Isolda wanted to believe them. “What if I cannae go through with it?”
“The King’s men willnae leave without their proof.” Ada said, sympathy threading her tone.
“So, I have nae say in anythin’ at all.”
“Ye always have a choice in how ye face things,” Ada said, reaching for Isolda’s other hand.
Just as Isolda opened her mouth to speak, a knock at the door interrupted them. A young servant stepped inside carrying a basket in one arm and a squirming toddler balanced on her opposite hip, bringing the scent of herbs and earthy comfort with her.
“I tried tae keep him entertained, me lady, but he wants his maither.” Liv set down her basket with visible relief. “Wee troublemaker’s near pulled out me hair by the roots.”
Thor laughed, his blond hair sticking up in wild tufts, his pale eyes spotting his mother. “Mama!” he stretched his chubby arms toward Claricia.
“Och, there’s me wee wolf.” Claricia crossed the room and took him from Liv, settling him on her hip from where his eyes found Isolda. His little mouth formed a perfect ‘o’, one small hand reaching for the silk.
“Nay, nay.” Claricia redirected his attention. “We’re nae goin’ tae be explainin’ tae Ragnar why his bride’s covered in sticky wee fingerprints.”
“Fah-wer!” Thor declared, pointing at the white flowers woven into Isolda’s hair.
“Aye,” Claricia kissed the top of his head. “But nae fer pullin’!”
Despite the knot in her stomach, Isolda found herself smiling at the boy’s enthusiasm. “Nice tae see him awake fer once.”
“Aye, and he has tae choose today of all days tae be a wee terror.” Claricia adjusted her grip as Thor laid his head on her shoulder, suddenly content. “Erik’s convinced he’s been savin’ all his energy just tae make us suffer.”
Ada laughed softly. “Well, isnae that what Vikings dae best? Cause chaos?”
Just then, Liv knocked and walked into the room and took one look at Isolda’s face and her features softened. “Och, me lady, ye look like ye’re facin’ down a battlefield rather than yer own weddin’! I came tae wish ye the best of luck and congratulate ye.” Liv pulled a tiny vial from her basket. “This’ll help—a wee bit of lavender fer the nerves.” She held out a flask. “And a nip of whisky. Enough tae steady ye, but nae enough tae make ye stumble.”
Isolda lifted the flask and drained it. The burn traced fire down her throat, sharp and grounding.
“Good. Now, let’s get those slippers on ye and get ye married.”
The walk to the chapel felt endless despite being just across the courtyard. Claricia walked beside her with Thor babbling against her shoulder, his tiny fist curled in her hair. Ada followed with Astrid nestled against her breast, one hand supporting the infant’s head.
When they reached the small stone building, the door stood open like a mouth waiting to swallow her whole.
The air inside smelled of beeswax and centuries of prayers. Incense smoke curled toward the rafters, sweet and cloying, mingling with the salty tang that never left Uist’s shores.
Ragnar stood at the altar dressed in dark leather that molded to his broad shoulders. His dark blond hair had been freshly trimmed, emphasizing the strong line of his jaw and the sharp angles of his cheekbones. When their gazes met across the chapel, his entire body went rigid. His chest rose with one slow, deliberate breath.
Och... I’ve never seenthatlook before!
His attention swept over her—starting at the flowers woven into her hair, trailing down the forest green silk that hugged curves she’d never thought much of, pausing at the swell of her breasts where the bodice pressed tight. When he dragged his focus back to her face, his pupils had blown wide and dark.
He swallowed hard, his throat working.
Heat flooded through Isolda and her skin prickled despite the chapel’s chill, every nerve suddenly, acutely aware of him.
“Lady Isolda.” His voice came out rough, almost hoarse. He cleared his throat. “Ye look...”
“Terrified?”
“Fríðr.” The ancient Norse caught in his throat like a prayer. “Beautiful.”
The word stole what little air remained in her lungs and she simply nodded.
The priest cleared his throat with obvious impatience. “Shall we begin?”
