Chapter 7 #2
Still nothing. He reached for the door handle. It opened easily beneath his hand, swinging inward to reveal Isolda, standing in the middle of the chamber in nothing but a thin linen shift, water dripping from her freshly washed hair, her eyes going wide with shock as she registered his presence.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Ragnar’s mind went absolutely blank. He was aware he should turn around, that he should apologize and leave, that standing there gawking at her was possibly the worst thing he could do.
But his body seemed to have forgotten how to take orders, too busy cataloguing details he had no business noticing.
By all the gods in Valhalla… she’s breathtakin’.
There was the way her shift clung to damp skin, outlining curves he’d felt pressed against him but hadn’t allowed himself to contemplate.
His eyes drifted to a scatter of freckles across her collarbone, disappearing beneath the neckline of the shift in a pattern that his fingers suddenly itched to trace.
There was vulnerability in her eyes, shock giving way to something that looked almost like hurt.
“What are ye… get out!” The words tore from her throat, sharp and panicked.
“I’m nae—” Ragnar spun on his heel, turning his back on her with such force he nearly lost his balance and took the door right out of its frame. “I’m sorry. I knocked, ye didnae answer, I thought—”
“Ye thought ye’d just strut intae me chamber unannounced?” her voice climbed higher, embarrassment sharpening each syllable. “What kind of… d’ye always have tae be so… och, fer the love of, why cannae ye just leave me be?”
“I cannae.”
“What?” the single word dripped with disbelief and fury.
“I meant… I can leave, and I will, but I need tae speak with ye first.” Ragnar kept his eyes fixed firmly on the door frame, on the stone wall, on anything except the space behind him where Isolda was presumably scrambling for clothing. “‘Tis rather important.”
“More important than manners?” Something rustled—fabric being pulled on, hopefully. “More important than privacy?”
“If ye’d only answered when I’d knocked—”
“I was washin’, ye brute!” the rustling intensified, punctuated by what sounded like muttered curses. “I was pourin’ water over me head, so forgive me fer nae hearin’ yer wee attempt at knockin’ through the sound of… mo creach, this is ridiculous.”
“Are ye—”
“Ye can turn around now.”
Ragnar obeyed cautiously, slowly, keeping his gaze carefully fixed somewhere around her shoulder rather than meeting her eyes.
She’d thrown on a dressing gown over the shift—his mother’s from the look of it, a deep blue wool that hung too large on her frame but at least provided proper coverage.
Her dark hair twirled in wet ropes over her shoulders, and her cheeks were flushed with crimson that had nothing to do with the warmth of the chamber.
She looked absolutely furious, and twice as beautiful.
If only she werenae glarin’ at me like she wants tae gut me with a wooden spoon.
“Well?” Isolda demanded, pulling the dressing gown tighter around herself. “Ye’ve embarrassed us both properly. What’s so important it couldnae wait?”
“The weddin’s been moved up,” he said bluntly, figuring there was no point in softening the blow. “Three days instead of ten.”
He watched the words land, watched her face cycle through surprise, comprehension, and finally, something that looked like bitter resignation.
“It wasnae me choice.” The need to make her understand pressed at him urgently. “The king’s men made the decision. They’re worried Douglas will strike again, and they want the union finalized before—”
Her voice had gone flat, emotionless. “Before I become too much of a liability.”
“Before ye can be used as a weapon against the Pact.” Ragnar corrected.
She moved to the window, putting more distance between them, and wrapped her arms around herself. “Once again, it daesnae matter one bit what I want, or what I need. Naebody treats me like a person. Everyone just sees me as somethin’ tae be used.”
Ragnar felt something in his chest twist painfully at the defeated slump of her shoulders. “Ye’re nae that tae me.”
She turned her head slightly, not quite looking at him. “Nay? Then what am I?”
Someone who looks at me like I might be worth trustin’, and I dinnae ken what tae dae with that.
“Me…the person I’m meant tae wed. Whether either of us wants it or nae.”
“How wonderfully reassurin’ of ye,” she quipped, but some of the sharpness had left her voice.
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the occasional pop of logs in the fireplace and the distant cry of gulls beyond the window. Ragnar noticed Isolda shivering slightly despite the warmth of the room and the dressing gown.
“Are ye cold? I could send fer some more—”
“I’m fine.” But even as she said it, she pulled the dressing gown tighter, and Ragnar saw the lie for what it was.
“Sit down,” he said gently. He softened his voice deliberately, the way he might when approaching a skittish horse. “Please. Just… sit, will ye?”
She hesitated, then moved to the chair nearest to the fire and sank into it, clearly exhausted. Ragnar remained standing, giving her the space she clearly needed.
“Did ye tell the King’s men I’d be delighted about the change?” she asked quietly.
“Nay.” He paused. “They wanted tae talk tae ye themselves. I refused.”
She turned to look at him fully, surprise written across her features. “Ye did?”
Ragnar nodded.
“Thank ye. Fer that, at least.”
“Ye dinnae need tae thank me fer showin’ ye basic decency, lass.
” The words came out harsher than he intended, and he softened his voice.
“I ken ye’re feelin’ hopeless and trapped,” he said quietly.
“But yer life is still yers. The circumstances may be forced, but how ye live it—that’s still yer choice. I’ll never take that away from ye.”
She studied him for a moment, and Ragner found himself wondering what she saw.
Finally, she spoke. “I want tae write tae me faither.”
The request caught him off guard. “Yer faither?”
“Aye. He’ll have heard by now that I was attacked. I ken he daesnae care fer me, but he still deserves tae ken that I’m alive and…” she hesitated. “And that I’m all right.”
“Are ye?” the question slipped out before he could stop it.
Her smile was small and sad. “Nay. But he daesnae need tae ken that.”
Something in Ragnar’s chest ached at the quiet honestly of it. “Write yer letter,” he said. “I’ll have it sent with a trusted messenger. Ye can say whatever ye need tae say—I’ll nae read it nor censor it.”
She blinked at him. “Truly?”
“Aye. Though it’ll need tae be sealed and witnessed fer the fing’s records.” At her questioning look, he explained. “‘Tis standard practice fer the Pact marriages.”
“Meanin’ someone will read it.”
“Likely. But nae me, if that’s what ye’re worried about.”
She nodded slowly. “I’ll write it after… after I’ve finished dressin’ properly.”
It as a dismissal, politely delivered, but unmistakable. Ragnar should have left immediately, should have taken the excuse and fled.
But instead, he found himself lingering.
“Isolda?”
“Aye?”
“Fer what it’s worth—I’m sorry. About... all of it.” The words felt inadequate even as he spoke them. “If it was within me power tae give ye more time, I would.”
She looked at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “I believe ye.” she said finally. “I dinnae like it, but I ken this isnae yer choice either.
So, we’ve found common ground.
It was barely anything, really. But somehow, it felt like more than Ragnar had any right to hope for.