But the words wouldn’t form, because standing there in the sunlight, with his eyes on hers and the ghost of his touch still warming her skin, she couldn’t quite remember why leaving had seemed so important.
“I’ll think on it,” she heard herself say.
“Good.” He held her gaze a moment longer—and Isolda could have sworn she saw something like relief flicker across his face.
He moved away then, back to his men and their training, leaving Isolda standing in the middle of the yard with her heart racing and an uncomfortable realization settling over her.
I’m in terrible, delicious trouble.
Because somewhere between the nunnery and this moment, between his cloak around her shoulders and his hands guiding her stance, between every small kindness and patient word, Ragnar Ketilsson had stopped being her captor.
And she had no idea what he was becoming instead.
“So,” Claricia appeared at her elbow, Thor still drowsing peacefully against her shoulder. “That was interestin’.”
“It was a dagger throw,” Isolda said, too quickly. “Naethin’ more.”
“Aye, of course.” Claricia’s smile was knowing.
Ada joined them, Astrid sleeping peacefully in her arms. “And the way ye’re lookin’ at each other means even less, I’m sure.”
Isolda opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. “I dinnae ken what tae dae,” she admitted quietly, surprised by her own honesty.
“About what?” Claricia asked gently.
“Any of it. Him. This.” Isolda gestured vaguely at the training yard, the castle, the entire impossible situation. “I’m supposed tae hate him. It was easier when I did.”
“Aye,” Ada said softly. “It usually is.”
They stood together in comfortable silence, watching the warriors resume their drills. Watching Ragnar move among them with quiet authority. Watching him glance toward her—once, briefly—before returning his attention to a question Freyr had asked.
“Fer what it’s worth,” Claricia said eventually, “I dinnae think ye’re in this alone.”
Isolda wanted to ask what she meant. Wanted to dissect every word, every glance, every small interaction until she could make sense of the chaos in her chest.
But before she could speak, a shout went up from the castle gates.
A rider approached at speed, his horse lathered and clearly pushed hard. The training ground went silent as the man dismounted and strode directly toward Ragnar with the urgency of someone carrying news that couldn’t wait.
Isolda couldn’t hear the words exchanged, but she watched Ragnar’s expression shift—just slightly—from calm to something harder. More lethal.
When he looked toward her across the yard, his eyes held a warning she couldn’t quite interpret.
“What is it?” she asked as Claricia tensed beside her.
“I dinnae ken,” Claricia murmured. “But whatever it is, ‘tis nae good.”
Ragnar dismissed the messenger with a nod and turned to Erik and Magnus, speaking rapidly in Norse. All three jarls’ faces grew grimmer with each passing moment.
Then Ragnar’s gaze found hers again—and this time, the message was clear. Something had happened.
And despite the mild sunlight warming her skin, Isolda felt cold settle deep in her bones.