Ragnar’s hand was already drawn back, his knuckles slick. He held the fist there for two heartbeats that felt like hours. Then he dropped his hand and stepped back.
Freyr moved into the gap, crouching to check the prisoner’s pulse. “Still wi’ us.” He glanced up. “Ye done?”
Ragnar’s chest heaved. He turned away, pressing his bloodied knuckles against the cold stone wall, and forced himself to breathe through the red haze still crowding the edges of his vision.
Control it.
Behind him, Freyr spoke to the prisoner. “Now then. Me laird’s goin’ tae stand over there and think calm thoughts fer a moment. “Let’s have a wee chat before he changes his mind.” He paused, hauling the man upright. “Douglas, what daes he want from the lady?”
The man coughed—wet, rattling. When the words came, they were slurred and broken, pushed through a mouth that barely worked. “She’s... worth a lot. More… than coin.”
“Explain.” Freyr’s voice remained pleasant. “Quickly.”
The prisoner spat blood onto the packed earth floor. “Graham wants tae prove that the Pact is a lie. That bindin’ Norse lairds tae Highland brides daesnae make ‘em stronger—makes ‘emstupid.” His one functioning eye found Ragnar’s back. “Every day the Stag spends chasin’ after his wee wife instead of protectin’ his borders is just provin’ the point.”
Ragnar didn’t move. Didn’t turn.
“He daesnae need a hostage,” the man continued, each word costing him visibly. “She’s nae even a target. Graham keeps her threatened, keeps ye runnin’ after her, and every laird from here tae the mainland watches the mighty Stag of Uist unravel over a lass.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Freyr rose slowly, his expression carved from stone. His eyes met Ragnar’s across the dim space.
“Get him tae the dungeon at the keep.” Ragnar’s voice came flat. Empty. “I want every camp, every route, every man Douglas has on his ledger. Ye have until mornin’.”
Freyr’s mouth curved without humor. “And Isolda?”
“I’ll fetch her meself.”
The kirk sat at the village’s western edge, its stone walls blackened on one side from a fire that had come close but hadn’t claimed it. Ragnar pushed through the low doorway and found them in the nave—Liv kneeling beside Isolda on a rough wooden bench, her steady hands tying wrapping linen strip around a graze on Isolda’s forearm.
Isolda looked up the moment he entered.
“Before ye start,” she said, “I’m fine.”
“I didnae say anythin’.”
“Ye didnae have tae. Ye’ve got that look about ye.”
“What look?”
“The one where ye’re decidin’ whether tae shout at me or wrap me in wool and lock me in a tower.” Her chin lifted. “Neither will go well fer ye.”
Liv snorted. “She’s been like this since I sat her down. Willnae hold still, and threatened tae walk back tae the keep on her own if I took too long.”
“I didnaethreaten?—”
“Ye absolutely did, me lady.” Liv said though there was no heat in her voice. She tied off the strip with a neat knot and stood, dusting her hands on her apron. “She’s bruised a wee bit. Naethin’ tae worry about, but she’ll be sore. The scrapes will heal.”
Something jagged moved through Ragnar’s chest. “Ye’re certain’?”
“Stubborn as a mule and twice as ornery.” Liv gathered her supplies into her satchel with brisk movements. “So, aye entirely unchanged, me jarl.”
Isolda shot the healer a look. “Traitor.”
“I’m yer healer, nae yer conspirator.” Liv squeezed Isolda’s shoulder, then turned to Ragnar with an expression that shifted from teasing to serious in a heartbeat. “She needs rest, a warm fire, and someone tae make sure she actually eats somethin’. Can ye manage that without turnin’ it intae a battle?”
“I make nay promises.”
