Dream of Me/Believe in Me (17 page)

Even as she stepped closer to see what drew them, a dark wave of pressure overtook her. She heard a buzzing in her ears as though a swarm of insects had suddenly surrounded her. Panic rose in her as her heartbeat accelerated wildly.

Desperately, she fought against the sensations that threatened to overwhelm her, taking deep, steadying breaths as she frantically summoned up the vision of the wide, high, sturdy wall within her that she had learned to build stone by stone over the years.

When she could finally proceed, she walked slowly and carefully toward the crowd. Before she could see what lay beyond, what she heard confirmed her worst fears.

A man was tied to the punishment post a short distance to the side of the timbered hall. His tunic had been stripped away, leaving him naked to the waist. Long, red welts darkened his back.

As Cymbra watched, her lips pressed tightly together to contain the scream that threatened to break from her, a guard positioned behind the man raised a black leather whip. It coiled like a snake, lashed through the air, and struck with a harsh crack. The man cried out and arched against the pain, straining at his bonds. The guard drew the whip back, raised it once more, and delivered another savage blow.

Watching impassively from the side, his face a mask, Wolf raised a hand, signaling the guard to stop. The man
slumped against the post, unable to stand upright, blood trickling from his wounds. Instinctively, Cymbra took a step toward him.

At that moment, Wolf saw his wife—and in the same instant realized what she intended. He grasped her arm and yanked her back against him. “Do not,” he said.

She stared at him in disbelief. “You can't mean that. He's been punished for whatever he did. Surely, that's enough.” So shocked and sickened was she that she paid no heed to the startled looks of the crowd, their attention diverted by this new spectacle. Wolf, to the contrary, was keenly conscious of the avid gazes directed at the jarl and his defiant wife.

“He stole a man's plow and another's horse,” Wolf said through gritted teeth. “Had he not been caught, the thefts would have robbed two families of their livelihood. For such a crime, he is lucky to get off this lightly.”

Cymbra looked again at the man who now appeared unconscious. What she saw sickened her. His back was a mass of wounds. She judged he must have been lashed at least several dozen times. Bile rose in her throat. She spoke with loathing.

“Lightly? He's been all but whipped to death. You must let me care for him.”

Wolf did not answer, but walked away, the crowd parting before him. He still grasped Cymbra's arm so that she was compelled to run alongside him. When they were some distance from the post, he stopped.

Without releasing her, he said, “He will hang there until morning. It is part of his punishment. If Odin wills and he lives through the night, Ulfrich will see to him. You are not to go anywhere near him. Is that clear?”

When she remained silent, glaring at him, he tightened his hold on her arm. “And you are never again to question anything I do.” He paused. “At least not among
our people. If you have some comment to make, do so when we are private. Is that also clear?”

Distraught though she was, Cymbra could not miss the significance of what he had just said. He was insisting on her absolute obedience and respect—in public only. Much as she wanted to hold on to her anger and disgust at what she had just witnessed, she could not quite do so in the face of so great a concession.

Slowly, not taking her eyes from her husband's stern features, she said, “I am not accustomed to such things. This is … difficult for me.” It was the closest she had yet come to revealing the truth of herself and the strange curse/blessing that had shaped her life. What would he think of her—this man of such grace and strength—if she told him how very different she truly was, even to the extent of suffering the pain of others? Their ills, their torments, their wounds and scars, all their afflictions could overtake the outward beauty he saw and twist it into a hideous thing of endless suffering.
If
she did not find some safe place for her gift in the suddenly changing landscape of her life.

“I know that,” Wolf, who did not know at all, replied. His voice gentled. “You lived a very sheltered life at Holyhood. I am sure that even among your brother's people, such punishment is common.”

Cymbra could not contest that. Indeed, she suspected it was one of the reasons Hawk had chosen to shelter her from the ways of her people.

“I wish there were another way,” she said quietly. He had loosened his grip on her arm but not let go. His fingers moved gently over her skin, stroking her.

“You are too tender-hearted.” His tone robbed the words of any sting. He bent his dark head and lightly brushed his lips down her throat.

“Are you hungry?” he murmured, tracing the curve
of her cheek to nuzzle her just behind the lobe of her ear where he knew her to be exquisitely sensitive.

A tremor ran through her.
Hungry … food … supper.
She was supposed to have done something about that but she couldn't seem to remember— “No,” she whispered, as he clasped her hips, moving her against him, letting her feel his need.

He raised his head, silvery eyes faintly mocking. “No?”

“No, I'm not hungry … for food.”

His beautiful, hard mouth curved in the intimate smile that never failed to make her knees go weak. “Good.” He was pleased, arrogantly so, for having been able to distract her from her duties. He was also relieved, for there had been a moment, just then, when she seemed on the verge of saying something … serious, something he did not especially wish to hear. Life should be simple, elsewise it could not be controlled. Most especially, he wished no complications with his Saxon bride. Controlling her was vital for the peace that was his greatest dream and, too, for his pride as a man.

Cymbra gave a little yelp as the ground gave way beneath her feet. Swept into the Wolf's strong arms, she was carried in long, swift strides across the field and into their lodge.

The jarl and his wife did not appear at supper that eve. They left the timbered great hall to their retainers, servants, and slaves. Dragon, realizing before the others did, broke out in hearty laughter and raised a cup to his absent brother.

It was as well there was good ale to drink, for the food was truly appalling. Even the normally oblivious men grumbled a bit before getting sensibly drunk.

W
OLF DREW A RAGGED BREATH AGAINST WHAT
felt like a band of metal constricting his chest, and
continued the slow, skilled caress that was relentlessly driving his lovely wife to madness. He watched, fascinated, as her head tossed back and forth across the pillows. Soft cries broke from her and a fine sheen of perspiration glistened on her creamy skin.

Their first coupling, scant minutes after gaining the lodge, had been as hasty as it was fulfilling. With the worst of his urgency slaked but his desire only heightened, Wolf was doing what he had not managed to do since their marriage. He lingered over his wife, savoring her beauty and her passion, exploring her body with gentle thoroughness, drawing out her pleasure until she dug her nails into his shoulders and cried his name.

“Wolf!”

He laughed, a raspy sound of male triumph, and moved up her body, taking her mouth, his tongue thrusting possessively even as he guided himself into her. She tightened around him reflexively, the pleasure of this most intimate caress so intense it teetered on the edge of pain. He groaned and moved within her, unable to hold back any longer, driving them both to wave after wave of release.

Afterward, holding his wife in the crook of his arm, with her head resting on his shoulder and her hand lying just above his heart, Wolf reflected that there was much to be said for lingering. He chuckled softly.

Cymbra raised her head and looked at him uncertainly. “What?”

“I'm meditating on the virtue of patience.”

It took her just a moment to realize what he meant. Fiery color moved over her face. She sighed elaborately and reclined against him. “Oh,
that
was patience.”

Wolf stiffened but only until he heard her teasing tone. He smacked her bottom very lightly. “Perhaps it was not enough. Would you prefer for me to draw out your pleasure even longer?”

She ran a long-fingered hand up his thigh, her nails
scratching him just enough to send a quiver along his spine. “Perhaps you would like to consider how a woman might take vengeance for such a thing.”

“Vengeance? My sweet, gentle,
obedient
wife?” His wolf's eyes widened in mock astonishment.

“No,” Cymbra said dryly. “The wife you actually have.” And proceeded to show him just what she meant.

It was very late when next Wolf stirred, surpassingly content. Never had he expected his bride of scarcely a week to prove his match in passion
and
control. In the end, it had taken every ounce of strength he possessed not to simply throw her on her back and satisfy the burning, raging lust she unleashed in him.

He had held on, if only barely, and been rewarded finally by the sight of his exquisite Saxon beauty slowly lowering herself onto him inch by rock-hard inch, her face a vision of delighted discovery as she began to move, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence. The hushed lodge seemed still to reverberate with their cries of pleasure.

He was drifting from such pleasant thoughts to even pleasanter sleep, when Cymbra stirred. Wolf's eyes flew open with just a hint of alarm.

“About being hungry,” she said. She sat up, tossed her glorious hair out of the way, and stretched languidly. “I am now.”

“Hungry?” Incredibly, impossibly, the sight of her made him stir again. It was true then; a man's cock really would try to kill him. “For food?” He sought distraction more than clarity. If he stared at the pale aureoles of her breasts much longer, the shadows of her ribs, the exquisitely graceful curve of her hips and thighs—

“We missed supper,” she reminded him with a winsome smile. Displaying energy he could not help but resent, she left the bed and began to dress. “You stay where
you are. I'll just go over to the kitchens and get something.”

Wolf scowled. The sight of his bride traipsing about in the middle of the night to fetch a belated meal because he was too drained to crawl from his bed would have the watch so consumed with guffaws as to virtually invite an invader to walk right past them. By morning, everyone in the hill fort, the town, and the smallest settlement miles distant would know that the mighty jarl had been bested by his bride, if only in the sweet combat of the marital bed.

Nor would it stop there, for the jokes would spread on the sails of merchant ships, repeated from the golden palaces of Byzantium to the ice-encrusted huts of the wild Lapps until the veritable world itself rocked with laughter at the expense of the mighty Lord of Sciringesheal.

“I'll go with you,” he said. He dragged himself from the bed and began pulling on his clothes.

The kitchens consisted of several small buildings set a short distance from the great hall. One held a deep, straw-lined pit into which leather buckets of milk were lowered to be kept cool. Here, too, cheese was made, the whey separated out, milk churned for butter, and eggs stored for use. Nearby was a smokehouse where fish and meat were hung to absorb the scent of slowly burning fires fed by charcoal, apple wood, and occasional handfuls of seaweed. The largest of the buildings contained the main work area as well as storage for grains, flour, spices, and ale.

Her hand clasped in Wolf's, Cymbra unlocked the door with one of the keys on her belt. A low fire still burned in the hearth at the center of the kitchen. The light of its embers and the moonlight streaming through the open door were enough to see by.

A heartbeat later, she wished for deepest darkness.

The kitchen was a shambles. Dirty pots and trays had been left where they were dropped. Food, abandoned on the worktables, already smelled in the summer warmth. Even as she watched, horrified, a rat glanced up from his meal, stared at her boldly, and shuffled off at no great haste.

She dropped Wolf's hand and walked farther into the disaster. Fury filled her as she beheld the blatant message from Marta and the other women. She closed her eyes, struggling for self-control, only to open them when she felt her husband watching her.

“I'm sorry,” Cymbra said, her voice choked with tears. “Obviously, I've made a mess of things.”

He looked around the room and back at her. His expression was unreadable. “Has this been going on all week?”

Although he spoke mildly enough, Cymbra wasn't fooled. She was certain her husband was coldly, furiously angry at her, as he had every right to be.

Not attempting to defend herself but determined only to tell the truth, she replied, “It hasn't been this bad. As long as I've been there to watch them, at least some things get done properly, but tonight—”

“Tonight they took advantage of your absence.”

She dropped her head, shamed. “I'm afraid so.”

He came to her, closing the distance between them until they stood so near she felt his breath. Still, she couldn't bear to look at him. Clasping her chin, he forced her head up. “You asked Marta for the keys.”

It wasn't a question, but Cymbra nodded stiffly, as best she could in his hold.

“She refused them and organized the other women against you.”

“Not all the women. Brita and the other female slaves have done everything they could.”

“Because they, like you, are strangers here and know what that can mean.”

He paused, compelling her to meet his gaze. “What happened on our wedding night?”

Cymbra paled. He could not possibly know— “W-what do you mean?”

His grasp tightened implacably. “You appeared only a little nervous when you left the hall with Marta and the women. By the time I joined you, you were terrified. What happened?”

“Nothing … it was just so new and sudden, I—”

“Cymbra!” He made her name a warning. She didn't need more. Color returned to her face and deepened rapidly. “Marta said something about you hurting me.” Quickly she added, “I didn't believe her, not really, but I felt very alone and—”