Ragnar groaned against her mouth—a low, devastating sound that vibrated through her chest and settled somewhere molten and aching between her hips. His free arm locked around her waist, lifting her onto her toes, pressing her against him until she could feel every hard line of his body through the layers, the heat of his skin seeping through fabric like fire through parchment.
“Ye taste like ink,” he murmured against her lips.
“And ye taste like trouble.”
The laugh that followed was breathless and swallowed by another kiss that was deeper, slower, thorough in a way that made her wonder if there was a Norse word for the specific devastation of being kissed by a man who treated her mouth like something sacred and ruinous in equal measure.
Probably.
Ragnar pulled back first. “There’s a trade delegation arrivin’ at the harbor,” he said, “Bergen shipment. Timber, iron, salt—the last passage before the autumn currents close.”
She forced her fingers to release his tunic, smoothing the wrinkled fabric with hands that weren’t entirely steady. “Are ye goin’?”
“I cannae. There’s a council meetin’ I’ve been puttin’ off, and Olaf’s sent word twice already that if I delay again, he’ll drag me there by me ears.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sendin’ Leif and two others tae oversee the exchange. They’ve the manifest and the Bergen terms.”
As if summoned, a sharp knock came at the library door. Freyr’s voice carried through the wood, flat and businesslike. “Leif’s ready. He wants a word before they ride out.”
Ragnar pressed his lips to her temple briefly. “I’ll find ye taenight.”
“I’m countin’ on it.”
He left with Freyr, their voices fading down the narrow passage that led back toward the solar, and the room settled into silence again. Isolda stood alone among his mother’s books, her lips swollen and her heart hammering, the taste of him still warm on her tongue.
Isolda looked down at the broken quill. Ink had pooled across the reading stand, staining the wood in a dark bloom that would take scrubbing to remove. She tidied the parchment, closed the saga with care, and slipped out of the library, pulling the door shut behind her.
The eastern corridor stretched quiet and grey, the stone walls holding the afternoon chill.
Isolda made her way toward the solar—Ragnar kept spare quills in the chest beside his maps, alongside sealing wax and the good parchment he saved for correspondence with the other jarls.
The solar door stood ajar.
She pushed it open. Empty. The maps were still spread across the table, weighted at the corners with stones smoothed by the sea, but Ragnar’s chair sat vacant and the fire had burned low.
From somewhere deeper in the keep she caught the low rumble of his voice, and beneath it, the sharper edge of Olaf’s. Something about a dispute with one of the fishing settlements over nets.
Isolda crossed to the chest and rummaged for a quill, finding one wedged beneath a stick of sealing wax. As she straightened, her hip caught the edge of a document half-tucked beneath the map of the southern coastline.
It slid free, and her eye caught the Bergen seal.
Leif’s already gone.
If the captain challenged the quantities, they would have to send a runner back to the castle. Delay the exchange. Hold the ship in harbor while they waited for Ragnar’s word—and with the autumn currents already shifting, any delay could strand the vessel.
She looked toward the corridor. Ragnar’s voice still carried faintly, tangled with Olaf’s—the kind of discussion that ran long and ended with both men tired and neither satisfied.
I should tell him.
But the delegation was already riding for the harbor, and the harbor was less than half an hour’s ride. By the time she found Ragnar, explained the problem, and he dispatched another rider, Leif could already be in negotiation without the needed documentation.
He wouldnae want me tae go.
The thought surfaced clear and certain. But this wasn’t about defying him. This was about protecting what he’d built. About helping her husband.
“Ewan,” she called softly into the corridor. The guard stationed at the stairwell straightened. “I need an escort tae the harbor. Now.”
Ewan hesitated. “Me lady, the jarl said?—”
“If this document daesnae reach them before the exchange begins, it could cause problems.” She held it up, the seal visible. “I’ll be there and back before he’s finished with the Council.”
