CHAPTER TWENTY
“Me lady, here’s another blanket fer the night. The cold’s already bitter and foul and I dinnae want ye?—”
“I’ll be just fine with what’s here, thank ye,”
The maid shifted her weight in the doorway, arms laden with enough blankets that Isolda wondered how she’d made it up the staircase.
Three days had passed since the bathhouse. Seventy-two hours of charged silences and heated glances, of conversations carrying an undercurrent of awareness, of hands that didn’t quite touch when the opportunity arose.
Husband and wife had been circling one another like wary wolves, and Isolda had almost convinced herself that she preferred it that way. Every shared meal had become an exercisein restraint—forks pausing mid-air when their eyes met, cups gripped too tightly when their hands accidentally brushed.
“But me lady, this place has gone as cold as a tomb already, and ‘tis only goin’ tae get worse through the night.” Her breath misted in the air between words, visible even with the fire burning in the hearth.
“She said she’ll be fine, Astrid.” The metal poker rang against stone as Ragnar prodded the fire, the sound sharp and brittle.
The maid nodded and passed a fur to Ragnar before scurrying down the corridor. “Though we both ken that’s a damned lie,” he added, once the girl was gone.
Isolda’s hand stilled on the brush she’d been pulling through her hair. “I dinnae recall askin’ fer yer opinion on the matter.”
“Nay, ye never dae.” He stepped away, reaching for another log to toss into the fire and watched as it sent sparks flying into the air. “But ye’re gettin’ it anyway. This isnae Highland cold lass—this is the kind that creeps intae yer bones and settles there before freezin’ ye solid.”
“I’ve survived many a winter?—”
“I ken.” He discarded the poker and turned to face her. “But here’s the thing, lass—survival and comfort arenae the same thing.”
She turned back to the mirror, resuming her brushing with enough force to make her scalp sting, the brush tangling in her knotted hair. “I’m nae some delicate wee thing that needs coddlin’—”
“Nay, ye’re just stubborn enough tae freeze instead of admittin’ ye might need somethin’ from someone else.” He stepped closer. “Why is that?”
“Maybe I just prefer bein’ cold than bein’ fussed over.”
“Or maybe,” his voice came from directly behind her, warmth radiating from his large frame, “ye’re just too proud tae listen.”
Her hand stilled mid stroke.
“Let me.” His fingers covered hers on the brush, warm and rough. “At this rate ye’ll tear yer hair out.”
“I can manage?—”
“I ken ye can.” The brush slipped from her fingers “But let me. Please.”
Isolda tilted her head forward in surrender and felt the first careful stroke of the brush through her tangled hair. He worked slowly, methodically, untangling each knot without yanking, and despite herself, she relaxed into it.
The rhythmic pull of the brush sent pleasant tingles shooting across her scalp.
“Since when dae ye ken how tae brush hair?” the question slipped out before she could stop it.
His hand paused for just a heartbeat before continuing. “Me maither. She let me brush hers.” Another stroke, gentle and sure. “She used tae say a man who kens how tae be gentle wi’ small things willnae turn cruel when it matters.”
“Isolda’s eyes drifted closed. “Was she right?”
“I’d like tae think so.”
This wasn’t the intimacy of passion or tenderness—it was something quieter and more real.
“There.” He set the brush aside, his other hand lingering against her shoulder, the fingers curling briefly against the fabric of her shift. “Better?”
She opened her eyes and met his gaze in the mirror. “Aye,” she managed. “Thank ye.”
