CHAPTER THREE
“She’s been gone too long.”
Ragnar didn’t raise his voice. He never needed to. The two warriors standing guard outside the Mother Superior’s chamber straightened immediately, hand moving to their sword hilts.
“How long?” Freyr asked from beside him.
“Longer than she asked fer.” Ragnar’s jaw tightened as he stared down the empty corridor where Isolda MacGregor had disappeared.
“Ye think she ran?” Feyr’s tone held an edge of vindication. “Highland bride barely off her horse and already fleein’. This marriage will be different from the others.”
“She has cause.” Ragnar was already moving, his boots echoing against the stone floor as he strode toward the outer passage. “Would’ve been disappointed if she hadnae.”
Freyr snorted. “Most men would be fumin’ if their bride bolted, but ye’re admirin’ her fer it?”
“I admire anyone with enough sense tae fight when they’re cornered.”
“And when we find her?”
“We take her home.” Ragnar pushed through a heavy door that led to the outer courtyard, rain immediately lashing his face. “Gently, if she’ll allow it.”
The storm had worsened since they’d arrived—wind howling between buildings with enough force to make the wooden shutters rattle. Rain fell in sheets that reduced visibility to mere yards while lightning split the sky before thunder rumbled so loudly that Ragnar could feel it in his chest.
Perfect weather fer runnin’. And fer huntin’.
He scanned the courtyard with practiced efficiency, noting every detail that mattered and discarding those that didn’t. The herb garden’s gate swung on its hinges with each gust of wind. Muddy tracks led toward it, already half-washed away by the downpour but still visible if you knew what to look for.
“There.” He pointed.
Freyr squinted through the rain streaming down his face. “Could be anyone?—”
“It was her, nay one else would go out in this weather.” Ragnar was already crossing the courtyard. He’d spent years tracking raiders across Uist’s black cliffs and treacherous bogs, learning to read stories in bent grass and disturbed stone. One Highland lass in a storm would not evade him.
Even if part of him—the part of him he kept locked away where it couldn’t weaken him—admired her for trying.
They reached the gate, and Ragnar crouched, his knees sinking into the wet earth. He noticed the sharp, medicinal scent of crushed herbs and saw small boot prints—measured steps, evenly spaced.
“She’s nae flailin’ about like most Highland lasses would,” Freyr observed. “She kens how tae run.”
“Braithers probably taught her.” Ragnar straightened, water streaming down his face. The image of her earlier in Mother Superior’s chamber rose unbidden—slender, exhausted, defiant even in defeat. And those gray-green eyes that refused to look away, even when he could see the fear that lived behind them. “Makes her unpredictable.”
“Unpredictable?” Freyr’s scarred eyebrow lifted. “She’s a wee slip of a thing!”
“Aye. One who lied tae me face without flinchin’, ran intae a storm rather than come with me, and is clever enough tae avoid the cliffs.” Ragnar started walking again, following the fading impressions. “That makes her dangerous, Freyr. Tae herself, mostly.”
The road beyond the nunnery walls curved inland, disappearing into darkness and trees. Ragnar’s eyes tracked every shadow, every slight movement. The rain turned everything into shades of black and gray—mud, stone, sky all bleeding together.
Somewhere ahead, his bride was running from a fate she hadn’t chosen.
Ragnar knew that feeling better than he cared to admit.
She’d stayed on the road initially—sensible, given how treacherous the footing would be anywhere else—but he could see where she’d stumbled once about fifty yards out, caught herself against a tree trunk to keep from falling. He touched the bark. Fresh scrapes in the wood, still weeping sap. A trace of blood mixed with mud where her palms had scraped.
“She’s tired.” He said quietly. His hand curled into a fist against the tree trunk. “Helvíti.I pushed her too hard. Should have waited.”
“Ye’re just followin’ orders given by?—”
“Aye, well, the king’s nae the one standin’ in the muck.” Ragnar’s voice remained even, but something dark and foreign had settled in his gut. “And if she gets herself killed runnin’ from me, his orders willnae matter.”
