Chapter 6 #2
Ragnar’s arm tightened reflexively around her waist and he felt her go absolutely rigid.
So, ye feel it too… whatever this is.
They rounded the final bend, and Dún Ketilsson came into view. Massive grey stone walls rose three stories high, capped with slated tiles that gleamed dark in the fading light. Smoke rose from several chimneys, and torches already flickered in their sconces.
“‘Tis nae as grand as yer faither’s holdin’s, I imagine,” he heard himself say. “But ‘tis secure. Has stood fer two hundred years against storm and siege both.”
“‘Tis impressive,” her voice held genuine marvel. “I’ve never seen masonry like that… the way the walls seem tae grow out of the cliff itself.”
“Aye. Me great-great-grandfaither was Norse, but he married a Highland woman who understood these lands better than anyone.” Ragnar guided them through the gates, nodding to the guards who snapped to attention at his approach.
“She insisted the keep be built tae work with the land. That’s saved us more than once when the winter storms come howlin’. ”
They trotted into the courtyard just after midday, and Ragnar felt Isolda tense again as dozens of faced turned toward them. Servants, warriors, villagers who’d made the climb up from the shore, waiting all day to see what kind of woman their jarl had brought home.
He brought Termr to a halt near the keep’s entrance and dismounted first, then turned to offer Isolda his hand. She took it without comment this time, and he lifted her down with carefully, making sure his oversized cloak didn’t tangle in the saddle.
For a moment, they stood there, simply looking into one another’s eyes, his hands still at her waist, her fingers resting lightly on his forearms. The courtyard seemed to fade away—the murmur of voices, the stamp of hooves, the clang of the smithy—all disappearing until there were only her gray-green eyes looking up at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read.
“Thank ye.” She said quietly. “Fer the ride.”
Ragnar released her and stepped back, aware of how many people had gathered to watch the exchange. “Come. I’ll introduce ye properly.”
He turned to face the assembled crowd, and the conversations died away into expectant silence. Ragnar had made speeches before—battle commands, funeral orations, judgements in disputes—but somehow this felt more significant than any of those.
“This is Lady Isolda MacGregor,” he said, his voice carrying clearly across the courtyard. “Daughter of Laird Malcolm MacGregor, and by the king’s decree, me bride. Ye’ll show her the same respect ye’d show me and see that she wants fer naethin’ within these walls.”
A ripple of acknowledgement moved through the crowd—nods, murmurs, a few curious glances at Isolda herself. She stood very still beside him, chin lifted in a way that he was beginning to recognize as her armor against uncertainty.
Ragnar caught sight of Bjorn standing near the keep’s entrance and signaled him. The steward picked his way through the crowd, his wrinkled face weary.
“Get one of the girls tae fetch garments that will actually fit her, aye?” he instructed, then he paused, and added in a lower tone meant only for the steward’s ears, “Give her the chambers near mine. The ones overlookin’ the sea.”
Bjorn’s eyebrows rose fractionally, but he simply nodded. “As ye wish, me jarl. And will ye be wantin’ supper brought up, or will ye join us in the Great Hall?”
“I’ll come down once I’ve seen tae a few matters.” He glanced at Isolda. “The lady should rest and warm herself properly first.”
“Of course, me jarl.” He turned toward Isolda with a respectful bow. “If ye’ll follow me, me lady. I’ll see ye settled.”
Isolda hesitated, glancing once at Ragnar as though seeking permission, or reassurance? Ragnar wasn’t sure which, and that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
“Ye may move freely within the castle walls, but nae beyond them.” he said quietly. “Fer yer own safety.”
Something flashed behind her eyes—a softening, perhaps, or the ghost of trust—before she gathered his massive cloak around herself and followed Bjorn toward the keep’s entrance.
Ragnar watched until she disappeared through the doorway, acutely aware that she was still wearing his cloak, that it would carry his scent with her.
Marked her as mine already. Whether I meant tae or nae.
“Well now,” Freyr appeared at his elbow, arms crossed and his expression sardonic. “That was the least subtle thing I’ve ever seen.”
“What was?”
Freyr’s grey eyes glinted with poorly concealed amusement. “Why nae just put her in yer own bed and be done with it?”
“Watch yer tongue,” Ragnar warned, but there was no real heat in it.
“All I meant was,” Freyr said, clapping him on the shoulder. “She’s got grit. She’ll serve ye well.”
Ragnar shot him a dark look. “Are ye done?”
“Fer now.” Freyr’s grin faded slightly, his expression turning more serious. “Though ye should ken—the King’s men arrived earlier today. And from what I’ve heard, they’re nae pleased about havin’ tae wait on ye.”
Ragnar scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly feeling the weight of days with little sleep and constant vigilance. “What dae they want now?”
“I heard one of them sayin’ they want tae ‘inspect’ the bride. Ensure she’s suitable and… intact.”
Something cold and sharp twisted in Ragnar’s gut. “They’ll nae be inspectin’ anythin’. If they want confirmation, they can attend the weddin’ like everyone else.”
“Ye ken they’ll push back on that.”
“Let them try.” Ragnar started toward the keep.
Freyr’s grin returned, sharp and approving. “There’s the Stag of Uist! Fer a moment there, I thought ye’d gone soft.”
“Never.”
But as Ragnar climbed the stairs toward his solar, he found himself thinking about Isolda’s cold fingers in his, about the way she’d fit against him on the horse, and about those adorable freckles.
Aye, perhaps I’ve already gone softer than I ever intended.