Chapter 12 #2
She wasn’t naive enough to believe otherwise. She was a symbol—a pawn in whatever twisted game Douglas was playing with the Pact. Taking her would hurt Ragnar, hurt the alliance, hurt everything the King’s decree stood for.
She walked to her window and peered over to the battlements where Ragnar and Freyr stood discussing something. She should march out there. Demand answers. Force him to tell her what the extra guards meant.
He’d just tell me I’m safe, that he’s handlin’ it. That I shouldnae worry.
The thought made her chest tighten with something she didn’t want to name. Fear, yes. But also something else—something warm and terrifying that had been growing steadily ever since he’d looked at her in the training yard like she was more than just a political obligation.
Unless I’m just imaginin’ things.
Her traitorous body chose that precise moment to remember their lesson with the dagger—his hand on her waist adjusting her stance so gently, his deep voice rumbling near her ear in a way that made her knees weak.
Tomorrow, I’ll be his wife. And then…
Her stomach dropped. She had no idea what truly happened between husband and wife on the wedding night beyond whispered rumors that left her more confused than informed. Darkness would fall, and she’d be alone with him, bound by vows and expected to…what? Love him?
A memory flashed through her mind, unbidden. She heard the echo of her mother’s voice, speaking Gaelic in the quiet of her room. “Tha gao mar theine—chan urrainn dhut a chumail fo smachd.” She’d whispered. “Love is like fire—ye cannot control it.”
Isolda had been little more than a girl, barely understanding. But now, standing in this chamber, surrounded by more Vikings than Highlanders, betrothed to a man who still felt like her enemy most days, those words landed with devastating clarity.
Nay… I cannae possibly… he’s just concerned fer me safety. That’s all this is.
She pressed her forehead against the cool stone. Outside, Ragnar’s silhouette was just barely visible on the far-off battlements, someone beside him. Even from there, she could see the tension in his broad frame, the rigid set of his spine.
She wanted to be angry about the guards, about being managed and protected like some fragile thing, but beneath the resentment stirred something far more dangerous—a treacherous warmth at being someone’s priority, of mattering to someone.
I dinnae understand why he would care so much about me—or why it matters tae me.
But her hand found its way to the window, palm pressing flat against the glass as if she could somehow reach across and touch him.
Freyr approached Ragnar where he stood on the battlements staring into darkness.
“The men are in place,” he said quietly. “Two on her door, four in the corridor, a few positioned between her chambers and the main keep. She willnae move without us kennin’ about it.
“Good.”
“She noticed.”
Ragnar’s hands tightened on the stone parapet. “And?”
“And naethin’. The lass ogled them fer a minute, then disappeared back intae her chamber.” Freyr paused. “She kens somethin’s wrong, Ragnar.”
“As long as she’s safe, I dinnae care what she kens.”
“Ye realize she’s probably figured it out already, or she will soon. And when—”
“I’ll deal with it then.”
Freyr was quiet for a moment, watching his friend’s profile in the dim torchlight. “I’ve kent ye since we were lads, Ragnar. Fought beside ye, bled wi’ ye.”
“Hmm.”
“This is the first time I’ve ever seen ye afraid.”
Ragnar’s jaw worked, but he didn’t respond.
“This lass…” Freyr continued carefully, “she’s gotten under yer skin, hasnae she? Ye’ve fallen fer her harder and faster than ye care tae admit. Tae me, and tae yerself.”
The silence stretched between them, heavy with a truth Ragnar couldn’t ignore, despite it not making sense.
I barely ken her, how can I feel this strongly about her?
“I cannae lose her, Freyr.” The words emerged barely above a whisper, his voice hoarse. “The thought of that bloody bastard gettin’ his hands on her because of me, of her callin’ fer help and me bein’ too far away tae—” he stopped, jaw tight enough to crack teeth.
Movement caught his eye, just a flicker of light in Isolda’s window. Her silhouette appeared, backlit by the chamber’s fire. She stood perfectly still, one hand pressed against the glass as if reaching toward something—toward him.
Daes she ken I’m watchin’ over her even now?
The wind shifted, carrying with it the brine from the sea and something else—smoke drifting from one of the chimneys. His fingers curled against the stone battlement hard enough that the rough edges bit into his palms.
“She’s lookin’ fer ye,” Freyr observed quietly.
“She daesnae even ken I’m here.”
“Daesnae she?” Freyr’s voice held a note of amusement. “That wee slip of a thing is sharper than any blade in yer armory, Ragnar.”
The silhouette moved, her hand dropping from the window. As she stepped away, Ragnar felt the loss of it like a physical ache.
Soon she’ll be me wife, and anyone who threatens her will learn what it means tae face the wrath of the Stag.
“We’ll keep her safe. All of us.”
Ragnar nodded, his mind reeling. The following day, they would become one, bind themselves to one another in matrimony.
Somewhere between the attack on the road and this very moment, Isolda MacGregor had stopped being a political necessity and she’d morphed into something else—the one thing that could break him.
And somewhere in the surrounding darkness, Douglas Graham watched from the shadows, and he knew it too.