CHAPTER FOUR
“Ye’re hurt.”
Isolda stiffened where she sat on the massive destrier in front of Ragnar, her spine going rigid where it pressed against his broad chest. They’d been riding for what felt like hours, the storm showing no mercy, and she’d been doing her best to ignore the sharp, insistent throb in her left ankle.
“Dinnae fash yerself about me.”
“Every time the horse stumbles, ye go stiff as Highland stone.” His voice rumbled against her back, too close, too warm despite the cold rain soaking through every layer of wool and linen she wore. “What is painin’ ye?”
“I said I’mfine.”
A pause. Then, quieter but no less certain: “Left foot. Ye’re keepin’ it clear of the stirrup.”
Isolda bit on her lip. The man noticed everything—every flinch, every hesitation, every breath she drew too sharply.
“‘Tisnaethin’.” She said, keeping her tone clipped. “Just… a wee twist from when I fell earlier.”
“When ye ran, ye mean.” The correction held no judgment, just that same blunt honestly that seemed to define everything about Ragnar Ketilsson.
The horse shifted beneath them, the movement sending a fresh spike of white pain through her ankle. Isolda bit down on her lip hard enough to taste blood, but refused to make a sound.
“We’re nae far from the coast now,” Ragnar said, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear. “Can ye bear it?”
“Aye,” she said, the word sharp.
Behind them she could hear the other riders—Freyr and half a dozen of Ragnar’s warriors, their presence a constant reminder that she wasn’t fleeing anymore, but was being taken, claimed, carried off like spoils of war.
The rain intensified, turning from a steady downpour to something closer to a deluge. Water streamed down Isolda’s face, plastering her hair to her skull, soaking through the wool of her cloak until it hung heavy and useless against her shoulders while cold bit through to her bones.
She felt Ragnar shift his weight behind her, then his cloak—warmer, heavier, clearly better made than hers—settled over her head like a makeshift hood.
“What are ye?—”
But his hands were already adjusting the fabric, pulling it forward to shield her face from the worst of the rain. “Ye’re shiverin’ so hard ye’ll makemeteeth rattle, little wolf.”
The sudden warmth, accompanied by the scent of leather and smoke and salt, made her throat tighten unexpectedly. She wanted to throw it off, to refuse this small kindness the way she’d refused everything else he had to offer. But her body betrayed her, leaning ever so slightly back into the shelter of his chest, seeking warmth even as her mind screamed at her to pull away.
“I dinnae need?—”
“Aye. Ye dae.” He said it simply, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world. “But I dinnae expect gratitude from ye.”
His words should have angered her. But instead, she found herself uncertain. She couldn’t quite name what it is she thought she heard beneath the gruffness and that unsettled her more than the words themselves.
He’s just protectin’ his property.
But the comforting heat enveloping her made the lie harder to believe.
They rode on in silence, the coast drawing nearer with every painful jolt. Each movement from the horse sent waves of pain radiating up her leg, and by the time they finally crested a rise that revealed the dark, churning ocean beyond, she had bitten the inside of her cheek raw.
“There,” Ragnar said, pointing to a small huddle of buildings by the shoreline. “We’ll take shelter fer the night.”
“I thought ye said we’re sailin’ tae Uist.”
“We are. At first light, or when the captain says it’s safe.” His tone brooked no argument. “I’ll nae risk ye drownin’ because I was too impatient tae wait fer calmer waters.”
Och, dinnae act like ye care. Ye just need yer bride alive tae satisfy the King’s decree.
The short ride down to the village felt endless. By the time they reached the small cluster of buildings, Isolda’s entire leg throbbed in time with her heartbeat.