The next morning arrived bright and cold with sunlight streaming thought Isolda’s windows with insistence. She woke slowly, stretching out her limbs beneath the blankets, and for a moment she couldn’t quite place the source of the warmth that had settled in her chest.
Then she remembered—hysterical laugher in a darkened corridor, warm milk with honey, and Ragnar’s promise to show her the library.
Her stomach fluttered with anticipation but a sharp knock at the door shattered the moment.
“Me lady?” I’ve brought ye fresh linens and yer washed clothes.”
Isolda climbed out of the bed and pulled open the door to find a young servant girl, her head hidden behind a large stack of folded fabric. She walked in before placing Isolda’s portion on the chest at the foot of the bed and left with a cheerful smile before Isolda could properly thank her.
She sorted through the pile—her traveling dress, now clean and mended, new shifts…and a bundle she didn’t recognize. She unfolded it to reveal a tunic, the thick, coarse wool a deep grey, and far too large for her.
Before she could think better of it, Isolda brought it up to her face, inhaling deeply.
One of Ragnar’s.
She should send it back immediately. She should call for the maid and have it returned before anyone noticed the error.
Instead, Isolda found herself holding it up, the memory of his tunic around her shoulders the night before snagging in her thoughts.
Warm and safe.
Before her mind could catch up, her hands reached down, tugging at the hem of her shift. She pulled it off and pulled Ragnar’s tunic over her head.
Her hands drifted downward against her slender frame, feeling the texture of the wool. The tunic was soft from wear, and despite being washed, it smelled like him—woodsmoke and leather and something indefinably masculine. It just barely reached the middle of her thighs, the neckline drooping to reveal her shoulders and upper arms, the sleeves swallowing her hands entirely. She caught sight of herself in the polished bronze mirror and could not suppress the amused grin that stretched across her lips.
She was still smiling when the door suddenly opened without warning.
“Isolda, I wanted tae ask if ye’d?—”
Ragnar stopped dead in the doorway, his words dying instantly. His eyes went wide, then darkened, traveling from her bare feet up her legs toward the edge of his tunic, then to her face with an intensity that hade heat pool between her thighs.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Why is he starin’ at me like… like…
“This isnae… I didnae mean tae… delivered by mistake… I—” she spun away from him, searching desperately for her dressing gown when her foot caught on the leg of a nearby chair.
She stumbled, arms windmilling, certain she was about to crash face first into the floor.
Then, strong hands caught her waist, steadying her before she could fall any further. Ragnar’s grip was firm, but careful, his palms warm even through the wool. Isolda suddenly found herself pressed flush against his vast chest, his breath stirring the fine hairs at her temple.
“Easy,” he murmured, his voice rough in a way that sent shivers down her spine. “Ye’ll hurt yerself, little wolf.”
“I should—” she tried to turn, to face him, but his grip tightened fractionally.
“Dinnae move.” The words came out strained.
Isolda went absolutely still, her heart hammering so hard she was certain he could feel it. The silence stretched taught between them, charged with something that made every inch of her skin prickle with awareness.
“The tunic,” he said, his voice husky, “suits ye.”
“‘Tis too large.”
“Aye.” His eyes were molten blue, heated in a way that made her mouth go dry. Finally—mercifully—Ragnar released her and stepped back. “‘Tis…distractin’.”
Isolda blinked at him, trying to gather her wanton thoughts. “Distractin’?”
The corner of his mouth quirked up mischievously. “Ye should probably take it off.”
