CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Why in the name of all that is holy are ye bleedin’?”
Isolda’s voice sliced through the corridor the next day. Freyr had half-dragged him the last stretch, muttering creative curses under his breath about death wishes—but Ragnar hadn’t registered a word.
Now, though, he heard everything—the anger in his wife’s tone, the thread of panic beneath it and the way her footsteps quickened as she crossed the space toward them, her gray-green eyes wide and fixed on the gash splitting his shoulder.
“Ye shouldnae fash yerself over?—”
“Haud yer wheesht!” Her hands moved before he could stop her, fingers cold against his warm skin as she examined the wound. “What happened?” her voice cracked, betraying the fear behind the anger.
“Found Graham’s men skulkin’ about at the shore,” Freyr said, keeping his voice low as he guided Ragnar toward the nearest bench in the infirmary.
“And?” her eyes never left the gash.
“Two are feedin’ the crabs. The third got a lucky strike in before Ragnar gutted him.”
“Lucky.” She said flatly.
“Got him secured in the dungeon.” Freyr met Ragnar’s eyes briefly. “He can sit and rot until ye’re ready tae question him, me laird.”
Ragnar nodded, then immediately regretted the movement as pain lanced through muscle and bone—white-hot and vicious, making his teeth ache.
“Dinnae move,” Isolda commanded.
She turned sharply, calling for Liv with an authority that would have made him smile if breathing didn’t hurt so much. The healer appeared from the back room, her blonde braid swinging as she assessed the situation with professional calm.
“Och, Ragnar,” she shook her head, already gathering supplies. “What have ye done tae yersel’ this time?”
“Played hero.” Isolda jabbed. “And nearly got himself killed fer it.”
“I’m nae?—”
“Ye were.” She rounded on him, and the fear flickering in her eyes stole whatever protest he’d been forming.
Is she… afraid fer me?
Freyr cleared his throat. “I’ll leave ye tae it, then. Liv kens what she’s about, and…” his gaze slid to Isolda with poorly concealed amusement. “It seems ye’ve got enough hands willin’ tae sort this mess.”
He disappeared before Ragnar could respond, leaving him alone with two women.
“That shirt needs tae come off,” Liv said, setting her supplies on the table beside him—strips of clean linen, a clay pot that held honey and another filled with crushed yarrow root. “Can ye manage it, or?—”
“I’ve got it,” Isolda said, her voice clipped.
Liv raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, moving to prepare the needle and thread while Isolda stepped closer. Her hands found the hem of his shirt, hesitating just for a breath before she began working the blood-soaked fabric upward.
Ragnar held still, fighting every instinct that told him to help her, to move, to do anything but sit there like an invalid while she peeled his shirt away from the gash. The linen had dried slightly, and stuck. When she peeled it away, the fresh sting dragged a breath through his teeth.
“Sorry,” her voice softened. “I dinnae mean tae?—”
“Ye didnae hurt me, lass.”
She didn’t answer, too focused on pulling the shirt over his head and dropping it in a ruined heap on the floor.
“Looks deep,” Liv said from behind them, her tone matter-of-fact. “But nae the worst I’ve seen. However, ye’ll be needin’ stitches, me jarl, and plenty of them.”
“I’ve had worse.”