Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
“What on earth…”
The sound came again—footsteps in the corridor, deliberate and steady.
Isolda’s eyes snapped open in the darkness, her heart already hammering furiously against her ribs. She lay perfectly still beneath the heavy blankets, straining to hear past the rush of blood in her ears.
‘Tis just a guard on patrol… that’s all…
But then the footsteps paused outside her door.
Isolda moved without thought, sliding from the bed and tip-toeing to the chair where she’d left her belongings.
Her fingers found the small knife she’d tucked beneath her folded cloak—nothing compared to Ragnar’s broadsword, but sharp enough to inflict damage if necessary.
The bone handle fit in her palm with reassuring solidity.
The footsteps resumed, moving away now, but Isolda’s pulse refused to settle. She crept toward the door, Liv’s words from earlier echoing in her mind.
Be brave. Face what terrifies ye.
She pulled the door open in one swift motion and stepped into the hallway, directly into the path of a massive figure wielding a drawn sword.
Time slowed down and she saw the blade arcing toward her, saw the warrior’s startled expression as he realized she was there, saw his desperate attempt to redirect the strike even as her own weapon came up defensively.
I’m goin’ tae die in this wretched place in naethin’ but me shift!
Then, strong fingers caught her wrist, halting the knife inches from flesh, redirecting the blade so it whispered past and struck stone with a shower of sparks.
“Isolda?” Ragnar’s voice came rough with shock. “Why the hell are ye prowlin’ about with that wee excuse fer a blade in the dead of night?”
Relief and embarrassment flooded through her in equal measure. She looked up at his face, barely visible in the dim torchlight. His hair was disheveled, his tunic unlaced at the throat, and his blue eyes were wide with surprise.
“I heard footsteps,” she managed, acutely aware that his hand still circled her wrist, that his body was mere inches from hers, that she was standing in front of him only half-dressed. “I thought… I didnae ken—”
“So ye thought someone was comin’ fer ye,” his grip on her wrist loosened, but didn’t release. “And ye thought it best tae confront yer attacker with a knife meant fer cuttin’ food?”
“‘Tis sharp enough.” She said, pointing the blade at him.
“Against what? A particularly threatenin’ piece of bread?” he was staring at the tiny blade in her hand with an expression caught somewhere between genuine concern and utter disbelief. “Isolda, that thing wouldnae stop a determined fox.”
“Well… ‘tis all I had.”
“Then ye should’ve stayed behind yer locked door and screamed fer the guards.”
“Och, aye, brilliant plan. Wait tae be murdered like some helpless…”
The words died in her throat as the full absurdity of the situation crashed over her.
The adrenaline that had been singing through her veins drained away all at once, leaving her weak in the knees and her hands trembling.
She glanced down at the pathetic little knife, then up at his massive broadsword, then at herself—standing in a drafty corridor in nothing but her nightshift, having just attempted to fight off the most dangerous warrior in the Western Isles.
Ragnar’s mouth twitched. Then twitched again. He pressed his lips together firmly, clearly fighting it, but his shoulders started to shake.
“Dinnae,” Isolda warned, though her own voice had gone unsteady. “Dinnae ye dare…”
A snort escaped him, then a chuckle he tried to smother against his fist, and then finally, helpless laughter that shook his broad shoulders and made him press one hand against the wall for support, lowering this sword until the tip touched the floor.
“What?” Isolda demanded, caught between offence and confusion. “What’s so funny?”
“Ye…” he fought for breath between bursts of laughter. “Ye’re a wee slip of a thing that… barely reaches me shoulder. And ye’re armed… with a blade meant fer supper, nay battle… lookin’ just about ready tae gut me like a fish.”
“I was ready tae gut ye,” she retorted, but something warm and unexpected was unfurling in her chest at the sound emanating from him.
“I dinnae doubt it, little wolf.” He wiped his eyes, his grin transforming his usually stern features into something almost boyish. “By all the gods in Valhalla… ye’re either the bravest woman I’ve ever met, or the most foolish.”
“A lass cannae be both?”
That set him off again, and this time Isolda felt her own lips twitching, the absurdity of the situation beginning to penetrate her awareness.
A small sound escaped her throat. Then another.
Before she could stop it, uncontrollable laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep within her, surprising her.
She pressed her free hand over her mouth, but it was too late—the joy spilled out anyway, mixing with Ragnar’s until the entire corridor rang with it.
“We almost…” she gasped between fits of giggles, “… we almost killed each other…”
“…ye and yer fearsome wee butter knife…”
They leaned against the wall, and Isolda couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed like that—so hard that her stomach muscles cramped and her eyes watered.
When their giddy laughter had finally subsided into breathless quiet, Ragnar straightened, sheathing his sword with a smooth motion. His expression had gentled, the harsh lines of it temporarily smoothed away.
“What are ye daein’ skulkin’ the corridors anyway?” Isolda asked, tucking her embarrassing little weapon into the pocket of her nightshift.
“Checkin’ the watch rotations.” He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “I couldnae sleep, and when I cannae sleep, I walk. Make sure everyone’s all right, and that the defenses are holdin’.”
“Daes that happen often? Ye nae sleepin’?”
Something flashed across his face, there and gone in an instant. “Some.”
They stood there in awkward silence for a moment and Isolda was suddenly, painfully aware of how thin her nightshift was, how his gaze had very deliberately fixed itself on a point somewhere above her head.
“Ye should get back tae bed,” he said quietly. “‘Tis late. And ye need yer rest.”
“I dinnae think I could sleep now if I tried.” It was true—her heart was still racing, her body thrumming with leftover fear and unexpected joy.
Ragnar studied her for a long moment, seeming to war with himself offer something. “Would ye like some warmed milk? That helps me sometimes.”
“Ye… drink warm milk?”
“Aye. With a wee bit of honey, if we can find some in the kitchen.” He glanced down at the corridor, then back at her. “I’m goin’ that way. Ye’re welcome tae join me… if ye’d like.”
It was an olive branch. An offer of companionship extended without expectation or demand. She should refuse—it was improper, she was dressed for bed, she should maintain the distance that was her only protection against whatever this was growing between them.
“Aye,” she heard herself say. “I’d like that.”
They walked through the silent castle side by side, their footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor. Isolda was barefoot, having left her slippers in her chamber, and the cold floor sent shivers up her legs. She wrapped her arms around herself, wishing she’d thought to grab a shawl.
Without a word or a glance, Ragnar shrugged out of his outer tunic and held it out to her.
“I’m fine, there’s nae—” she started, but he’d already draped it around her shoulders.
“I dinnae need me bride catchin’ her death before we’re even wed.” he said matter-of-factly. “The King’s men will have me head.”
The tunic was warm, bringing his body heat with it.
Isolda took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of leather and something woodsy she couldn’t quite identify.
She pulled it closer around herself, trying her very best to convince herself that the distracting flutter in her stomach was nothing more than gratitude.
They reached the kitchen, which was clearly deserted—the great hearth banked to coals that cast a soft red glow across the space. Clay pots hung from hooks while bundles of herbs dangled from the rafters, and the faintest aroma of bread and roasted meat lingered in the air.
Ragnar stepped inside, moving through the space with surprising ease, clearly familiar with its layout—a little fact that surprised Isolda. He picked up a poker and stirred the coals, then added wood before hanging a small pot over the growing flames.
“Ye dae this often?” Isolda asked as she settled onto a bench near the hearth, watching him work. “Raidin’ the kitchens in the dead of night?”
“Probably more often than I should.” His fingers found a clay jug in the cold storage and he poured milk into the pot over the fire. “When I first became jarl, I spent half, if nae most of me nights here.”
“Why?”
Ragnar’s hand found the back of his neck, rubbing. “Too much tae think about. Too heavy a weight on shoulders that felt too young tae bear it.”
“How old were ye?”
“Fourteen.” The answer came quietly, and Isolda felt her heart clench. “Old enough tae ken what it all meant, but young enough tae be terrified by it.”
Isolda nodded silently.
“And what about ye, little wolf?” he asked, stirring the milk with a wooden spoon. “What kept ye awake at night. Before all this?”
“Everythin’.” The honesty surprised even herself. “Wonderin’ if me faither would ever remember I existed. And then when he did, hopin’ he would forget about me long enough that I could disappear intae that nunnery before he found some use fer me. Then plannin’ me escape.”
“Did ye succeed with yer plannin’?” He asked absently, his focus on the boiling milk.
“Obviously nae.” She managed a wry smile. “Or I wouldnae be here.”
“Hmm. Usin’ me tae sharpen yer wee claws, are ye?”
“Well, ye ask silly questions, ye get sharp answers. Jarl or nae.”
“Fair enough.” He looked up, and the sincerity in his eyes caught her off guard. “I’m sorry fer what ye went through, lass. Ye deserved better.”