Chapter 10 #2
Servants appeared with platters of roasted venison, fresh bread, smoked fish and turnips that were glazed with honey. The conversation flowed easily—Erik asking about Uist’s defenses, Magnus inquiring about the force, and Claricia coaxing Ada to share stories of Barra.
And through it all, Isolda sat quietly, eating small bites, calm and composed. Until Ivar deliberately baited her.
“So, Lady Isolda,” His voice carried the particular edge he used when hunting for weaknesses. “How are ye findin’ Uist, then? Besides the forced marriage and near-death experience that brought ye here, I mean.”
The table went quiet and Ragnar’s fingers gripped his cup, ready to intervene.
But Isolda was faster, meeting Ivar’s gaze without flinching.
“Well,” she took a sip of ale before answering, “The weather’s absolutely wretched.
The food is…” she glanced at the plate before her.
“Adequate. And I find meself constantly surrounded by beastly men who could snap me neck like a twig.” Another pause.
“But the view from me chamber is spectacular, so at least there’s that. ”
For a moment, no one spoke. Then, Ivar threw back his head and laughed—a sharp sound that echoed off the stone walls.
“Och, she’ll keep ye on yer toes,” Ivar announced. “She’s got fire and wit.”
Something unfurled in Ragnar’s chest. Pride, maybe, or desire sharpened by admiration.
She’s holdin’ her own. More than that—she’s winnin’.
“Fire’s useful,” Erik observed quietly. “Keeps ye warm, or it can burn ye down if ye’re nae careful.”
Claricia smiled sweetly at her husband. “Speakin’ from experience are ye, Wolf?”
Erik nodded. “Extensive experience.”
“The fire in the kitchen was an accident—”
“Which one? There’s been three.”
“Two. The third was actually yer son.”
Erik’s eyes widened. “He’s barely—”
“Aye, and shares his faither’s talent fer destruction.”
The entire table erupted into laughter, and the tension in Ragnar’s shoulders eased slightly as he peered down at Isolda.
She has a bonnie smile.
His gaze traced the curve of her mouth, the slight dimple that appeared in her left cheek when she laughed. Heat pooled low in his abdomen, want sharpened by the knowledge that she’d probably never look at him the way the other wives looked at their husbands.
“Tae the bride and groom,” Ivar announced, raising his own cup with such enthusiasm that the mead lapped over the edge.
“May yer union be fruitful, and yer nights… long and satisfyin’.
And may the Stag finally learn what it means tae lose an argument.
” He paused, raising his cup at Isolda. “Because ye’ll win them all! ”
Magnus’s eyebrows rose fractionally. “Ye give the worst toasts, Ivar.”
“That’s because ye lack imagination,” Ivar replied smoothly. “And a sense of humor.” he turned back to Isolda. “Tell me, what terrible crime did ye commit tae deserve marriage tae the Stag?”
Isolda didn’t miss a beat. “I was born a noble female.”
Silence fell around the table. Then, Ada laughed, the sound shattering the tension. “Och, she gets it!”
“And yet she’s here.” Claricia observed, her voice gentle but her eyes piercing.
“Did any of ye…” Isolda hesitated, then pushed on. “Did any of ye want these marriages?”
“Nay,” Claricia said honestly and Ada nodded her head in agreement.
“Isolda’ s hands had gone still on her cup. “But ye’re… ye seem so…”
“Happy?” Claricia supplied. “Aye. But it took time. And both of us deciding that what we’d been given could become somethin’ worth keepin’.”
“Some days I still want tae strangle him,” Ada teased, making Magnus choke on his ale. “But mostly, I just want tae keep him all tae meself.”
“How comfortin’.” Magnus managed. “Me wife threatens at murder and calls it love.”
“Well, look at it this way, if ye survive me, ye can survive anythin’.”
More laughter came, and the meal continued. They shared honey cakes, preserved fruits and soft cheese while Isolda was drawn into conversation with the wives.
“So… ye were goin’ tae be a nun,” Claricia was saying. “That’s a big leap.”
“Aye,” Isolda replied coolly. “But at least a nun gets tae pray in peace—”
A sudden commotion near the lower tables drew everyone’s attention—a bench scraping violently against stone, the sharp clatter of a cup hitting the floor. One of the warriors—Tormund—lurched to his feet, swaying.
“Brought a Highlander intae our hall,” he slurred, loud enough to carry. “While Douglas sharpens his blades at our doorstep… while our braithers bleed!” His bloodshot eyes found Isolda. “And we’re supposed tae smile and bow like she’s some prize worth havin’?”
Freyr’s hand went to his sword. “Tormund. Mind yerself.”
“Nay.” The warrior’s fists clenched. “Someone needs tae say it—”
Isolda stood.
The movement was so unexpected that Ragnar’s hand shot out instinctively, catching her wrist. She met his eyes—steady, unflinching—and he released her. He watched her walk toward the commotion, watched her look at Tormund like she was studying something broken that might still be mended.
“Ye’re right,” she said quietly.
The hall went deathly still.
“I’m nae a prize. I’m nae even a willin’ participant.” Her voice carried without shouting. “I’m just a lass who tried tae escape her fate and failed. So aye, warrior—I understand yer anger. Because I share it.”
Tormund’s mouth worked soundlessly.
“But here’s what I ken.” Isolda’s chin lifted slightly.
“Yer jarl didnae choose this either. None of us did. Douglas Graham and men like him—they’re the ones who turned us all intae pawns.
” She paused. “So ye can hate me if it makes ye feel better. Or ye can save that hate fer the bastards who actually deserve it.”
Silence pressed against the stone walls.
Then, Ragnar stood.
He walked to Tormund with the patience of a man who knew his prey couldn’t escape, and when he reached the warrior, his hand closed around the back of his neck—grip iron hard, fingers digging into pressure points that made the man go rigid.
“Me betrothed just defended ye,” Ragnar said quietly, the words somehow carrying in the absolute silence. “Stood up and claimed ye have reason fer yer disrespect.”
His fingers tightened and Tormund made a strangled sound.
“Now, ye’ll apologize tae her—properly. Then ye’re goin’ tae sober up and remember that tae dishonor her is tae dishonor yer jarl.
” He released Tormund with a slight shove.
“Lady Isolda didnae choose this.” His voice rang clearer now.
“Neither did I, but she’s mine now, which makes her part of this clan. And we protect our own. Always.”
The hall remained silent as Ragnar returned to his seat.
Slowly, Tormund sank onto his bench. His voice came rough. “Aye. Aye, me jarl.” He dragged a hand across his face. “Fergive me, me lady.”
Isolda nodded once and returned to her seat as if nothing unusual had happened. But Ragnar saw the slight tremor in her hands before she hid them in her lap, saw the tension in her jaw that betrayed how much that small act of courage had cost her.
By all the gods and spirits who haunt these shores...
Ragnar’s chest constricted like someone had wrapped iron bands around his ribs.
His pulse hammered at his throat, his wrists, the base of his skull.
He wanted to reach for her hand—feel her skin against his, warm and alive.
Wanted to pull her close and tell her she was the bravest thing he’d ever seen.
Wanted things he had no right to want. “Well,” Ivar said into the silence, “that was entertainin’.
Daes anyone else want tae question the lady’s presence, or can we finish our dessert now? ”
The women took their leave shortly after—Isolda heading to her chambers, Ada with Astrid fussing against her shoulder, Claricia following with Thor starting to fuss, Liv trailing behind to help settle them. The hall felt emptier without them, the air heavier.
Erik leaned back in his chair, waiting until they’d vanished up the stairs. “So. Douglas Graham.”
“Aye,” Ragnar said, dragging his thoughts away from gray-green eyes and trembling hands. “He’s nae finished.”
They talked strategy—guard rotations, Douglas’s likely movements, how long the other jarls could stay. But Ragnar’s mind kept drifting back to Isolda standing with her spine straight, facing down a drunk warrior with nothing but her own courage.
Much later, after the others had retired, Ragnar climbed the stairs toward his chambers. He paused outside Isolda’s door, close enough to hear if she needed anything, far enough to preserve the fiction of distance.
No sound came from within.
He continued to his own room, but sleep felt impossible.
Instead, he stood at the window overlooking the sea—the same view she had from her chambers.
Moonlight turned the water to hammered silver.
Waves rolled in with the patient rhythm of something eternal, breaking white against the rocks far below.
The wind carried salt and distance and he wondered what she thought when she looked out at that very same endless water.
Freedom. Escape. A horizon that promised something beyond stone walls and forced.
A knock interrupted his thoughts. Freyr entered without waiting for permission.
“Problem?” Ragnar asked.
“Scout just returned. Found signs of a camp five miles south—recent, multiple men, well-supplied.” Freyr’s jaw tightened. “They’re nae leavin’, Ragnar. They’re diggin’ in. Watchin’.”
“Douglas.”
“Has tae be.” Freyr moved to stand beside him at the window, both of them staring out at the moonlit water. “He’s bidin’ his time. Waitin’ fer the right moment tae strike.”
“Just keep a close eye on it.”
Ragnar’s hands clenched on the windowsill. Below, the castle slept peacefully—his people, his guests, his unwilling bride dreaming behind stone walls that suddenly felt far too thin.
All while Douglas was out there in the dark, patient as death, waiting for the perfect moment to shatter whatever fragile peace they’d managed to build.
I’ll keep ye safe, he thought. Tomorrow, and every day after. Whatever it costs.
Even if she never forgave him for it.