Page 2 of The Vicious Laird
“Ye are the daughter of a laird, and yer faither has full right tae pledge ye in marriage tae secure peace between the Highland clans and the Norse jarls of the western Isles.” The Mother Superior’s eyes held genuine sympathy, which somehow made it worse.
“But surely ye cannae just deny me?—”
“The Church is aware of the Pact and supports it. King Alexander himself decreed these unions—tae refuse would be treason. Ye might be of mind tae dae so, but the Church will nae act against the Crown.”
I was trapped before I’d even begun…
Isolda’s hands lay still in her lap, though her nails bit into her palms. She swallowed the panic down.
“Then I’ll leave. Try tae find refuge somewhere else. Can ye please wait before informin’—”
The Mother Superior’s expression shifted—not quite pity, but something close to it. “Yer betrothed has already arrived at Iona. He came tae take custody of ye. Yer faither must have figured out yer plans or read yer letters and he took… care of everything.”
Already here?
Isolda shot to her feet, the stool scraping loudly against the stone floor. “Nay. I will nae…ye cannae expect me tae simply?—”
A knock at the door cut her off and the sound echoed through the small chamber.
“‘Tis time, child,” the elderly woman said as she rose to her feet.
“Who?” the word came out sharp. “Who has he promised me tae, Maither Superior?”
The door swung open and heavy footsteps crossed the threshold, bringing with them the scent of leather and rain.
Isolda remained frozen, her back to the door. Her heart raced, but she felt numb, as though she were watching it happen to someone else. She forced herself to turn slowly, forced her eyes to lift despite every instinct screaming at her to run.
And then she saw him.
The man was large—broad shouldered and tall, filling the doorway with a presence that threatened to suck all the air out of the tiny chamber. Perhaps thirty summers, maybe less—far younger than she’d expected for a man with his reputation. At one-and-twenty, she’d always imagined she’d be given to some grizzled warrior twice her father’s age.
He had dark blonde hair that had been cropped short—shorter than most Highlanders. He had angular features, high cheekbones and a strong jaw with steady blue eyes that studied her with an intensity she couldn’t name.
Och… he’s braw…
The observation rose unbidden and unwelcome. This wasn’t the scarred brute she’d imagined. Not the monster she’d thought, but just a man with a face that held none of the cruelty she’d prepared herself for.
And somehow, that just made everything worse.
“Lady Isolda MacGregor,” The Mother Superior said, her voice seeming to come from very far away. “This is Ragnar Ketilsson, Jarl of Uist.”
The Stag.
She knew that name. Everyone in the Highlands knew that name. He was one of the five Viking warlords who’d carved kingdoms from Scottish soil with blood and steel. A man whose reputation for ruthlessness had made mothers use his name to frighten their children into obedience.
And she was meant to marry him.
Isolda stood paralyzed, caught between the numbness of shock and the cold certainty settling like ice in her chest. Her last hope had died the moment that door had opened. Her future—the one she’d tried so desperately to claim as her own—had just been ripped away forever.
She met Ragnar Ketilsson’s steady blue gaze, and felt nothing but the terrible, hollow ache of defeat.
His voice, when it came, was low and certain. “Lady MacGregor. I’ve come tae take ye tae Uist.”
