Chapter 13 #2
“Ye’re a natural. Give ye a few lessons and ye’ll be ridin’ circles around half me warriors.”
Her smile softened. “Thank ye. Fer insistin’. Even when I was bein’ stubborn.”
He smiled. “If I waited fer ye tae agree willingly, we’d both be dead of old age first.”
Their eyes held, a significant truth settling between them—tomorrow they’d be the Laird and Lady of Uist. But for now, they were simply Isolda and Ragnar, having a riding lesson in the morning sun.
He clicked his tongue in a specific way and Temr leaped into a cantor. Isolda’s surprised laugh dissolved into pure joy as she became comfortable with the rhythm, her body moving with the horse like she’d been born into the saddle—hair streaming behind her, dark and wild and free.
He stood there, watching her with a single thought rattling in his mind.
Yer faither tried tae cut away anythin’ that made ye free. I’ll never allow that tae happen ever again.
“Well done!” he called out as she approached.
“Och, I’m just sittin’ on a horse. Any fool could have managed that.”
“Most ladies would faint just thinkin’ of sittin astride a Norse warhorse.” He brought Temr back around and caught her eye. “And most Highlanders would fall flat on their arses. Give yerself some credit, little wolf.”
She looked away, but not before he saw the pleased flush creeping up her throat.
They continued for another quarter hour, Ragnar calling out instructions while Isolda learned.
By the time he reached up to help her down, she went to him without protest. Her weight settled against him as he lowered her, and he could feel her heart racing—or perhaps it was his own.
He made sure she was steady before releasing his grip.
Isolda stepped back immediately, smoothing her skirts with trembling hands. “Well. That was… instructive.”
“Aye.” His voice came out rough.
“Thank ye fer the lesson.” She breathed, and then she was gone, practically fleeing toward the keep, leaving him standing there with the lingering warmth of her touch burned into his palms.
Termr turned his head, fixing Ragnar with what could only be described as a judgmental look.
“Dinnae start,” Ragnar muttered.
The horse snorted.
He scrubbed a hand over his face just as Freyr appeared from the direction of the armory. He took one look at Ragnar’s expression and grinned. “How’d yer lesson go?”
“Fine.”
“Ye look flustered.”
“I’m nae—”
“Yer ears are on fire.”
“She’s a quick learner.” He diverted.
“Aye, I’m sure she is.” Freyr stepped closer. “And I’m also sure that’s the only reason ye’re standin’ here lookin’ like someone just walloped ye over the head with a mallet.”
“Dinnae ye have duties tae attend tae?”
“Hundreds. But none as entertainin’ as watchin’ ye try tae pretend like ye’re nae completely besotted.”
“I’m nae—” he started, but Freyr was already walking away, laughing, leaving Ragnar alone with his traitorous thoughts and desire humming through his body.
Hours later, just after he’d finally managed to fall asleep, a bloodcurdling scream tore woke Ragnar. His body reacted before his mind could catch up—hand reaching for his sword, bare feet hitting the cold stone floor. The corridor stretched dark before him, but the sound came again.
Isolda!
He ran, feet clapping against the stone floor, knuckles with against the hilt of his broadsword, his heart threatening to jump out of his throat.
The guards outside her chamber had their weapons drawn, their eyes wide.
“Stay here.” Ragnar ordered. “Let nay one pass.”
Her door flew open when he hit it with his shoulder, and for one heart-stopping moment he saw nothing but shadows and dying firelight.
Then his eyes adjusted and he saw Isolda’s silhouette.
She sat upright in bed, tangled in the blankets and she was shaking so violently that he could almost feel the tremors across the room.
Her eyes were open but unseeing, and the sound coming from her throat sounded almost inhuman—primal and terrified.
“Isolda,” he was at her side in three strides, setting his sword down and reaching for her shoulders. “Lass… wake up.”
She lashed and struck blindly and he caught her wrists, his touch gentle but firm. “Stille, shhh. ‘Twas just a dream, ye’re safe here with me.”
Her eyes slowly focused, recognition dawning before shifting to horror.
“Ragnar? I… I’m sorry… I didnae mean tae wake ye…”
He could now see the tear tracks down her face, and the way her eyes kept darting toward the shadows, like she was expecting something to emerge out of thin air.
“Ye’ve naethin’ tae apologize fer, lass.
” He walked to the nightstand, pouring water into a cup with steady hands despite adrenaline still coursing through him.
When he offered her the cup, her hands shook so much that the water sloshed.
He steadied it with his palm beneath hers and guided it to her lips.
She drank greedily, and he waited patiently until she’d had her fill.
“What were ye dreamin’ about?” he asked gently after she’d finished.
“The attack,” the words burst from her. “I was on the road, but in me dream, ye… ye didnae come in time… they… took me, and I…” her voice broke. “I ken how it sounds. I ken it didn’t really happen… but it felt so real.”
“’Tisnae foolish, lass.” He kept his voice soft even as rage churned in his gut toward the man that inspired such fear. “Ye were attacked. Almost died. Yer mind’s just… tryin’ tae make sense of it all.”
She nodded, not quite meeting his eyes. “I’m fine. Truly. Ye should get some sleep.”
He ignored her, crossed to the washstand, dampened a cloth in the water, her eyes never leaving him. “Here.” He offered it to her. “Fer yer face.”
She took it without a word, pressing the cool fabric to her flushed cheeks, her throat, the back of her neck. Gradually, her breathing slowed and the rigid tension in her shoulders eased.
“Feelin’ better?”
“A bit.” She lowered the cloth, fingers still clutching it.
“D’ye want me tae leave?” He asked gently, giving her the choice.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again, biting that spot on her lower lip. “Nay, actually,” she finally whispered. “I… if ye wouldnae mind…”
All of Uist could burn tae ash and I wouldnae mind.
He moved toward the chair near the hearth, but her voice stopped him.
“Nae there.”
He turned back toward her. “Where d’ye want me then?”
She gestured toward the floor beside her bed. “Just… here. Beside me. If that’s all right.”
Ragnar’s heart kicked wildly against the confines of his ribcage. “Are ye certain?”
“I just...” she stared down at her hands. “I dinnae want tae be alone right now.”
He settled against the wall, the cold stone against his back. Above him, blankets rustled as she settled. Then—her hand slipped over the edge of the bed, her fingers calling for his in the darkness. Cool and trembling—seeking connection.
He curled his fingers around hers, thumb brushing across her knuckles, offering what little comfort he could through the simple contact.
“Thank ye,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “Fer bein’ here.”
“Ye dinnae need tae thank me, lass.”
“Why are ye bein’ so… kind?”
The question caught him off guard. “Should I nae?”
“I ken I’ve been naethin’ but difficult since we met.”
“Daesnae matter. Difficult or nae, ye’re goin’ tae be me wife.” He said quietly. “That means somethin’ tae me. And besides, beneath that sharp tongue of yers, ye’re scared. And alone. And I ken what that feels like.”
Her breathing had slowed now—exhaustion pulling at her. Ragnar wondered if she’d heard him as she started snoring softly, their hands still clasped together.
Outside the bedchamber, the guard changed. The keep’s bell marked the hour—distant and muffled. Dawn would come soon, and with it all the duties and complications that had no place in that quiet moment.
But for now, in the darkness, with her hand in his and her warmth beside him, Ragnar let himself imagine what it might be like if it could be more than duty, if she felt what he felt—if she reached for him like this every night.
Dangerous thoughts, those.
.