closer, until he could feel the tension radiation from her tiny frame.
“Are ye warm enough?” he asked as a gust of wind whirled around them.
“Aye.” Her voice was still tight, controlled. “Thank ye.”
They rode in silence for a while, the only sound that of the clip of Termr’s hooves on the ground and the cry of gulls wheeling overhead. Then, Isolda shifted slightly, trying to adjust her position, and the movement brought her buttocks flush against his abdomen.