“There’s truly nay other option? Even a storage room or?—”
“Just the one room, me laird. Me apologies, but ‘tis all I have tae offer.”
A single muscle jumped in Ragnar’s jaw. For a moment, Isolda thought he might argue further, might demand the impossible the way most men of his station usually did. Instead, he simply nodded once.
“The key, please.”
The innkeeper handed it over swiftly, as though eager to be rid of it. Ragnar started toward the stairs, still carrying Isolda despite her increasingly furious protests.
“Och, this is ridiculous. I can walk on me own!”
“And I said nae.” He took the stairs with the same measured pace he seemed to approach everything—steady, unhurried, utterly immovable. “Ye can barely stand, and these rotten steps are death traps even fer someone who isnae injured.”
“Aye, well, I’d rather?—”
“Die than accept help. I ken. Ye’ve said so. Multiple times.” They reached the landing, and he carried her down a narrow hallway to a door at the end. “Unfortunately fer ye, I dinnae have any intention of lettin’ that happen.”
He pushed the door open with his shoulder, revealing a tiny room that was, at least—mercifully—dry. A narrow bed hugged one wall—barely large enough for one person, let alone two. A solitary chair sat beneath a slightly crooked window whose shutters rattled in the wind. Her eyes darted to the corner. A washstand. A chamber pot. Nothing else.
Ragnar set her down on the edge of the bed with surprising gentleness, then stepped back immediately, putting distance between them as though he could sense how close she was to lashing out.
“I can sleep on the floor,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Or outside the door if ye prefer. But ye’ll be stayin’ in this room, where ‘tis dry and I can ensure ye’re safe.”
Isolda’s looked him in the eyes. “How am I meant tae feelsafewith ye after?—”
Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. “Everythin’ I’ve doneiskeepin’ ye safe, whether ye care tae see it that way or nae.”
Before she could respond, he turned and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him. Isolda heard him speak to someone in the hallway, and then there were footsteps retreating down the stairs.
She sat there on the edge of the bed, her ankle throbbing, her clothes soaked through, and her entire body shaking with cold and exhaustion and fury she had nowhere to direct.
The door opened again, and Ragnar entered carrying a bundle of clothes and a wooden bucket that steamed faintly in the cold air.
“The innkeeper’s wife sent these fer ye,” he said, setting the bucket down near the washstand and laying the clothes—a simple shift, a wool shawl and a blanket—on the chair. “They’re nae as fancy as what ye’re used tae, but they’re dry.”
Isolda stared at him. “I dinnae understand.”
He paused, his hand still on the blanket. “Understand what?”
“Why ye dae any of this?” she gestured helplessly at the room. “This show of supposed kindness. Ye could just… force yerself on me…”
Ragnar turned to face her fully, and the look in his eyes made her breath catch.
“I would never.” he said quietly.
Then he moved toward the door, pausing with his hand on the doorframe.
“Get yerself out of those wet clothes before ye catch yer death. The key’s over there,” he nodded toward the blanket, “Go ahead and lock the bolt on the door if it’ll make ye feel safer.” His mouth curved slightly—not quite a smile, but close. “Though ye ken if I truly wanted in, a wee bit of wood wouldnae stop me.”
Then he was gone and the door closed with another soft click.
Isolda sat frozen for a moment, her mind still racing. Then, she shot to her feet, ignoring the sharp protest from her ankle, and hobbled to the door. Her hands shook as she latched the bolt, then grabbed the chair and wedged it firmly under the handle for good measure.
She stood there, breathing hard, staring at her makeshift barricade.
From the other side of the door, she heard a low chuckle.
“Feel better?” Ragnar’s voice drifted through the wood, amused despite everything.