Come Back to Me (49 page)

"What is it?" Dragon asked.

"There is a man, lord, just off a ship from Normandy. He's in the tavern over there and he's asking for the Lady Rycca."

"Is he? What manner of man?"

"Tall, slender, actually he looks rather like her ladyship. He says she is his sister and he seeks word of her."

"Does Rycca have yet another brother?" Wolf asked. He was close to Dragon and had overheard the exchange. The news had him fingering the hilt of his sword.

"Yes, she does, but I gather he's an altogether different sort. Do you mind finishing up here?"

"Not at all. Go ahead."

Scant minutes later, Dragon set a horn of ale in front of the visitor from Normandy. The young man looked up, startled. He was pale skinned, with eyes like honey and hair that held the promise of fire. Had Rycca been a man, she would have looked just like him.

Happy, happy day that she was not.

"What brings you to Hawkforte, friend?" Dragon asked as he took the seat opposite his new acquaintance.

"I seek word of my sister, the Lady Rycca of Wolscroft. I have had troubling word of her in Normandy and wish to be assured of her safety."

Trouble involving Rycca? How astonishing. Dragon hid a grin and said, "You would be called—?"

"Thurlow. And you are—?"

This time, Dragon's smile would not be denied. "Ah, well, as to that, therein hangs a tale."

AN HOUR OR SO LATER, RYCCA LOOKED UP FROM the last of the chests she was packing in the great hall of Hawkforte and beheld a sight that seemed out of a dream. Her beloved husband was walking toward her accompanied by her beloved brother. Slowly, she got to her feet.

"Th-thurlow… ?"

His face, so very like her own, lit with pleasure. "Rycca, dear sister! I rejoice to find you well!"

They hugged fiercely while Dragon looked on with as much contentment as he could have mustered had he personally arranged the reunion of the twins.

"I don't understand," Rycca said when she could speak again. Her throat was very tight and tears gleamed in her eyes but she could not stop smiling. "Why are you here?"

"I heard a wild rumor in Normandy, about you fleeing from the marriage arranged for you by the king himself," he said, with a chiding shake of his head. "Really, Rycca, what were you thinking? Dragon here is an exemplary fellow. How could you have not wanted to marry him?"

Over her brother's shoulder, Rycca sent the fine fellow in question a look that would have turned a lesser man to ash. Dragon merely raised his eyebrows, the very image of wounded innocence.

"It was a little more complicated than he may have explained to you."

"Nonsense," Thurlow said with all the certainty of a very young man whose heart is nonetheless in the right place. "I love you dearly, sister, but we both know you can be a tad impulsive. Fortunately, I am assured Dragon will take excellent care of you."

Rycca laughed then and reached out a hand to her husband, who took it with a grin. As she drew him to her, she said softly, "As I will care for him, brother."

After a moment of sweet contemplation of the man she loved beyond life itself, she returned her attention to Thurlow. Gently, she asked, "Has Dragon told you—?"

"Of Father? Yes, he has." Her twin sighed deeply. "I will pray for his soul. No doubt his death en route to Winchester was an accident."

Rycca nodded although she knew they would never be certain of that. Mayhap Wolscroft truly had panicked when he attempted to escape. But his fatal fall off the very cliff from which she had soared free hinted at the darker side of his soul. Wherever he was now, she prayed he would find mercy and ultimately redemption.

"And our brothers sent into exile," Thurlow continued on a note of wonder. He was grappling with the extraordinary fact that those who had made his life and Rycca's so anguished were simply vanished.

"Which means," his sister said softly, "that you are Wolscroft now. Lucky are that land and people for I know they will blossom under your care."

Her brother nodded. He looked humbled by the sudden, stunning change in his circumstances but also determined to do his best.

As would they all. Rycca left her twin and went into Dragon's arms. From their safety, she watched as Wolf and Cymbra came into the hall. Wolf was carrying Lion and the three were laughing over something. Close behind came Hawk and Krysta, Falcon nestled in his father's arms. Smiling, they joined the others.

The sun came out just then from behind a cloud and shining through the high windows filled the hall with a golden radiance. For just a moment, it seemed to Rycca that everything slowed down and very nearly stopped. A single mote of dust hung suspended before her eyes, whirling, dancing, revealing in its simplicity the miracle of a timeless moment made radiant by love and the peace it had wrought.

Then Dragon lifted her hand and gently kissed it, and she felt his touch clear through to the very essence of her immortal self. Time moved on again, carrying them with it, yet she knew that for them there always would be the moment everlasting. Truly, blessed are the peacemakers.

DARKNESS NOW DESCENDS BUT BRIGHT TORCHES light the night just as love and the dream of peace will shine through all the years to come. Far into the future, the descendants of these three couples will themselves meet their own challenges, live their own adventures, and find their own enduring blessing in everlasting love.

JOSIE LITTON lives in New England where she is happily at work on a new trilogy of historical romances. She is also at home at
www.josielitton.com
.

Read on for a preview of

DREAM

OF ME

the first passionate book in Josie Litton's dual volume

DREAM OF ME and

BELIEVE IN ME

CYMBRA LEANED BACK, RESTING HER HEAD against the rim of the leather tub, and sighed deeply. Warm water lapped at her limbs. The scent of herbs sprinkled in the bath teased gently at her nostrils. The soft crackle of the fire and Miriam's quiet movements were the only sounds in the chamber. For the first time in far too many hours she could relax and, just perhaps, gather her thoughts.

What thoughts they were! She knew very little of Vikings except that they seemed to be of two types—merchants and raiders. Despite her claim to Sir Derward, she didn't really suppose that the difference was questionable. The prisoners didn't look like the sort who would want to sell her a few lengths of cloth. Yet neither had they behaved as the brutal killers and despoilers that Derward had branded them.

Authority was very weak in parts of England, with the result that the Danes had seized control over broad swaths of land. They were poised to seize even more, and might if men like her brother didn't succeed in stopping them.

Which made these Vikings… what? Even as she told herself it wasn't her problem to solve, her mind could not resist turning over the puzzle. Nor could it keep from drifting irresistibly to the leader, the tall, heavily muscled man with the midnight-black hair and the icy gray eyes.

No, that wasn't quite true. His eyes weren't always icy. There had been times when they brushed her like white-hot fire.

She didn't want to think about that, mustn't think of it. Her body felt oddly heavy, especially between her legs, where a hot, moist sensation was building. She glanced down, surprised to see that her nipples were peaked, and flushed. Quickly she rose from the bath and seized the drying cloth Miriam had thoughtfully laid nearby. With that wrapped around her, she felt a little calmer.

Seated by the fire, she murmured her thanks as Miriam began to brush out her hair. As always, the motion soothed her but she stopped it before very long. Miriam's hands were sore now more often than not, and the unguents Cymbra made for her didn't always take the pain away completely. Gently, she laid her hand over the old nurse's.

"I'm sorry I worried you today."

Miriam sighed. She sat down beside the young woman who had been her charge since the tender age of three days, when Cymbra's own lady mother had passed beyond the veil of this world. She loved Cymbra dearly but she didn't pretend to understand her in the slightest.

"You terrified me." She shook her head in bewilderment, sparse strands of gray hair escaping from beneath her wimple. "How could you do such a thing? Much as I hate to say it, Sir Derward is right, Vikings are animals. They could have killed you without a second thought."

"What should we do then?" Cymbra asked softly. "Kill everything we fear? If we do that, others will fear us and seek to kill us in turn. It will never end. One cruelty begets the next endlessly."

The old nurse shrugged. " 'Tis the way of this world. No man can change that, and certainly no woman can."

Cymbra sighed and rose, standing before the copper brazier that dispelled the evening's chill. Her shoulders and arms were bare, the cloth barely covering the swell of her breasts. She shivered slightly. "Perhaps not, but still I must try. There is too much pain."

Miriam cast her a quick look. "You never speak of that anymore."

Both women shared a memory of the very young Cymbra, screaming and screaming, unable to explain what was wrong. It happened many times… when a stable boy cut his foot on a scythe, when a kitchen maid was scalded with water, when a warrior died of a wound that would not heal.

That had been the worst, going on for days until finally the Hawk had drugged her with the juice of poppy brought from far lands and sat, holding her in his arms, through an endless day and night, his face grim as he decided what had to be done.

Holyhood became her sanctuary. Safe within it, she learned how to control what was at once gift and curse. Miriam didn't know how, could only dimly imagine the struggle Cymbra had waged. She'd won in the end, though at great cost. Now she could care for the injured and ill, even for the dying, without making their pain her own. She felt it still, Miriam was sure of that, but she managed to keep it apart from herself. Usually.

"There is nothing to speak of," Cymbra assured her with a smile. She drew the cloth more closely around herself and stared into the flames, but instead of seeing them she seemed to see only midnight-black hair, burnished skin, and eyes the color of slate. She shook her head, impatient with herself, and dropped the cloth, reaching for her bed robe.

"Go to your rest, Miriam," she said as she wriggled the garment over her head: Emerging from the mass of gossamer linen, she tugged her hair free—no small task in itself—grinned, and gave the old nurse a kiss. "Heaven knows, you earn it putting up with me."

Clucking a denial Miriam did as she was bid. When the door had closed behind her, Cymbra stretched her arms far above her head, standing on tiptoe, and made a small sound of contentment as more of the tension eased. She needed to sleep yet felt oddly energized, as though the day had lasted minutes instead of hours.

Tomorrow word would come from Hawk about the fate of the prisoners. She drew her brows together as she wondered what her brother would decide. Likely he would have them brought to him at Hawkforte to judge them for himself. She would never see the gray-eyed man again. Not that it mattered, couldn't, shouldn't matter. Why then did she ache?

Thought of sleep fled. She glanced around the chamber that had been hers most of her life. There near the brazier was her needlework, awaiting her hand. There, too, was the chest holding her medicines and precious manuscripts. Her lute was on a table next to the wooden coffer that held her paper, pens, and inks. All manner of distractions beckoned but she could not settle on any of them. Instead, she opened the door that led out onto the tower walkway just beyond her room. The night was cool but she felt unaccountably warm. The perimeter wall of the tower came almost to her shoulders. Her modesty was well protected as she stepped out, clad only in her night robe.

Protected surely from anyone on the ground. But not protected from the man who stood in the shadows of the walkway, watching her every movement. Wolf gazed at the play of light and shadow over her exquisite form and fought for the self-control that always before had been as natural as his next breath. No more.

Having scaled the tower, a simple feat, only to find the old woman in the room, he had waited, unable to tear his eyes away as Cymbra bathed, rose from the tub, draped herself in that ridiculously thin cloth. Then, as if to finish him off, discarded it in favor of a bed robe that couldn't have protected her from a balmy breeze, much less from his eyes.

In the northlands, people dressed sensibly—or not at all. She would have to adjust to that.

And rather more than that.

The men he had sent into Holyhood the preceding day disguised as merchants had done their job with expected precision. The guards outside the cell lay unconscious, bound and gagged. So, too, the guards on the palisade wall. His men kept vigil by the great hall just in case Derward or any of the others arose, but there was slim likelihood of that. They were all snoring deeply.

That left the Lady Cymbra—completely unprotected.

She was close enough for him to touch, a vision of pale beauty caressed by starlight. He smelled the fragrance of her skin, felt the brush of a strand of her hair lifted by the night wind. He heard her sigh, saw the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed deeply.

It was more than any man could be expected to bear and he had no intention of doing so. Still, he was oddly loath to disturb her peace. She would know little enough of that in the days—and nights—to come.

Cymbra looked out over Holyhood, her sanctuary and prison both. An uncharacteristic impatience filled her, a longing for something she could neither define nor deny. Such foolishness. She was the Lady Cymbra, sister of the Hawk, and a healer. She had a place where she belonged and work that was her life. In all that, she was blessed.

Why then did she yearn for more? She was like a child wishing for the moon, rather than a grown woman who should know better.

She had to be sensible. It was late, she would go inside, lie down, and in time she would sleep. Morning would come, the prisoners would leave, life would go on. Yet she lingered a moment longer, gazing out at the walls of her home. Holyhood's walls, where Sir Derward's guards pretended to watch, nodding over their spears, their dark, drowsing shapes so well familiar to her that she scarcely noticed them—save when they were gone.