The music shifted—slowed into something with a steady, driving beat. Several couples rose from their tables, moving toward thecleared space where the fiddle player and drummer had been joined by a man with a flute.
“Jarl Ketilsson! Will ye join us fer a dance?” someone shouted from across the rom.
Ragnar’s expression rumpled. “Nay.”
“Come now,” Helmund called out, emboldened by ale and merriment. “Ye cannae celebrate wi’out at least one turn!”
“I can and I will.”
“But—”
“I dinnae dance.”
“Ragnar,” she said sweetly, quietly, just to him.
His eyes cut to hers, wary. “Dinnae start?—”
“Ye owe me a wager.”
“Isolda—”
“Winner gets one wish, remember?” she let honey drip from her voice and watched his eyes widen before resignation claimed them. “This is what I want. Tae see ye dance.”
“Ye cannae be serious?—”
“I won that bet fair and square. Ye even praised me aim, if I recall.”
“I was bein’ polite.”
“Try all ye want but I ken when ye’re lyin’,husband.” There was a thread in her voice that Isolda didn’t recognize, and she bit her bottom lip.
Ragnar’s eyes followed the movement, his thumb stilling against her palm while around them, the tavern had grown slightly quieter—everybody waiting to see what their jarl would do.
“Fine.” He bit out, standing like a man heading to his own execution. “But I’m nae daein’ it alone.”
Before Isolda could process what he meant, his hand closed around her wrist and he pulled her to her feet.
“Wait… what d’ye think ye’re?—”
“Ye wanted me tae dance, little wolf.” His eyes held hers, dark with challenge and something far more dangerous. “So,we’redancin’ fer them.”
Her pulse kicked hard against her ribs. “That wasnae part of?—”
The words died in her throat as he dragged her toward the dancefloor, the crowd parting before them.
The music shifted again, the tempo picking up as the musicians sensed their audience. Ragnar’s hand settled at her waist, warm and solid and impossibly sure while his other hand engulfed hers, raising it to shoulder height.
“I dinnae ken this dance,” she hissed.
“Just follow me lead.”
Ragnar moved, pulling her impossibly close and the scent of him—leather and salt and something indefinably masculine—made her head spin. The crowd blurred at the edges of her vision as they spun, and when she stumbled slightly, his grip tightened, steadying her without missing a single beat.
“Ye said ye cannae dance,”
“I said I didnae want tae.” His voice rumbled close to her ear as he drew her into another turn. “There’s a difference.”
Ragnar moved like the tide—pulling her under before she’d even realized she’d waded too deep. His arm around her was an anchor and a brand all at once, guiding her into movements she didn’t know and couldn’t anticipate.