“We should…” she couldn’t finish the thought.
“Aye.” He agreed, his voice low. “We should.”
His lips parted against the nape of her neck—not quite a kiss—just breath and heat and the faintest scrape of stubble that sent heat shooting between her thighs.
Her hand found his where it rested against her ribs, but instead of pushing him away, her fingers threaded through his, feeling the roughness of his fingers. She guided it—just an inch, just enough so that his thumb settled beneath the curve of her breast.
He made the sound again. “Isolda,” he said, half warning, half plea. “What are ye?—”
“I dinnae ken what I want,” she whispered, “I only ken I dinnae want ye tae let go.”
His arm tightened around her waist, hauling her backwards and pressing her flat against him, the hard length of him pressing insistently against her through the layers of linen, wool and fur. Then, his hand moved higher, thumb just barely grazing the curve of her breast, and her breath stuttered.
Every mornin’ can be like this…
The thought slipped through.
A knock at the door shattered the moment.
Isolda jumped, her heart thumping in her throat.
Ragnar’s arm tightened, capturing her against him in the bed, and for a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then the knock came again, more insistent this time.
“I’ll…” he released her slowly, his hand trailing reluctantly across her waist before he sat up, scrubbing both hands over his face. “Aye, stop yer hammerin’, I’m comin’!”
He crossed to the door while Isolda scrambled to smooth her hair, her shift, trying her absolute best to look like she hadn’t just been wrapped in his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.
A young messenger stood in the corridor, breathless and wind-chapped, snow clinging to his cloak. “Beggin’ yer pardon fer the interruption, me jarl, but there’s a letter arrived fer Lady Isolda.”
“Fer me?” her voice rang out high.
“Aye, me lady,” he said as he handed the letter to Ragnar. “From MacGregor lands.”
Ragnar took the sealed roll of parchment, studying the wax seal with narrowed eyes before closing the door and carrying it to her.
Isolda’s hands trembled as she broke the wax with her fingernails and unfolded the scroll with numb fingers.
Her eyes skimmed the words once, then again, the casual cruelty in the words shattering her last remnants of hope.
Daughter,
I hereby acknowledge receipt of yer letter requesting a visit from me and I have tae confess meself befuddled as tae the purpose of such a journey.
Ye are the Lady of Uist now. That is the sum of it.
Ye have yer place, as we all have ours. The alliance stands strong, and the clan moves forward.
Yer duty now is tae yer husband and the Pact. I implore ye tae uphold it.
Laird Malcolm MacGregor.
The parchment crumpled in her fist as the words swam before her eyes, each one another small cruelty, her need for fatherly affection reduced to some incomprehensible puzzle. The letter felt heavy in her hands—weighted with a lifetime’s worth of dismissal.
“Isolda?” Ragnar’s voice came from far away, muffled. “What daes it say?”
His hands settled on her shoulders, warm and steady—shattering the careful control she’d maintained with little more than stubbornness.
