Chapter 14 #2
Isolda stood frozen, still bound to Ragnar by cloth and promise, her heat hammering with something other than fear. She looked up at him expectantly, but instead of reaching down to kiss her, he lifted their joined hands and faced the crowd.
“Skál!” he cheered, and despite herself, Isolda felt strangely disappointed.
The feast in the Great Hall stretched into evening. Torchlight danced across long tables laden with roasted meats, fresh bread, and mead that flowed like water. Musicians played wild melodies on fiddles and drums that vibrated in Isolda’s chest.
She sat beside Ragnar at the high table, painfully aware of every eye watching them.
“There she is!” Ivar cheered, his cup raised enthusiastically. “Tae the Lady of Uist, may the gods grant her the patience of a saint and the spine of a warrior—she’ll need both tae survive bein’ married tae our Stag!”
Laughter rippled through the hall. Ragnar’s jaw tensed but he said nothing.
“Ignore him.” Erik said flatly from across the table. “We all dae.”
“I heard that!” Ivar called. “And here I thought we were blood braithers, Wolf. But nay, ye wound me.”
“Och, ye’ll survive,” Claricia said. “Ye always dae—ye’re like a particularly stubborn weed, Ivar!”
“Aye, but will she?” his black eyes settled on Isolda with unnerving intensity. “I’m givin’ it… what? Three days before she tries tae smother him with his own pillow?”
“Careful now.” Magnus warned quietly.
“I’m merely expressin’ me concern.” Ivar’s smile was all teeth, but not unkind. “After all, Ragnar’s reputation fer bein’… thorough… might prove exhaustin’ fer a wee Highland lass used tae the gentle touch of nuns.”
Isolda’s face burned but she met his gaze. “Funny… I’ve heard similar things about ye, Ivar.”
“Have ye now?”
“Aye. Though in yer case, I believe the word used was ‘exhaustin’.”
“Hah! The lady daesnae just have teeth—she’s got venom tae go with them. I’m almost jealous, Ragnar—most men only get one or the other.”
Ragnar’s mouth twitched. “I’m aware.”
Ivar leaned back in his chair. “Are ye certain ye didnae accidentally wed a Valkyrie instead of a Highland lass?”
“If I had,” Ragnar said mildly, “ye’d be the first she’d claim.”
Erik choked on his mead. Magnus’s mouth twitched.
Servants appeared with laden trenchers, but Isolda only picked at her food. Beside her, Ragnar ate leisurely, but she caught him glancing at her untouched plate more than once.
“That fish isnae goin’ tae eat itself,” he said quietly.
“I’m nae hungry.”
“Ye picked like a wee bird at breakfast too.”
“Must ye notice everythin’?” She stabbed a turnip.
“I try.” He took a sip of ale, then added, “Ye’ve quite the death grip on that fork, little wolf.”
Isolda stared at her white knuckles.
“Here.” Ragnar reached past her for the mead flagon, refilling her cup. “Might help settle yer nerves.”
She drained half the cup, painfully aware of him tracking the movement of her throat. When she set it down, she found him watching her with an expression that made her pulse race.
“Why are ye lookin’ at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like...” She gestured vaguely. “Like ye’re thinkin’ somethin’ ye shouldnae be.”
His mouth curved. “Who says I shouldnae be thinkin’ it?”
“Ye’re starin’. I ken Vikings have terrible manners, but ‘tis still rude.”
“I’m memorizin’.” His voice dropped lower, intimate despite the noise around them.
“Every detail of ye. The way yer pulse races in that hollow at the base of yer throat, beatin’ wild.
” His gaze traced deliberately down, then back up.
“The way yer breath catches when I get too close—that little hitch that tells me yer body kens what’s comin’ even if yer mind daesnae want tae admit it yet.
” His attention fixed on her mouth. “How ye keep bitin’ that lower lip.
Makes me wonder what it’ll taste like when I finally get me mouth on it. ”
Isolda’s breath caught audibly.
“So aye, little wolf, I’m starin’. Because ye’re mine. And I intend tae ken every inch of ye.”
Heat pooled low in her belly—that strange, restless aching that made her want to squirm in her seat.
Handsome as sin. And twice as bloody dangerous.
The feast continued while warriors challenged each other to drinking contests and the music grew wilder, the tempo picking up until Isolda could feel it in her skull. She endured it all, her practiced smile firmly in place while her fingers twisted in her lap.
The sun had set by the time they rose from the table. As they made their way from the Great Hall, Isolda kept her focus fixed on the torches lining the corridor. Every step felt heavier than the last. Each face they passed beamed with knowing grins that made her face burn.
Ragnar walked beside her, his arm brushing hers with each stride.
This is really happenin’. I’m nae ready... I’ll never be ready fer—
“Ye’re scowlin’,” Ragnar said quietly as they turned down the final corridor.
“I dinnae ken what ye mean.”
“Ye’re supposed tae be a blushin’ bride.”
They reached the door, but instead of opening it, Ragnar’s hand rested on the latch. Instead, he turned to face her, his expression unreadable in the flickering torchlight.
“Ye’re angry with me.”
“I’m nae—”
“Ye are. Ye’ve been glarin’ at me since we left the chapel.” His thumb traced along her jaw, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. “Why?”
Her skin blazed where he touched her, and she had to bite her lip to focus. “Ye didnae kiss me.”
His brow furrowed. “Did ye want me tae kiss ye?” Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. “Is that what’s been eatin’ at ye all evenin’?”
“I dinnae care,” she lied. “I’m just pointin’ out that—”
“I didnae kiss ye,” he interrupted, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone that made her stomach flip.
He stepped closer, “because when I finally put me mouth on yers, little wolf, it willnae be some chaste peck in front of witnesses.” His thumb brushed across her lower lip, his gaze following the movement.
“When I kiss ye, ‘twill be thorough. Somewhere where I can take me time and nae have tae stop until ye’re breathless and beggin’ fer more. ”
Her breath hitched.
“That kiss is meant fer ye alone,” he continued, his voice rough as gravel. “Nae fer the King’s men, nae fer the priest, nae fer anyone but us. And when it happens, ye’ll ken exactly why I made ye wait.”
Before she could formulate a response, he opened the door.
Isolda stepped inside—and froze. Three men stood in the chamber wearing Royal livery, their faces hard and expectant.
The peacocks Claricia mentioned!
“Begging yer pardon, me jarl,” the tallest one said, his tone clipped. “But His Majesty requires... assurance... that the union has been properly consummated.”
Every muscle in Ragnar’s body went rigid. Isolda watched him transform—man to predator in a single breath. His stillness turned lethal.
“Assurance.” The word came out flat and deadly.
“We are required tae witness the consummation act—”
“Ye’ll witness yer own death if those words leave yer mouth again.” Ragnar moved, positioning himself between Isolda and the men. The look he aimed at them made all three take an involuntary step back. “Leave. Now.”
“But me jarl, His Majesty specifically demanded—”
“I dinnae give a damn.” Each word came out precise, controlled—the kind that usually preceded violence. “Me wife’s dignity isnae negotiable. And if ye keep on insistin’… well, then it’ll be the last thing those beady eyes of yers ever see.”
Isolda’s breath caught at the possessiveness and the way the word ‘wife’ sounded tumbling from his lips.
The emissary’s hand moved toward his sword hilt. “Ye dinnae have the authority tae—”
Ragnar’s hand drifted toward the dirk at his belt. “This isnae up fer discussion. Ye’ll get the bloodied sheet as proof of consummation in the mornin’, or ye’ll get me blade trough yer throat. Choose quickly, I dinnae have time tae waste.”
The air crackled with tension. Isolda’s heart hammered against her ribs while her mouth went dry.
The three emissaries exchanged glances—some silent conversation passing between them. Finally, the tallest one cleared his throat, trying to salvage dignity.
“We... shall leave ye tae it, then.”
He didn’t move until they’d stepped back from the doorway.
Then he shut the door with controlled force and threw the bolt home.
Ragnar turned to face her, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
His jaw remained tight, fury still bright in his eyes.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Only the crackling fire and wind howling outside broke the silence.
Then he stepped forward, his expression softening. “Are ye all right?”
Isolda stared at him—that massive warrior who’d just defied the King’s orders to protect her dignity, who now looked at her like she was something precious rather than something owned.
Her throat tightened. “Aye.”
“Good.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “That’s... good.”
The bed loomed behind them, candles casting dancing shadows across white linens.
And Isolda realized, staring at Ragnar across the chamber, that whatever happened next would change everything between them forever.