Servants appeared with platters of roasted venison, fresh bread, smoked fish and turnips that were glazed with honey. The conversation flowed easily—Erik asking about Uist’s defenses, Magnus inquiring about the force, and Claricia coaxing Ada to share stories of Barra.
And through it all, Isolda sat quietly, eating small bites, calm and composed. Until Ivar deliberately baited her.
“So, Lady Isolda,” His voice carried the particular edge he used when hunting for weaknesses. “How are ye findin’ Uist, then? Besides the forced marriage and near-death experience that brought ye here, I mean.”
The table went quiet and Ragnar’s fingers gripped his cup, ready to intervene.
But Isolda was faster, meeting Ivar’s gaze without flinching.
“Well,” she took a sip of ale before answering, “The weather’s absolutely wretched. The food is…” she glanced at the plate before her. “Adequate. And I find meself constantly surroundedby beastly men who could snap me neck like a twig.” Another pause. “But the view from me chamber is spectacular, so at least there’s that.”
For a moment, no one spoke. Then, Ivar threw back his head and laughed—a sharp sound that echoed off the stone walls.
“Och, she’ll keep ye on yer toes,” Ivar announced. “She’s got fire and wit.”
Something unfurled in Ragnar’s chest. Pride, maybe, or desire sharpened by admiration.
She’s holdin’ her own. More than that—she’s winnin’.
“Fire’s useful,” Erik observed quietly. “Keeps ye warm, or it can burn ye down if ye’re nae careful.”
Claricia smiled sweetly at her husband. “Speakin’ from experience are ye, Wolf?”
Erik nodded. “Extensive experience.”
“The fire in the kitchen was anaccident?—”
“Which one? There’s been three.”
“Two. The third was actually yer son.”
Erik’s eyes widened. “He’s barely?—”
“Aye, and shares his faither’s talent fer destruction.”
The entire table erupted into laughter, and the tension in Ragnar’s shoulders eased slightly as he peered down at Isolda.
She has a bonnie smile.
His gaze traced the curve of her mouth, the slight dimple that appeared in her left cheek when she laughed. Heat pooled low in his abdomen, want sharpened by the knowledge that she’d probably never look at him the way the other wives looked at their husbands.
“Tae the bride and groom,” Ivar announced, raising his own cup with such enthusiasm that the mead lapped over the edge. “May yer union be fruitful, and yer nights… long and satisfyin’. And may the Stag finally learn what it means tae lose an argument.” He paused, raising his cup at Isolda. “Because ye’ll win them all!”
Magnus’s eyebrows rose fractionally. “Ye give the worst toasts, Ivar.”
“That’s because ye lack imagination,” Ivar replied smoothly. “And a sense of humor.” he turned back to Isolda. “Tell me, what terrible crime did ye commit tae deserve marriage tae the Stag?”
Isolda didn’t miss a beat. “I was born a noble female.”
Silence fell around the table. Then, Ada laughed, the sound shattering the tension. “Och, she gets it!”
“And yet she’s here.” Claricia observed, her voice gentle but her eyes piercing.
“Did any of ye…” Isolda hesitated, then pushed on. “Did any of yewantthese marriages?”
“Nay,” Claricia said honestly and Ada nodded her head in agreement.
“Isolda’ s hands had gone still on her cup. “But ye’re… ye seem so…”
