Page 3 of The Vicious Laird
CHAPTER TWO
“Iassume ye have accommodations fer us, Maither Superior?”
The words came out colder than the storm howling beyond the stone walls of Iona Nunnery. It wasn’t a question, but a statement that forced him to either confirm or correct her, giving her some illusion of control in a situation where she had none. Isolda kept her focus on the elderly nun, though she felt the Viking’s gaze bore into the back of her head.
The Mother Superior’s brows lifted slightly. “Whether ye are tae take rest at Iona, or depart is fer Jarl Ketilsson tae say, child.”
Of course. I’m at his mercy now.
“We leave. Now.”
The deep voice reverberated through the tiny chamber—clipped with an edge that brooked no argument. Isolda’s teeth clenched, but she turned to face him.
He’d moved and was standing closer than before, and the proximity revealed details that shock had still blurred out moments ago. His hands rested at his sides—large, their scarred knuckles telling of a man who fought with fists as often as blades. A dirk hung at his belt, the hilt worn smooth from use. When he shifted his weight, the movement was economical, purposeful, like a predator deciding whether to strike or simply observe.
He daesnae fill silence with words. He just… waits.
Most men of her acquaintance needed to prove themselves constantly—especially to noble ladies. Her brothers, her father, every single man she had met was loud and demanding attention. But this man, this Viking, simply existed, radiating the kind of authority that required no assertion.
“Ye cannae possibly expect me tae?—”
“Immediately.” He said flatly.
“I’ve ridden three days without?—”
“The storm gives us cover. We go while it holds.” His tone allowed no debate. “I am Ragnar Ketilsson, Jarl of Uist and yerhusband by the King’s decree whether ye like it or nae. And I say we go now.”
Blunt oaf!
No pleasantries, no attempt to soften the blow. Isolda might have appreciated the honesty if it didn’t seal her fate so completely.
“Och, I ken perfectly well who ye are.” She met his gaze directly, refusing to look away. “The Stag of Uist. Every maither in the Highlands uses yer name tae frighten their wee bairns intae bed.”
“And yet ye’re nae runnin’.” Something almost like approval flickered across his features. “That’s a start, I suppose.”
But what surprised her—what she hadn’t expected from a man with his reputation—was that he made no move to block her path. Didn’t loom or threaten. He just stood there with that same rough certainty, as though he’d already calculated every possible escape route and dismissed them all as pointless.
Arrogant. Vikings seem tae excel at that particular sin.
“All right. But I need tae relieve meself before we go.”
The request hung in the air between them. The Mother Superior’s expression flickered in surprise at the indelicacy—but Isolda was past caring about propriety. Besides, if shewasgoing to be dragged off to the very edge of the world by a Norse warlord, the least she deserved was one last moment of dignity. Even if it was just pretend.
“There’s a passage just beyond?—”
“Aye, thank ye, Maither. I saw it when I arrived.” Isolda was already moving toward the door. “I willnae be long.”
“Perhaps Sister Margaret should escort?—”
“I dinnae need an escort tae find a privy.” She pulled the door open, feeling Ragnar’s gaze track her movement.
“Five minutes,” he said, the warning clear in his tone. “Nay more.”
Something in the way he said it made her pause, hand still on the door. There wasn’t anger, not even suspicion, just… certainty. As though he knew exactly what she planned and was giving her enough rope to hang herself with.
Either way, she’d make the most of every second he gave her.
Isolda stepped into the corridor without answering, refusing to look back. The moment the door closed behind her, she lifted her sodden skirts and moved—not running but walking with the swift purposefulness of someone who knew exactly where they were going.
