Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“If ye pull at it any harder, I’ll nae have any hair left tae braid!”
Isolda sat rigidly on the edge of her bed, morning light cutting through the chamber’s narrow window—sharp and unforgiving.
“Stop yer squirmin’ then!” Claricia pulled again, gentler this time. “Ye want tae look presentable, nae like ye’ve been dragged backward through a hedge.”
“Daes it really matter? I’m bein’ dragged tae the altar nonetheless.”
Across the chamber, Ada shifted baby Astrid to her other shoulder. The infant made soft mewling sounds, tiny fists curling against her mother’s collarbone. “When I wed Magnus, I’d convinced meself that I’d faint before reachin’ the chapel.”
“Did ye?”
“Nay.” Ada’s laugh came bright despite the memory.
“There.” Claricia stepped back, surveying her work with satisfaction. “All done. Ye look bonnie as any bride could hope tae be.”
Isolda caught her reflection in the polished bronze mirror—dark strands woven with white flowers, face too pale, eyes too wide. A stranger wearing her skin.
“Right then.” Claricia moved toward the forest-green gown hanging on a wooden frame near the hearth. “Let’s get ye dressed before the men start wonderin’ if ye’ve fled.”
Dinnae think I havenae considered it six times already.
The silk whispered as it settled over Isolda’s head, cool against her heated skin. Ada set a sleeping Astrid in a basket lined with soft wool and moved to help with the laces. Each pull tightened the bodice until drawing breath required deliberate effort.
“Can I...” The words tumbled out before Isolda could stop them. “Can I ask ye somethin’?”
“Anythin’, wee dove.” Claricia’s voice gentled.
“Taenight...” Isolda’s throat constricted. “I dinnae ken what happens. Nae really.”
Ada moved to sit beside her on the bed, taking Isolda’s hand. “What is it ye want tae ken, lass?”
“I...” Heat crawled up Isolda’s neck. “The proof the King’s men want. I’ve heard whispers, but I dinnae understand... what actually happens.”
Claricia pulled up a stool, settling in front of Isolda so they were eye-level.
“Och, lass… ‘tis nae as terrifyin’ as yer mind is makin’ it.
” She glanced at Ada, some silent conversation passing between them, before continuing.
“When a man and woman join as husband and wife, he.
.. he enters ye. Between yer legs. ‘Tis how the act is done.”
“It can hurt the first time, fer just a few seconds,” Ada added softly, squeezing Isolda’s hand. “There’s somethin’ inside ye that tears, and ye bleed. That’s why they demand the sheets.”
“The sheets?” Isolda’s voice came out strangled.
“Aye.” Claricia’s mouth flattened. “Bloody barbaric, if ye ask me. Those peacocks will want tae see bloodied linens tae prove the marriage was consummated.”
Isolda’s fingers twisted in the silk pooling around her. “And it always hurts?”
Ada’s cheeks flushed. “Nae, but often. And if he’s gentle, it is nae that bad. And after that, if he takes his time... it can be...” She trailed off, clearly struggling for words.
“Very pleasurable,” Claricia finished with characteristic bluntness. “These men—fer all their steel and bluster—they ken how tae be tender when it matters. And if they dinnae, ye make them learn. Vikings are stubborn, but they are trainable.”
Despite everything, a startled laugh escaped Isolda’s throat.
“But Ragnar...” Isolda swallowed hard. “He’s huge! How could he possibly—”
“He’ll be careful with ye.” Ada’s voice held absolute certainty. “The first time I was terrified of Magnus too. Thought he’d break me in half. But he was so gentle...” Her eyes went distant, soft. “So patient.”
“And Erik damn near treated me like spun glass,” Claricia added, rolling her eyes. “Vikings might be warriors, but in the bedchamber? They’re surprisingly... considerate.”
“Aye, savages on the battlefield, lambs in the bedroom,” Ada amended with a knowing smile.
Isolda wanted to believe them. “What if I cannae go through with it?”
“The King’s men willnae leave without their proof.” Ada said, sympathy threading her tone.
“So, I have nae say in anythin’ at all.”
“Ye always have a choice in how ye face things,” Ada said, reaching for Isolda’s other hand.
Just as Isolda opened her mouth to speak, a knock at the door interrupted them. A young servant stepped inside carrying a basket in one arm and a squirming toddler balanced on her opposite hip, bringing the scent of herbs and earthy comfort with her.
“I tried tae keep him entertained, me lady, but he wants his maither.” Liv set down her basket with visible relief. “Wee troublemaker’s near pulled out me hair by the roots.”
Thor laughed, his blond hair sticking up in wild tufts, his pale eyes spotting his mother. “Mama!” he stretched his chubby arms toward Claricia.
“Och, there’s me wee wolf.” Claricia crossed the room and took him from Liv, settling him on her hip from where his eyes found Isolda. His little mouth formed a perfect ‘o’, one small hand reaching for the silk.
“Nay, nay.” Claricia redirected his attention. “We’re nae goin’ tae be explainin’ tae Ragnar why his bride’s covered in sticky wee fingerprints.”
“Fah-wer!” Thor declared, pointing at the white flowers woven into Isolda’s hair.
“Aye,” Claricia kissed the top of his head. “But nae fer pullin’!”
Despite the knot in her stomach, Isolda found herself smiling at the boy’s enthusiasm. “Nice tae see him awake fer once.”
“Aye, and he has tae choose today of all days tae be a wee terror.” Claricia adjusted her grip as Thor laid his head on her shoulder, suddenly content. “Erik’s convinced he’s been savin’ all his energy just tae make us suffer.”
Ada laughed softly. “Well, isnae that what Vikings dae best? Cause chaos?”
Just then, Liv knocked and walked into the room and took one look at Isolda’s face and her features softened.
“Och, me lady, ye look like ye’re facin’ down a battlefield rather than yer own weddin’!
I came tae wish ye the best of luck and congratulate ye.
” Liv pulled a tiny vial from her basket.
“This’ll help—a wee bit of lavender fer the nerves.
” She held out a flask. “And a nip of whisky. Enough tae steady ye, but nae enough tae make ye stumble.”
Isolda lifted the flask and drained it. The burn traced fire down her throat, sharp and grounding.
“Good. Now, let’s get those slippers on ye and get ye married.”
The walk to the chapel felt endless despite being just across the courtyard. Claricia walked beside her with Thor babbling against her shoulder, his tiny fist curled in her hair. Ada followed with Astrid nestled against her breast, one hand supporting the infant’s head.
When they reached the small stone building, the door stood open like a mouth waiting to swallow her whole.
The air inside smelled of beeswax and centuries of prayers. Incense smoke curled toward the rafters, sweet and cloying, mingling with the salty tang that never left Uist’s shores.
Ragnar stood at the altar dressed in dark leather that molded to his broad shoulders.
His dark blond hair had been freshly trimmed, emphasizing the strong line of his jaw and the sharp angles of his cheekbones.
When their gazes met across the chapel, his entire body went rigid.
His chest rose with one slow, deliberate breath.
Och... I’ve never seen that look before!
His attention swept over her—starting at the flowers woven into her hair, trailing down the forest green silk that hugged curves she’d never thought much of, pausing at the swell of her breasts where the bodice pressed tight.
When he dragged his focus back to her face, his pupils had blown wide and dark.
He swallowed hard, his throat working.
Heat flooded through Isolda and her skin prickled despite the chapel’s chill, every nerve suddenly, acutely aware of him.
“Lady Isolda.” His voice came out rough, almost hoarse. He cleared his throat. “Ye look...”
“Terrified?”
“Fríer.” The ancient Norse caught in his throat like a prayer. “Beautiful.”
The word stole what little air remained in her lungs and she simply nodded.
The priest cleared his throat with obvious impatience. “Shall we begin?”
He spoke in a mixture of Norse and Latin that blended together. Isolda tried to focus but kept losing the thread, because of the languages but mostly because she was distracted by Ragnar’s solid presence beside her.
When he shifted and his arm brushed the silk of her dress, lightning shot through her. Her pulse jumped.
This means naethin’. ‘Tis just nerves.
But her body didn’t seem to believe the lie.
The priest’s voice droned on. Something about duty and honor and the binding of two peoples. Isolda’s attention snagged on Ragnar’s hands—scarred knuckles, callused palms, blunt fingers that had held her so carefully. She wondered what they would feel like against her bare skin.
Heat crawled up her neck at the thought.
“Lady Isolda?”
She blinked, realizing the priest had asked her something. “Aye?”
“Dae ye take this man as yer husband, bound by law and witness, forsakin’ all others until death claims one of ye?”
The words lodged in her throat. That was it—the moment that changed everything. She could refuse. Could walk away. Could face the King’s wrath and whatever consequences followed.
Or she could choose this. Choose him.
Isolda turned to face Ragnar fully. In his eyes, she saw no triumph. No possession. As if her answer actually mattered to him.
“Aye,” she whispered. “I take him.”
“And ye, Ragnar Ketilsson? Dae ye take this woman as yer wife, tae protect and provide fer, tae honor above all others until death separates ye?”
“Aye.” His voice rang clear through the chapel. “I take her.”
The priest bound their hands with a length of white cloth. “Then by the power vested in me by His Majesty, King Alexander, and by the grace of the Almighty, I declare ye husband and wife. What’s been joined this day, let nay man tear asunder.”