The look that crossed the wife of Ragnar’s face was one that spoke of intense concetration and for the briefest of moments Ragnar had fallen for it, stunned that she actually had to think about it. The question itself had been simple: was it a challenge? If it was Ragnar would have no qualms about rising to meet it and if it wasn’t he intended to grumble about how his wife was a stríða: a tease. Any lingering tendril of doubt the Viking might have had about Thistle’s desire for him vanished when the smile lit up her face her words came out as a taunting question. Did he want it to be a challenge? Yes, he rather thought that he did wish for it to be a challenge. He offered her an impish, coy little grin when she stated to him with defiance that she could handle his lecherous thoughts and then some; reminding Ragnar that the naive, innocent little girl (maybe not little) she had been when he had scooped her up as his fourth wife was …maybe not gone but at least mostly absent these days. He liked that she could keep him on his toes, though. The more he watched Thistle come into herself, who she truly was under the overly trusting demeanor she had had when he had first meant her, the stronger she proved to be. She was not meek, or what Ragnar would even consider cute or pretty anymore. She was beautiful. A woman. A shield maiden.
Even if she, herself, did not take note of the changes Ragnar had.