He spoke in a mixture of Norse and Latin that blended together. Isolda tried to focus but kept losing the thread, because of the languages but mostly because she was distracted by Ragnar’s solid presence beside her.
When he shifted and his arm brushed the silk of her dress, lightning shot through her. Her pulse jumped.
This means naethin’. ‘Tis just nerves.
But her body didn’t seem to believe the lie.
The priest’s voice droned on. Something about duty and honor and the binding of two peoples. Isolda’s attention snagged on Ragnar’s hands—scarred knuckles, callused palms, blunt fingers that had held her so carefully. She wondered what they would feel like against her bare skin.
Heat crawled up her neck at the thought.
“Lady Isolda?”
She blinked, realizing the priest had asked her something. “Aye?”
“Dae ye take this man as yer husband, bound by law and witness, forsakin’ all others until death claims one of ye?”
The words lodged in her throat. That was it—the moment that changed everything. She could refuse. Could walk away. Could face the King’s wrath and whatever consequences followed.
Or she could choose this. Choosehim.
Isolda turned to face Ragnar fully. In his eyes, she saw no triumph. No possession. As if her answer actually mattered to him.
“Aye,” she whispered. “I take him.”
“And ye, Ragnar Ketilsson? Dae ye take this woman as yer wife, tae protect and provide fer, tae honor above all others until death separates ye?”
“Aye.” His voice rang clear through the chapel. “I take her.”
The priest bound their hands with a length of white cloth. “Then by the power vested in me by His Majesty, King Alexander, and by the grace of the Almighty, I declare ye husband and wife. What’s been joined this day, let nay man tear asunder.”
Isolda stood frozen, still bound to Ragnar by cloth and promise, her heat hammering with something other than fear. She looked up at him expectantly, but instead of reaching down to kiss her, he lifted their joined hands and faced the crowd.
“Skál!” he cheered, and despite herself, Isolda felt strangely disappointed.
The feast in the Great Hall stretched into evening. Torchlight danced across long tables laden with roasted meats, fresh bread, and mead that flowed like water. Musicians played wild melodies on fiddles and drums that vibrated in Isolda’s chest.
She sat beside Ragnar at the high table, painfully aware of every eye watching them.
“There she is!” Ivar cheered, his cup raised enthusiastically. “Tae the Lady of Uist, may the gods grant her the patience of a saint and the spine of a warrior—she’ll need both tae survive bein’ married tae our Stag!”
Laughter rippled through the hall. Ragnar’s jaw tensed but he said nothing.
“Ignore him.” Erik said flatly from across the table. “We all dae.”
“I heard that!” Ivar called. “And here I thought we were blood braithers, Wolf. But nay, yewoundme.”
“Och, ye’ll survive,” Claricia said. “Ye always dae—ye’re like a particularly stubborn weed, Ivar!”
“Aye, but willshe?” his black eyes settled on Isolda with unnerving intensity. “I’m givin’ it… what? Three days before she tries tae smother him with his own pillow?”
“Careful now.” Magnus warned quietly.
“I’m merely expressin’ me concern.” Ivar’s smile was all teeth, but not unkind. “After all, Ragnar’s reputation fer bein’… thorough… might prove exhaustin’ fer a wee Highland lass used tae the gentle touch of nuns.”
Isolda’s face burned but she met his gaze. “Funny… I’ve heard similar things about ye, Ivar.”
“Have ye now?”
