Chapter 17 #2
“Enough.” The word cracked through the square. Ragnar didn’t shout—the quiet fury was more terrifying than any roar. He stepped toward her, stopping close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, then he turned, positioning himself between her and Rolf.
“Ye want tae talk about earnin’ the right?” Ragnar’s voice dropped. “She’s the Lady of Uist. What more d’ye need?”
Rolf’ shoulders sagged slightly. “Forgive me, me jarl… the grief can—”
“I ken.” His voice softened fractionally. “But dinnae let it make ye cruel tae those who dinnae deserve it, man.”
Rolf nodded, then turned to Isolda, his expression shifting into grudging respect. “Forgive me, me lady. Ye didnae deserve me treatin’ ye so. Yer idea is good.”
Ragnar nodded, and when he spoke next, the pride in his voice warmed Isolda’s chest. “See it done. I want the grain moved within’ the week.”
The old man nodded and withdrew, leaving them standing in the village square with sharp afternoon sunlight warming the ground beneath their feet.
“Ye didnae have tae dae that.” Isolda said quietly.
“Dae what?”
“Include me. Make him listen.”
Ragnar opened his mouth to respond but footsteps approached. “Me jarl!” Freyr’s voice cut through the moment. “A word?”
Ragnar’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Wait here,” he told Isolda, then moved several paces away to the half-constructed platform.
Isolda pretended to study a nearby cart piled with fishing nets, but she edged closer, using a group of villagers as cover, her heart hammering.
“—scouts are reportin’ movement near the northern shore.” Freyr’s voice came clearer. “Three boats, Ragnar.”
“How far out?” His voice was clipped.
“Far enough that it could be naethin’. Close enough that I smell trouble.” He paused, his hand coming up to gesture. “Ye need tae be careful, Ragnar. This Tyeleikr is changin’ ye, ye’re nae thinkin’ wi’ a clear head—”
“I’m nae attached.”
“Then why are ye here instead of coordinatin’ patrols from the keep? Why are ye movin’ council meetin’s tae shadow her?”
Isolda’s breath caught, and her hand shot upwards to stifle the sound.
“Ye sure ye can afford tae care this much? Douglas is circlin’, and if he smells blood—”
“She’s me wife, Freyr.”
“Aye. And every day ye let her matter more is another weakness that can be exploited.”
“That’s nae fair.” Ragnar said, but there was no heat in it. “I cannae just abandon—”
“Maybe nae. But it daesnae mean I’m wrong.”
“I’m nae discussin’ this here wi’ ye.”
“Then when? Because—”
“I said nae here.”
Isolda retreated to a safer distance, her pulse racing. Freyr had fallen silent but she could feel the weight of his disapproval even from this distance.
When Ragnar returned, his expression gave nothing away. “Ready tae head back?”
She wanted to ask him why he was moving his schedule around on her behalf, ask about what Freyr had said, but she knew pushing for truth wouldn’t help.
“Aye,” she said instead. “I’m ready.”
They’d barely started walking when a voice called out.
“Me lady!” A young woman approached with a toddler balanced on her hip. “Beggin’ yer pardon, me laird, me lady.” She shifted the child to her other hip. “But I just wanted tae thank ye.”
Isolda blinked at her. “Thank me? What fer?”
“Fer speakin’ yer mind about the grain—me husband’s one of the farmers, ye ken. He’s been fashin’ about the harvest. Kennin’ the jarl’s wife understands our fears…” she trailed off, a tentative smile settling on her face. “Well, it helps. Makes us feel seen.”
Ragnar looked down at her, and something raw settled in the lines of his face. then, his hand found hers, fingers threading through hers with familiar ease, and this time Isolda didn’t hesitate—she squeezed back, holding on tightly.
“Ye defended me.” She said quietly as they started the walk back. “In front of everyone.”
“Anyone who questions ye, questions me.”
She swallowed. “Well, nay one’s ever… cared. Nae about me opinion, and nae whether people respected me. So thank ye.”
Ragnar stopped walking and turned to face her, his blue eyes blazing. “I care.” He said, his hand lifting. “More than is probably wise,” he cupped her cheek with a gentleness that made her throat tight. “And I dinnae care what anyone says—ye dinnae make me weak.”
His thumb brushed her cheekbone, and Isolda’s pulse hammered so loudly against her ribs she was certain he could hear it.
“Ye make me want tae build somethin’ worth protectin’ instead of just survivin’, Isolda.”
She was suddenly acutely aware of how close he stood—she could see the pulse beating wildly at his throat and her own breath came faster as heat crawled up her neck and settled in her cheeks.
I should step back, I should…
“I ken ye didnae choose this, little wolf,” he said quietly. “Didnae choose me. But I’m tellin’ ye straight, Isolda—I choose ye. Every day I still have breath in me lungs I’ll choose ye.”
The words hit her like a fist to the sternum—quick, brutal. Isolda’s vision blurred at the edges and she had to concentrate to force air into her lungs.
Her eyes latched onto the tavern across the square and through the door she caught firelight and the rumble of rough voices, the kind of noise that was perfect for drowning out the thundering in her chest.
“I need a drink.”
Ragnar’s hand dropped from her face and he looked at her like she was speaking a foreign language. “What?”
“The tavern,” she nodded toward it, already moving forward before he could refuse. “’Tis been a long day, and I’m parched.”
“Isolda—”
“Unless ye’d rather have yer bride faint in the middle of the square?” she threw the words over her shoulder, not slowing.
His boots scuffed against the packed earth as he caught up. “That’s nae a place fer—”
“If ye say ‘lady’ I’m goin’ tae kick ye.”
His hand caught her elbow, slowing her slightly. “Let me take ye back tae the keep, ye can—”
“I want ale. And noise. And tae sit somewhere fer five minutes that’s nae that bloody castle!”
“It’ll be loud. And rough.” Ragnar said, his voice edged. “These folk dinnae mind their tongues after a few cups.”
“Good.” She pulled free and kept walking. “Maybe they’ll say somethin’ interestin’ fer once.”
“Isolda, I dinnae—”
“Are ye comin’, or nae?” she said, still not looking back. “Because I’m goin’ either way, and ye can follow, or ye can try tae explain tae everyone why ye let me wander intae a tavern alone.”
For a moment, there was silence. Then, Ragnar made that low grunting sound he made when she’d successfully backed him into a corner—half frustration, half admiration. “Ye’re a bloody menace, woman!”
“That I am.” She finally glanced back, catching his eye. “And ye choose it anyway.”
The tavern door swung open under her palm, releasing a blast of warmth and noise and the yeasty smell of fresh ale. Isolda stepped inside without hesitation, Ragnar a half-step behind her, and every conversation in the room died mid-sentence.
She felt the weight of their stares but all she could focus on was the wild hammering of her pulse and the impossible, inconceivable notion that for the first time in her life, someone had stood up for her, stood in her corner—and meant it.
The only question left was what she planned to do about it.