CHAPTER THIRTY
“I’ll nae ask ye again, Ragnar. When did ye last sleep?”
Freyr stood in the doorway of the war room, arms crossed, wearing the expression of a man who already knew the answer and didn’t like it.
“Watch yer tone, Freyr.”
“Nay. Right now, ye’re nae me laird, yer me best friend” Freyr stepped inside. “And I’m askin’ ye—when’s the last time ye slept?”
Ragnar didn’t look up from the map. “I slept.”
“Ye sat in a chair wi’ yer eyes shut fer an hour.”
Ragnar met his captain’s gaze, his eyes hard. “Whatever ‘tis ye came her tae say, either spit it out or leave.”
Two days.
Forty-eight hours had passed since he’d heard that cursed alarm go off, since he’d stood on that ridge and watched the Bergen vessel disappear with his wife aboard it. The tunic he wore still carried the ghost of her scent from the library—heather, ink, warmth and the taste of stolen kisses.
Freyr nodded once. “There are sails in the strait.” Freyr said, his tone matter-of fact. “Three vessels?—”
Ragnar was past him before the last word landed. The watchtower gave him the full view. There were three ships cutting south through grey water on their approach to Uist—The wolf of Skye’s grey and blue at the prow, The Serpent of Barra’s green and gold on the flank, and behind them, The Raven of Mull’s blackened hull.
The sight settled in his stomach.
Ragnar squinted at it, his eyes straining. Then, he saw it.
Behind Ivar Gunnarson’s vessel, was something else—a fourth sail. The Hawk of Lewis’s crimson and white flashing on the horizon.
“By the gods…” he breathed, hope flaring bright and hot behind his sternum.
They came. Every last one of ‘em.
The ships made harbor in under an hour. Ragnar descended to the dock where the bloodstains on the weathered deck had been scrubbed but not quite erased.
Erik came ashore first. No Claricia. No infant. It was just the Wolf of Skye in full war leather, his pale eyes already scanning the defensive positions along the ridge.
“Thank ye fer?—”
He gripped Ragnar’s forearm, nodded once, then stepped aside.
Behind him, Magnus was already striding up the gangplank, heavier through the shoulders than Ragnar remembered, every trace of soft fatherhood burned clean away.
“Ada wanted tae come,” Magnus said, clasping Ragnar’s arm. “I told her nae.”
“And ye’re still breathin’?”
“Barely. She threw a boot at me.’” The ghost of humor died before it reached his mouth.
Harald arrived minutes later—windswept, grim-faced, gripping Ragnar’s arm with both hands.
“Harald” Ragnar’s voice almost cracked. “How are they?”
“Enya says she’ll nae have our son grow up wi’out a proper father figure and told me tae get me arse over here, set an example fer him and get back in once piece.”
Ragnar grasped his forearm, the sacrifice of abandoning his newborn—his firstborn––to aid an oath of brotherhood drawing their foreheads against each other.
Ivar stepped off the gangplank last, black eyes finding Ragnar’s face across the dock. No greeting. No dark wit. No theatrical entrance. That, more than anything, told Ragnar how serious this was.
