Chapter 15 #2
He seized the pitcher of water and drank deeply, needing something—anything—to cool the fire burning underneath his skin.
When he turned back, Isolda had retreated to the far side of the room, putting as much distance between them as the chamber allowed.
“We should try tae get some sleep.” He gestured toward the bed. “’Tis been a long day.”
“Sleep.” She looked at the bed as if it might swallow her hole. “Both of us? Taegether?”
“I’m nae sleepin’ on the ground.” At her expression, he added, “I’ll stay on me side. Ye stay on yers.”
“And ye’ll nae––”
“I’ll nae touch ye. Unless ye ask me tae. Ye have me word.”
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded.
Ragnar stayed fully clothed except for his boots, as did Isolda. They maintained a careful gap between them that could have fit another person as they settled into the bed.
The candles had burned low. Outside, the wind had died, but inside, silence pressed heavy.
Ragnar stared at the ceiling beams, trying to force his body to relax.
Trying not to think about how the mattress dipped slightly toward her weight, how he could smell lavender in her hair—that same scent that had been driving him mad all day.
Or about how close she was, closer than any woman had been to him in years, and yet entirely untouchable.
“Ragnar?” Her voice came soft in the darkness.
“Aye?”
“Why did ye agree tae this? Tae the marriage, I mean.”
“Nay one refuses the King and lives.” He kept his voice flat. “And me clan needs this peace.”
“So ye sacrificed what ye wanted fer them.”
“‘Tis nae a sacrifice when ye never wanted it in the first place.” The words came out harsher than he intended. “I never planned tae marry, Isolda. Never wanted a wife tae worry about, tae protect, tae...” He trailed off.
“Tae care about?”
The perception in those words hit too close and before he could stop it, or think better of it, the confession tore from somewhere deep within him.
“I watched me faither die when I was fourteen. He was badly wounded in a raid—naethin’ anyone could dae. But he was still alive when our enemies closed in.” Ragnar’s throat tightened. “He asked me tae end it. Tae give him an honorable death rather than let them torture him fer information.”
Isolda’s sharp intake of breath was audible in the quiet.
“So, I did it. Put me blade through his heart quick and clean. Held him while he died.” The words felt like stones in his mouth.
“And then I became jarl, because there was nay one else. Every decision I’ve made since has been about protectin’ this clan.
And I learned that day that carin’ about people—lettin’ them matter—means eventually watchin’ them die. Or bein’ the one who has tae choose.”
“So ye chose nae tae care,” she said quietly.
“So I chose tae lead without lettin’ anyone close enough tae...” He couldn’t finish.
“Tae hurt ye when ye lose them.”
“Aye.”
The word hung between them. Ragnar became acutely aware of the mattress dipping slightly toward her weight, how the gap between them suddenly felt like both too much space and not nearly enough. The fire had burned down to embers, casting barely enough light to see by.
She shifted, and the movement brought a fresh wave of lavender and something earthier—the scent of a long day, of sweat and exhaustion. Whatever it was it was human—real.
“Ragnar?”
“Aye?”
“Tomorrow mornin’...” She paused. “When we have tae face everyone at breakfast. They’ll all ken. Or think they ken. About taenight.”
“Ivar will have a mouthful tae say,” Ragnar said. “Probably somethin’ about how loud ye were. Or how I look exhausted.”
“Lovely.”
“Erik will probably elbow him. Magnus will change the subject. And ye’ll sit there with yer chin high, exactly as ye did taenight, and they’ll all remember why they should never underestimate a Highland lass with a sharp tongue.”
A soft sound escaped her—almost a laugh, but not quite. “Ye have a lot of faith in me.”
“I’ve seen ye in action, remember?”
“I suppose.” She was quiet for a moment. “Will it always be like this? People watchin’, judgin’, expectin’ things?”
Aye. Welcome tae bein’ the jarl’s wife.
“Probably,” he said honestly. “Court politics dinnae stop just because we’ve wed. If anythin’, they’ll watch us more closely now. Lookin’ fer weakness. Wonderin’ if this alliance will hold.”
“That sounds exhaustin’.”
“It is.” He turned his head on the pillow to look at her profile in the dimness. “But ye’ll nae be facin’ it alone. We’re trapped in this taegether. Might as well...” He trailed off, not quite sure how to finish.
“Might as well what?”
“Watch each other’s backs.”
She turned her head then, meeting his gaze. Even in the near-darkness, he could see those big eyes studying him.
“Is that what we’re daein’?”
“I dinnae have all the answers, Isolda. I’m just... tryin’ tae dae this right.”
“And what daes ‘right’ look like?”
Good question. He’d been trained to lead men, to fight, to make tactical decisions. But nobody had ever taught him how to be a husband, how to balance duty with whatever this was growing between them.
“Nay pretendin’ this is somethin’ it’s nae.” He paused. “And nae forcin’ ye intae things ye’re nae ready fer.”
She was quiet for a long moment “Thank ye. Fer cuttin’ yerself. I ken ye didnae have tae—”
“I did have tae. There wasnae another choice I could live with.”
She blinked, something shifting in her expression that he couldn’t quite name.
Outside, an owl called—lonely and distant. The keep had gone silent around them, everyone else long since abed. It had to be well past midnight by now. Dawn would come too soon, bringing with it all the complications they’d managed to hold at bay in that strange, suspended moment.
But for the time being… Ragnar held out his hand in the space between them. Not saying anything. Just offering.
She looked at it—at his scarred knuckles and then she reached out and placed her smaller hand in his.
Her palm was warm and there were tiny calluses on her fingertips he hadn’t expected—from needlework, maybe.
Small details he’d never noticed before and probably never would have if they hadn’t ended up there, in the darkness, choosing to reach for each other.
He curled his fingers around hers, thumb finding that spot on her knuckles.
She exhaled softly—not quite a sigh, but close. “This is strange,” she whispered.
“Aye.”
“But nae... bad?”
“Nay, it feels right, somehow.” They lay there, hands clasped, neither speaking. Her breathing gradually evened out, deepened. The tension in her fingers loosened as sleep pulled at her.
Ragnar stayed awake, staring at the ceiling beams while his thumb traced slow circles against her skin.
Tomorrow would bring its own troubles.
But for the meantime, holding his wife’s hand in the darkness while she slept, Ragnar let himself stop worrying about what came next.
Sometimes the only choice that mattered is the one ye make right now.
And right now, he chose this—her—above anything and anyone else.