Ragnar led her past the last row of cottages, through the tall grass of the headland, down a path so overgrown that Isolda had to trust his hand at her back to keep from stumbling. The late sun warmed her shoulders despite the wet dress, and the sound of the village faded behind them until all that remained was the crash of distant waves and the call of seabirds wheeling above the cliffs.
“Where are ye takin’ me?” she asked, though she didn’t slow down.
“Somewhere I havenae shown anyone.” He pushed aside a curtain of gorse and sea thrift, revealing a narrow opening in the rock face—barely visible unless you knew exactly where to look. “I used tae come here as a lad. When everythin’ got too much.”
The entrance was tight. Ragnar ducked low, guiding her through with one broad hand steady at the small of her back, and then the passage opened into a cave, wider than she’d expected, with a ceiling high enough for even him to stand. Light filtered through a fissure above, casting everything in pale gold. The air smelled of salt and stone and something older, earthier.
She turned in a slow circle, taking in the smooth walls, the natural shelf of rock. “How long has this been here?”
“Longer than the castle.” He moved to the far wall and crouched, brushing sand and debris away from a weathered trunk half-buried against the stone. “I found it when I was eight.”
He pried the lid open. Inside lay a boy’s treasures—a carved wooden horse with one missing leg, a handful of polished sea glass, a rusted fishing hook, and beneath it all, several thick furs, still intact, smelling faintly of cedar and old leather.
“I kept furs here because the stone was always cold.” He pulled them out and spread them across the sand floor, smoothing them flat with hands that moved with deliberate care. “Used tae pretend I was some great explorer, campin’ in strange lands.”
“The mighty Stag of Uist,” she said softly, “hidin’ in a cave.” Isolda knelt and picked up the carved figure, turning it in her fingers. The craftsmanship was rough, clearly made by a child’s hand. She looked up at him, and her chest ached with a tenderness so fierce it frightened her. “Ye made this.”
“Me faither helped me.” The words were quiet. “The last summer before he died.”
She set the horse down carefully, like it was made of glass.
The golden light caught the water still glistening on her skin, and Ragnar’s gaze tracked a droplet as it slid from her wet hair downher collarbone into the dip of her throat. When he looked back at her face, the hunger in his blue eyes was tempered by something softer—something careful and questioning and achingly patient.
“I want ye, Isolda.” The confession came stripped of everything but truth, low and rough as unworked stone. “I’ve been half mad wi’ want fer weeks, but I’ll nae touch ye unless ye want me tae.”
Her pulse hammered against her throat. She reached for the laces at the front of her bodice and pulled. “I’ve been waitin’ fer ye tae?—”
He closed the distance between them in two strides. His mouth found hers—not gentle, not tentative, but deep and claiming, his hand cradling the back of her skull while his other arm banded around her waist and pulled her flush against him. She could feel the heat of his body through the soaked linen, the hard planes of his chest, the barely restrained power in every muscle.
“Ye’re certain?” he breathed against her lips.
“If ye ask me again, I’ll push ye intae the sea.”
His laugh vibrated against her mouth, low and warm, and then his hands were moving with a deliberation that made her skin sing. He unlaced her bodice slowly. Each loosened tie exposed another inch of skin, and he tracked it with his gaze like he was committing it to memory.
The bodice fell away, then the wet shift beneath, peeled carefully from her shoulders. Cool cave air kissed her bare skin and she shivered.
Ragnar went utterly still.
“Töfrandi,”The Norse tore from him like a prayer. His hand lifted, hesitated. “Ye’re...”
“What daes that mean?”
His fingertips traced her collarbone, feather-light. “Ye bewitch me.”
The tremor in his voice unraveled her. Isolda reached for his tunic and pulled it over his head, baring the broad, scarred landscape of his chest. She’d seen him before—in the bathhouse, in glimpses during training—but never like that.
She pressed her palm flat over his heart. It hammered beneath her hand, wild and urgent, betraying every ounce of calm in his face.
“Yer heart’s racin’,” she whispered.
“Aye.” He said, pulling down his trousers. “It daes that around ye.”
He lowered her onto the furs and settled above her on one arm, the other hand tracing the line of her jaw, her throat, the curve of her breast. Ragnar kissed her again—slower now, deeper, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she opened for him on a sigh. His hand drifted lower, callused fingers trailing fire across her ribs, her stomach, the hollow of her hip. When he reached the juncture of her thighs, he paused.
“Aye?” he asked, his forehead resting against hers.
“Aye.”