Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
“Sails spotted on the horizon, me jarl!”
Ragnar’s head snapped up. The sword in his grip still held forge-heat, the metal singing a high note as he lowered it. Ash streaked his forearms, coal dust gritting between his fingers where he’d been testing the blade’s balance.
The watchman swayed in the forge entrance, face slick with sweat, chest heaving from his sprint down the tower stairs.
Ragnar crossed to the doorway. Despite the late afternoon sun’s glare, he could make out the colors—Skye’s grey and blue snapping in the wind, Barra’s green and gold bright against storm clouds gathering on the horizon, Mull’s black and silver dark as a raven’s wing.
They’re here.
Relief crashed into him, followed immediately by tension that settled between his shoulder blades like an old wound waking.
“Thought they’d never arrive,” Freyr muttered, appearing at his shoulder. Arms crossed, eyes already tracking the vessels like a hunter counting prey.
“Aye.” Ragnar thrust the blade at the smith. “Let’s go and greet our guests.”
He strode toward the dock, Freyr beside him. “Where’s the lass?” he asked, following Ragnar’s gaze as it drifted toward the keep.
“I sent word tae the library an hour ago that ships were expected.”
“And?”
“And she sent word back that she heard me the first time and didnae need remindin’.
Freyr’s laugh was short and sharp as they descended the winding path that connected the castle to the shore.
The wind picked up as they left the shelter of the walls, carrying salt-spray and the reek of fish from the morning’s catch.
Wood groaned as the ships drew closer, ropes creaking through iron rings, the splash of oars being shipped, loud voices in Norse and Scots rising as men secured vessels.
Gulls wheeled overhead, screaming in displeasure at the disturbance.
A commotion drew Ragnar’s attention—two of his men arguing in low, heated voices, though he caught fragments,“—Highland tikr’s—” and “—Douglas’s wretched spawn—” before Freyr moved to intervene with a sharp word that sent them back to their tasks.
Ragnar’s jaw tightened. The unease among his men had been growing steadily since Isolda’s arrival. He’d heard whispers in the training yards and noticed suspicious glances when she passed and he knew he would need to address it soon, before it festered into something worse.
The first figure to stride down the gangplank was unmistakable.
“Ragnar. We’d have been here yesterday but the wind turned foul.”
“Ye’re here now. That’s what matters.” Ragnar clasped Erik’s arm, then nodded to the woman behind him. “Lady Claricia. Welcome tae Uist.”
“Ragnar.” Her eyes swept the docks with sharp curiosity. “Where’s yer bride?”
“Inside. She’ll join us fer dinner.” I hope.
Something flashed across Claricia’s face—sympathy, or understanding, but he couldn’t tell which.
The child in Erik’s arms chose that moment to grab a fistful of his father hair and gave it a yank.
“Thor,” Erik said, prying the small fingers loose. “We’ve discussed this, lad.”
Ragnar smirked. “He’s gettin’ stronger.”
“Aye. And more destructive. Claricia’s convinced he’s part berserker.”
“I said nay such thing, Wolf.” She chided, though her smile was warm. “I said he gets his stubbornness from ye.”
Before Ragnar could respond, the second ship docked, and Magnus emerged with Ada at his side, carrying a bundle of blankets that emitted an unhappy wail.
“That’ll be wee Astrid,” Freyr said “Got the lungs of a Valkyrie, I hear.”
“Poor lamb’s teethin’.” Ada adjusted the blankets, revealing a red-faced infant. “And she’s made certain everyone kens it.”
“Me sympathies,” Ragnar said.
“I’ve developed a new appreciation fer silence,” Magnus admitted, his hazel eyes exhausted.
Ada elbowed him. “Stop yer complainin’, ye love her.”
“I dae. Desperately. But I also miss sleep!”
The third ship brought Ivar alone—a fact that spoke volumes about the Raven’s solitary nature. He moved like a predator picking his way through shallow water, black eyes taking in everything and revealing nothing.
“Well now…” his greeting held dark amusement. “Quite the tangle ye’ve made fer yerself, Stag. I’m almost impressed.”
“Ivar.” Ragnar gripped his forearm. “Safe journey?”
“Aye.” His grin was all teeth. “So, where’s this mysterious lass whose got ye all áhyggja?”
“I’m nae nervous.”
Ivar’s expression shifted into genuine interest. “Och, this should be entertainin’.”
“Come. We’ve prepared chambers fer all of ye.”
“Harald isnae comin’?” Erik’s question was casual, but his eyes remained sharp.
“Couldnae travel. Enya’s too far along wi’ child.”
Erik nodded once and fell into step beside Ragnar as they approached the horses and began the climb back to the keep.
The courtyard thrummed with activity when they arrived—servants moving with purpose, warriors checking weapons, smoke rolling from the kitchen’s chimney, where venison had been roasting since dawn.
And the royal envoys stood near the eastern wall, watching it all.
“So.” Erik’s voice cut through the courtyard noise. “Are ye goin’ tae tell us what exactly’s goin’ on?”
Ragnar turned to find all three jarls watching him—Erik with that cold calculation he never quite shed, Magnus with his careful assessment, Ivar with open curiosity sharp as a blade.
“Douglas Graham’s men ambushed us on the road tae Uist.” The words came flat. Final. “Tried tae take her before I could.”
Magnus’s jaw tightened. “How many?”
“Eight. All dead now.”
“He’ll try again,” Ivar said, that smile playing at his mouth—the one that said he already knew how it would end. “Question is when.”
“Aye.” Ragnar met their eyes in turn. “When he comes, I need him tae see exactly what he’s facin’. The Pact isnae five separate alliances anymore.”
“Poetic.” Ivar’s grin showed teeth. “Also likely tae get us all killed.”
“We stand with ye,” Erik said, glowering at Ivar. “Always.”
The great hall blazed with firelight and noise by the time evening fell.
Long tables had been arranged in Norse style, but it was softened with subtle Highland touches—heather scattered across the wood, banners from both cultures hanging side by side, all while torches burned brightly from their scones.
The other jarls had already gathered at the high table—Erik and Claricia at one end, young Thor miraculously asleep in his mother’s arms. Magnus and Ada occupied the other, Astrid blissfully quiet against Ada’s chest. Ivar sprawled in the middle, looking thoroughly entertained by something while Freyr stood near the wall with the other warriors, and Liv hovered near Ada, ready to assist with the baby if needed.
Only two seats remained empty.
Ragnar took his place, hyperaware of the vacant spot next to him.
“So,” Ivar said, swirling his ale in the cup. “How long before someone drags her down here? I’m half-starved.”
“We wait.”
“Seems old age is makin’ ye soft, Stag, waitin’ on a woman like some—”
“I’m thirty-two, Ivar.”
“Hmm. Old enough tae ken better.”
Before Ragnar could respond, the conversations quieted, and the sudden silence made his pulse throb in his ears. His head snapped up.
Isolda stood in the entrance wearing a deep forest green gown.
The color made her eyes luminous, like the sea before a storm.
Her dark hair had been woven into an intricate braid that tumbled over one shoulder, and she held herself with dignity—the sort that came not from confidence, but from sheer will.
She walked toward them, and Ragnar tracked every step.
She’s captivatin’.
The thought struck him like a blade between the ribs.
“May I present, Lady Isolda MacGregor,” he said, suddenly jealous of every eye fixed on her. “Me betrothed.”
Isolda dipped into a curtsy that managed to be both formal and faintly mocking. “Forgive me late arrival—I was attemptin’ tae find a reason nae tae come.”
“Och, I like ye already!” Claricia’s smile was bright. “Sit with us, we’ve much tae discuss.”
“Dae we?”
“Aye. Startin’ with how tae survive bein’ wed tae a Viking without losin’ yer mind. Though ye’re lucky, at least Ragnar kens how tae smile. Mine glowers constantly.”
Erik made a sound, but whether out of offense or amusement, it was impossible to tell.
“I’m Claricia and this is Erik.” She waved her hand. “That’s Magnus at the other end with Ada, and the one without a wife grinnin’ like an idiot is Ivar.”
“Och, I suspect I’ll have me own turn at this particular torture soon enough.” Ivar said.
“Torture?” Isolda responded, settling into the chair Ragnar pulled out for her. “I’d think of it more as a… prolonged inconvenience.”
Ivar’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, she’s got teeth! I wonder if she bites too?”
Ragnar said nothing, too aware of Isolda’s scent making his head spin—something floral, almost like crushed heather underfoot.
Her arm brushed against him as she adjusted her seat and his hand tightened around his cup, his eyes snagging on the way torchlight caught the hollow of her throat.
Nay. Dinnae focus on any of… that.
But his body rebelled, every nerve singing with awareness.
“This is our wee Astrid.” Ada said. The baby stirred, making small sounds. “She’s usually much louder, so count yerself fortunate.”
“She’s bonnie,” Isolda said, her expression softening. “How old?”
“Near six moons. And determined tae ensure none of us sleep ever again.”
“Och, that’s what babies dae best,” Claricia added. “That and destroy ever nice garment ye own.” She shifted the child in her arms. “Thor’s already ruined three of me best gowns.”
“Worth it though,” Erik murmured, his hand finding Claricia’s shoulder, something passing between them that made Ragnar look away.
The rigid set in Isolda’s shoulders eased fractionally. “Ye’re all…” she paused, pondering. “…different from what I expected.”
“Was the lady expectin’ wild savages?” Ivar’s tone was lazy, but his eyes sharp. “Gruntin’ and swingin’ axes about?”
“Somethin’ like that, aye.”