CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“We should talk.”
Ragnar stood with his back against the locked door, keeping his distance from the bed and the woman currently staring at him like he might devour her whole.
Which, gods help me, I’m sorely tempted tae dae.
Isolda hadn’t moved since the emissaries had left. She stood near the hearth, still wearing her wedding gown. Candlelight caught in the silk, highlighting the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips. Her hands twisted together in front of her, knuckles pale.
“Talk, but quietly, because they may be listenin’,” he whispered.
Her voice came out thin. “About what, exactly?”
“About what happens next. About what ye are thinkin’.”
Ragnar pushed off the door, taking one careful step toward her. She immediately took one back, and he stopped.
“I willnae force ye, Isolda.” He kept his voice low and steady, using the same tone he used to calm spooked horses. “Nae taenight, nae ever.”
She blinked rapidly. “But the King’s men said… the sheets… they’ll ken if we dinnae?—”
“They’ll get their proof.” He moved slowly, stepping toward the small table near the bed where someone had left a pitcher of water and a small basin. “Just nae the way they expect.”
“What dae ye?—”
Ragnar pulled his dirk from his belt. The blade caught the firelight as he turned it, testing the edge with his thumb.
Sharp enough.
“What are ye daein?” Isolda’s voice climbed higher.
“Givin’ them what they want.” He pressed the blade against his left palm. “Blood on the sheets proves consummation. They never specified whose blood it had tae be.”
She took a step toward him, concern overriding fear. “That’s madness… ye cannae just?—”
“Watch me.” He drew the blade across his palm in one smooth motion. The sting was sharp and instantaneous—but not terrible, though enough to make his jaw tighten as blood welled up dark against his skin.
“Och, ye bloody fool!” Isolda closed the distance between them and grabbed his wrist. Her hands were small and soft against his skin, her touch tender as she examined the cut. “That’s deep! Ye could’ve… ye dinnae have tae?—”
“Aye, I did.” He let her fuss, watching her face instead of his bleeding palm, noting the furrow between her brows, the way she bit her lower lip in concentration, the flush that crept up her neck when she realized she was still holding his wrist. “There’s nay other way tae protect ye from what they’d demand otherwise.”
She looked at him, eyes searching his face. “Why?
“Why what?”
“Protect me?” Her grip tightened on his wrist. “Why dae this when ye could just take what ye’re entitled tae. I’m yer wife now.”
Gods… she’s been bracin’ herself fer me violatin’ her.
The thought twisted something sharply beneath his ribs.
“Ye deserve better.” His blue eyes bore into hers. “I ken all of this is terrifyin’, and I willnae add me name tae the list of people who’ve hurt ye.”
Her breath caught.
“Now,” he said, forcing himself to release her and turn toward the bed. “We need tae make this convincin’.” He let several drops of blood fall onto the white linens before smearing it across the sheets. “There. That should satisfy ‘em.”
Isolda watched, her expression unreadable. “So… what dae we dae now?”