Perhaps she’s sleepin’.
Ragnar raised his hand and knocked—not a heavy, demanding pound, but a lighter tap that still somehow managed to sound commanding.
No response.
He knocked again, slightly louder. “Isolda? ‘Tis Ragnar. I need tae speak with ye.”
Still nothing. He reached for the door handle. It opened easily beneath his hand, swinging inward to reveal Isolda, standing in the middle of the chamber in nothing but a thin linen shift, waterdripping from her freshly washed hair, her eyes going wide with shock as she registered his presence.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Ragnar’s mind went absolutely blank. He was aware he should turn around, that he should apologize and leave, that standing there gawking at her was possibly the worst thing he could do. But his body seemed to have forgotten how to take orders, too busy cataloguing details he had no business noticing.
By all the gods in Valhalla… she’s breathtakin’.
There was the way her shift clung to damp skin, outlining curves he’d felt pressed against him but hadn’t allowed himself to contemplate. His eyes drifted to a scatter of freckles across her collarbone, disappearing beneath the neckline of the shift in a pattern that his fingers suddenly itched to trace.
There was vulnerability in her eyes, shock giving way to something that looked almost like hurt.
“What are ye… get out!” The words tore from her throat, sharp and panicked.
“I’m nae—” Ragnar spun on his heel, turning his back on her with such force he nearly lost his balance and took the door right out of its frame. “I’m sorry. I knocked, ye didnae answer, I thought?—”
“Ye thought ye’d just strut intae me chamber unannounced?” her voice climbed higher, embarrassment sharpening each syllable. “What kind of… d’ye always have tae be so… och, fer the love of, why cannae ye justleave me be?”
“I cannae.”
“What?” the single word dripped with disbelief and fury.
“I meant… I can leave, and Iwill, but I need tae speak with ye first.” Ragnar kept his eyes fixed firmly on the door frame, on the stone wall, onanythingexcept the space behind him where Isolda was presumably scrambling for clothing. “‘Tis rather important.”
“More important than manners?” Something rustled—fabric being pulled on, hopefully. “More important than privacy?”
“If ye’d only answered when I’d knocked?—”
“I waswashin’, ye brute!” the rustling intensified, punctuated by what sounded like muttered curses. “I was pourin’ water over me head, so forgive me fer nae hearin’ yer wee attempt at knockin’ through the sound of…mo creach,this is ridiculous.”
“Are ye?—”
“Ye can turn around now.”
Ragnar obeyed cautiously, slowly, keeping his gaze carefully fixed somewhere around her shoulder rather than meeting her eyes. She’d thrown on a dressing gown over the shift—his mother’s from the look of it, a deep blue wool that hung too large on her frame but at least provided proper coverage. Her dark hair twirled in wet ropes over her shoulders, and her cheeks were flushed with crimson that had nothing to do with the warmth of the chamber.
She looked absolutely furious, and twice as beautiful.
If only she werenae glarin’ at me like she wants tae gut me with a wooden spoon.
“Well?” Isolda demanded, pulling the dressing gown tighter around herself. “Ye’ve embarrassed us both properly. What’s so important it couldnae wait?”
“The weddin’s been moved up,” he said bluntly, figuring there was no point in softening the blow. “Three days instead of ten.”
He watched the words land, watched her face cycle through surprise, comprehension, and finally, something that looked like bitter resignation.
“It wasnae me choice.” The need to make her understand pressed at him urgently. “The king’s men made the decision. They’re worried Douglas will strike again, and they want the union finalized before?—”
Her voice had gone flat, emotionless. “Before I become too much of a liability.”
“Before ye can be used as a weapon against the Pact.” Ragnar corrected.