CHAPTER NINE
“What on earth…”
The sound came again—footsteps in the corridor, deliberate and steady.
Isolda’s eyes snapped open in the darkness, her heart already hammering furiously against her ribs. She lay perfectly still beneath the heavy blankets, straining to hear past the rush of blood in her ears.
‘Tis just a guard on patrol… that’s all…
But then the footsteps paused outside her door.
Isolda moved without thought, sliding from the bed and tip-toeing to the chair where she’d left her belongings. Her fingers found the small knife she’d tucked beneath her folded cloak—nothing compared to Ragnar’s broadsword, but sharp enough toinflict damage if necessary. The bone handle fit in her palm with reassuring solidity.
The footsteps resumed, moving away now, but Isolda’s pulse refused to settle. She crept toward the door, Liv’s words from earlier echoing in her mind.
Be brave. Face what terrifies ye.
She pulled the door open in one swift motion and stepped into the hallway, directly into the path of a massive figure wielding a drawn sword.
Time slowed down and she saw the blade arcing toward her, saw the warrior’s startled expression as he realized she was there, saw his desperate attempt to redirect the strike even as her own weapon came up defensively.
I’m goin’ tae die in this wretched place in naethin’ but me shift!
Then, strong fingers caught her wrist, halting the knife inches from flesh, redirecting the blade so it whispered past and struck stone with a shower of sparks.
“Isolda?” Ragnar’s voice came rough with shock. “Why the hell are ye prowlin’ about with that wee excuse fer a blade in the dead of night?”
Relief and embarrassment flooded through her in equal measure. She looked up at his face, barely visible in the dimtorchlight. His hair was disheveled, his tunic unlaced at the throat, and his blue eyes were wide with surprise.
“I heard footsteps,” she managed, acutely aware that his hand still circled her wrist, that his body was mere inches from hers, that she was standing in front of him only half-dressed. “I thought… I didnae ken?—”
“So ye thought someone was comin’ fer ye,” his grip on her wrist loosened, but didn’t release. “And ye thought it best tae confront yer attacker with a knife meant fer cuttin’ food?”
“‘Tis sharpenough.” She said, pointing the blade at him.
“Against what? A particularly threatenin’ piece of bread?” he was staring at the tiny blade in her hand with an expression caught somewhere between genuine concern and utter disbelief. “Isolda, that thing wouldnae stop a determined fox.”
“Well… ‘tis all I had.”
“Then ye should’ve stayed behind yer locked door and screamed fer the guards.”
“Och, aye, brilliant plan. Wait tae be murdered like some helpless…”
The words died in her throat as the full absurdity of the situation crashed over her. The adrenaline that had been singing through her veins drained away all at once, leaving her weak in the kneesand her hands trembling. She glanced down at the pathetic little knife, then up at his massive broadsword, then at herself—standing in a drafty corridor in nothing but her nightshift, having just attempted to fight off the most dangerous warrior in the Western Isles.
Ragnar’s mouth twitched. Then twitched again. He pressed his lips together firmly, clearly fighting it, but his shoulders started to shake.
“Dinnae,” Isolda warned, though her own voice had gone unsteady. “Dinnae ye dare…”
A snort escaped him, then a chuckle he tried to smother against his fist, and then finally, helpless laughter that shook his broad shoulders and made him press one hand against the wall for support, lowering this sword until the tip touched the floor.
“What?” Isolda demanded, caught between offence and confusion. “What’s so funny?”
“Ye…” he fought for breath between bursts of laughter. “Ye’re a wee slip of a thing that… barely reaches me shoulder. And ye’re armed… with a blade meant fer supper, nay battle… lookin’ just about ready tae gut me like a fish.”
“Iwasready tae gut ye,” she retorted, but something warm and unexpected was unfurling in her chest at the sound emanating from him.
“I dinnae doubt it, little wolf.” He wiped his eyes, his grin transforming his usually stern features into something almost boyish. “By all the gods in Valhalla… ye’re either the bravest woman I’ve ever met, or the most foolish.”