Ragnar dismounted first, his boots hitting the muddy ground with a solid thud. Then, his hands were at her waist—broad, warm, and impossibly gentle.
“Easy,” he murmured, lifting her down as though she weighed nothing at all.
The moment her left foot touched the ground, white-hot pain exploded through her ankle. Isolda’s knee buckled, and she would have fallen if Ragnar’s arm hadn’t immediately locked around her waist, pulling her against his side with enough force to drive all the air from her lungs.
“Helvíti,” he swore, the Norse rough and harsh. “Why dinnae ye say it was this bad?”
“Because ‘tis none of yer concern?—”
“Och fer the love of…” he pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Ye cannae walk, woman!”
“I can walkfine—”she tried to take a step and nearly crumpled again, saved only by the iron band of his arm holding her upright.
“Aye.” Ragnar said dryly. “And I’ve just been named Thor’s favorite drinkin’ companion,” he said, already scooping her up, despite her breathless protests. His one arm slid beneath her knees while the other supported her back, cradling her against his chest with a matter-of-factness that somehow made the whole ordeal worse.
“Och! Put me down, ye bigoaf!”
“Nay”
He was already walking toward the largest building—an inn, by the look of it, though ‘ramshackle’ might have been a more accurate description for it. “I’ll nae have ye makin’ it worse by stumblin’ about in the mud.”
The inn’s door opened before they reached it, revealing a round-faced man with thinning hair and the look of someone who’d spent their entire life fighting against ocean winds. His eyes widened at the sight of them—Ragnar soaked and imposing, Isolda bedraggled and clearly being carried against her will.
“We need rooms,” Ragnar said without preamble. “Food. And hot water—if ye have it.”
The innkeeper’s gaze darted between them, then to Freyr and the other warriors filing in behind. “Och… me laird, I… most of the rooms are nae fit fer?—”
“How many d’ye have?”
“Well, truth be told, just the one, me laird. The others are all torn up fer repairs, and with the storm…we couldnae get the thatch finished before?—”
Ragnar shifted his grip on Isolda, shifting her weight as though she were no more a burden than his sword. “We’ll take what ye have.”
The innkeeper looked relieved. “Aye, me laird. Yer men can take the stables if that suits them.” he headed toward the back. “‘The room’s just up the stairs. I’ll have me wife bring up some hot water fer ye and?—”
“We’ll nae be sharin’ the room.” Isolda’s voice cut through the conversation like a newly whetted blade. Every head in the room turned toward her but she kept her voice steady with all the dignity she could muster while being held like an invalid. “Find another. Please.”
“Me lady, as I said, there isnae another room fit fer?—”
“Then I’ll sleep in the common room. Or the attic. Or thestreetif I must, but I willnae be forced tae?—”
“The street?” Ragnar’s voice remained infuriatingly calm. “With men huntin’ fer ye?”
“Right now, I’d rather take me chances than bein’ forced intae spendin’ a night in aclosedroom with a man I dinnae ken!”
Something flashed across his face, there and gone before she could identify it. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, meant only for her ears.
“D’ye truly think I’d harm ye?”
She blinked at him.
Nay. At least nae in the way Viking warlords usually dae.
But admitting that felt like conceding ground she couldn’t afford to lose.
“I dinnae ken what ye would or wouldnae,” she said instead. “But I’ll nae be offerin’ meself up like a lamb fer slaughter.”
Ragnar’s steady blue eyes drifted from her eyes to her mouth and back again. Then he turned his attention back to the innkeeper.
