Dream of Me/Believe in Me (2 page)

“You,” he said, not a question. He stared at the man who, even seated on the floor of a cell, his hands still bound, exuded deadly strength and calm. For just an instant, Derward's eyes flickered. “Why didn't you—?”

Whatever thought he'd been about to pursue went unspoken. The door opened again at the top of the stairs leading to the cell. A shaft of golden sunlight penetrated the torch-lit gloom. And there, in that light, stood a woman.

Wolf rose in a single, lithe motion. He moved toward the bars, the better to see her. The sun revealed little, only a dark silhouette, but he could make out that she was tall for a woman, willow slim, and graceful.

Her voice came floating through the doorway, low, soft, melodious, a voice to entice a man or soothe a child. It reverberated through him like a deep, inner caress. He was shocked to realize that he actually shivered.

“What is this, Sir Derward? Why are these men being held?”

The knight stiffened, hands dropping to his sides. His color paled, then returned in a rush. “They are Vikings, milady,” he said in a voice that was almost steady. “Their vessel ran aground and they were caught scarcely a mile from here.”

“Did they offer you resistance?”

“No, milady. They surrendered at once, afraid to fight us.”

“I see. Then you don't actually know that they intended any harm?”

Derward took a deep, shuddering breath, fighting for calm. Wolf heard it and felt an instant's wry sympathy for him. “They are Vikings, milady,” the knight repeated.

“We welcome merchants from the northlands. Is there reason to believe these men are not like them?”

“These are no merchants,” Derward protested. “You've only to look at them.” Again, that flicker in his eyes as though a thought stirred weakly.

Wolf moved quickly, closer yet to the bars, distracting him. He needn't have bothered, for just then the Lady Cymbra came fully into the light and for the space of several heartbeats no man thought of anything at all.

Distantly, Wolf heard the collective intake of breath from the others in the cell, but he was too riven by his own surprise. The world abounded with stories, few of them even remotely true. One held that the renowned Hawk of Essex had a sister, Cymbra by name, who was likely the most beautiful woman in all of Christendom, a woman of such loveliness that her own brother hid her away lest men fight to possess her.

Wolf had long since dismissed that tale, assuming it most probably meant she was no more than middling pretty. Now confronted by the reality and the slow, stumbling recovery of his own reason, poor thing that it had become, he stared at her.

Chestnut hair shot through with gold tumbled in thick waves almost to her knees. Her eyes, blue as the sea beneath summer sun and thickly fringed, were set in an oval face of damask perfection. Her nose was slender and tapering above full, rose-hued lips that were moist and slightly parted. Her body, full-breasted with a wand-slim waist and hips perfectly fashioned to a man's hands—to his hands—moved closer, as though drawn by his will alone.

She was perfect—exquisitely, absolutely perfect. She looked like a statue come to life, scarcely a real woman. A
real woman would have some imperfection, however slight, something to indicate her humanness. Had a speck of dirt ever touched this ethereal creature? Had a hair ever fallen out of place, a spot appeared on that perfect skin? Did she ever sweat, curse, strive, yield? Was she as much a stranger to passion as she appeared?

She needed messing. The thought sprung full-blown in his mind. He could think of a great many things he wanted to do to the Lady Cymbra, and he supposed some of them were rather messy, but he might have framed it differently.

Not that it mattered. Grimly, he reminded himself, his course was set—as was hers. She had chosen it the moment she rejected the offer of marriage that would have sealed a pact that could bring peace to thousands. That she had done so in terms chosen to sting any Viking's pride merely confirmed her fate.

He would possess her utterly—this proud, unfeeling woman who put selfishness and vanity above all else. He would strip away that pride, crush that will, and enslave her to the passion that was suddenly a raging torrent within him. And he would enjoy every vengeful moment of it.

Cymbra felt the touch of the slate-gray eyes that studied her so boldly and could not repress a quiver of shock. She felt moved in some strange, predatory way she could scarcely credit. Worse, pleasure flicked at the edges of her mind. Astounding. She had never experienced anything like that. Under other circumstances, she might have explored the sensations and the man who evoked them, but he awakened an anxiety within her that made rational study impossible.

Instinctively, she took refuge in the habit of a lifetime, repressing all emotion and concentrating only on the task at hand. Such serenity was her only defense against the
pain of a violent, turbulent world, and she depended on it utterly.

Softly, but with iron determination, she returned her attention to the hapless Derward. “I understand that you are responsible for the safety of this keep, but I am responsible for the welfare of the people within it.
All
the people. These men must have food, water, blankets, and medicine, if needed.”

“Milady! No one will give them such things. They are savages, brutal animals. It isn't safe for anyone to get close to them.”

Silence reigned for several minutes. Wolf scowled, wondering if he had misunderstood her words, as he surely must have. Why would she have any concern for their welfare, this unfeeling woman willing to perpetuate war rather than sacrifice her precious self? Why would she care if they rotted and starved? Indeed, why wouldn't she rejoice like all the others?

And why, while he was tormenting himself with questions that had no answers, didn't Derward simply tell her to let him do his job and be done with it?

“You are right,” she said at length in that so-soft voice. “It is a failure to ask others to do what one is afraid to do oneself.”

He saw her take a quick breath. She wasn't so untouched by feeling, merely determined to avoid showing it. That realization brought him up short as she walked to the bars and looked at him directly.

Her chin lifted. In flawless Norse touched only by a slight, musical accent that instantly delighted him, she said, “I wish to speak with whichever of you is the leader.”

His answer was a deep rumble that reverberated against the stone chamber. “I am the leader.”

She blanched just a little, as though not happy to have
confirmed what she had already suspected. But she did not back away by so much as an inch.

“I have food, water, blankets, and medicine for you and your men. But to give them to you, I must open the cell door. Will you give me your word not to harm me?”

“You would take the word of a Viking?”

Her chin lifted even higher. Her cheeks pinkened. He watched, fascinated, as she bit her lower lip and was filled with an overwhelming desire to soothe that offended portion of her.

“I would take the word of a leader who cares for the welfare of his men.”

Her perception surprised him. Could she possibly know that he would give his life to protect the men sworn to him? Watching her with the respect and wariness he would award a previously unencountered force of nature, he said slowly, “I give you my word.”

Sir Derward and several other knights protested, but she was not to be denied. They were effectively helpless against her, Wolf noted, for clearly none was willing to touch her. That was good. Perhaps he wouldn't have to kill all of them. It was preferable to leave men alive who could speak of how they had been undone.

Yet neither would any oblige her by opening the cell doors. Without hesitation, she did it herself. It was a struggle and he winced to see the effort demanded of those slender hands, but she persevered until at last one of the iron bars rose and she was able to open half of the double door.

“These need to be oiled,” she said over her shoulder at Sir Derward. “So do the hinges on the palisade gate.” So mundane a subject, matter-of-factly mentioned, stripped the moment of whatever menace it should have possessed. He wondered if she made a habit of disconcerting men in that manner and suspected that he already knew the answer.

All his men were on their feet, watching her relentlessly. He swept them a quick, warning glance that none misinterpreted.

Mine.

They knew it and kept a careful distance from her, but they couldn't contain the urge to stare. Nor could he blame them.

Cymbra looked quickly at the other men and as swiftly looked away. She concentrated on the leader. He was more than enough to manage. Except for her brother, she had never seen as tall a man or one so powerfully built.

Interestingly, captivity didn't seem to trouble him. She could scarcely imagine how Hawk would be in such circumstances; probably taking the cell apart with his bare hands. But not this man. He appeared the very soul of calm and reason.

“Are any of your men wounded?” She was standing close enough for him to smell the faint honeysuckle scent of her skin and feel her warmth. For an instant, his senses reeled. He had to remind himself that she was only a woman, and an enemy at that.

“No.”

“Good.” She turned and gestured to an older woman who remained outside the cell. The woman's dried-apple face was creased with fear. Her eyes never left her mistress as she handed over the pile of blankets she held.

Cymbra said a soft word to her and turned back to the cell. She began to give him one of the blankets, realized his hands were still tied, and frowned. “You cannot remain like that.”

He waited, not moving, curious to see what she would do. After a moment, she put down the blankets, removed a small knife from a sheath at her waist, and approached him. “Please,” she said, gesturing to the ropes that bound his wrists.

He held out his hands to her. She looked at them,
then up at him very quickly before returning her gaze to the ropes. The knife was only middling sharp, or perhaps he had to make allowance for her lack of strength. She had to saw for several minutes before the ropes finally parted.

They stood almost touching, his hands free, her knife easily within his reach. She looked up again, their gazes locking and he saw, quite clearly, that she knew her own vulnerability. Understood it full well, yet was trusting him to keep his promise not to harm her.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. Rubbing his wrists, he took a step back.

She nodded and, with her eyes averted, handed him a blanket. But she didn't stop there. Instead of leaving the rest for him to distribute, she handed one to each of his men after first cutting through his bonds. She did so silently, and he saw that she did not look directly at any of them, but her simple act of aiding—and thereby acknowledging—each man was one more surprise.

That done, she turned back to the old woman, who had used the time to fetch a basket and ewer. These too she handed through the open cell door under the watchful gaze of the guards. Cymbra set them down near Wolf, then straightened. Her hands were folded in front of her. He wondered if she did that to keep them from shaking.

“I will return in the morning,” she said, waiting until he acknowledged this with a nod. The moment she stepped back outside the cell, the guards leaped forward and slammed the door.

The clang of the metal bar falling back into place still echoed off the stone walls as Cymbra said, “Sir Derward, I would not care to learn that these men have been harmed during the night. I would be most displeased. Do you understand?”

The knight took a breath, fists clenched at his sides. “Aye, milady.”

Rooster-brained he was but still not so great a fool as to tempt himself beyond endurance. Scarcely had the Lady Cymbra vanished up the steps than Sir Derward did the same. He left only a pair of guards to slump back against the wall, eyeing their prisoners glumly.

No one moved in the cell until, after several moments, Wolf gestured to the basket. “We may as well eat.”

The men gathered around, finding bread still warm from the ovens, rounds of golden cheese, plump apples, and several roasted hens. Better yet, the ewer held good ale, plenty for all of them.

“A feast,” exclaimed Magnus, the youngest of the group. He helped himself to a crisp-skinned leg and sat back with a sigh of pure contentment. With his mouth full, he said, “This is amazing, isn't it? Did you
see
her?”

Swallowing a hunk of cheese, one-eyed Olaf grinned. “That's not a woman. That's a goddess come down to earth.”

That did it. Everyone had to comment then.

“Those eyes …”

“That hair …”

“That mouth …”

“That body—”

Silence suddenly descended and quick glances were cast at Wolf. He tore off a piece of bread and shrugged. “We go as planned.”

No one disagreed but he saw the flickering looks that passed man to man, the silent thought expressed that perhaps the Lady Cymbra—as kind as she was beautiful— did not deserve the fate the Wolf intended for her. It made no difference. His will would be done.

His will. What was that now? He had come wanting vengeance, believing it fully deserved. Now …

Now he wasn't sure. She was vastly different from
anything he had expected. She surprised him. She made him feel uncertain. No one had made him feel like that in a very long time. He didn't care for the experience.

He had promised not to harm her.

Aye, that was a complication. Of course, the lady's idea of what was harm could be very different from his own. He'd just have to persuade her to see things his way.

Sharp teeth tore at the soft, warm, fragrant bread. A wolf's smile flashed in the dim light of the cell.