Dream of Me/Believe in Me (22 page)

He was going to drown in those eyes, so wide had they become. “You wouldn't dare!”

“Wouldn't I?” He softened his hold a little, deliberately stroking her. Had they not been in so public a place, he would have done much more. Briefly, he considered taking her the short distance to the stables.

They were deserted at this hour. His prideful wife might benefit from a swift, sweaty tumble in a hay-filled stall. The temptation was great but he stopped himself. That she would end by yielding to him fully he did not doubt. But at the same time he would be yielding to her and he could not do that, not now, if he had any hope of controlling her.

Instead, he gave her bottom a sharp swat. “Return to your duties,
wife.
My men and I labor hard this day. We expect a good meal at table tonight. See to it.”

If the glare she gave him was anything to judge by, he would need the services of a food taster before he supped. He watched her go, then turned away only to stop abruptly at the sight that confronted him.

Dragon lounged against a wall nearby, arms crossed over his chest and a broad grin wreathing his face. He had the air of a man who has been well entertained.

“You waste yourself teaching the arts of war,” he said as he walked over to join his brother. “You should be instructing the rest of us poor, benighted males in the proper management of the fair sex.”

A lesser man would have quaked at the look the Wolf
shot him and the lip-curling snarl that accompanied it. “I trust your leg fares better than your wits.”

Dragon made a show of flexing the limb and nodded pleasantly. “It fares well indeed, thanks to the ministrations of your gentle,
docile”
—the word made him choke with laughter—“wife.”

“It isn't funny,” Wolf said, shaking his head. “She en-dangers herself and doesn't even realize it.”

“Does she? She's right, you know, no one in Sciringesheal would dare so much as to look at her wrong.”

They walked some little distance back toward the training field before Wolf replied. “Men of all sorts come and go here. Not all of them are loyal to me.”

“True enough, but none would rush to embrace the kind of death you would mete out. It isn't really
their
loyalty that worries you, is it?”

Wolf's face hardened. “Do you think to read my thoughts, brother?”

Dragon laughed. “A blind man could read them. It is the loyalty of your Saxon bride that worries you, although I don't really see why. She seems to have settled in well enough.”

“Seems … aye, I suppose she does, but it is scarcely a month since we wed, little enough time to know her heart.”

“Is that why you have yet to send word to the Hawk?”

“Are you so eager for battle?” Wolf countered.

“There won't be one. Hawk will come, Cymbra will tell him she is well and happily married, and, indulgent brother that he is—you can hardly deny he is
that
—he will accept what has happened and you will have the alliance you have wanted all along. What could be simpler?”

“Nothing,” Wolf agreed though his voice held doubt. “Provided Cymbra plays her part.”

“You doubt it? You think she means to play you false,
betray her marriage vows and slay her brother in the process? That seems the far side of unlikely to me.”

Put that way Wolf's concerns sounded even more outlandish than he himself knew them to be. Yet still he had hesitated, letting the days—and the nights—pass without summoning the Hawk.

Now in high summer when the fields shone gold with grain it was difficult to accept that before too long winter would descend over the northlands. Ice would clog the sea channels and savage winds would destroy even the sturdiest vessels. Men would stay to their hearths, counting up the bounty of the harvest, telling stories around the fires and planning the adventures of the coming year.

If he did not act soon, not even the Hawk in all his fury would be able to come for his sister. The matter would have to wait months, well into the new year, until the world gentled once again.

Wolf was tempted to let that happen. He could gain more time to bind Cymbra to him in every way possible. But to put off the day of reckoning meant leaving her to worry over her brother's fate. He had seen that worry in her eyes too often to pretend he didn't know how real it was. When all was said and done, he could not do that to her.

“Only a little while longer,” he said, and added, lest Dragon be disposed to discuss it further, “she is not yet fully to my hand, but she will be and soon.”

“If you say so.” Dragon hesitated but he loved his brother too much not to speak his mind. “Yet do I ask you to consider that loyalty and obedience aren't necessarily the same thing. One is freely given, the other too often forced. It is for you to decide which you truly want.”

“I want both. I expect both.”

“Ah, well, then perhaps you should have wed a
docile
Norse maiden.”

Wolf arched a brow in blatant doubt. “Is there such a thing?”

“Not on this earth,” Dragon conceded. “Which is why I'm safe from matrimony. The only wife I'd take would be a soothing little woman to bear my sons and rub my feet, and never give me a moment's worry.”

Wolf stared at him for a moment before shouting with laughter. He couldn't help it, the specter of Dragon with such a creature undid him. And, not incidentally, went a long way toward restoring his good humor, which he suspected was the actual intention.

“Pray you never find her, brother. She'd have you dead of boredom before the bridal flowers wilted.”

Dragon flung an arm around Wolf's shoulders. “Enough talk of women. I say I can throw a javelin ten paces farther than you can.”

“Not even with Odin passing wind at your back.”

They went off to settle the matter, but later, as he swam again in the river and watched the day's long twilight creep over the land, Wolf remembered what his brother had said. He frowned, considering the possibility that Dragon might be right. Perhaps it was impossible to have both Cymbra's unquestioning obedience and her loyalty as well. Perhaps to win her loyalty, he had first to give her his own trust.

It was a hard thought and one he did not accept readily. He was still considering it when he dried off, dressed in clean apparel, and made his way to the great hall.

H
E DID NOT, AFTER ALL, NEED A FOOD TASTER.
Cymbra greeted him with impeccable courtesy and no lingering sign of her earlier anger. Looking ravishing— and highly ravishable—in topaz silk, her hair set back from her face with jeweled combs but left free to tumble to her knees, she inclined her head slightly as he approached
the high table where she awaited him. Firelight glinted off the petal-smooth curve of her cheek. He inhaled the faint lavender scent of her bath still clinging to her and felt himself harden in helpless, resented response.

“Good evening, my lord.” They might have been distant acquaintances, so cool and calm was she. Her control provoked him mightily, particularly when contrasted to his own lack, but he was damned if he'd show it.

“My lady,” he said, all civility. Smoke swirled from the cooking fire at the center of the hall. Children ran among the tables and benches, playing with the eager dogs. People gathered in companionable groups, chatting about the day's events. It was all very normal, very ordinary.

All but his Saxon wife, Frigg-blessed woman, at once bane and joy of his existence. Resolve flowed through him. He would teach her a thing or two about this game, having played it in courts of intrigue from black-watered Dubhlinh to treacherous Byzantium.

They proceeded to supper, which was as fine as any served in his hall since Cymbra had taken the keys. Nor did he deny himself the pleasure of telling her so, if only to see her veiled surprise at his graciousness.

“I've never had better haddock. Taking into account that I'm not particularly fond of fish, this is amazingly good.”

She had eaten very little, only toying with her food. Now she dropped all pretense of interest in it and looked at him cautiously. “You don't like fish?”

“Not especially. I probably ate too much of it as a child.”

A child? Her stomach did a slow tumble. The thought of a child like Wolf, a small, black-haired, gray-eyed mischief maker for her to love and nurture, swept over her with sweet longing. Her cheeks warmed.

“Why was that?” She was hardly aware of what she
asked, wanting only to distract him so that he wouldn't notice her sudden self-consciousness.

He lifted his horn of mead, drank, and set it down again in the curled iron brace made for that purpose. “There were times when we had no fodder for the animals and they had to be slaughtered. When the crops also failed, there was only the sea to keep us alive.”

Cymbra could not mask her surprise. “I had no idea you endured such hardship.”

He shrugged dismissively. “We were not always so prosperous. In my childhood, there was great disorder. Many holdings were raided repeatedly, ours among them. My father tried to protect us, but as often as not, our walls were breached. We had to run and hide while the raiders took whatever they wished and burned the rest.”

Struggling to reconcile what he had just told her with the wealthy, powerful man he had become, Cymbra asked, “How did you go from that to all of this?” She gestured around the hall filled with the trophies of victory, gleaming gold and silver plate, vivid hangings, and, most important, happy, prosperous people.

He hesitated and for a moment she thought he would not answer. His expression was guarded. “In my twelfth year, raiders came again. This time both my parents and a good many others were killed. There was nothing left for Dragon and me. We went to sea.”

Cymbra waited, thinking he would follow this matter-of-fact recitation with something more. When he didn't, she looked to her brother-in-law. “How old were you then?”

“I was eight.”

“Weren't you afraid?”

“I was more afraid he might leave me.” He cocked an eye at Wolf. “But he wouldn't have. After we buried our parents, we stood beside their grave. Wolf put his arm
around my shoulders and promised me everything would be all right.”

Cymbra's throat tightened painfully. Vividly she could see the two boys as they had been, one still a child, the other little more, setting out alone to face a dangerous and hostile world.

“You were lucky to survive.”

“We did more than that,” Dragon said lightly. “Wolf seemed to have a knack for figuring out which voyages to sign on with. He was big for his age and already handy with a sword, so he didn't have too much trouble convincing shipmasters to take him on. It was only after they thought they had him that he'd mention I came along, too.”

The two men shared a grin over the memory. Cymbra marveled at it. A past that would have destroyed most people seemed only to have strengthened the valiant Hakonson brothers.

“We sailed the world,” Dragon said, “or at least most of it. Everywhere we went, Wolf studied how people fought and how they defended themselves. The rest of us would be …”he sought a discreet term suitable for her tender ears, “… relaxing while he'd be making sketches of fortifications or having long discussions about the best way to smelt steel.”

Cymbra eyed her husband skeptically. “Didn't you ever …” she paused, mimicking Dragon, “… relax?”

“My brother exaggerates,” Wolf said with a chiding look at that worthy. The smile he turned on his wife was purely, breathtakingly male. “And I think you already know the answer to that.”

Her cheeks flared. She looked away hastily, resuming her pretense of interest in her food. Indeed, she knew the answer too well, having been the recipient of skills he could not possibly have acquired examining fortifications or talking with blacksmiths.

“You really should eat,” he said pleasantly. “Especially after going to so much trouble to prepare such a magnificent meal.”

Recalling on what terms they had parted when he
ordered
her to see to supper, she replied tartly, “I assure you, my lord, I went to no trouble at all.”

“Oh, but you must have. There's no reason to deny it.”

“It is as easy to prepare good food as poor,” she insisted, “provided just a little thought is given.”

“You are too modest. Surely only a great effort could produce such a feast.” He gestured to the array of rich dishes on the table.

“Not at all,” she assured him. “Indeed, hardly any effort was required.”

“I cannot believe that. The servants alone could never have managed this. You must have stood over them for hours, guiding their every movement, attending to every detail, and—”

“I did no such thing!” Cymbra burst out. She caught herself but too late and now she had to face his look of blatant amusement. Truly, he had baited the hook well, playing to her barely suppressed anger and her pride. She had to admit, he'd done it awfully well.

Dragon clearly thought so, although he was being very careful not to look at either of them. Nor was anyone else, as it seemed that every man, woman, and child in the great hall was suddenly intensely occupied with their own matters. Yet she knew they were full well aware of the tension between their jarl and his Saxon bride.

Tension that suddenly weighed down on her unbearably. She longed for a return of the accord they had so briefly known and dreaded the thought that such strife might instead be the pattern of their days together.

“Wolf—” she said tentatively.

“I thought you'd taken to referring to me as
husband.”

He said it in exactly the tone she had used, at once disdainful and challenging.

Cymbra flinched and looked at him swiftly but he was smiling and there was a look in his eyes that took her aback. “My lord—”

He leaned closer, so close that the breadth of his shoulders and chest blotted out the light. She felt the warmth of his breath, its touch sending tremors through her. “I prefer my own name on your lips,” he said, so softly only she could hear him. He leaned closer still. “I especially prefer it when you say it in certain ways … at certain times.”

Her face flamed. She felt confused, uncertain … and excited. The cool restrain she had tried so hard to maintain was melting away as though it had never been.