What else could I possibly be?
But she remembered Ragnar sleeping outside her door, thought of his care on the ship, and then the heated expression in his eyes when he’d found her wearing his tunic.
“I think,” Ada said carefully, “there’s nae a man alive, Viking or nae, that would ever look at an investment the way Ragnar looks at ye.”
A sharp whistle cut through their conversation and all three women turned.
Ragnar had moved to the center of the space, his warriors gathering around him, giving him their full attention.
“Come along,” Claricia stood, settling Thor more securely against her hip. “This will be more interestin’ up close.”
“Are we allowed?”
Ada rose too, cradling Astrid. “Ye’re tae be the Lady of Uist, Isolda. Ye can go anywhere ye please.”
The Lady of Uist.
It felt wrong, somehow—like a dress made for someone else. But she trailed after them anyway, drawn by something she couldn’t name.
The sparring ground smelled of sweat, leather, and the metallic tang of blades being sharpened. Isolda kept close to Claricia and Ada as they descended the stone steps, the men’s voices rising to meet them.
Laughter rippled through the warriors, and Isolda was suddenly aware of the men’s eyes tracking their movement—respectful curiosity rather than threatening, but it still made her spine stiffen.
“Dinnae mind them. Most of them’s never seen their jarl pay attention tae a lass.”
“Hedaesnaepay me any?—”
Isolda protested too quickly and Ada made a small sound that might have been agreement or something else entirely.
“Framar! Keep yer shield high, feet planted! Aye, like that.” Ragnar’s voice carried across the yard. “Angus, keep an eye on his footwork, will ye?”
He joined the sparring men, moving through a series of strikes, his body a study in controlled power. The warriors mirrored him, and Isolda found herself oddly fascinated by it all—wondering how violence could almost look like a dance.
“Fascinatin’, isnae it?” Claricia murmured beside her. “In a horrifyin’ sort of way.”
A young warrior stumbled through a turn, his practice blade clattering to the ground. “Apologies, me jarl, I?—”
“Again.” Ragnar said, his voice quiet. “Slower this time. Feel where yer weight shifts, lad.”
An older warrior’s voice drifted toward them. “The jarl’s in a good mood today. Must be the sunshine!”
“Or the company.” Another replied, his tone carrying a knowing edge that made several men chuckle.
Isolda’s cheeks warmed just as Ivar appeared at their side. “Ladies. Come tae indulge yer eyes?”
“We came tae make sure ye fools dinnae hurt yerselves,” Ada replied sweetly. “Besides, someone needs tae count how many times ye fall on yer arse, Ivar.”
Several warriors chuckled. Ivar’s grin widened, his hand clasping his chest mockingly. “Och, she wounds me. Magnus! Yer wife’s bein’ cruel tae me again.”
“Good,” Magnus called from across the yard, not bothering to look up from the axe he was inspecting. “Someone should be.”
“Isolda.”
Her name, spoken in Ragnar’s deep voice, sent an unexpected jolt through her. She turned to find him standing close, his blue eyes fixed on her with unsettling intensity.
“Me jarl?” the formality felt safer than whatever else might slip out.
“Ye’re comfortable here? The men arenae botherin’ ye?”