Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“We should talk.”
Ragnar stood with his back against the locked door, keeping his distance from the bed and the woman currently staring at him like he might devour her whole.
Which, gods help me, I’m sorely tempted tae dae.
Isolda hadn’t moved since the emissaries had left. She stood near the hearth, still wearing her wedding gown. Candlelight caught in the silk, highlighting the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips. Her hands twisted together in front of her, knuckles pale.
“Talk, but quietly, because they may be listenin’,” he whispered.
Her voice came out thin. “About what, exactly?”
“About what happens next. About what ye are thinkin’.”
Ragnar pushed off the door, taking one careful step toward her. She immediately took one back, and he stopped.
“I willnae force ye, Isolda.” He kept his voice low and steady, using the same tone he used to calm spooked horses. “Nae taenight, nae ever.”
She blinked rapidly. “But the King’s men said… the sheets… they’ll ken if we dinnae—”
“They’ll get their proof.” He moved slowly, stepping toward the small table near the bed where someone had left a pitcher of water and a small basin. “Just nae the way they expect.”
“What dae ye—”
Ragnar pulled his dirk from his belt. The blade caught the firelight as he turned it, testing the edge with his thumb.
Sharp enough.
“What are ye daein?” Isolda’s voice climbed higher.
“Givin’ them what they want.” He pressed the blade against his left palm. “Blood on the sheets proves consummation. They never specified whose blood it had tae be.”
She took a step toward him, concern overriding fear. “That’s madness… ye cannae just—”
“Watch me.” He drew the blade across his palm in one smooth motion. The sting was sharp and instantaneous—but not terrible, though enough to make his jaw tighten as blood welled up dark against his skin.
“Och, ye bloody fool!” Isolda closed the distance between them and grabbed his wrist. Her hands were small and soft against his skin, her touch tender as she examined the cut. “That’s deep! Ye could’ve… ye dinnae have tae—”
“Aye, I did.” He let her fuss, watching her face instead of his bleeding palm, noting the furrow between her brows, the way she bit her lower lip in concentration, the flush that crept up her neck when she realized she was still holding his wrist. “There’s nay other way tae protect ye from what they’d demand otherwise. ”
She looked at him, eyes searching his face. “Why?
“Why what?”
“Protect me?” Her grip tightened on his wrist. “Why dae this when ye could just take what ye’re entitled tae. I’m yer wife now.”
Gods… she’s been bracin’ herself fer me violatin’ her.
The thought twisted something sharply beneath his ribs.
“Ye deserve better.” His blue eyes bore into hers. “I ken all of this is terrifyin’, and I willnae add me name tae the list of people who’ve hurt ye.”
Her breath caught.
“Now,” he said, forcing himself to release her and turn toward the bed. “We need tae make this convincin’.” He let several drops of blood fall onto the white linens before smearing it across the sheets. “There. That should satisfy ‘em.”
Isolda watched, her expression unreadable. “So… what dae we dae now?”
Ragnar looked to the door, where he knew three pairs of ears were probably pressed up against the wood, then back at her.
His stomach sank. “Now we have a different problem.”
“What problem?”
He gestured toward the door. “Those men out there, they’re nae just waitin’ fer bloodied sheets.”
She stared at him blankly.
“They’ll be listenin’, Isolda.” He studied her carefully. “Fer proof that we’re… that the marriage is bein’ consummated.”
She frowned. “Listenin’ fer what?”
“Fer sounds… fer…” he scrubbed his hand over his face. “When a man and a woman lay taegether, ‘tis nae silent. The bed creaks, and there are… other noises.”
“Ye’re goin’ tae have tae be more specific.” her voice came out steady, but small.
Ragnar moved to sit on the edge of the bed. “Come here.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Why?”
“Because I’m nae explainin’ this while ye’re standin’ all the way over there, lookin’ ready tae bolt through the window. And where I need tae speak loud enough that they can hear me!”
Isolda approached the bed as if it might bite her and then perched on the very edge, as far away from him as possible.
“Closer, lass.”
“I’m close enough—”
“If ye fart ye’ll fall of the edge.”
She glared at him but shifted closer. “There. Happy now?”
Despite everything, his mouth twitched. “Now, listen carefully. When ‘tis done properly, the woman… she makes… sounds.”
Isolda’s face when scarlet. “What kind of sounds?”
“The kind that let a man ken he’s daein’ things right.” Ragnar kept his voice practical, even though explaining this to his virgin bride on their wedding night was possibly the strangest conversation of his entire life. “Her breathin’ gets faster. And she might gasp. Moan. Or say things.”
“Like what?”
“The man’s name, usually. Or words of encouragement.” The blank look in her eyes made him grunt softly. “Things like… ‘och, aye’ and ‘dinnae stop’ and…” he trailed off as her eyes went impossibly wide. “The point is, if those men hear naethin’ but silence, they’ll ken somethin’s amiss.”
“So we need tae…” she gestured helplessly between them.
“Pretend we’re daein’ it, aye.” Heat crept up his neck. “If we dinnae then they’ll demand tae be in the room.”
“But I’ve never—” she looked down at her hands. “Claricia and Ada explained about the joinin’ and sheets, but they didnae mention anythin’ about… sounds.”
“That’s because,” He turned to face her fully. “When a man takes his time, when he learns what the woman likes, how her body responds—when he touches her certain ways, that’s when she makes those sounds. Because the pleasure’s too intense tae keep quiet.”
She stared at him, lips parted, pulse fluttering at her throat.
“But taenight,” he added firmly, “ye’ll just be pretendin’. Think ye can manage?”
She nodded.
“Good.” He stood and moved to the middle of the bed frame. “Let’s get this over with, then.”
What followed would have been comical if Ragnar’s body wasn’t betraying him at every turn. He gripped the bed frame and gave it a shake. The wood creaked obligingly against the stone floor. “Now ye go.”
“Ochaaa…” Isolda made a sound somewhere between a whimper and a wheeze.
Ragnar’s hands stilled on the wood. “Lass, ye sound like ye’re chokin’ on yer supper.”
“Well, what is it supposed tae sound like then?” She crossed her arms. “Ye’re the one with all the experience.”
“I dinnae have experience with fake moanin’. That’s a first fer me too.”
“Och, so now ye admit ye dinnae ken what ye’re daein’!”
Ragnar bit back a smile. “I ken what true pleasure sounds like, lass. What ye just did wasnae it.”
She glared at him, cheeks flaming. “Then ye’re goin’ tae have tae teach me better.”
Odin preserve me!
“All right.” He cleared his throat and shook the bed again, letting it creak rhythmically. “Try tae imagine somethin’ that feels good—real good. Like a hot bath after bein’ frozen, or the first bite of somethin’ delicious when ye’re starvin’. That kind of good.”
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and then made another attempt. This one came out breathy and uncertain—but better. “Aaaaahh…”
“That’s…” he had to swallow. “That’s closer.”
Her eyes snapped open. “What’s wrong with it now?”
“Naethin’. Just… ye need tae sound like ye mean it. Like I’m makin’ ye…” he trailed off, watching color splotch across her neck. “Och, never mind. Just keep goin’.”
“Ooooch…” she tried again, this time adding a small gasp. The sound shot straight thought him, heat pooling low in his abdomen.
For a moment, he wondered what sound she would make if he were to really touch her. Focus.
“Now,” he managed, his voice husky. “Ye need tae say me name.”
“What?”
“They’ll expect tae hear it. Say me name like…” he paused, searching for words that wouldn’t send her fleeing, words that wouldn’t snap his last shred of control. “Like I just did somethin’ that surprised ye. In a good way.”
“Ragnar…?” It came out high and questioning.
“Stronger. Like ye meant it.”
“Ragnar.” Better. Almost convincing.
“Good. Now we put it all together.” He gripped the bedframe and gave it a vigorous shake, making the wood creak and groan. “Yer turn.”
Isolda took another deep breath and let out a breathless groan that made his fingers tighten on the bed frame hard enough that he thought it might snap in half.
Gods… this is torture worse than Thor’s blood-eagling.
“Keep goin’.” He bit out.
They fell into a rhythm—him shaking the bed, adding low grunts that he prayed sounded convincing. She gasped and moaned with increased conviction, his name falling from her lips in ways that made his body ache with want.
Then he made the mistake of looking at her.
She’d thrown herself into the performance now, her lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling with manufactured breathlessness. The flush had spread from her cheeks down to the column of her throat and her eyes were locked on his with an intensity that made his pulse hammer in his ears.
“Ooooch!”
“Once more,” he said roughly.
“Och… Ragnar… aye, aye!” she cried out his name with so much passion that he nearly broke the bed in half.
Isolda threw her head back, crying out with such genuine-sounding pleasure that for one dangerous moment, he forgot it was all pretend, forgot she was terrified—forgot everything except the sound of his name on her lips and the way every muscle in his body had gone taut with desire he couldn’t act on.
Then, silence fell. They stood there, both breathing hard, staring at one another across the charged space.
Ragnar’s heart hammered and heat blazed through him like wildfire, his body half-mad with need that had nowhere to go, no outlet, no release.
“That should…” he cleared his throat and forced his hands to release the bed. “That should dae it.”
“Aye.” Her voice was barely above a breathless whisper.