“Aye, that’s what I was afraid of.” She moved toward the kirk door, pausing to add, “The knuckles on her right hand—I couldnae get a proper look. She kept hidin’ them. Ye’ll want tae check those yerself.”
Then she was gone, the heavy door thudding shut behind her.
Ragnar turned back to Isolda. She sat rigid on the bench, her hair half-loose, tangled and dusted with ash, soot darkening the line of her jaw, and there was a defiance in her green eyes that made something tender unfurl in his chest.
She studied him—that sharp, steady gaze that saw too much. “The man ye captured. Did he talk?”
“He did.”
“And?”
“I’ll tell ye on the ride back.” He held out his hand. “Can ye walk?”
She took it and stood—steadier than he’d expected—though her sharp inhale when she straightened told him the pain and discomfort was worse than she was letting on.
He helped her up Tðrmr without a word. His hands found her waist, and he lifted her into the saddle with the same careful precision he’d use handling something irreplaceable, then swung up behind her.
His arms bracketed her body as he took the reins. She settled back against his chest, and the warmth of her spread through his clothes.
They rode in silence until the village fell away and there was nothing but heather and sky and the wind pressing in from the coast.
“Tell me,” she said.
“Douglas daesnae want yereturned. Nae yet.” Ragnar kept his voice leve. “Fer now, ye’re worth more tae him where ye are. Every decision I make about keepin’ ye safe is a decision that costs me somewhere else. Men. Resources. Attention. He daesnae want ye as a prisoner, Isolda.” He paused. “Ye’re his leverage.”
The wind filled the silence. Tðrmr’s hooves beat a steady rhythm against packed earth.
“So,” she said finally, “I’m bein’ hunted. Nae as a bride. Nae even as a woman.” She turned her head just enough that he caught the edge of her profile—the set jaw, the unblinking eyes. “But as yer weakness.”
“Aye.”
“Well… that’s a first. I’ve been called many things, but never a man’s weakness.”
“Ye find that amusin’?”
“I find it terrifyin’, tae be honest.” Her voice dropped. “Because it means I’m puttin’ ye and everyone here in danger just by existin’.”
“Dinnae ye dare take that on yerself, Isolda.”
“Someone has tae?—”
“I made a choice. And I’d make it again.” He felt the tension run through her, felt the way her breathing changed. “Douglas can circle and scheme and send as many hired swords as he pleases. He willnae get tae ye. I willnae allow it.”
The path climbed through rocky terrain, the keep just visible on the headland above. Somewhere below, the sea crashed against the cliffs with deafening fury.
“Dae ye regret it?” Her voice came barely above the wind. “Marryin’ me?”
“Nay.”
“Even kennin’ what?—”
“Nay.” He pulled Tðrmr to a halt. The path stretched in both directions—just stone and heather and the grey line of the sea.
“Losin’ territory would wound me. Losin’ men would break me.” His jaw worked against the words, each one pulled from a depthhe hadn’t known existed. “But losin’ ye would destroy me in a way I cannae come back from. And I’ll nae apologize fer that.”
The wind pressed against them as the horse shifted beneath their weight. He reached over, and leaned forward, pressing his lips to the crown of her head.
Then, he urged Tðrmr forward again.