Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Och, would ye look at that, Erik’s about tae lose an arm.”
Isolda’s attention snapped to Claricia from where the three of them sat on a stone bench overlooking the sparring grounds—Claricia with young Thorsten drowsing against her shoulder, Ada cradling a sleeping Astrid.
The morning had dawned surprisingly mild for Uist, the grey clouds parting just enough to let thin sunlight through. It caught on the warrior’s blades as they moved through their drills.
“He’s nae goin’ tae lose anythin’,” Ada said without looking up from adjusting the blanket. “Magnus says Erik could be half-asleep and still best most.”
“Aye, but Ivar’s got that look about him.”
Isolda followed Claricia’s gaze to where the Raven circled the Wolf with predatory focus, his blade testing, probing. Erik barely moved, yet met each strike with a precision that came from years of survival.
“What look?” Isolda asked.
“The one that say’s he’s about tae dae somethin’ that’s either foolish, unexpected, or both.”
Ivar feinted left, then spun right with a speed that seemed impossible for someone his size. His blade whistled toward Erik’s ribs, but Erik’s sword met him an inch from contact, the clash echoing across the yard.
“That’s me man!” Claricia clapped her hands.
Isolda found herself smiling despite herself. Being there, watching the men train, listening to Claricia and Ada trading tales about their husbands felt almost normal.
Could this friendship be real?
The thought crept in, unbidden and dangerous in its hopefulness. She’d never had female friends before and the possibility that these two women’s warmth might be genuine terrified her almost as much as it tempted her.
“Where’s Magnus?” Ada asked, scanning the yard.
“There. With Ragnar.”
Isolda’s gaze found him without effort. He stood near the far end, speaking with Magnus and Freyr and the morning light caught the gold of his hair.
Even from that distance, she could see the focus in his stance, the way his attention never fully left the warriors even while discussing other matters.
I shouldnae make a habit out of watchin’ him.
She knew she should be looking anywhere but at him, but she couldn’t stop herself.
“Och, he’s quite braw,” Claricia said, pulling Isolda’s attention back. “If ye like that sort of thing, I suppose.”
“I was only observin’—”
Ada’s tone was innocent. “Strange how ye only seem tae observe when he’s in view.”
“That’s nae—”
“‘Tis fine, Isolda.” Claricia’s smile held understanding. “I spent me first weeks on Skye pretendin’ I didnae notice Erik. Didnae work—he’s a bit impossible tae ignore.”
Despite herself, Isolda felt her lips twitch. “What changed?”
“I decided tae stop lyin’ tae meself about it.” Claricia’s eyes found her husband, her expression softening. “Made everythin’ simpler.”
Isolda looked away, uncomfortable with how easily those women read her.
“He watches ye too,” Ada noted quietly. “When ye’re nae lookin’.”
Isolda’s fingers tightened on the forgotten book in her lap. “Och… he’s just… keepin’ an eye on his… investment.”
“Is that what ye think ye are?” Claricia said, surprised.
What else could I possibly be?
But she remembered Ragnar sleeping outside her door, thought of his care on the ship, and then the heated expression in his eyes when he’d found her wearing his tunic.
“I think,” Ada said carefully, “there’s nae a man alive, Viking or nae, that would ever look at an investment the way Ragnar looks at ye.”
A sharp whistle cut through their conversation and all three women turned.
Ragnar had moved to the center of the space, his warriors gathering around him, giving him their full attention.
“Come along,” Claricia stood, settling Thor more securely against her hip. “This will be more interestin’ up close.”
“Are we allowed?”
Ada rose too, cradling Astrid. “Ye’re tae be the Lady of Uist, Isolda. Ye can go anywhere ye please.”
The Lady of Uist.
It felt wrong, somehow—like a dress made for someone else. But she trailed after them anyway, drawn by something she couldn’t name.
The sparring ground smelled of sweat, leather, and the metallic tang of blades being sharpened. Isolda kept close to Claricia and Ada as they descended the stone steps, the men’s voices rising to meet them.
Laughter rippled through the warriors, and Isolda was suddenly aware of the men’s eyes tracking their movement—respectful curiosity rather than threatening, but it still made her spine stiffen.
“Dinnae mind them. Most of them’s never seen their jarl pay attention tae a lass.”
“He daesnae pay me any—”
Isolda protested too quickly and Ada made a small sound that might have been agreement or something else entirely.
“Framar! Keep yer shield high, feet planted! Aye, like that.” Ragnar’s voice carried across the yard. “Angus, keep an eye on his footwork, will ye?”
He joined the sparring men, moving through a series of strikes, his body a study in controlled power. The warriors mirrored him, and Isolda found herself oddly fascinated by it all—wondering how violence could almost look like a dance.
“Fascinatin’, isnae it?” Claricia murmured beside her. “In a horrifyin’ sort of way.”
A young warrior stumbled through a turn, his practice blade clattering to the ground. “Apologies, me jarl, I—”
“Again.” Ragnar said, his voice quiet. “Slower this time. Feel where yer weight shifts, lad.”
An older warrior’s voice drifted toward them. “The jarl’s in a good mood today. Must be the sunshine!”
“Or the company.” Another replied, his tone carrying a knowing edge that made several men chuckle.
Isolda’s cheeks warmed just as Ivar appeared at their side. “Ladies. Come tae indulge yer eyes?”
“We came tae make sure ye fools dinnae hurt yerselves,” Ada replied sweetly. “Besides, someone needs tae count how many times ye fall on yer arse, Ivar.”
Several warriors chuckled. Ivar’s grin widened, his hand clasping his chest mockingly. “Och, she wounds me. Magnus! Yer wife’s bein’ cruel tae me again.”
“Good,” Magnus called from across the yard, not bothering to look up from the axe he was inspecting. “Someone should be.”
“Isolda.”
Her name, spoken in Ragnar’s deep voice, sent an unexpected jolt through her. She turned to find him standing close, his blue eyes fixed on her with unsettling intensity.
“Me jarl?” the formality felt safer than whatever else might slip out.
“Ye’re comfortable here? The men arenae botherin’ ye?”
“They have surprisin’ good manners fer savages.” The words came out dry.
His mouth twitched—almost a smile. “They ken what’ll happen if they’re nae.”
“And what’s that?”
“They’ll answer tae me.”
It wasn’t a boast, just a statement of fact, but something inside Isolda flared hot.
“Terrifyin’,” she said, infusing the word with sarcasm. “I cannae imagine anythin’ more frightenin’ than a disapprovin’ scowl from the Stag of Uist.”
A deadly quiet settled over the men and even Ivar’s perpetual smirk faltered while Ragnar’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Is that so?”
“Aye.” She met his gaze directly, refusing to back down even as her heart hammered. “I’m sure they’re all quakin’ in their boots.”
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then, Ragnar did something Isolda had already seen once. He laughed—it wasn’t loud, but genuine and completely unexpected. The sound rolled through her, sweet and dangerous, and she found herself staring at a face that was boyishly handsome.
Och… that’s nae fair at all!
Ivar laughed delightedly. “Now that’s—”
“Careful,” Erik’s voice carried across the space. “The wee bird might bite ye next.”
Ragnar studied her for a moment longer, then turned and plucked a dagger from his belt.
“Since ye’re so… bold with yer words,” he said, spinning the blade once with casual expertise before offering it to her hilt-first, “let’s see if ye’re as bold with yer actions.”
Isolda stared at him, at the weapon, and back again. “What?”
“The target, little wolf.” He nodded toward the far end of the yard where straw-stuffed targets lined the wall. “Let’s see if yer aim is as sharp as yer tongue.”
This was a test—not of her skill with the blade, but of whether she’d back down. Ye started this, ye daft woman. Now finish it!
She reached out and took the dagger, the hilt still warm from his grip. It was heavier than she expected. “And if I refuse?”
“Then I’ll assume ye’re all bark and nay bite, so tae speak.” His tone remained mild, but there was dark challenge glinting in his eyes.
Claricia made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh. Ada murmured something soothing to Astrid, but Isolda caught the smile tugging at her mouth.
“Fine.” She adjusted her grip. “But when I hit the target, ye owe me somethin’.”
Now she had his attention. “A wager?”
“Aye. Winner gets anythin’ they want.” The words came out bolder than she felt.
Ragnar’s gaze sharpened with something that made heat crawl up her spine. “Anythin’?” he repeated softly.
Cannae take it back now. “Within reason.”
“Agreed.” He stepped aside, gesturing toward the target. “Whenever ye’re ready, little wolf.”
Isolda stepped toward the line marked in the dirt, aware of the men watching her. She hadn’t thrown a blade in years and thought her chances of hitting anything were next to nothing.
She took a deep breath.
Dinnae think, just throw.
She focused on the target, adjusted her stance the way she remembered, and let the dagger fly.
It spun through the air in a silver arc and then firmly buried itself into the straw with a solid thunk, eight inches from the center.
Silence stretched taught as a bowstring. Then, Freyr let out a low whistle. “Helvíti.”
“Well, well…” Ivar drawled, sounding genuinely impressed. “That was unexpected.”
Ragnar said nothing. He simply walked to the target, examined the embedded blade, then pulled it free and returned to where Isolda stood trying very hard not to look smug.
“Where did ye learn that?”