“Aye. I’m startin’ tae see that.”
They stood in silence for a moment, watching the crew work. Ragar was near the prow, speaking with the captain about something. Even from where she was, Isolda could see the easy authority in his bearing, the way the men listened when he spoke.
“He’s nae as terrible as ye think,” Freyr said quietly and took a long sip from his cup. “I’ve seen him at his worst and his best. And I’m tellin’ ye—he’s a good man.”
“Good men dinnae drag women ontae ships against their will.”
“Fair point.” Freyr didn’t look offended, just thoughtful. “Though he did save yer life when he could have chosen nae tae. And he respected yer honor when he could have chosen nae tae.”
Before Isolda could respond to that, Freyr had already pushed away from the mast, draining the last of his mead. “Make of that what ye will, me lady.”
Time passed—though she couldn’t say for certain how much. Certainly enough that the worst of her fear had dulled slightly. Enough that her grip on the mast loosened from desperate to merely tight.
It was only when Isolda shifted her weight to ease the cramping in her legs that she realized something had changed. The waves that had been crashing against the side of the ship had grown quieter. Gentler. And when she glanced to her right, she saw why.
When did we move?
She had been so caught up in her seasickness that she hadn’t noticed, but now the ship’s hull blocked most of the wind-driven spray. Isolda turned to look at Ragnar.
He wasn’t watching her. His attention was on the sails, on the way the wind filled them. But there was something in his stance—a careful awareness—that told her he knew exactly where she stood and how she was doing.
The realization settled in her chest, heavy and warm and deeply uncomfortable.
Because accepting that he cared meant admitting that she needed it. Meant acknowledging that this man she was supposed to hate had spent hours making sure she didn’t suffer more than necessary.
“Why did ye—” she gestured at their position. “Ye moved us.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Took ye long enough tae notice. The wind had shifted. Made more sense.”
“The wind didnae shiftthatmuch.”
“Didnae it?”
They looked at each other—her defensive and confused, him carefully neutral—and Isolda realized he wasn’t going to admit it, wasn’t going to make a show of it. He would rather let her believe it was coincidence.
But they both knew the truth.
“Thank ye. Truly.” She said softly.
Ragnar’s expression softened slightly, and she glimpsed the man beneath the stoic warrior. “Ye’re welcome.”
If she were being honest with herself, it terrified her. Because she could fight force. Could resist commands. Could hate the man on principle.
But this—care given freely, protection offered without strings, showing kindness that expected nothing at all in return…
’Tis too good tae be true. He’s just pretendin’ tae soften me up.
And in ten days, she’d be bound to him permanently.
