“We wait.”
“Seems old age is makin’ ye soft, Stag, waitin’ on a woman like some?—”
“I’m thirty-two, Ivar.”
“Hmm. Old enough tae ken better.”
Before Ragnar could respond, the conversations quieted, and the sudden silence made his pulse throb in his ears. His head snapped up.
Isolda stood in the entrance wearing a deep forest green gown. The color made her eyes luminous, like the sea before a storm. Her dark hair had been woven into an intricate braid that tumbled over one shoulder, and she held herself with dignity—the sort that came not from confidence, but from sheer will. She walked toward them, and Ragnar tracked every step.
She’s captivatin’.
The thought struck him like a blade between the ribs.
“May I present, Lady Isolda MacGregor,” he said, suddenly jealous of every eye fixed on her. “Me betrothed.”
Isolda dipped into a curtsy that managed to be both formal and faintly mocking. “Forgive me late arrival—I was attemptin’ tae find a reason nae tae come.”
“Och, I like ye already!” Claricia’s smile was bright. “Sit with us, we’ve much tae discuss.”
“Dae we?”
“Aye. Startin’ with how tae survive bein’ wed tae a Viking without losin’ yer mind. Though ye’re lucky, at least Ragnar kens how tae smile. Mine glowers constantly.”
Erik made a sound, but whether out of offense or amusement, it was impossible to tell.
“I’m Claricia and this is Erik.” She waved her hand. “That’s Magnus at the other end with Ada, and the one without a wife grinnin’ like an idiot is Ivar.”
“Och, I suspect I’ll have me own turn at this particular torture soon enough.” Ivar said.
“Torture?” Isolda responded, settling into the chair Ragnar pulled out for her. “I’d think of it more as a… prolonged inconvenience.”
Ivar’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, she’s got teeth! I wonder if she bites too?”
Ragnar said nothing, too aware of Isolda’s scent making his head spin—something floral, almost like crushed heather underfoot.
Her arm brushed against him as she adjusted her seat and his hand tightened around his cup, his eyes snagging on the way torchlight caught the hollow of her throat.
Nay. Dinnae focus on any of… that.
But his body rebelled, every nerve singing with awareness.
“This is our wee Astrid.” Ada said. The baby stirred, making small sounds. “She’s usually much louder, so count yerself fortunate.”
“She’s bonnie,” Isolda said, her expression softening. “How old?”
“Near six moons. And determined tae ensure none of us sleep ever again.”
“Och, that’s what babies dae best,” Claricia added. “That and destroy ever nice garment ye own.” She shifted the child in her arms. “Thor’s already ruined three of me best gowns.”
“Worth it though,” Erik murmured, his hand finding Claricia’s shoulder, something passing between them that made Ragnar look away.
The rigid set in Isolda’s shoulders eased fractionally. “Ye’re all…” she paused, pondering. “…different from what I expected.”
“Was the lady expectin’ wild savages?” Ivar’s tone was lazy, but his eyes sharp. “Gruntin’ and swingin’ axes about?”
“Somethin’ like that, aye.”