Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Where is he?”
Ragnar’s voice was calm. Smoke still clung to his clothes, ash dusting the planes of his face, and blood that wasn’t his own darkened the leather across his forearms.
Freyr jerked his chin toward a stone storehouse at the far end of the village—the kind used for salting fish and storing grain through winter, windowless and thick-walled with a single iron-bolted door. Two of his warriors flanked the entrance.
“Bound and bleedin’, but breathin’.” Freyr fell into step beside him, keeping his voice low. “The lads may have been a wee bit enthusiastic when they dragged him in.”
“Good.”
“I heard she almost scratched one of ‘em blind?”
Ragnar’s stride didn’t break. “Aye.”
“Drawin’ blood and everythin’…” Freyr’s voice held something that might have been respect. “Ye married a wolf in sheep’s wool, me laird.”
The cold fury that had settled into his bones since the alley hadn’t burned out. It had compressed—denser, quieter, the kind that made his hands steady when they should have been shaking.
He pushed through the storehouse door.
The interior stank of brine and old blood. A single tallow candle guttered on an upturned crate, throwing weak light across the cramped space.
The captured man sat slumped against the far wall, wrists bound behind him with rope thick enough to moor a longship. His nose sat askew, blood streaming down his face, and the left side of his jaw had already turned purple.
Ragnar crouched in front of him. Close enough that the man had nowhere to look but directly into his eyes.
“I’m goin’ tae ask ye questions,” he said, his tone conversational. “And ye’re goin’ tae answer them.”
The man’s bloodshot eyes darted to Freyr, who leaned against the doorframe.
“I dinnae ken anythin’—”
“That’s a poor start.” Ragnar tilted his head. “Let’s try again.”
“Go tae hell, Viking scum—”
Ragnar’s hand moved. Not a strike—something worse. He closed his fingers around the man’s broken jaw and applied pressure. Controlled. Deliberate. Just enough to make the fracture sing.
The scream that followed bounced off stone walls and died there.
“Graham.” The word came out wet and mangled through his ruined mouth. “Douglas Graham. He sent us.”
“I ken that already. Why?”
The man’s eyes slid sideways. “I dinnae ken the—”
Ragnar hit him.
Not with the controlled, calculated pressure of a moment ago. This was something else entirely—his fist connecting with the man’s cheekbone with enough force to snap his head sideways and send a spray of blood across the stone wall.
“Tell me,” he hauled the man upright by the front of his tunic, slamming him back against the wall, “what Graham wants. Wi’ me wife.”
“I dinnae—”
Ragnar’s fist found his ribs. Once. Twice. Each blow landing with the kind of precision that came from years of knowing exactly how much punishment a body could absorb before it stopped being useful.
“Ragnar.” Freyr’s voice came from the doorframe. Not sharp—steady. “He cannae talk if he cannae breathe, man.”
Ragnar’s hand was already drawn back, his knuckles slick. He held the fist there for two heartbeats that felt like hours. Then he dropped his hand and stepped back.
Freyr moved into the gap, crouching to check the prisoner’s pulse. “Still wi’ us.” He glanced up. “Ye done?”
Ragnar’s chest heaved. He turned away, pressing his bloodied knuckles against the cold stone wall, and forced himself to breathe through the red haze still crowding the edges of his vision.
Control it.
Behind him, Freyr spoke to the prisoner. “Now then. Me laird’s goin’ tae stand over there and think calm thoughts fer a moment. “Let’s have a wee chat before he changes his mind.” He paused, hauling the man upright. “Douglas, what daes he want from the lady?”
The man coughed—wet, rattling. When the words came, they were slurred and broken, pushed through a mouth that barely worked. “She’s... worth a lot. More… than coin.”
“Explain.” Freyr’s voice remained pleasant. “Quickly.”
The prisoner spat blood onto the packed earth floor.
“Graham wants tae prove that the Pact is a lie. That bindin’ Norse lairds tae Highland brides daesnae make ‘em stronger—makes ‘em stupid.” His one functioning eye found Ragnar’s back.
“Every day the Stag spends chasin’ after his wee wife instead of protectin’ his borders is just provin’ the point. ”
Ragnar didn’t move. Didn’t turn.
“He daesnae need a hostage,” the man continued, each word costing him visibly. “She’s nae even a target. Graham keeps her threatened, keeps ye runnin’ after her, and every laird from here tae the mainland watches the mighty Stag of Uist unravel over a lass.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Freyr rose slowly, his expression carved from stone. His eyes met Ragnar’s across the dim space.
“Get him tae the dungeon at the keep.” Ragnar’s voice came flat. Empty. “I want every camp, every route, every man Douglas has on his ledger. Ye have until mornin’.”
Freyr’s mouth curved without humor. “And Isolda?”
“I’ll fetch her meself.”
The kirk sat at the village’s western edge, its stone walls blackened on one side from a fire that had come close but hadn’t claimed it.
Ragnar pushed through the low doorway and found them in the nave—Liv kneeling beside Isolda on a rough wooden bench, her steady hands tying wrapping linen strip around a graze on Isolda’s forearm.
Isolda looked up the moment he entered.
“Before ye start,” she said, “I’m fine.”
“I didnae say anythin’.”
“Ye didnae have tae. Ye’ve got that look about ye.”
“What look?”
“The one where ye’re decidin’ whether tae shout at me or wrap me in wool and lock me in a tower.” Her chin lifted. “Neither will go well fer ye.”
Liv snorted. “She’s been like this since I sat her down. Willnae hold still, and threatened tae walk back tae the keep on her own if I took too long.”
“I didnae threaten—”
“Ye absolutely did, me lady.” Liv said though there was no heat in her voice. She tied off the strip with a neat knot and stood, dusting her hands on her apron. “She’s bruised a wee bit. Naethin’ tae worry about, but she’ll be sore. The scrapes will heal.”
Something jagged moved through Ragnar’s chest. “Ye’re certain’?”
“Stubborn as a mule and twice as ornery.” Liv gathered her supplies into her satchel with brisk movements. “So, aye entirely unchanged, me jarl.”
Isolda shot the healer a look. “Traitor.”
“I’m yer healer, nae yer conspirator.” Liv squeezed Isolda’s shoulder, then turned to Ragnar with an expression that shifted from teasing to serious in a heartbeat.
“She needs rest, a warm fire, and someone tae make sure she actually eats somethin’.
Can ye manage that without turnin’ it intae a battle? ”
“I make nay promises.”
“Aye, that’s what I was afraid of.” She moved toward the kirk door, pausing to add, “The knuckles on her right hand—I couldnae get a proper look. She kept hidin’ them. Ye’ll want tae check those yerself.”
Then she was gone, the heavy door thudding shut behind her.
Ragnar turned back to Isolda. She sat rigid on the bench, her hair half-loose, tangled and dusted with ash, soot darkening the line of her jaw, and there was a defiance in her green eyes that made something tender unfurl in his chest.
She studied him—that sharp, steady gaze that saw too much. “The man ye captured. Did he talk?”
“He did.”
“And?”
“I’ll tell ye on the ride back.” He held out his hand. “Can ye walk?”
She took it and stood—steadier than he’d expected—though her sharp inhale when she straightened told him the pain and discomfort was worse than she was letting on.
He helped her up Termr without a word. His hands found her waist, and he lifted her into the saddle with the same careful precision he’d use handling something irreplaceable, then swung up behind her.
His arms bracketed her body as he took the reins. She settled back against his chest, and the warmth of her spread through his clothes.
They rode in silence until the village fell away and there was nothing but heather and sky and the wind pressing in from the coast.
“Tell me,” she said.
“Douglas daesnae want ye returned. Nae yet.” Ragnar kept his voice leve.
“Fer now, ye’re worth more tae him where ye are.
Every decision I make about keepin’ ye safe is a decision that costs me somewhere else.
Men. Resources. Attention. He daesnae want ye as a prisoner, Isolda. ” He paused. “Ye’re his leverage.”
The wind filled the silence. Termr’s hooves beat a steady rhythm against packed earth.
“So,” she said finally, “I’m bein’ hunted. Nae as a bride. Nae even as a woman.” She turned her head just enough that he caught the edge of her profile—the set jaw, the unblinking eyes. “But as yer weakness.”
“Aye.”
“Well… that’s a first. I’ve been called many things, but never a man’s weakness.”
“Ye find that amusin’?”
“I find it terrifyin’, tae be honest.” Her voice dropped. “Because it means I’m puttin’ ye and everyone here in danger just by existin’.”
“Dinnae ye dare take that on yerself, Isolda.”
“Someone has tae—”
“I made a choice. And I’d make it again.” He felt the tension run through her, felt the way her breathing changed. “Douglas can circle and scheme and send as many hired swords as he pleases. He willnae get tae ye. I willnae allow it.”
The path climbed through rocky terrain, the keep just visible on the headland above. Somewhere below, the sea crashed against the cliffs with deafening fury.
“Dae ye regret it?” Her voice came barely above the wind. “Marryin’ me?”
“Nay.”
“Even kennin’ what—”
“Nay.” He pulled Termr to a halt. The path stretched in both directions—just stone and heather and the grey line of the sea.
“Losin’ territory would wound me. Losin’ men would break me.” His jaw worked against the words, each one pulled from a depth he hadn’t known existed. “But losin’ ye would destroy me in a way I cannae come back from. And I’ll nae apologize fer that.”