“Eyes on the horizon, lass. Nae the water. Trust me.”
Two words. Spoken with such quiet conviction that Isolda’s feet moved of their own accord, doing as instructed.
She lifted her head toward the sky as the wind picked up, filling the sail. The ship creaked, cutting through the water with speed that made her heart leap into her throat. But Ragnar had been right—here, the motion felt less unsettling.
Then, a wave made the deck move sharply and her hand shot out, finding Ragnar’s forearm. Coiled muscles tensed beneath her grip and for a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then the birlinn steadied and she snatched her hand back, heat flooding her face.
“Sorry, I?—”
“Dinnae be.”
Something in his tone made her look up. He was staring out at the water, his profile sharp against the gray sky, but there was a softness around his eyes that she hadn’t noticed before. Understanding, maybe? Or pity.
She wasn’t sure which was worse.
“The first time I sailed,” he said quietly, still not looking at her, “I was five summers old. Me faither took me out in a small boat, just the two of us. I screamed the entire time. I was terrified and wouldnae shut up until we’d made it back tae shore.”
Isolda blinked, surprised into momentary distraction from her misery. “Ye did? But ye’re… ye’re a Viking!”
The corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “Och, even Vikings have tae learn. And some of us dae so while cryin’ like wee bairns.”
“What changed?”
“Time. And me faither refusin’ tae let me stay ashore.” He paused, and something in his expression shifted, a shadow of grief, old and deep flashing once before disappearing again. “He said the sea was in our blood, and that fightin’ it was like fightin’ yerself. Ye’d only ever lose.”
Isolda wanted to ask more about his father, but before she could, the ship lurched again, and this time, she grabbed his arm deliberately, needing the anchor as her stomach flipped.
Ragnar didn’t pull away. Didn’t comment. Just stood there, solid as the mast itself, letting her cling to him while the water tried its best to shake her loose.
The sun broke through the clouds in thin shafts of watery light, turning the grey water to silver in patches. The coast they’d left behind had disappeared entirely, leaving nothing but endless rolling waves in every direction.
Around them, the crew worked. Someone was singing—a sailor’s song full of longing. Others joined in, their voices rough but harmonious, speaking a language she didn’t understand.
“What are they singin’?”
“A song about goin’ home.”
Uist isnae me home. Will never be.
The sun climbed higher, burning off mist but doing nothing for the cold spray. Isolda’s hands had gone numb from gripping the mast though they were only two hours into their journey. Ragnar stepped back to check their course when Freyr appeared at her elbow, two cups in hand.
“Mead, me lady.” He said, offering her one. “Fer yer stomach.”
Isolda eyed it skeptically. “How will that help me stomach?”
“It willnae. But at least ye’ll stop carin’ about it.”
Despite herself, she smiled and took the cup. The mead was warm and bitter and tasted faintly of honey. She took a small sip, then another, and grudgingly admitted—if only to herself—that it steadied her nerves.
“Ye’re daein’ better than I expected,” Freyr said, leaning against the mast beside her with a restless energy that seemed to define him.
“What did ye expect? That I’d be weepin’ and wailin’ by now?”
“Somethin’ like that.” His gray eyes studied her with uncomfortable directness. “Most ladies of yer station wouldnae have made it past the gangplank without faintin’.”
“I’m nae most ladies.”