She frowned at him. “Ye cannae promise them that?—”
“Nay. But I can dae everythin’ in me power tae make them safer than they are now.” He paused, then added quietly. “Same as I dae wi’ ye.”
Before she could respond, a man approached with silver streaks in his beard and shrewd eyes that settled on her with uncomfortable intensity.
“Me jarl,” he said with a respectful nod. “Might I have a word?”
“Aye.” Ragnar turned toward Isolda. “This is Rolf, the village elder—m wife, Lady Isolda.”
“Me lady.” Rolf’s bow was polite but perfunctory. “Beggin’ yer pardon, but clan business?—”
“She stays.”
Rolf’s eyebrows rose but his mouth snapped shut.
Ragnar’s hand found the small of Isolda’s back. “Speak freely, man.”
What followed was a detailed discussion about storage capacity, rationing schedules and worries about whether Douglas’s men might strike the farms during harvest. Isolda listened, absorbing the information and watching the way Ragnar navigated the conversation—firm, but fair.
Ragnar turned to her “What d’ye think?”
Every eye in the vicinity swiveled toward Isolda, and Rolf’s expression turned sour. “Me jarl, wi’ respect, these matters are nae?—”
“What?” His voice remained pleasant, but there was a dangerous flicker in his blue eyes. “Suitable fer a lass? Too complex fer me wife’s delicate sensibilities?”
Rolf’s mouth pressed into a thin, hard line.
“Because if that’s what ye’re implyin’,” Ragnar continued, his tone deceptively mild, “I’d suggest ye reconsider. Fast. Mewifejust spent the mornin’ tendin’ tae the wounded, so I suggest ye let her speak.”
Isolda’s heart stuttered and she took a deep breath. “If ye’re concerned about raids on the farms,” she began carefully, “why put everythin’ in one location? Daes that nae make fer an easy target?”
“Aye, but the alternative requires movin’ and transportin’ hundreds of grain sacks,” Rolf said.
“Aye ‘twill be hard work, but isnae that better than losin’ the entire harvest in one raid?” She countered.
Silence fell around the assembled crowd before Rolf’s voice hardened. “So, we should take advice from a Highlander while one of ‘em plots our destruction?—”
“Choose yer next words carefully.”
“She hasnae earned therétt?—”
“Enough.” The word cracked through the square. Ragnar didn’t shout—the quiet fury was more terrifying than any roar. He stepped toward her, stopping close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, then he turned, positioning himself between her and Rolf.
“Ye want tae talk about earnin’ theright?” Ragnar’s voice dropped. “She’s the Lady of Uist. What more d’ye need?”
Rolf’ shoulders sagged slightly. “Forgive me, me jarl… the grief can?—”
“I ken.” His voice softened fractionally. “But dinnae let it make ye cruel tae those who dinnae deserve it, man.”
Rolf nodded, then turned to Isolda, his expression shifting into grudging respect. “Forgive me, me lady. Ye didnae deserve me treatin’ ye so. Yer idea is good.”
Ragnar nodded, and when he spoke next, the pride in his voice warmed Isolda’s chest. “See it done. I want the grain moved within’ the week.”
The old man nodded and withdrew, leaving them standing in the village square with sharp afternoon sunlight warming the ground beneath their feet.
“Ye didnae have tae dae that.” Isolda said quietly.
“Dae what?”
