Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“With respect, me jarl, our lady has nay business bein’ here.”
Ragnar didn’t lift his gaze from the map. He’d heard Olaf voice every complaint known to man over the past eighteen years—about taxes, about tides, about the cost of imported timber—but this particular grievance carried a different weight.
“‘Tis a war council.” Olaf pressed, his weathered hands braced on the table. “We’ve held them the same way since yer grandsire’s time.”
“Times change, Olaf.”
“Aye, and nae always fer the better.”
Freyr shifted near the door, arms folded, his expression neutral. The elders sat round the table, a wall of grey beards and disapproval, and across the solar, two younger warriors stood at attention, their eyes darting between their jarl and the woman sitting quietly in the window alcove.
Ragnar let the silence stretch. He’d learned young that silence unnerved men more than shouting ever could.
“Bjorn.” He said quietly. “Ye were at the eastern approach when Douglas’s men hit the village, werenae ye?”
“Aye, me jarl.”
“And how many of the bastards came fer me wife?”
“Three. They bypassed the granary, the livestock, the supply stores. Went straight fer the healer’s tent.”
Ragnar straightened to his full height, his shadow cutting across the map like a blade.
“Nae the grain. Nae the silver. Her.” His gaze swept every man in the room.
“She had tae fight like a wild beast tae fend ‘em off.” Ragnar’s voice dropped slightly.
“If I’d arrived three seconds later, she wouldnae be sitttin’ here. So, she stays wi’ me.”
Olaf’s mouth opened, then closed, but nobody spoke. The fire cracked and spat in the hearth.
Ragnar turned back to the map. “Now. Guards on the inner keep double from tonight. I want four men on the main gate at all hours, two on the eastern wall, and nay one enters without bein’ accounted fer by name. Freyr—”
He pushed off the doorframe. “Rotated the watch this mornin’. Put Gunnar on the night shift—he’s got the sharpest eyes and he daesnae drink.”
“The northern approach?”
“I’ve two men in the tree line and a runner at the crossin’. Anythin’ moves, we’ll ken.”
Ragnar nodded. “Lady Isolda stays within the inner keep until further notice.” He caught her gaze across the room—saw the flash of rebellion in her eyes. “That isnae a suggestion.”
“I didnae say anythin’,” she replied, her voice even.
“Yer face is daein’ all the talkin’.”
Her mouth pressed flat, but she inclined her head.
“Bjorn, send word tae Skye, Barra, Mull and Lewis. They need tae ken what’s happened and what we’re facin’.” He paused, something cold settling behind his ribs. “Douglas isnae finished. He’ll come again, and when he daes, I want every sword ready tae move.”
“Aye, me jarl.” Bjorn said.
“Go.”
The elders filed out, shoulders stiff with opinions. But then, Olaf paused at the door, glanced back at Isolda, and gave her a single nod. She returned it. And something in her expression cracked open—just for a heartbeat—before she smoothed it away.
But Ragnar caught it.
Ye’ve never had someone acknowledge ye before.
“I need tae draft letters and go over the coastal maps wi’ Freyr,” he said. “Could be a few hours.”
She rose from the alcove, her bandaged hand careful against the stone. She paused at the door, looked back, and then she was gone.
“Ye ken Olaf’s goin’ tae sulk fer a week.” Freyr said, crossing his arms.
“Let him.”
“And the elders will talk.”
“Good. Let them talk about a jarl who defends his wife.” Ragnar reached for the coastal charts.
The maid set the tray on the small table near the hearth with a quiet clatter, but Isolda stopped her before she could leave.
“Wait. Is the venison from today’s roast?”
“Aye, milady. Cut fresh nae an hour ago.”
Isolda lifted the cloth and inspected the food—roasted venison carved thick, a loaf of bread, a dish of honeyed butter, and two cups beside a flagon of mead. She touched the bread. Still warm.
“And the crust—is it the crispier batch from the lower oven?”
The maid blinked. “I... believe so, me lady. Cook said ye asked fer it specifically.”
“I did.” Isolda rearranged the tray, moving the bread closer to his side. A small thing. A ridiculous thing, probably. But she’d watched him, always saving the crispest crust for last, always buttering it with that slow, deliberate focus he brought to everything.
Arrangin’ food fer a Viking warlord like some lovesick tavern wife. What’s become of me?
“Will there be anythin’ else, me lady?”
“Nay. Thank ye, Astrid.”
The maid bobbed and disappeared.
Isolda changed out of her day gown into a simpler shift. Her bandaged hands made the laces difficult, and she cursed under her breath twice before managing.
The fire had almost burned to embers by the time the door opened.
Ragnar filled the frame the way he always did—tall, broad, sucking all the air from a room simply by existing in it.
But his dark blond hair, which had grown longer since the wedding, was disheveled, his tunic creased, and the lines around his eyes spoke of a weariness that went deeper than missing sleep.
He stepped forward when he saw the table.
“Ye arranged supper.” His voice came rough.
“Dinnae make it intae somethin’ grand.”
“Ye didnae have tae—”
“Just sit down and eat, Ragnar.”
He crossed the room, unbuckling his sword belt and hanging it on the hook by the door before lowering himself into the chair across from her. For a moment, they simply sat. The fire popped softly between them, and the wind moaned against the shutters.
Ragnar reached for the bread, turned it over, and ran his thumb across the crust. “Ye noticed.”
“I notice a lot of things. Dinnae let it go tae yer head.” She cut a piece of venison and set it on his plate, avoiding his eyes. “When did ye last eat?”
“This mornin’. I think.”
“Ye think?”
“There was bread. Possibly cheese. Freyr may have thrown an apple at me at some point.”
She pushed the honeyed butter toward him. “Eat. All of it. I’ll nae have ye faintin’ on me.”
He bit into the bread, and something in his shoulders eased. They ate in a silence that felt nothing like the charged, brittle quiet of their early days. This was comfortable, lived in.
Ragnar set down his cup, but his thumb traced the rim.
“I almost lost ye yesterday.” The words came stripped bare. No poetry, just the raw fact of it. “When I heard Liv scream... fer a moment, I couldnae breathe.”
Isolda set her fork down carefully. “But ye didnae lose me.”
His jaw tightened. “Three seconds later, and they’d have had ye on a horse and halfway tae the coast before I could’ve—” He stopped, drew a deep breath.
“Ragnar—”
“Me faither died in me arms, ye ken that. I killed him.”
The fire crackled.
Isolda said nothing, the anguish in his eyes making her eyes sting.
“Call it mercy. Call it honor. But at night, when ‘tis quiet—” He stared into the fire. “I just call it what it is. Murder.”
She rose from her chair. Ragnar’s eyes tracked her, wary, braced.
He thinks this is the part where I see the monster.
She crossed the small distance between them and knelt beside his chair. Took his hands—those broad, scarred, impossibly gentle hands and pressed them between both of hers.
“Ye gave him what he asked fer.” Her voice was steady, though her chest ached. “Ye loved him enough tae carry that weight, sparin’ him sufferin’. That isnae murder, Ragnar. That’s the bravest thing I’ve ever heard.”
He stared at her. Something moved behind his eyes—something vast and barely held, like a sea wall taking on more than it could bear.
His breathing changed, roughened. His fingers curled around hers so tightly she felt the controlled tremor running through him—the restraint of a man who’d spent his whole life holding everything together and was now, for the first time, allowing the cracks to show.
“Ye’re kneelin’ beside me in yer shift, and ye just told me the worst thing I’ve ever done is brave.”
“Well, it is.”
A sound came from deep in his chest—low, rough, almost a growl, the kind of sound a man makes when something breaks loose that he’d been holding down for far too long.
His hands released hers and found her face instead, tilting it upward, his thumbs tracing her jaw with a tenderness that made her pulse stutter and kick.
“Ye told me I made ye a promise,” he murmured, his mouth hovering so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against her lips.
Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs. “Ye’ve promised me a great many things, husband. Ye’ll have tae be a wee bit more specific.”
“That when I kissed ye,” his thumb grazed the corner of her mouth, feather-light, devastating, “I’d be thorough.”
“Aye.” The word barely made it past the tightness in her throat. “I remember.”
Ragnar leaned in, his lips stopping a fraction short of hers, smiled, and then his mouth found hers.
He kissed her, but there was nothing gentle about it, nothing careful or measured or restrained.
It was the kiss of a man who’d been drowning and had finally broken the surface—raw, fierce, all-consuming.
His lips moved against hers with a hunger that stole the breath from her lungs, one hand cradling her jaw while the other slid into her hair, angling her head and pulling her upward as he stood to deepen the kiss.
Isolda’s hands fisted in his tunic, pulling him closer. A sound escaped her and his answering groan vibrated through her chest. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and when she opened for him, he tasted her so thoroughly that her knees threatened to give in entirely.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against hers, both of them breathing hard, she couldn’t think, could barely see.
“Well.” Her voice came out wrecked, breathless. “I suppose ye’re a man of yer word after all.”
“I’ve barely started wi’ ye.”