Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Well, I’ll be! ‘Tis the Stag himself gracin’ us with his presence!”
The barkeep’s voice boomed across the sudden silence. He wiped his hands on a stained apron before gesturing broadly at the packed room. “Me jarl, me lady. Come on in! We’ve been waitin’ fer ye both!”
Isolda blinked, momentarily thrown by the warmth in his tone.
“Helmund.” Ragnar’s voice carried that same quiet authority it always did, but his posture was slightly relaxed. “I didnae ken ye were holdin’ a feast.”
“Och, we cannae let yer weddin’ pass wi’out proper celebration!” Helmund’s grin split his weathered face. “Ye’ve given us enough gatherin’s over the years, but this? This is worth a few rounds of ale on the house!”
A cheer erupted from the assembled crowd, cups raised high.
Isolda’s spine stiffened—every eye in the room had fixed on them with varying degrees of curiosity, amusement, and approval.
“Clear a spot fer them, lads!” An older woman rose from her bench, already shoving people aside with her walking stick. “The jarl’s wife looks half-frozen, and if she faints from the cold, we’ll answer fer it.”
“I wish everyone would stop fussin’ over me,” Isolda muttered, but the crowd was already parting, ushering them to a table near the massive hearth where a fire roared.
The tavern pressed in close around them—low ceilings blackened by years of peat smoke, tallow candles guttering in their sconces.
Isolda took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of mutton fat, spilled ale and unwashed bodies.
A string of cod hung from the rafters near the door, swaying slightly whenever someone passed beneath them, and she noticed the benches were worn smooth. A cat picked its way between boots, hunting for scraps.
“Tae the Stag and his bride!” Helmund raised his cup high. “May yer union bring peace tae these shores, plenty strappin’ sons tae carry on yer line, and just enough trouble tae keep life interestin’.”
Laughter rippled through the room as cups clinked and voices joined in enthusiastic agreement. Isolda took a careful sip of the mulled wine that was thrust in front of her, letting the warmth spread through her chest as she scanned the faces around them.
“What’s that look fer?” Ragnar asked quietly, his breath stirring the loose strands of hair near her temple.
“I didnae expect…” she trailed off as platters of food appeared at their table—roasted mutton and freshly baked bread. “Hospitality.”
“Aye, well,” his voice carried an odd note she couldn’t quite name. “They’ve been waitin’ tae welcome ye properly.”
“By feedin’ me until I burst?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “As is the Highland way?”
“Aye, but ye’re Norse.”
“I’ve picked up on a few things,” he reached for his own cup, and their fingers brushed—the contact barely lasted a heartbeat, but Isolda felt it like a brand. “Besides, Liv would have me head if I let ye starve.”
As if summoned by her name, the healer appeared at their table with an impish smile and a basket of something. She lifted the cloth up, and Isolda peeked inside. “Honey cakes. Still warm. I nabbed ‘em fer ye before the lads devour everythin’.”
“Ye spoil us, Liv.”
“Well, me jarl, someone has tae.” Her sharp eyes flicked between them, her smile deepening before she scurried off into the crowd.
“Here.” Ragnar tore off a piece of bread and offered it to her, steam rising from the soft loaf. “Ye said ye were—”
“I said I wanted ale.”
“Ye also said ye’d kick me if I treated ye like a lady.” The corner of his mouth twitched with that same quiet amusement she was starting to recognize.
Around them, the feast swelled into full celebration. Fiddles played quick, lively tunes that made feet tap and voices rise. Children darted between tables, shrieking with laughter as they played a game with no regard whatsoever for the adults.
“They’ll be at it ‘till dawn.” Ragnar noted, eyeing the chaos with something that might have been fondness.
The music shifted—slowed into something with a steady, driving beat. Several couples rose from their tables, moving toward the cleared space where the fiddle player and drummer had been joined by a man with a flute.
“Jarl Ketilsson! Will ye join us fer a dance?” someone shouted from across the rom.
Ragnar’s expression rumpled. “Nay.”
“Come now,” Helmund called out, emboldened by ale and merriment. “Ye cannae celebrate wi’out at least one turn!”
“I can and I will.”
“But—”
“I dinnae dance.”
“Ragnar,” she said sweetly, quietly, just to him.
His eyes cut to hers, wary. “Dinnae start—”
“Ye owe me a wager.”
“Isolda—”
“Winner gets one wish, remember?” she let honey drip from her voice and watched his eyes widen before resignation claimed them. “This is what I want. Tae see ye dance.”
“Ye cannae be serious—”
“I won that bet fair and square. Ye even praised me aim, if I recall.”
“I was bein’ polite.”
“Try all ye want but I ken when ye’re lyin’, husband.” There was a thread in her voice that Isolda didn’t recognize, and she bit her bottom lip.
Ragnar’s eyes followed the movement, his thumb stilling against her palm while around them, the tavern had grown slightly quieter—everybody waiting to see what their jarl would do.
“Fine.” He bit out, standing like a man heading to his own execution. “But I’m nae daein’ it alone.”
Before Isolda could process what he meant, his hand closed around her wrist and he pulled her to her feet.
“Wait… what d’ye think ye’re—”
“Ye wanted me tae dance, little wolf.” His eyes held hers, dark with challenge and something far more dangerous. “So, we’re dancin’ fer them.”
Her pulse kicked hard against her ribs. “That wasnae part of—”
The words died in her throat as he dragged her toward the dancefloor, the crowd parting before them.
The music shifted again, the tempo picking up as the musicians sensed their audience. Ragnar’s hand settled at her waist, warm and solid and impossibly sure while his other hand engulfed hers, raising it to shoulder height.
“I dinnae ken this dance,” she hissed.
“Just follow me lead.”
Ragnar moved, pulling her impossibly close and the scent of him—leather and salt and something indefinably masculine—made her head spin. The crowd blurred at the edges of her vision as they spun, and when she stumbled slightly, his grip tightened, steadying her without missing a single beat.
“Ye said ye cannae dance,”
“I said I didnae want tae.” His voice rumbled close to her ear as he drew her into another turn. “There’s a difference.”
Ragnar moved like the tide—pulling her under before she’d even realized she’d waded too deep. His arm around her was an anchor and a brand all at once, guiding her into movements she didn’t know and couldn’t anticipate.
When the music sped up, so did he. Faces became streaks of color, candlelight stretching into golden trails.
Isolda blinked, focusing her eyes on his shoulder as his knee pressed between her thighs.
He spun her out, their joined hands the only tether, and for one dizzying heartbeat she was flying—weightless, nothing but momentum.
Then he pulled her back and she collided with his chest hard enough to feel the thud of his heartbeat through layers of fabric.
“Good lass,” he said against her ear, and the rumble of his voice went straight through her.
She tried to keep up but the steps were fast and required coordination she didn’t have.
“Ye—” she started, but he spun her again and the thought shattered.
One final turn sharp enough to steal what little breath she had left, and then he caught her against him. They stood there, chests heaving in unison, his arm still locked around her like he’d forgotten to let go.
“Och, now that was a sight fer sore eyes!” a man appeared at their elbow, swaying, his grin shameless. “I havenae seen dancin’ like that since… well, I cannae remember!” he cackled loudly, knocking his cup against his skull. “Ye’re a tàisbean, me lady!”
The muscle in Ragnar’s jaw jumped.
“Thank ye,” Isolda said, still catching her breath. “Ye’re very kind.”
He leaned closer, breath reeking of ale. “If I were twenty years younger and nae so battered by life, I’d be beggin’ fer a dance meself.”
“Only twenty, Alf?” Ragnar observed, his voice hard.
“More’s the pity!” Alf seemed oblivious to the sudden tension radiating from his jarl. “Tell me, me lady—dae all Highland lasses have such fire in them? Because if so, I might need tae take meself down south and see fer me self—”
“Alf.” Ragnar’s voice dropped. “Walk away. Now.”
“Och, I’m just talkin wi’ the lady—”
“Husband,” Isolda said sweetly, unable to hide her amusement. “Are ye… jealous?”
His eyes snapped to hers. “Nay.”
“Och, I think ye are!” something fierce and unsteady sparked behind her ribs. “Of innocent ol’ Alf.”
“I am nae jealous of some drunken old fool.”
“Hmm. He called me a vision.”
“He’s nae wrong, but he’s also drunk enough tae see three of ye, so I’m nae considerin’ it a compliment.”
“Still nay tolerance fer drunkards, I see.” Freyr’s voice cut through from somewhere behind them, dry as summer dust. “Glad tae see some things havenae changed.”
Ragnar’s hand flexed. “He was bein’ inappropriate—”
“He was bein’ Alf.” Freyr stepped forward with a cup of ale and an expression that suggested he was enjoying himself far too much. “Besides, ye’ve tolerated worse from him.”
“That was before—” Ragnar stopped himself.
“Before what?” Freyr’s mouth twitched. “Go on, finish that thought.”
The muscle in Ragnar’s jaw ticked, and he let out a deep, low, guttural growl that slid down Isolda’s spine.
It seemed to be answer enough, because Freyr’s amusement deepened. “Aye, well.” He raised his cup in salute. “Just… dinnae break any jaws, aye?”
He disappeared back into the crowd before either one of them could respond.
“Ye’re really bothered by that, arenae ye?” she said quietly.
“He shouldnae have—”
“He’s harmless.”
“I ken that.” His voice went rough, the sound pooling between her thighs. “Daesnae mean I have tae like it, daes it?”
Maybe the Viking isnae all savage after all.
“Me lady?” a small voice cut through her thoughts.
Isolda turned to find a girl of perhaps six standing beside her, wringing her hands nervously. Her dress was patched, but clean, and her hair braided neatly.
“Aye, sweetlin’?” she crouched down to meet her at eye level, vaguely aware of Ragnar stepping back to give them space.
“Me mam says I should ask ye proper, nae just take it.” The girl’s words tumbled out fast, her eyes darting toward their table. “Theres a honey cake left on yer plate, and I havenae had one in forever and they smell so good, and—”
Isolda grabbed the girl’s hand and walked over to the table. “Here,” she reached for her plate, pressing the treat into the girl’s small hands. “Take it. And if ye want more, I’ll have the jarl give ye his also.”
The girl’s eyes went wide. “Truly?”
“Aye.” Isolda smoothed a hand over the child’s head. “What’s yer name, wee one?”
“Brynn.”
“Well, Brynn, ye can always ask me fer things.” She glanced at the woman hovering nervously a few tables away—the girl’s mother, clearly uncertain whether she should intervene. “Tell yer mam there’s nay need tae worry. If ye’re hungry, ye just come find me, aye?”
Brynn clutched the honey cake like treasure and bobbed in a lopsided curtsy before darting back to her mother, who caught Isolda’s ye and mouthed a grateful thank you.
When Isolda straightened, Ragnar was towering over her, watching her with an expression she hadn’t seen before.
“What?”
“Ye didnae even hesitate. She asked, and ye just… gave.”
“Well, she was hungry.”
“Aye.” His hand found hers again, thumb tracing her knuckles. “Ye didnae ask fer permission.”
Isolda frowned. “Why would I need yer permission tae give food tae a bairn—or anyone else fer that matter?”
“Ye dinnae.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “That’s me point.”
Before she could parse the meaning in his words, he steered her toward the door, away from the noise and warmth and too many curious eyes.
“We’re leavin’?”
“Aye, we’re gettin’ some air.” His voice held quiet amusement. “Unless ye’d like tase stay and let Alf compose ballads about yer beauty.”
“He wouldnae—”
“Och, he absolutely would. And they’d be terrible.” Ragnar pushed the door open, letting in a rush of cold evening air carrying the salty tang of the sea. “Trust me, that’s nae somethin’ ye want tae experience, little wolf.”
The night was clear and cold, stars splattered across the sky like diamonds stuck in velvet.
The square stretched quiet before them, empty save for a few torches guttering in their brackets and the distant crash of waves against the shore. Isolda took a deep breath, letting the air clear her head.
Behind them, the tavern still pulsed with life and laughter—the celebration continuing without them.
They walked on in silence, the castle looming ahead while somewhere overhead, an owl called, lonely and wild.
Her hand found his without thinking.
She felt him go still for just a fraction of a second—then his fingers closed around hers, warm and certain. Neither of them said anything at all, they just kept walking.
The keep rose ahead of them, and beyond its walls waited a shared bed, a shared chamber, a shared life she hadn’t chosen.
Except, in that moment, Isolda found that she might like it.