“He willnae bite,” Ragnar assured her.
“‘Tis nae the horse I’m worried about.” The words tumbled from her lips, and Ragnar saw her immediately regret the admission.
“Come,” he said quietly, extending his hand down to her.
Isolda hesitated for a moment, but then she stepped forward and placed her hand in his.
Ragnar’s grip tightened around her ice-cold fingers, and he heard her sharp intake of breath. He hauled her upward with easy strength, and suddenly she was settling into the saddle in front of him, her back barely an inch from his chest.
Gods help me.
“Hold on,” he managed, his voice lower than he’d intended.
“Taewhat?”
“The saddle horn.” He waited until her hands found it, then clicked his tongue to set Tðrmr moving. The horse started up the cliff path at a steady pace, and Ragnar felt Isolda stiffen against him as the first jostle threatened her balance.
“Easy,” he murmured without thinking. “I willnae let ye fall.”
His left arm came around her waist while his right hand managed the reins.
‘Tis only fer her own safety.
The path wound upward in sharp loops carved from the cliff face generations ago. To their left, the stone wall rose grey and imposing. To their right, the drop fell away toward churning water far below.
Ragnar tried to focus on the path, on the castle waiting above, on anything except the woman sitting within the circle of his arms. But it was impossible. Every breath filled his nostrils with the scent of her, every step of the horse pressing her incrementally closer, until he could feel the tension radiation from her tiny frame.
“Are ye warm enough?” he asked as a gust of wind whirled around them.
“Aye.” Her voice was still tight, controlled. “Thank ye.”
They rode in silence for a while, the only sound that of the clip of Tðrmr’s hooves on the ground and the cry of gulls wheeling overhead. Then, Isolda shifted slightly, trying to adjust her position, and the movement brought her buttocks flush against his abdomen.
Ragnar’s arm tightened reflexively around her waist and he felt her go absolutely rigid.
So, ye feel it too… whatever this is.
They rounded the final bend, and Dún Ketilsson came into view. Massive grey stone walls rose three stories high, capped with slated tiles that gleamed dark in the fading light. Smoke rose from several chimneys, and torches already flickered in their sconces.
“‘Tis nae as grand as yer faither’s holdin’s, I imagine,” he heard himself say. “But ‘tis secure. Has stood fer two hundred years against storm and siege both.”
“‘Tis impressive,” her voice held genuine marvel. “I’ve never seen masonry like that… the way the walls seem taegrowout of the cliff itself.”
“Aye. Me great-great-grandfaither was Norse, but he married a Highland woman who understood these lands better than anyone.” Ragnar guided them through the gates, nodding to the guards who snapped to attention at his approach. “She insisted the keep be built tae work with the land. That’s saved us more than once when the winter storms come howlin’.”
They trotted into the courtyard just after midday, and Ragnar felt Isolda tense again as dozens of faced turned toward them. Servants, warriors, villagers who’d made the climb up from the shore, waiting all day to see what kind of woman their jarl had brought home.
He brought Tðrmr to a halt near the keep’s entrance and dismounted first, then turned to offer Isolda his hand. She took it without comment this time, and he lifted her down with carefully, making sure his oversized cloak didn’t tangle in the saddle.
For a moment, they stood there, simply looking into one another’s eyes, his hands still at her waist, her fingers resting lightly on his forearms. The courtyard seemed to fade away—the murmur of voices, the stamp of hooves, the clang of the smithy—all disappearing until there were only her gray-green eyes looking up at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read.
“Thank ye.” She said quietly. “Fer the ride.”
Ragnar released her and stepped back, aware of how many people had gathered to watch the exchange. “Come. I’ll introduce ye properly.”
He turned to face the assembled crowd, and the conversations died away into expectant silence. Ragnar had made speeches before—battle commands, funeral orations, judgements in disputes—but somehow this felt more significant than any of those.
“This is Lady Isolda MacGregor,” he said, his voice carrying clearly across the courtyard. “Daughter of Laird Malcolm MacGregor, and by the king’s decree, me bride. Ye’ll show her the same respect ye’d show me and see that she wants fer naethin’ within these walls.”
