Chapter 11 #2
“Me braither, Callum.” Bitterness crept in before she could stop it. “Before faither decided I should be a proper lady. Apparently kennin’ which fork tae use at dinner is more important than kennin’ how tae defend yerself.”
Something shifted in Ragnar’s expression. “Yer braither taught ye well.”
The words were simple, but they hit Isolda with unexpected force. Because no one had ever praised her for anything before, not her skill, not her intelligence, not her courage or her beauty. She’d been criticized, ignored, dismissed and traded like livestock, but praised? Never.
“I…” she managed, swallowing down the lump in her throat. “Thank ye.”
“Yer form is good,” he said, “but ye’re droppin’ yer shoulder too much.” He stepped behind her, and she could feel him there, solid and warm and overwhelming her senses. His hand found her right shoulder, adjusting its position carefully.
“Keep it level,” his voice rumbled near her ear, “and when ye throw, follow through,” His hand guided her arm through the motion and Isolda forgot how to breathe, “like this.”
The smell of leather and pine and something indefinably him made her head spin and when his other hand settled on her waist to adjust her stance, she nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Easy,” he murmured. “I’m just—”
“I ken what ye’re daein’!” the words came out breathless.
“Then pay attention, little wolf.”
He walked her through it twice, his hands guiding hers patently. The training yard faded entirely, and all that existed was that moment and Ragnar’s steady presence at her back.
This is… he is…
“Again. Show me.”
He stepped away and the blade left her hand in a clean arc, hitting the target three inches to the center this time.
“Better,” he said simply.
And somehow, that single word felt like the greatest compliment she’d ever received.
“So.” Ivar appeared beside them with his usual terrible timing. “About that wish…. what’ll ye be askin’ fer? Ragnar’s head on a pike? His favorite horse? His—”
“Ivar,” Ragnar’s tone carried warning.
“What? I’m curious—”
“Leave,” Erik suggested mildly, but there was steel beneath the suggestion. “Before ye get yerself intae trouble ye cannae talk yer way out of.”
Ivar grinned, unrepentant, “Ye ken perfectly well that I can talk me way out of anythin’!” but he drifted away toward Magnus with a final wink at Isolda that made her want to throw the dagger at him instead.
Ragnar watched him go, then turned back to her. “Ye dinnae have tae decide now.”
“Nay?”
He hesitated, then added quietly, “Though I’m curious.”
Send me home. Let me go.
But the words wouldn’t form, because standing there in the sunlight, with his eyes on hers and the ghost of his touch still warming her skin, she couldn’t quite remember why leaving had seemed so important.
“I’ll think on it,” she heard herself say.
“Good.” He held her gaze a moment longer—and Isolda could have sworn she saw something like relief flicker across his face.
He moved away then, back to his men and their training, leaving Isolda standing in the middle of the yard with her heart racing and an uncomfortable realization settling over her.
I’m in terrible, delicious trouble.
Because somewhere between the nunnery and this moment, between his cloak around her shoulders and his hands guiding her stance, between every small kindness and patient word, Ragnar Ketilsson had stopped being her captor.
And she had no idea what he was becoming instead.
“So,” Claricia appeared at her elbow, Thor still drowsing peacefully against her shoulder. “That was interestin’.”
“It was a dagger throw,” Isolda said, too quickly. “Naethin’ more.”
“Aye, of course.” Claricia’s smile was knowing.
Ada joined them, Astrid sleeping peacefully in her arms. “And the way ye’re lookin’ at each other means even less, I’m sure.”
Isolda opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. “I dinnae ken what tae dae,” she admitted quietly, surprised by her own honesty.
“About what?” Claricia asked gently.
“Any of it. Him. This.” Isolda gestured vaguely at the training yard, the castle, the entire impossible situation. “I’m supposed tae hate him. It was easier when I did.”
“Aye,” Ada said softly. “It usually is.”
They stood together in comfortable silence, watching the warriors resume their drills. Watching Ragnar move among them with quiet authority. Watching him glance toward her—once, briefly—before returning his attention to a question Freyr had asked.
“Fer what it’s worth,” Claricia said eventually, “I dinnae think ye’re in this alone.”
Isolda wanted to ask what she meant. Wanted to dissect every word, every glance, every small interaction until she could make sense of the chaos in her chest.
But before she could speak, a shout went up from the castle gates.
A rider approached at speed, his horse lathered and clearly pushed hard. The training ground went silent as the man dismounted and strode directly toward Ragnar with the urgency of someone carrying news that couldn’t wait.
Isolda couldn’t hear the words exchanged, but she watched Ragnar’s expression shift—just slightly—from calm to something harder. More lethal.
When he looked toward her across the yard, his eyes held a warning she couldn’t quite interpret.
“What is it?” she asked as Claricia tensed beside her.
“I dinnae ken,” Claricia murmured. “But whatever it is, ‘tis nae good.”
Ragnar dismissed the messenger with a nod and turned to Erik and Magnus, speaking rapidly in Norse. All three jarls’ faces grew grimmer with each passing moment.
Then Ragnar’s gaze found hers again—and this time, the message was clear. Something had happened.
And despite the mild sunlight warming her skin, Isolda felt cold settle deep in her bones.