Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“How long have ye been awake?”
Ragnar thought she was still sleeping. He had been lying there for the better part of an hour trying not to focus on how her body had curved against his in the night, her buttocks pressed against his hip, leaving him aching with want.
He looked over to their still-intwined fingers and somehow, it felt far more intimate than any kiss.
“A while.” He turned his head on the pillow.
She studied him with those sharp eyes. Sleep had loosened her braid, ink-black strands spilling across the linen. “Did I wake ye?”
“Nay.” She shifted, and the movement made him acutely aware of each place their bodies touched and the warmth of her bleeding through the thin fabric between them. “I just opened me eye and saw ye were starin’ at the ceilin’ like it might give ye answers.”
“Was hopin’ it would tell me how tae survive breakfast,” he reluctantly released her hand and sat up, putting necessary distance between them before he did something foolish. “Ye ken Ivar’s goin’ tae be insufferable.”
“Och…” she sat up too, rubbing her eyes with her hands before smoothing her rumpled gown with shaky hands. “Dae ye think they…” she trailed off, her cheeks flushing, “believed it?”
“Well, ye did scream me name loud enough tae wake the gods in Valhalla, little wolf.” He couldn’t quite suppress his smile. “So, aye, I’d wager they believed it.”
She slapped him on the shoulder. “Ye were the one who told me tae be convincin’!”
“And ye were.” He reached for his boots, aware of her glare burning into his back. “Too convincin’, truth be told.”
A pillow flew thought the air, aimed at his head and he caught it mid-air without looking, then tossed it back onto the bed.
“Feel better?”
“Nay.” Her mouth twitched. “But we should go before I throw somethin’ heavier at yer thick skull.”
The Great Hall buzzed with morning activity when they entered—warriors breaking their fast at the lower tables while servants moved between them with pitchers and platters.
At the high table, Erik and Claricia sat beside Magnus and Ada, with Ivar lounging at the far end like a cat who had cornered a particularly entertaining mouse while Freyr stood near the hearth, speaking with one of the guards. His eyes tracked their entrance and he moved to take a seat.
“Och!” Ivar’s voice carried across the hall. “The newlyweds grace us wi’ their presence at last!” he stood up, greeting them with a bow. “I was beginnin’ tae wonder if ye’d decided tae stay abed all day.”
Ragnar guided Isolda toward their seats with his hand at the small of her back—firm, but gentle as she moved stiffly beside him, her chin lifted high despite the obvious mortification radiating from her tiny frame.
“I’m surprised tae see ye awake this early Ivar,” Ragnar said, his tone teasing as he pulled the seat out for Isolda. “Usually takes three men and a bucket of cold water tae rouse ye before noon.”
Erik snorted into his cup while Magnus’s mouth twitched.
Ivar leaned back into his chair as Ragnar took his seat, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Och, I slept remarkably well… considerin’ how surprisingly thin the walls are here at Uist. I could have sworn there was a wailin’ ghost in the castle’s depths!”
Isolda went very still beside him, heat radiating from her cheeks like a forge.
“The tide should hold fer another few hours,” Erik said, his tone pointed. “We’ll make good time back tae Skye if the gods will it.”
Claricia cleared her throat delicately, “Och, I wish we could’ve seen the village before—”
“I’m certain they heard it too.” Ivar’s eyes danced with unholy glee. “In fact, I’d wager that they’re already composin’ ballads—”
“Ye’ve more guts than brains this mornin’, Ivar.” Magnus said quietly.
Ivar opened his mouth again—then yelped as Ada’s boot connected with his shin underneath the table. “What was that fer?”
“Some things dinnae need commentary.” Ada said sweetly.
“Enough.” Ragnar’s voice cut through the conversation, quiet, but absolute as he reached for the breadbasket and broke off a piece, the motion controlled despite the anger simmering beneath his skin.
Beside him, Isolda sat frozen—hands folded in her lap, staring at her empty plate like she was willing it to swallow her whole.
Ivar blinked. “I’m just—”
“I ken what ye’re daein’.” Ragnar set the bread on his plate, then reached for the butter. “And ye’re done.” The table went silent. “She’s me wife,” he continued, his tone mild but his eyes hard. “What happens in our chamber is between us. Nae fodder fer yer entertainment, Raven.”
Ivar had the grace to look abashed. “I didnae mean—”
“Aye, ye did.” Ragnar held his gaze until he looked away sheepishly. “Now eat yer breakfast and stop bein’ an arse.”
He turned his attention to Isolda, who’d gone so still she might as well have been petrified. Her hands still lay in her lap, but her knuckles were white. Ragnar tore off another piece of bread and balanced it on the side of his plate closest to her. “Ye need tae eat.”
She didn’t look up. “I’m nae hungry.”
“Ye will be later.” He buttered his bread, “Long day ahead of ye.”
Around them, conversation resumed—Erik asking Claricia what she needed before departing, Magnus checking in with baby Astrid who was fast asleep against Ada’s chest—the rhythms of normal life, as if Isolda’s mortification wasn’t sitting between them all like a living thing.
Ragnar ate his bread, focused on chewing, swallowing—but he remained aware of every breath Isolda took, every shift in her posture.
Then, so subtly he’d almost missed it, she leaned in, her hand flitting toward him. Ragnar froze as her fingers hovered over the thick slice of bread he’d set aside on the edge of his plate—the piece he had saved for last, the one with the crispiest crust.
Go on then, lass.
She glanced at him sideways, but Ragnar kept perfectly still, focused on his meal.
Her fingers closed around the bread and she pulled it over to her plate quick as a thief—like she half expected him to snatch it back.
Then she buttered it with steady hands, took a bite, and kept eating like nothing had happened.
Like she hadn’t just stolen bread from a Viking jarl who had killed men for less.
She’s comfortable enough tae steal from me now. That’s… somethin’, I guess.
Across the table, Freyr had gone still, his dark eyes flitting between Isolda’s plate and Ragnar’s face, lingering on the bread. One eyebrow climbed toward his hairline, and his mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close.
He lifted his cup in a small, private salute before taking a drink.
“So,” Ivar said. “Now that the deed is done and the alliance properly sealed, what’s next?”
“Harald and Enya are expectin’ their bairn any day now,” Erik said. “After that, there’s still one more union tae fulfill the Pact.”
“Aye, poor bastard.” Ivar shook his head mournfully. “Whoever the King chooses fer that particular sacrifice has me deepest sympathies.”
Magnus gave him a flat look. “Ye’re the last one, Ivar.”
“Am I?” Ivar blinked with exaggerated innocence. “I hadnae noticed.”
Erik cut in, his tone carrying warning. “Ye’re nae goin’ tae wiggle yer way out if it, Ivar.”
Ivar reached for the pitcher with the expression of a man watching his own execution approach. “I could flee. I hear Ireland is—”
“Ye’d be dragged back by yer ears.” Magnus observed.
“The Orkneys then. Very remote part—”
“The King found Ragnar on Uist,” Ada pointed out. “He’ll find ye nae matter where ye go.”
“Hmmm.” Ivar’s finger tapped his chin. “I could fake me own death—very convincingly, mind ye. Theatrics come naturally tae—”
“We’ve noticed.” Erik said, his tone dry.
Isolda made a small sound then—almost a laugh, though quickly stifled. When Ragnar glanced at her, she was pressing her lips together, eyes bright with suppressed amusement as Ivar’s suggestions became increasingly desperate.
“Ye all think I’m jestin’.” Ivar continued, though his mouth twitched. “I’ve a whole plan, ye ken. There’s a monastery that—”
“They wouldnae take ye.” Magnus said.
“Why nae?”
“Because ye talk. Constantly. I wager they’d pay ye tae leave within a day.”
“I could take a vow of silence!” The entire table blinked at him. “Aye, all right, fair point.” He slumped in his chair. “I’m just as doomed as the rest of ye.”
Claricia leaned toward Isolda, her voice soft. “I hope ye’ll write tae me. I wish I’d had someone who understands all of this, what ‘tis like.”
“Aye,” Ada offered. She met Isolda’s eyes with understanding. “We ken everythin’ feels strange and wrong right now, like ye’ve lost yerself completely.”
“But it’ll get easier,” Claricia added gently. “There’ll be days when it daesnae feel like it, but… ye’ll find yer footin’. We both did.”
“I’d like that,” Isolda said quietly, and Ragnar’s chest clenched at the loneliness threaded through her voice.
“Good.” Claricia squeezed her hand briefly. “Write tae me about anythin’. Everythin’! Daesnae matter how small, or hard, or confusin’.”
“And if ye find ye need advice on how tae manage a stubborn Viking,” Ada added with a small smile. “We’ve both had plenty of practice.”
“They’re nae so different from Highland lairds,” Claricia added.
“They brood,” Ada added, “but underneath all that silence, they’re just men tryin’ tae dae right by their people.”
Isolda glanced at Ragnar but he kept his attention on his cup, giving her the privacy of the moment.
“Thank ye,” he heard her say softly. “Both of ye. I… I didnae expect tae find friends here.”
“Well, ye have us now.” Claricia said simply.
Servants began moving through the hall, clearing trenchers and cups away while stable hands appeared with travelling cloaks and trunks as the castle prepared for the couples departure.
Ragnar watched Erik, Magnus and Ivar’s men gather near the doors, checking their weapons and discussing the tide.