“A lass cannae be both?”
That set him off again, and this time Isolda felt her own lips twitching, the absurdity of the situation beginning to penetrate her awareness.
A small sound escaped her throat. Then another. Before she could stop it, uncontrollable laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep within her, surprising her. She pressed her free hand over her mouth, but it was too late—the joy spilled out anyway, mixing with Ragnar’s until the entire corridor rang with it.
“We almost…” she gasped between fits of giggles, “… we almost killed each other…”
“…ye and yer fearsome wee butter knife…”
They leaned against the wall, and Isolda couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed like that—so hard that her stomach muscles cramped and her eyes watered.
When their giddy laughter had finally subsided into breathless quiet, Ragnar straightened, sheathing his sword with a smoothmotion. His expression had gentled, the harsh lines of it temporarily smoothed away.
“What areyedaein’ skulkin’ the corridors anyway?” Isolda asked, tucking her embarrassing little weapon into the pocket of her nightshift.
“Checkin’ the watch rotations.” He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “I couldnae sleep, and when I cannae sleep, I walk. Make sure everyone’s all right, and that the defenses are holdin’.”
“Daes that happen often? Ye nae sleepin’?”
Something flashed across his face, there and gone in an instant. “Some.”
They stood there in awkward silence for a moment and Isolda was suddenly, painfully aware of how thin her nightshift was, how his gaze had very deliberately fixed itself on a point somewhere above her head.
“Ye should get back tae bed,” he said quietly. “‘Tis late. And ye need yer rest.”
“I dinnae think I could sleep now if I tried.” It was true—her heart was still racing, her body thrumming with leftover fear and unexpected joy.
Ragnar studied her for a long moment, seeming to war with himself offer something. “Would ye like some warmed milk? That helps me sometimes.”
“Ye… drinkwarm milk?”
“Aye. With a wee bit of honey, if we can find some in the kitchen.” He glanced down at the corridor, then back at her. “I’m goin’ that way. Ye’re welcome tae join me… if ye’d like.”
It was an olive branch. An offer of companionship extended without expectation or demand. She should refuse—it was improper, she was dressed for bed, she should maintain the distance that was her only protection against whatever this was growing between them.
“Aye,” she heard herself say. “I’d like that.”
They walked through the silent castle side by side, their footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor. Isolda was barefoot, having left her slippers in her chamber, and the cold floor sent shivers up her legs. She wrapped her arms around herself, wishing she’d thought to grab a shawl.
Without a word or a glance, Ragnar shrugged out of his outer tunic and held it out to her.
“I’m fine, there’s nae—” she started, but he’d already draped it around her shoulders.
“I dinnae need me bride catchin’ her death before we’re even wed.” he said matter-of-factly. “The King’s men will have me head.”
The tunic was warm, bringing his body heat with it. Isolda took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of leather and something woodsy she couldn’t quite identify. She pulled it closer around herself, trying her very best to convince herself that the distracting flutter in her stomach was nothing more than gratitude.
They reached the kitchen, which was clearly deserted—the great hearth banked to coals that cast a soft red glow across the space. Clay pots hung from hooks while bundles of herbs dangled from the rafters, and the faintest aroma of bread and roasted meat lingered in the air.
Ragnar stepped inside, moving through the space with surprising ease, clearly familiar with its layout—a little fact that surprised Isolda. He picked up a poker and stirred the coals, then added wood before hanging a small pot over the growing flames.
“Ye dae this often?” Isolda asked as she settled onto a bench near the hearth, watching him work. “Raidin’ the kitchens in the dead of night?”
“Probably more often than I should.” His fingers found a clay jug in the cold storage and he poured milk into the pot over the fire. “When I first became jarl, I spent half, if nae most of me nights here.”
“Why?”
Ragnar’s hand found the back of his neck, rubbing. “Too much tae think about. Too heavy a weight on shoulders that felt too young tae bear it.”
