“How old were ye?”
“Fourteen.” The answer came quietly, and Isolda felt her heart clench. “Old enough tae ken what it all meant, but young enough tae be terrified by it.”
Isolda nodded silently.
“And what about ye, little wolf?” he asked, stirring the milk with a wooden spoon. “What kept ye awake at night. Before all this?”
“Everythin’.” The honesty surprised even herself. “Wonderin’ if me faither would ever remember I existed. And then when he did, hopin’ he would forget about me long enough that I could disappear intae that nunnery before he found some use fer me. Then plannin’ me escape.”
“Did ye succeed with yer plannin’?” He asked absently, his focus on the boiling milk.
“Obviously nae.” She managed a wry smile. “Or I wouldnae be here.”
“Hmm. Usin’ me tae sharpen yer wee claws, are ye?”
“Well, ye ask silly questions, ye get sharp answers. Jarl or nae.”
“Fair enough.” He looked up, and the sincerity in his eyes caught her off guard. “I’m sorry fer what ye went through, lass. Ye deserved better.”
“So did ye,” she found herself saying.
The milk began to steam and Ragnar reached for a honey pot, scooping generous amounts into the clay pot, then pouring the concoction into two wooden cups. He handed one to Isolda and then settled on the bench beside her—not crowding her, but near enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his powerful frame.
They drank in companionable silence, and Isolda found herself relaxing, if only slightly. “Ye might be ontae somethin’ with yer wee milk potion.”
“Is that so?” Ragnar raised an eyebrow.
“Aye. ‘Tis… sweet and warm and soothin’.”
“I’m glad ye like it.”
“Is there a library?” she blurted. “I saw some books in yer solar when I passed by earlier, but I didnae want tae… impose.”
Ragnar’s face lit up. “Ye like tae read?”
“Aye, when I can. Growin’ up, it was one of the few freedoms me faither afforded me. I loved it—gettin’ lost in stories of places I’d never see, gettin’ tae ken people I’d never meet.” She cradled the cup between her palms. “Daes that make me sound mad?”
“Nae. ‘Tis…” he stared into the distance, “Me maither loved books, ye ken.”
His smile turned sad and Isolda felt a lump form in her throat.
“She collected everythin’ she could find—history, poetry, even a few Norse sagas she’d had translated. When she died, I couldnae bring meself tae touch any of it fer the longest time. But recently… I’ve been…it helps tae read, tae remember her.”
“I’m sorry,” Isolda said softly. “About yer maither.”
“Aye, thank ye.” He took a swig of his drink and set the cup aside. “The library’s on the second floor, eastern wing. ‘Tis naethin’ grand, but I can show ye tomorrow, if ye’d like?”
“Aye. I would. Very much.”
Isolda finished her milk and stood, feeling steadier than she had in days. Ragnar escorted her through the darkened corridors, a silent, solid presence at her side.
When they reached her door, she paused with her hand on the latch. “Thank ye. Fer the milk. And fer… the company. ‘Twas nice.”
“Ye’re welcome.” A genuine smile tugged at his lips. “Now get some sleep. But the next time ye hear any suspicious noises, perhaps try shoutin’ fer me, or the guards before chargin’ intae battle with kitchen utensils, aye?”
“I could. But that would bore ye tae death,” she said, shrugging out of the tunic and holding it out to him. “Dinnae ye want me tae keep ye on yer toes?”
“Gods… the mouth on ye, little wolf.” His laugh followed her into the chamber, and Isolda stood there with her back against the wood, wondering when exactly her captor had started to feel like something else entirely.