Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Me lady, here’s another blanket fer the night. The cold’s already bitter and foul and I dinnae want ye—”
“I’ll be just fine with what’s here, thank ye,”
The maid shifted her weight in the doorway, arms laden with enough blankets that Isolda wondered how she’d made it up the staircase.
Three days had passed since the bathhouse. Seventy-two hours of charged silences and heated glances, of conversations carrying an undercurrent of awareness, of hands that didn’t quite touch when the opportunity arose.
Husband and wife had been circling one another like wary wolves, and Isolda had almost convinced herself that she preferred it that way. Every shared meal had become an exercise in restraint—forks pausing mid-air when their eyes met, cups gripped too tightly when their hands accidentally brushed.
“But me lady, this place has gone as cold as a tomb already, and ‘tis only goin’ tae get worse through the night.” Her breath misted in the air between words, visible even with the fire burning in the hearth.
“She said she’ll be fine, Astrid.” The metal poker rang against stone as Ragnar prodded the fire, the sound sharp and brittle.
The maid nodded and passed a fur to Ragnar before scurrying down the corridor. “Though we both ken that’s a damned lie,” he added, once the girl was gone.
Isolda’s hand stilled on the brush she’d been pulling through her hair. “I dinnae recall askin’ fer yer opinion on the matter.”
“Nay, ye never dae.” He stepped away, reaching for another log to toss into the fire and watched as it sent sparks flying into the air. “But ye’re gettin’ it anyway. This isnae Highland cold lass—this is the kind that creeps intae yer bones and settles there before freezin’ ye solid.”
“I’ve survived many a winter—”
“I ken.” He discarded the poker and turned to face her. “But here’s the thing, lass—survival and comfort arenae the same thing.”
She turned back to the mirror, resuming her brushing with enough force to make her scalp sting, the brush tangling in her knotted hair. “I’m nae some delicate wee thing that needs coddlin’—”
“Nay, ye’re just stubborn enough tae freeze instead of admittin’ ye might need somethin’ from someone else.” He stepped closer. “Why is that?”
“Maybe I just prefer bein’ cold than bein’ fussed over.”
“Or maybe,” his voice came from directly behind her, warmth radiating from his large frame, “ye’re just too proud tae listen.”
Her hand stilled mid stroke.
“Let me.” His fingers covered hers on the brush, warm and rough. “At this rate ye’ll tear yer hair out.”
“I can manage—”
“I ken ye can.” The brush slipped from her fingers “But let me. Please.”
Isolda tilted her head forward in surrender and felt the first careful stroke of the brush through her tangled hair. He worked slowly, methodically, untangling each knot without yanking, and despite herself, she relaxed into it.
The rhythmic pull of the brush sent pleasant tingles shooting across her scalp.
“Since when dae ye ken how tae brush hair?” the question slipped out before she could stop it.
His hand paused for just a heartbeat before continuing. “Me maither. She let me brush hers.” Another stroke, gentle and sure. “She used tae say a man who kens how tae be gentle wi’ small things willnae turn cruel when it matters.”
“Isolda’s eyes drifted closed. “Was she right?”
“I’d like tae think so.”
This wasn’t the intimacy of passion or tenderness—it was something quieter and more real.
“There.” He set the brush aside, his other hand lingering against her shoulder, the fingers curling briefly against the fabric of her shift. “Better?”
She opened her eyes and met his gaze in the mirror. “Aye,” she managed. “Thank ye.”
His mouth curved. “Ye’re welcome. Now, we should get some rest.”
The bed was wide enough for the careful distance they’d been maintaining since the wedding and Isolda climbed in first, pulling the blanket up to her chin and determinedly facing the wall.
The mattress dipped as Ragnar settled on his side, the wool rustling as he arranged his own blankets.
“Isolda.”
“What?”
“Are ye certain ye dinnae want—”
“I’m fine.”
“Ye’re determined tae be difficult about this, arenae ye?”
Despite herself, her lips twitched. “Well, there’s nay sport in makin’ things easy fer ye, husband.”
His exhale came quietly—half laugh, half sigh. She closed her eyes, curling tighter beneath the wholly insufficient blanket as the cold seeped through the wool, settling into her marrow just as he’d warned.
Sleep came to her in intervals—shallow and restless.
The sound of footsteps pulled her back. The room had gone darker with the fire burned down to glowing embers. Then, she felt it—a weight settling over her, warm and smelling distinctly of him. The blanket.
She strained in the darkness finding his silhouette near the door. He moved carefully, quietly, pulling on his boots before reaching for his cloak.
“Ragnar?”
He stilled. “Go back tae sleep, lass. I need tae see tae the patrol—”
“At this hour?”
“Aye, Freyr’s down wi’ somethin’—probably that fish stew he had fer supper. Someone needs tae check the watch.” He fastened his cloak, his voice carrying amusement.
“Ye didnae have tae—”
“Aye, I did.” He paused. “Get some sleep, I’ll be back before dawn.”
The door clicked shut and Isolda laid there wrapped in the fur blanket and tried not to think too hard about what it meant that she didn’t want to give it back.
When the mattress dipped again, the windows showed only the faintest gray of pre-dawn.
Isolda kept her eyes closed and her breathing even as his weight settled on the far side of the mattress.
The fire popped and snapped—evidence that he’d stoked it before settling into bed, and slowly, warmth began creeping back into the chamber.
When she awoke again, by the time morning’s light finally crept through the frost-etched windows, Ragnar’s arm was draped around her waist. He lay behind her, his chest pressed against her back, one arm curved around her as if he’d done it a hundred times before, his breathing slow and even.
The fur he’d given her had slipped halfway down the bed sometime during the night, abandoned in favor of a better source of warmth.
She should pull away, put distance before them before he woke. But her body refused to cooperate, too warm, too comfortable and utterly too content that close to him.
She could feel every single point of contact between their bodies. His breath came hot against the nape of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. Then, his thumb moved—just the barest shift against her ribs, tracing the underside of bone through the thin linen.
“Isolda.” Her name emerged, rough with sleep and something darker.
She shifted—barely, but just enough to push her buttocks into his abdomen.
The sound he made was quiet—a guttural vibration that she felt in her chest while his hand flexed against her, his fingers spreading wider as he pressed his hips forward.
“We should…” she couldn’t finish the thought.
“Aye.” He agreed, his voice low. “We should.”
His lips parted against the nape of her neck—not quite a kiss—just breath and heat and the faintest scrape of stubble that sent heat shooting between her thighs.
Her hand found his where it rested against her ribs, but instead of pushing him away, her fingers threaded through his, feeling the roughness of his fingers. She guided it—just an inch, just enough so that his thumb settled beneath the curve of her breast.
He made the sound again. “Isolda,” he said, half warning, half plea. “What are ye—”
“I dinnae ken what I want,” she whispered, “I only ken I dinnae want ye tae let go.”
His arm tightened around her waist, hauling her backwards and pressing her flat against him, the hard length of him pressing insistently against her through the layers of linen, wool and fur. Then, his hand moved higher, thumb just barely grazing the curve of her breast, and her breath stuttered.
Every mornin’ can be like this…
The thought slipped through.
A knock at the door shattered the moment.
Isolda jumped, her heart thumping in her throat.
Ragnar’s arm tightened, capturing her against him in the bed, and for a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then the knock came again, more insistent this time.
“I’ll…” he released her slowly, his hand trailing reluctantly across her waist before he sat up, scrubbing both hands over his face. “Aye, stop yer hammerin’, I’m comin’!”
He crossed to the door while Isolda scrambled to smooth her hair, her shift, trying her absolute best to look like she hadn’t just been wrapped in his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.
A young messenger stood in the corridor, breathless and wind-chapped, snow clinging to his cloak. “Beggin’ yer pardon fer the interruption, me jarl, but there’s a letter arrived fer Lady Isolda.”
“Fer me?” her voice rang out high.
“Aye, me lady,” he said as he handed the letter to Ragnar. “From MacGregor lands.”
Ragnar took the sealed roll of parchment, studying the wax seal with narrowed eyes before closing the door and carrying it to her.
Isolda’s hands trembled as she broke the wax with her fingernails and unfolded the scroll with numb fingers.
Her eyes skimmed the words once, then again, the casual cruelty in the words shattering her last remnants of hope.
Daughter,
I hereby acknowledge receipt of yer letter requesting a visit from me and I have tae confess meself befuddled as tae the purpose of such a journey.
Ye are the Lady of Uist now. That is the sum of it.
Ye have yer place, as we all have ours. The alliance stands strong, and the clan moves forward.
Yer duty now is tae yer husband and the Pact. I implore ye tae uphold it.
Laird Malcolm MacGregor.
The parchment crumpled in her fist as the words swam before her eyes, each one another small cruelty, her need for fatherly affection reduced to some incomprehensible puzzle. The letter felt heavy in her hands—weighted with a lifetime’s worth of dismissal.