His mouth curved. “Ye’re welcome. Now, we should get some rest.”
The bed was wide enough for the careful distance they’d been maintaining since the wedding and Isolda climbed in first, pulling the blanket up to her chin and determinedly facing the wall.
The mattress dipped as Ragnar settled on his side, the wool rustling as he arranged his own blankets.
“Isolda.”
“What?”
“Are ye certain ye dinnae want?—”
“I’m fine.”
“Ye’re determined tae be difficult about this, arenae ye?”
Despite herself, her lips twitched. “Well, there’s nay sport in makin’ things easy fer ye, husband.”
His exhale came quietly—half laugh, half sigh. She closed her eyes, curling tighter beneath the wholly insufficient blanket as the cold seeped through the wool, settling into her marrow just as he’d warned.
Sleep came to her in intervals—shallow and restless.
The sound of footsteps pulled her back. The room had gone darker with the fire burned down to glowing embers. Then, she felt it—a weight settling over her, warm and smelling distinctly ofhim. The blanket.
She strained in the darkness finding his silhouette near the door. He moved carefully, quietly, pulling on his boots before reaching for his cloak.
“Ragnar?”
He stilled. “Go back tae sleep, lass. I need tae see tae the patrol?—”
“At this hour?”
“Aye, Freyr’s down wi’ somethin’—probably that fish stew he had fer supper. Someone needs tae check the watch.” He fastened his cloak, his voice carrying amusement.
“Ye didnae have tae?—”
“Aye, I did.” He paused. “Get some sleep, I’ll be back before dawn.”
The door clicked shut and Isolda laid there wrapped in the fur blanket and tried not to think too hard about what it meant that she didn’t want to give it back.
When the mattress dipped again, the windows showed only the faintest gray of pre-dawn.
Isolda kept her eyes closed and her breathing even as his weight settled on the far side of the mattress.
The fire popped and snapped—evidence that he’d stoked it before settling into bed, and slowly, warmth began creeping back into the chamber.
When she awoke again, by the time morning’s light finally crept through the frost-etched windows, Ragnar’s arm was draped around her waist. He lay behind her, his chest pressed against her back, one arm curved around her as if he’d done it a hundred times before, his breathing slow and even.
The fur he’d given her had slipped halfway down the bed sometime during the night, abandoned in favor of a better source of warmth.
She should pull away, put distance before them before he woke. But her body refused to cooperate, too warm, too comfortable and utterly too content that close to him.
She could feel every single point of contact between their bodies. His breath came hot against the nape of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. Then, his thumb moved—just the barest shift against her ribs, tracing the underside of bone through the thin linen.
“Isolda.” Her name emerged, rough with sleep and something darker.
She shifted—barely, but just enough to push her buttocks into his abdomen.
The sound he made was quiet—a guttural vibration that she felt in her chest while his hand flexed against her, his fingers spreading wider as he pressed his hips forward.
