They ate in comfortable silence, knees angled toward each other, and Ragnar found himself talking without quite meaning to. The words came slowly at first—about the early days of his rule, when the clan looked at him with more pity than confidence because of his young age.
“I made every mistake I could—nae fer lack of tryin’,” he said, turning the cup between his hands. “Trusted the wrong men. Moved too fast on trade agreements. Nearly started a feud withthe MacLeods over a misunderstandin’ about fishin’ rights that could’ve been settled over a cup of ale.”
Isolda listened without interrupting, her gray-green eyes steady on his face.
“Freyr pulled me aside and told me I was goin’ tae get us all killed if I didnae learn tae listen before actin’.” His lip twitched. “I wanted tae knock his teeth in. But he was right.”
“He usually is,” Isolda said, then added quickly, “Dinnae tell him I said that.”
“Wouldnae dream of it.”
A shriek erupted behind them. Ragnar’s hand went instinctively to his hip.
Three children burst around the corner of the well, armed with buckets and absolutely no sense of self-preservation. The smallest one—a red-haired boy of perhaps five, hurled the contents of his bucket with gleeful, terrible aim.
The water hit Ragnar square in the chest.
Isolda’s hand flew to her mouth.
The boy froze, the empty bucket dangling from fingers that had gone white. The silence that followed was the kind that precededeither laughter or violence, and every adult within earshot went still.
Ragnar looked down at his soaked tunic. Looked up at the boy.
“That,” he said slowly, “was the worst ambush I’ve ever seen.”
The boy’s lip trembled.
“Yer angle was wrong. Ye need tae come from the side, lad, nae head-on.” Ragnar reached down and picked up a half-full bucket someone had left near the well. “Likethis.”
He swung the bucket in a clean arc and drenched all three children in a single, devastating sweep.
The children laughed, their shrieks high-pitched and playful.
Isolda stared at him, her mouth open, her bread forgotten. Ragnar caught her expression and felt like she was looking at him like she’d never seen him before. Like she was seeing someone she hadn’t known existed.
There ye are,her eyes said.
The children, recovered from their shock, launched a counterattack with the enthusiasm of a Viking raiding party and roughly the same level of strategic planning. Ragnar allowed himself to be outflanked, taking a bucket to the shoulder whilehe swung the red-haired boy up under one arm and spun him until the boy was gasping with laughter.
Then he filled another bucket. Isolda’s eyes went wide. “Dinnae yedare?—”
The water caught her across the front, soaking her bodice and plastering her dress against curves that made his throat go dry. She gasped—outraged, breathless, magnificent—her dark hair clinging to her neck in wet ribbons, her eyes blazing.
“Ye… absolutebrute!”
“Ye were an easy target, little wolf.”
She grabbed the nearest bucket and hurled the contents at him. Ragnar took it full in the face and laughed, the sound strange and unfamiliar in his own ears, rusty from disuse but genuine and alive.
The children cheered.
But then his eyes dropped, and his laughter died in his throat. Her wet dress clung to every line of her body—the taut curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts. Water droplets traced paths along her collarbone that his mouth wanted to follow.
“Come wi’ me.” His voice came rough, barely above a murmur. “Ye need tae dry off.”
“Where are we?—”
“Now, Isolda.”
