Liv inspected her work. “Aye, that’ll dae.” She turned to prepare a bandage. “I’ll wrap it now but ye’ll need tae change it twice daily, me lady. If ye see any heat, red streaks or catch a foul smell—ye send fer me immediately. Understood?”
“Aye,” they answered in unison, then caught each other’s eyes.
Isolda looked away first, color rising in her cheeks.
Liv tied the bandage carefully. “There. Now, ye have tae let it rest fer at least two days. Nay sparrin’, nay heavy liftin’, and fer the love of all that’s sacred—nay more heroics until ye’re properly healed, me laird.”
“Aye. Thank ye, Liv.”
“I mean it.” She fixed him with a look that had cowed many a warrior. “If ye tear ‘em out, I’ll sew ye up again with a dull needle.”
Liv gathered her supplies as Ragnar chuckled, and disappeared into the back room, leaving him alone with Isolda in the empty infirmary. She stood with her back to him, dipping her hands in the basin near the door before scrubbing her fingers violently as if she could wash away more than just his blood.
“Thank ye.” He said softly.
“Ye dinnae need tae thank me.”
“Aye. I dae.” He rose carefully, testing the pull of the stitches. “Ye didnae have tae tend tae me as well. Liv would’ve?—”
“I wanted tae.”
He took a step closer. “Why?”
“Because…” she met his eyes, and whatever excuse she’d been forming died on her tongue. “Because I needed tae see tae it meself that ye’d be all right. That ye’d live.”
“Why?”
“I dinnae ken,” she whispered. “I just…did.” She swept from the room, heading out the door. “Ye should rest,” she said without looking back and disappeared into the corridor before he could even open his mouth to respond, her footsteps echoing away into silence.
Ragnar lay alone in the infirmary, his shoulder aching and his mind filled with the image of her bent over his wound, her hair falling forward, her touch so careful it almost felt like a kind of worship.
The bathhouse sat tucked in a quiet corner of the castle, a construction of smooth stone with a sunken pool fed by heated springs from beneath the castle.
Isolda had discovered it a while before, but had never used it. That night, however, she felt the need to wash away the feeling of his blood on her fingers, the heat of his skin, and the way he’d looked at her while she worked, as if she were doing something miraculous.
The corridor stretched empty before her, the castle settling into the stillness of late evening. She pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, letting it close behind her with a soft thud.
Steam rose from the pool in thick white columns, filling the chamber with humid warmth that settled on her skin. The lamps burned low in their sconces, and the air tasted of minerals and stone—clean, medicinal and soothing. Isolda moved to the edge of the pool, already reaching for the ties of her dress. She stripped quickly, leaving her clothes folded on a bench near the wall, then descended the stoney steps into the water.
Glorious heat swallowed her whole, penetrating skin into muscle, bone—right down to the tight knot of tension she’d been carrying between her shoulder blades. She sank deeper, letting the water rise to her shoulders, and tipped her head back with a sigh.
For a moment, there was nothing except soothing warmth and blessed silence as the water lapped gently against the stones.
Then, she realized she wasn’t alone.
Her husband sat at the far end of the pool, half-hidden in shadow and mist, arms outstretched along the edge of the pool, his head tipped back slightly against the rim.
He opened his eyes, and they both froze.
Isolda’s heart stopped, then kicked into a gallop. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe—could only stare at Ragnar as he slowly lowered his head.
“Isolda.”
“I didnae—” her voice came out strangled. “I didnae ken ye were?—”
“Clearly.”
The steam curled between them, and Isolda realized that she was standing in shoulder-deep water, completely naked, staring at her equally naked husband.