Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“By all the Gods in Valhalla…”
The words left Ragnar’s mouth in a breath, and Isolda felt it land on her skin.
His heartbeat drummed slow and steady beneath her ear, and all she felt was the fierce, terrifying pull of wanting to be closer to him.
Isolda’s eyes snapped open.
Ragnar’s pupils were blown wide, his lips parted. And instead of the lazy, half-asleep smile she’d expected, her husband looked at her like she’d sprouted antlers.
She blinked, still half-foggy with sleep and something warmer.
The furs had slipped to their waists sometime in the night, and the thin morning light from the narrow window fell across the mess of their tangled bodies in pale, unforgiving stripes.
She shifted, just slightly—pressing her hips against his thigh.
She’d been about to say something witty about his inability to keep to his own side of the bed, but then she noticed his blue eyes weren’t on her face.
They were locked approximately six inches above it, growing wider by the second, and his mouth had fallen open in a way she’d never seen on the unshakeable Stag of Uist.
“Huldra,” he said, his voice rough and awed.
Isolda blinked. “Have ye lost yer mind?”
He pushed up onto one elbow, which dislodged her from his chest and gave him a better vantage point. “Ye look like a Huldra, Isolda.”
“If ye dinnae start speakin’ words I can understand, Ragnar, I swear—”
“Yer hair, lass.”
Her hand flew up and her fingers met a wall of snarled hair. It was a tangled mess—the dark mass had knotted itself into something that defied the laws of nature, rising from her skull in a matted mess that seemed to have doubled in volume overnight.
Och, nay, nay, nae!
Ragnar sat up fully now, the furs pooling at his hips, the pale morning light catching the hard planes of his chest and the shadows carved between his ribs.
She would have appreciated the view if she weren’t busy having a crisis.
“In the old Norse tales,” he continued, “A Huldra is a spirit of the forest.”
Isolda stared at him. “Me hair feels like I’ve been dragged through a thornbush.” She said, her hands patting the surface.
“Well, ‘tis the prettiest mess I’ve ever seen.”
“Ye’re a dead man,” she told him, but the threat was undermined entirely by the smile plastered on her face as she grabbed the pillow and threw it at him.
He caught it before it made contact, laughing, the sound deep and unrestrained.
She scrambled out of bed, snatching a blanket to wrap around herself as she crossed the chamber to the polished bronze mirror mounted on the wall. The morning light was thin and grey through the narrow window, but it was enough.
It was worse than she ever could have imagined.
She turned her head left. Then right. Then left again, because somehow the left side was even more catastrophic than the right.
She caught his reflection in the mirror. He’d swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat watching her with his arms braced on his thighs, still wearing that devastating grin.
“Dinnae ye dare say a word.”
“Wouldnae dream of it.”
She reached for the bone-handled brush on the shelf and dragged it through the first section. It snagged immediately, halfway down, and refused to budge. She pulled harder. A sharp sting lanced across her scalp.
“Ow!…bloody…” She tried again, from a different angle. Same result. The brush was now stuck, hanging from the knot like a flag of surrender. “This isnae…it willnae…move, ye wretched piece of—”
“Ye’re goin’ tae rip it clean out if ye keep at it like that.”
“I dinnae recall askin’ fer commentary.”
The bed creaked. She heard his bare feet tapping on the stone floor, felt the air shift as he moved behind her.
“Let me.”
It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t a request, either. It lived somewhere in between, the way most things did with Ragnar—offered like a choice, delivered like a certainty.
She let go of the brush.
He started at the ends, working through the smallest tangles first with a patience that bordered on reverence. His fingers separated sections carefully, holding the hair above the knot so the pull didn’t reach her scalp.
“I’ll admit ye’re good at this,” she said, watching his reflection. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his jaw set with focus.
He freed a stubborn knot and moved higher. “I’ve untangled enough rope and riggin’ tae ken the principle—same patience, same trick. Ye just work from the outside in, never force the center.”
“Ye’re comparin’ me hair tae ship rope, now?”
“I wouldnae dare.” He worked another section loose, his knuckles brushing the nape of her neck. Gooseflesh raced down her arms. “Though if it helps, the Huldra’s hair was said tae be finer than any rope ever spun. The skalds wrote that the threads of it could bind a god intae submission.”
“Is that so.”
“Mmhm.” The brush moved through a long, smooth section without catching.
He set the brush down on the shelf and gathered her hair in both hands, smoothing it over her shoulders. It fell in dark waves, tamed at last, and his palms lingered at the curve of her neck.
“There.” He set the brush down and smoothed the dark waves over her shoulders. “Done.”
She turned to face him, and the words she’d been preparing—something sharp, something deflecting—dissolved as her eyes flicked upward and she saw his hair.
It had grown past his jaw now, the dark blond gone shaggy and unruly in a way that made him look less like a jarl and more like the savage raider chieftain he’d descended from.
It fell across his forehead, half-obscuring one eye, and the ends were rough and split from wind and salt.
“Sit down,” she said.
He blinked. “What?”
“Yer hair.” She reached up and tugged a strand that had fallen across his cheek. “‘Tis growin’ wild. Ye need it braided back before it gets intae yer eyes durin’ a fight and gets ye killed, and I willnae have that on me conscience.”
His entire body went rigid. “Nay”
“Ragnar—”
“I dinnae need—”
“One stray gust in a skirmish, it falls across yer eyes, ye get stabbed with the pointy end of somethin’.” She folded her arms. “So, sit. Down.”
The stillness that came over him was different from his usual composure.
“Ragnar.” She softened her voice because she understood what it cost him to let someone close enough to touch the parts he’d kept sealed for years. “Let me dae this fer ye. Please.”
He held her gaze for three long heartbeats before he walked to the edge of the bed and sat.
He kept his back straight, his hands braced on his thighs, every line of his body taut.
Isolda moved behind him and gathered his hair in her hands.
It was thick and coarse between her fingers, the dark blond lightened at the ends by wind and salt. She began to separate it into three sections, her fingers working from his forehead back, and felt the muscles in his shoulders lock.
She kept the weave tight. The first pass was easy. The second pulled slightly, and his shoulders locked.
“Och, dinnae be so dramatic. Just… breathe through it.”
“I am breathin’.”
“Ye’re huffin’ and puffin’ at me, and it isnae helpin’.”
His shoulders dropped fractionally, and a long exhale left his chest.
She worked in silence for a time, weaving the sections over and under with care, keeping the braid close to his scalp the way she’d seen the other Norse warriors wear theirs.
The rhythm was soothing—repetitive, intimate, the kind of quiet, domestic closeness she’d never imagined sharing with anyone, let alone a man like him.
Her fingers grazed the skin behind his ear, and he shivered. “I’ve never let anyone touch me like this.”
The words came out low, barely above a breath, and the raw honesty in them made her hands go still.
“After me faither.” He swallowed. “I couldnae—” He stopped, swallowed hard, then started again. “When people touched me it felt like somethin’ was about tae be taken from me that I couldnae get back. I dinnae ken how tae explain it.”
She resumed her braiding slowly. Each pass deliberate and unhurried, a quiet answer to the fear he’d carried alone for half his life.
“Ye’re safe with me, Ragnar.” she said. It was the simplest truth she had.
His head bowed forward slightly, and for a terrible, beautiful moment, she felt the tremor that ran through him—a single, involuntary shudder, like a wall cracking under the weight of something it had held too long.
She finished the braid and tied it off with a leather cord from the nightstand, securing it properly so it would hold through whatever the day threw at him. Then she pressed her lips to the crown of his head, lingering there, breathing him in.
He turned. His hands found her hips, drawing her between his parted knees, and when he looked up at her, his blue eyes were stripped of every defense he’d ever built, heartbreaking in their tenderness.
“Ye’re the family I prayed fer,” she whispered. “When I was a wee lass, I’d spend days prayin’ fer someone tae belong tae. Someone who’d let themselves belong tae me.” Her throat tightened, but she held his gaze. “I prayed fer ye, Ragnar. I just didnae ken it yet.”
His grip tightened on her hips. His jaw worked once, twice, and then he pulled her closer and kissed her.
It was not the wild, consuming kiss of the night before.
It was tender and slow and devastating in a way that felt more intimate than anything their bodies had done in the dark.
His mouth moved over hers with careful intent, one hand rising to cup her jaw.
She felt the brush of his lashes against her skin when he pressed his forehead to hers.
Isolda pulled back before the heat building between them could reroute the entire morning.
“Come.” She tugged his hand. “Before Cook feeds our breakfast tae the dogs.”
He stood, caught her waist, pressed his mouth to her temple. “Ye ken there’ll be talk about this.”
“About what?”
He touched the braid with a look of mild resignation.
“Aye, well.” She straightened his tunic with a briskness that belied the tremor in her fingers. “Let’s go hear what everyone has tae say about it then.”
The Great Hall was already bustling with noise when they arrived—warriors packed along the benches, the din of voices ricocheting off stone and high timber. The smell of peat smoke and salted herring hung in the air, and morning light cut through the high windows in hazy shafts.
Ragnar walked in and felt every pair of eyes in the room land on his head.
Freyr saw it first.
He had been mid-drink, cup raised, some conversation with Gunnar dying on his lips.
He froze and his gray eyes traveled from Ragnar’s face to the braid, lingered there, then returned to his face with the slow, deliberate precision of a man who wanted to make absolutely certain he was seeing what he thought he was seeing.
Then his mouth split into a grin so wide it threatened to crack his jaw.
“Well,” Freyr said, loud enough to carry. “Would ye look at that.”
Ragnar pulled Isolda’s chair out, waited until she was seated, and took his own place at the high table without acknowledging the comment.
“New style, me laird?” Freyr leaned back, arms folded. “Very... refined.”
“Shut it and eat yer breakfast, Freyr.”
“I’m just sayin’, it suits ye. Very fetchin’. Perhaps almost… bonnie.”
Leif, seated two places down, was turning an alarming shade of red from the effort of not laughing. Beside him, Olaf studied Ragnar’s head with the same critical assessment he usually reserved for dubious fish.
“The lady did that tae ye, did she?” Olaf asked.
“Aye.”
“Hmm.” Malcolm said from behind his porridge. “Looks better than the last time ye tried tae tie yer own hair back. Looked like ye’d fought a rope and lost.”
A bark of laughter erupted from the lower tables. “That’s the spirit!” Freyr barked.
Ragnar felt Isolda’s hand press against his thigh beneath the table, a small, reassuring pressure.
“Careful.” Ragnar took a drink from his cup, meeting Freyr’s gleaming eyes. “I seem tae recall a certain person who let Liv braid wildflowers intae his hair after too much mead at the harvest feast. What was it the men called ye? Freyr the Fair?”
Freyr’s grin vanished. “That was different.”
“Was it? How so?”
“I was drunk.”
“And I’m married.” Ragnar set down his cup. “Which is the better excuse, then?”
The hall erupted. Warriors pounded the tables with their fists, howling with laughter, and Freyr dropped his head into his hands with a groan that only made them louder. Leif clapped him on the back, wiping tears from his eyes.
Ragnar let himself smile. Not the measured, controlled expression he wore for councils and negotiations—the real one, the one that lived in a place he’d kept shuttered for years and only recently pried open.
Let ‘em look. Let ‘em all see. It daesnae matter. All that matters is her.
Beside him, Isolda ate her breakfast with one hand and kept the other on his thigh, warm and steady.
He wasn’t taking the braid out. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not until she wove him another one.