“I ken that.” His voice went rough, the sound pooling between her thighs. “Daesnae mean I have tae like it, daes it?”
Maybe the Viking isnae all savage after all.
“Me lady?” a small voice cut through her thoughts.
Isolda turned to find a girl of perhaps six standing beside her, wringing her hands nervously. Her dress was patched, but clean, and her hair braided neatly.
“Aye, sweetlin’?” she crouched down to meet her at eye level, vaguely aware of Ragnar stepping back to give them space.
“Me mam says I should ask ye proper, nae just take it.” The girl’s words tumbled out fast, her eyes darting toward their table. “Theres a honey cake left on yer plate, and I havenae had one in forever and they smell so good, and?—”
Isolda grabbed the girl’s hand and walked over to the table. “Here,” she reached for her plate, pressing the treat into the girl’s small hands. “Take it. And if ye want more, I’ll have the jarl give ye his also.”
The girl’s eyes went wide. “Truly?”
“Aye.” Isolda smoothed a hand over the child’s head. “What’s yer name, wee one?”
“Brynn.”
“Well, Brynn, ye can always ask me fer things.” She glanced at the woman hovering nervously a few tables away—the girl’s mother, clearly uncertain whether she should intervene. “Tell yer mam there’s nay need tae worry. If ye’re hungry, ye just come find me, aye?”
Brynn clutched the honey cake like treasure and bobbed in a lopsided curtsy before darting back to her mother, who caught Isolda’s ye and mouthed a grateful thank you.
When Isolda straightened, Ragnar was towering over her, watching her with an expression she hadn’t seen before.
“What?”
“Ye didnae even hesitate. She asked, and ye just… gave.”
“Well, she was hungry.”
“Aye.” His hand found hers again, thumb tracing her knuckles. “Ye didnae ask fer permission.”
Isolda frowned. “Why would I need yer permission tae give food tae a bairn—or anyone else fer that matter?”
“Ye dinnae.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “That’s me point.”
Before she could parse the meaning in his words, he steered her toward the door, away from the noise and warmth and too many curious eyes.
“We’re leavin’?”
“Aye, we’re gettin’ some air.” His voice held quiet amusement. “Unless ye’d like tase stay and let Alf compose ballads about yer beauty.”
“He wouldnae?—”
“Och, he absolutely would. And they’d be terrible.” Ragnar pushed the door open, letting in a rush of cold evening air carrying the salty tang of the sea. “Trust me, that’s nae somethin’ ye want tae experience, little wolf.”
The night was clear and cold, stars splattered across the sky like diamonds stuck in velvet.
The square stretched quiet before them, empty save for a few torches guttering in their brackets and the distant crash of waves against the shore. Isolda took a deep breath, letting the air clear her head.
Behind them, the tavern still pulsed with life and laughter—the celebration continuing without them.
They walked on in silence, the castle looming ahead while somewhere overhead, an owl called, lonely and wild.
Her hand found his without thinking.
She felt him go still for just a fraction of a second—then his fingers closed around hers, warm and certain. Neither of them said anything at all, they just kept walking.
The keep rose ahead of them, and beyond its walls waited a shared bed, a shared chamber, a shared life she hadn’t chosen.
Except, in that moment, Isolda found that she might like it.
