CHAPTER TEN
“Sails spotted on the horizon, me jarl!”
Ragnar’s head snapped up. The sword in his grip still held forge-heat, the metal singing a high note as he lowered it. Ash streaked his forearms, coal dust gritting between his fingers where he’d been testing the blade’s balance.
The watchman swayed in the forge entrance, face slick with sweat, chest heaving from his sprint down the tower stairs.
Ragnar crossed to the doorway. Despite the late afternoon sun’s glare, he could make out the colors—Skye’s grey and blue snapping in the wind, Barra’s green and gold bright against storm clouds gathering on the horizon, Mull’s black and silver dark as a raven’s wing.
They’re here.
Relief crashed into him, followed immediately by tension that settled between his shoulder blades like an old wound waking.
“Thought they’d never arrive,” Freyr muttered, appearing at his shoulder. Arms crossed, eyes already tracking the vessels like a hunter counting prey.
“Aye.” Ragnar thrust the blade at the smith. “Let’s go and greet our guests.”
He strode toward the dock, Freyr beside him. “Where’s the lass?” he asked, following Ragnar’s gaze as it drifted toward the keep.
“I sent word tae the library an hour ago that ships were expected.”
“And?”
“And she sent word back that she heard me the first time and didnae need remindin’.
Freyr’s laugh was short and sharp as they descended the winding path that connected the castle to the shore. The wind picked up as they left the shelter of the walls, carrying salt-spray and the reek of fish from the morning’s catch. Wood groaned as the ships drew closer, ropes creaking through iron rings, the splash of oars being shipped, loud voices in Norse and Scots rising as men secured vessels. Gulls wheeled overhead, screaming in displeasure at the disturbance.
A commotion drew Ragnar’s attention—two of his men arguing in low, heated voices, though he caught fragments,“—Highlandtikr’s—” and “—Douglas’s wretched spawn—” before Freyr moved to intervene with a sharp word that sent them back to their tasks.
Ragnar’s jaw tightened. The unease among his men had been growing steadily since Isolda’s arrival. He’d heard whispers in the training yards and noticed suspicious glances when she passed and he knew he would need to address it soon, before it festered into something worse.
The first figure to stride down the gangplank was unmistakable.
“Ragnar. We’d have been here yesterday but the wind turned foul.”
“Ye’re here now. That’s what matters.” Ragnar clasped Erik’s arm, then nodded to the woman behind him. “Lady Claricia. Welcome tae Uist.”
“Ragnar.” Her eyes swept the docks with sharp curiosity. “Where’s yer bride?”
“Inside. She’ll join us fer dinner.”I hope.
Something flashed across Claricia’s face—sympathy, or understanding, but he couldn’t tell which.
The child in Erik’s arms chose that moment to grab a fistful of his father hair and gave it a yank.
“Thor,” Erik said, prying the small fingers loose. “We’ve discussed this, lad.”
Ragnar smirked. “He’s gettin’ stronger.”
“Aye. And more destructive. Claricia’s convinced he’s part berserker.”
“I saidnay such thing, Wolf.” She chided, though her smile was warm. “I said he gets his stubbornness from ye.”
Before Ragnar could respond, the second ship docked, and Magnus emerged with Ada at his side, carrying a bundle of blankets that emitted an unhappy wail.
“That’ll be wee Astrid,” Freyr said “Got the lungs of a Valkyrie, I hear.”
“Poor lamb’s teethin’.” Ada adjusted the blankets, revealing a red-faced infant. “And she’s made certain everyone kens it.”
