CHAPTER SIX
Isle of Uist, Western Isles, Scotland
“Hold steady now. We’re nearly there.”
Ragnar kept his voice low and calm as the birlinn cut through the last stretch of grey water toward Uist’s rocky shore. The island rose before them like a fortress carved from the bones of the earth itself—massive cliffs of dark stone, crowned with wind-bent grass that shimmered silvery in the weak afternoon light.
Home.
After days on the mainland and rough seas, the sight should have brought him relief. Instead, his attention remained fixed on the woman standing three paces ahead of him, gripping the ship’s rail with white-knuckled intensity where she was now standing at the prow, her back straight despite the ship’s roll, her dark hair whipping free from its braid in the salty wind.
Ye have nay business noticin’ such things. Yet.
He looked away deliberately, fixing his gaze on the approaching shore instead.
“Oars up!” Freyr’s command cut through the wind as the birlinn glided toward the stone pier. Warriors moved efficiently, securing lines and lowering the gangplank before the ship had fully settled.
Ragnar moved forward, intending to offer Isolda his hand for the crossing, but she was already stepping onto the gangplank without waiting. Her movements were careful, deliberate—and he realized that she was trembling.
She had made it three steps before her foot slipped on the wet wood.
Ragnar’s hand shot out, catching her elbow before she could stumble. The contact lasted only a heartbeat—just long enough to steady her—before she pulled free with a sharp intake of breath.
“I’m fine.” She didn’t meet his eyes.
She’s freezin’.
But Ragnar said nothing, simply gestured for her to continue ahead of him. He followed close enough to catch her if she fell again, but far enough to preserve what remained of her pride.
Servants, warriors and a few curious villagers had gathered, all eyes turning toward them as they approached, and Ragnar noticed Isolda’s steps falter slightly.
“Me jarl,” Bjorn stepped forward with a respectful nod. The older man’s gaze flickered briefly to Isolda before returning to Ragnar. “Welcome home. We’ve prepared chambers as ye requested, and?—”
“Dry clothes first.” Ragnar interrupted. “The lady’s soaked through.”
Bjorn’s weathered face showed no surprise at the command. “Of course, me jarl.”
“Now.” The word came out harder than Ragnar intended, sharpened by the sight of Isolda’s pale face and the way her teeth chattered.
Bjorn snapped his fingers, and a young servant girl hurried forward, eyes wide with nervous energy. “Fetch dry garments fer the lady. Quickly now!”
The girl bobbed a hasty curtsy and disappeared into a cluster of buildings that hugged the base of the cliff path. Ragnar turned to find Isolda watching him, her gray-green eyes unreadable.
“There’s nay need tae?—”
He kept his tone matter-of-fact, refusing to let her turn it into an argument. “We’ll nae move util ye’re properly dressed.”
Something flashed across her face before she looked away, her arms tightening around herself. The wind gusted off the water, carrying with it the sharp scent of brine and kelp, and Ragnar watched her fight not to show how the cold cut through her wet clothes.
The servant girl returned within minutes, slightly breathless, clutching an armful of fabric. She curtsied again, this time to Isolda, and held out the garments with shaking hands.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, me lady, but these are what we could find on short notice.”
Isolda accepted the bundle with careful hands, unfolding what turned out to be a simple woolen dress in dark blue, somewhat faded, but well-kept. She held it up, and even from where Ragnar stood, he could see the problem.
She’ll drown in it!
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Isolda said, but her voice lacked conviction.
