CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Well, I’ll be! ‘Tis the Stag himself gracin’ us with his presence!”
The barkeep’s voice boomed across the sudden silence. He wiped his hands on a stained apron before gesturing broadly at the packed room. “Me jarl, me lady. Come on in! We’ve been waitin’ fer ye both!”
Isolda blinked, momentarily thrown by the warmth in his tone.
“Helmund.” Ragnar’s voice carried that same quiet authority it always did, but his posture was slightly relaxed. “I didnae ken ye were holdin’ a feast.”
“Och, we cannae let yer weddin’ pass wi’out proper celebration!” Helmund’s grin split his weathered face. “Ye’ve given us enough gatherin’s over the years, butthis? This is worth a few rounds of ale on the house!”
A cheer erupted from the assembled crowd, cups raised high.
Isolda’s spine stiffened—every eye in the room had fixed on them with varying degrees of curiosity, amusement, and approval.
“Clear a spot fer them, lads!” An older woman rose from her bench, already shoving people aside with her walking stick. “The jarl’s wife looks half-frozen, and if she faints from the cold, we’ll answer fer it.”
“I wish everyone would stop fussin’ over me,” Isolda muttered, but the crowd was already parting, ushering them to a table near the massive hearth where a fire roared.
The tavern pressed in close around them—low ceilings blackened by years of peat smoke, tallow candles guttering in their sconces.
Isolda took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of mutton fat, spilled ale and unwashed bodies.
A string of cod hung from the rafters near the door, swaying slightly whenever someone passed beneath them, and she noticed the benches were worn smooth. A cat picked its way between boots, hunting for scraps.
“Tae the Stag and his bride!” Helmund raised his cup high. “May yer union bring peace tae these shores, plenty strappin’sons tae carry on yer line, and just enough trouble tae keep life interestin’.”
Laughter rippled through the room as cups clinked and voices joined in enthusiastic agreement. Isolda took a careful sip of the mulled wine that was thrust in front of her, letting the warmth spread through her chest as she scanned the faces around them.
“What’s that look fer?” Ragnar asked quietly, his breath stirring the loose strands of hair near her temple.
“I didnae expect…” she trailed off as platters of food appeared at their table—roasted mutton and freshly baked bread. “Hospitality.”
“Aye, well,” his voice carried an odd note she couldn’t quite name. “They’ve been waitin’ tae welcome ye properly.”
“By feedin’ me until I burst?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “As is the Highland way?”
“Aye, but ye’re Norse.”
“I’ve picked up on a few things,” he reached for his own cup, and their fingers brushed—the contact barely lasted a heartbeat, but Isolda felt it like a brand. “Besides, Liv would have me head if I let ye starve.”
As if summoned by her name, the healer appeared at their table with an impish smile and a basket of something. She lifted the cloth up, and Isolda peeked inside. “Honey cakes. Still warm. I nabbed ‘em fer ye before the lads devour everythin’.”
“Ye spoil us, Liv.”
“Well, me jarl, someone has tae.” Her sharp eyes flicked between them, her smile deepening before she scurried off into the crowd.
“Here.” Ragnar tore off a piece of bread and offered it to her, steam rising from the soft loaf. “Ye said ye were?—”
“I said I wantedale.”
“Ye also said ye’d kick me if I treated ye like a lady.” The corner of his mouth twitched with that same quiet amusement she was starting to recognize.
Around them, the feast swelled into full celebration. Fiddles played quick, lively tunes that made feet tap and voices rise. Children darted between tables, shrieking with laughter as they played a game with no regard whatsoever for the adults.
“They’ll be at it ‘till dawn.” Ragnar noted, eyeing the chaos with something that might have been fondness.
