Chapter 9 #2
“So did ye,” she found herself saying.
The milk began to steam and Ragnar reached for a honey pot, scooping generous amounts into the clay pot, then pouring the concoction into two wooden cups.
He handed one to Isolda and then settled on the bench beside her—not crowding her, but near enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his powerful frame.
They drank in companionable silence, and Isolda found herself relaxing, if only slightly. “Ye might be ontae somethin’ with yer wee milk potion.”
“Is that so?” Ragnar raised an eyebrow.
“Aye. ‘Tis… sweet and warm and soothin’.”
“I’m glad ye like it.”
“Is there a library?” she blurted. “I saw some books in yer solar when I passed by earlier, but I didnae want tae… impose.”
Ragnar’s face lit up. “Ye like tae read?”
“Aye, when I can. Growin’ up, it was one of the few freedoms me faither afforded me. I loved it—gettin’ lost in stories of places I’d never see, gettin’ tae ken people I’d never meet.” She cradled the cup between her palms. “Daes that make me sound mad?”
“Nae. ‘Tis…” he stared into the distance, “Me maither loved books, ye ken.”
His smile turned sad and Isolda felt a lump form in her throat.
“She collected everythin’ she could find—history, poetry, even a few Norse sagas she’d had translated. When she died, I couldnae bring meself tae touch any of it fer the longest time. But recently… I’ve been…it helps tae read, tae remember her.”
“I’m sorry,” Isolda said softly. “About yer maither.”
“Aye, thank ye.” He took a swig of his drink and set the cup aside. “The library’s on the second floor, eastern wing. ‘Tis naethin’ grand, but I can show ye tomorrow, if ye’d like?”
“Aye. I would. Very much.”
Isolda finished her milk and stood, feeling steadier than she had in days. Ragnar escorted her through the darkened corridors, a silent, solid presence at her side.
When they reached her door, she paused with her hand on the latch. “Thank ye. Fer the milk. And fer… the company. ‘Twas nice.”
“Ye’re welcome.” A genuine smile tugged at his lips. “Now get some sleep. But the next time ye hear any suspicious noises, perhaps try shoutin’ fer me, or the guards before chargin’ intae battle with kitchen utensils, aye?”
“I could. But that would bore ye tae death,” she said, shrugging out of the tunic and holding it out to him. “Dinnae ye want me tae keep ye on yer toes?”
“Gods… the mouth on ye, little wolf.” His laugh followed her into the chamber, and Isolda stood there with her back against the wood, wondering when exactly her captor had started to feel like something else entirely.
The next morning arrived bright and cold with sunlight streaming thought Isolda’s windows with insistence. She woke slowly, stretching out her limbs beneath the blankets, and for a moment she couldn’t quite place the source of the warmth that had settled in her chest.
Then she remembered—hysterical laugher in a darkened corridor, warm milk with honey, and Ragnar’s promise to show her the library.
Her stomach fluttered with anticipation but a sharp knock at the door shattered the moment.
“Me lady?” I’ve brought ye fresh linens and yer washed clothes.”
Isolda climbed out of the bed and pulled open the door to find a young servant girl, her head hidden behind a large stack of folded fabric. She walked in before placing Isolda’s portion on the chest at the foot of the bed and left with a cheerful smile before Isolda could properly thank her.
She sorted through the pile—her traveling dress, now clean and mended, new shifts…and a bundle she didn’t recognize. She unfolded it to reveal a tunic, the thick, coarse wool a deep grey, and far too large for her.
Before she could think better of it, Isolda brought it up to her face, inhaling deeply.
One of Ragnar’s.
She should send it back immediately. She should call for the maid and have it returned before anyone noticed the error.
Instead, Isolda found herself holding it up, the memory of his tunic around her shoulders the night before snagging in her thoughts.
Warm and safe.
Before her mind could catch up, her hands reached down, tugging at the hem of her shift. She pulled it off and pulled Ragnar’s tunic over her head.
Her hands drifted downward against her slender frame, feeling the texture of the wool.
The tunic was soft from wear, and despite being washed, it smelled like him—woodsmoke and leather and something indefinably masculine.
It just barely reached the middle of her thighs, the neckline drooping to reveal her shoulders and upper arms, the sleeves swallowing her hands entirely.
She caught sight of herself in the polished bronze mirror and could not suppress the amused grin that stretched across her lips.
She was still smiling when the door suddenly opened without warning.
“Isolda, I wanted tae ask if ye’d—”
Ragnar stopped dead in the doorway, his words dying instantly. His eyes went wide, then darkened, traveling from her bare feet up her legs toward the edge of his tunic, then to her face with an intensity that hade heat pool between her thighs.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Why is he starin’ at me like… like…
“This isnae… I didnae mean tae… delivered by mistake… I—” she spun away from him, searching desperately for her dressing gown when her foot caught on the leg of a nearby chair.
She stumbled, arms windmilling, certain she was about to crash face first into the floor.
Then, strong hands caught her waist, steadying her before she could fall any further. Ragnar’s grip was firm, but careful, his palms warm even through the wool. Isolda suddenly found herself pressed flush against his vast chest, his breath stirring the fine hairs at her temple.
“Easy,” he murmured, his voice rough in a way that sent shivers down her spine. “Ye’ll hurt yerself, little wolf.”
“I should—” she tried to turn, to face him, but his grip tightened fractionally.
“Dinnae move.” The words came out strained.
Isolda went absolutely still, her heart hammering so hard she was certain he could feel it. The silence stretched taught between them, charged with something that made every inch of her skin prickle with awareness.
“The tunic,” he said, his voice husky, “suits ye.”
“‘Tis too large.”
“Aye.” His eyes were molten blue, heated in a way that made her mouth go dry. Finally—mercifully—Ragnar released her and stepped back. “‘Tis…distractin’.”
Isolda blinked at him, trying to gather her wanton thoughts. “Distractin’?”
The corner of his mouth quirked up mischievously. “Ye should probably take it off.”
“I was goin’ tae—” she managed.
“Didnae seem like ye were plannin’ on daein’ anythin’ of the sort.”
“—before ye burst in here without knockin’ like the savage ye are!”
“I knocked.”
“Nae, ye didnae.”
“‘Tis nae me fault ye were too busy admirin’ yerself tae hear it.” His teasing tone did little to mask the heat still simmering in his eyes. “Though I cannae exactly blame ye. I’d stare at meself too, if I looked like that in it.”
“Ye’re terrible.”
“So I’ve been told.” He moved toward the door, then paused with his hand on the latch. “Meet me in the courtyard after ye’ve broken yer fast and dressed more… appropriately. I’ll show ye the library if ye’re done gawkin’ at yerself, that is.”
He left before she could respond, pulling the door closed with a soft click that felt loud in the sudden silence.
Isolda stood alone in her chamber, still wearing Ragnar’s tunic, her skin on fire and her pulse racing. She pressed her palms flat against her cheeks and tried to steady herself.
Something fundamental and undeniable had shifted between them when he’d caught her, when his hands gripped her waist and his voice had gone so rough with desire.
She stared down at the tunic and felt a smile tug at her lips.
What are we daein’?
But deep down, she already knew the answer… that this was becoming exactly what she’d sworn to herself it never would—real.