Dream of Me/Believe in Me (23 page)

Beneath it, and vastly more important, the walls she had built around her emotions from earliest childhood seemed to be dissolving. She had an image of them in her mind as no longer solid and strong but fading in and out, almost transparent.

The thought terrified her, for she knew too well the devastating pain that could lie beyond them. And yet the idea of being without those walls that were as much prison as protection … To be truly free …

“What is it?” Wolf's eyes had gone dark as he watched her. He raised a hand, lightly touching the backs of his fingers to her cheek. “Are you all right?”

His obvious concern touched her deeply at that moment when she was so intensely vulnerable. She tried to tell him she was fine but her throat was suddenly very tight and a glimmer of tears clung starlike to her thick lashes.

Wolf cursed under his breath. He stood and lifted her out of her seat in one fluid motion. Instantly, all conversation—and all pretext of disinterest—vanished. Every eye turned on them.

“Lady Cymbra is weary,” he said in a tone that
brooked no disagreement from her or anyone else. Holding her high against his chest, her silky hair spilling over his arms and down his legs, he strode from the hall.

Before he had gotten very far, Cymbra recovered sufficiently to protest, if halfheartedly. On a note of self-disgust, she said, “They will think me a weak-willed ninny.”

He looked down at her but didn't stop. “They will do no such thing, but would you truly care if they did?”

The question surprised her. “Of course.”

He did slow his step just a little then and studied her closely. The moon had risen. By its silver light, she looked gloriously pale. His body stirred, inevitably, but beneath the hard thrust of passion was tenderness he could no longer ignore. “Why would you?” he asked softly.

“Because your people are my people now. It's only natural that I would seek their good opinion.”

A fierce pleasure rippled through him.
Her people.
Was it true? Had she accepted so much, so quickly, after being so badly begun? Dare he believe her?

Her worry over her brother must be even worse than he had thought, else how to explain her sudden fragility? Remorse filled him but with it came the steely determination to end her uncertainty soon.

Soon, very soon. But not this moment, not with the moon on them and the scent of her skin filling his breath. Not with their lodge only a few rapid strides away.

Wolf kicked the door open, passed beneath the lintel emblazoned with the crossed-ax symbols of his rank—and responsibility—and shut out the world. The shutters were open, filling the room with moonlight. The covers of the bed were turned down, revealing fresh linens he knew had been scented with herbs, a luxury he would have thought foolish were he not coming to realize that it was his wife's way to show her care in small, meticulous touches.

His wife. His beautiful, courageous, compassionate,
proudful wife whose hands had trembled when he spoke of the hardships of his youth and whose eyes had filled with tears when he reminded her of their quarrel.

Cymbra.

It came to him suddenly that he had known her only a few short weeks yet she was already far more important to him than he would have believed any woman ever could be. And not because of the alliance she represented. Something in her spoke to a part of himself he had barely acknowledged, the part that was not responsible brother, not resolute jarl, not deadly warrior or leader of his people or even seeker of peace but simply and supremely a man.

And he loved her for it. The shock of that roared through him. Love was weakness, vulnerability, a kind of madness that shredded reason and made the most sensible man a fool. He had always scorned it, denying its very existence, yet there it was, full-blown within him. He could no more root it out than he could tear out his heart.

The knowledge was a sweet agony, bringing him a furious pleasure. He dropped his arm from beneath her legs and, holding her around the waist, let her slide down the length of him until her feet just barely touched the ground.

She raised her head, a little startled. With ruthless thoroughness, he molded her to him, claiming and controlling. He held back nothing, gave her no quarter, but sought to establish his mastery beyond the shadow of a doubt.

She made a sound deep in her throat but he felt no fear in her, only feminine strength and need rising to match his own. Elation drove out resentment. He felt a sense of recognition, as though the very essence of him knew her in a secret, eternal way that surpassed the frail boundaries of life itself.

They undressed each other hastily, clumsily, without regard for the finer points of brooches and buckles, laces
and garters. They fell across the fur-covered bed, limbs entwined, mouths seeking, amid hotly murmured words and soft, indiscernible sounds.

As so often happened, their first coupling was swift and fierce. Wolf eased her beneath him, his hands running over her, desperate to know her silken heat. She parted her legs. He hesitated, meeting her eyes, desire and doubt mingling in his.

“Please,” she whispered, “I need you so badly … please….”

He went into her carefully. When he was fully seated, he rose, the muscles of his powerful arms and shoulders bunching, and gazed down at her. Her lips were parted, her cheeks flushed. She looked well and thoroughly like a woman in the throes of passion, and it pleased him mightily to know she returned his desire in full.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, swelling even further, “so exquisitely …”he moved within her, “so utterly …” again he moved and again, “so completely …” he thrust harder, deep and deeper. Her hips lifted to meet him. He caught her hands in his, their fingers entwining against the scented pillows. His mouth on hers, he groaned, “… a woman.
My
woman.” The silken sheath of her body flexed around him as though acknowledging his claim even while making its own.

“So beautiful,” she said as the first curling edges of hot, sweet pleasure took her. Her gaze locked on his. “So beautiful,” she repeated, making it clear she meant him. He started to laugh at the notion but the pleasure was upon him as well, and he could only gasp. He was at the edge before he knew he was close to it, fighting to hold back, wanting to give her everything and more.

He let go of one of her hands and slid his own between their joined bodies, stroking her until she cried out, her head twisting on the pillow. “Don't stop, oh, please, don't stop …”

“I won't.” He continued the caress as he drove again within her. Scant heartbeats passed before she convulsed around him, her exquisite body arching up from the bed, his name a cry on her lips.

“Wolf!”

He growled in response, rising above her, gripping her hips between his hands, driving harder and deeper yet until he, too, was taken, convulsed by pleasure so intense he lost all awareness of the world, of himself, of everything save the woman who clasped him to her, gently stroking his sweat-dampened back.

Such was the first time. Afterward, Wolf resolved to do better. Well, not precisely better. Just longer. He wanted to linger over her, savoring every inch of her. A man was a fool to waste such beauty and passion in hasty coupling.

Call him a fool, then, for he could not manage such restraint the second time, although by Odin he did try. Nor did he think he mistook the little laugh he heard from her afterward, as though she was mightily pleased by his lack of restraint.

He lifted his head then, from where it rested slumped against her lovely breasts, and eyed her narrowly.

“Amused,
wife?”

Her delicious mouth curved in an enticing smile. “Well satisfied,
husband.”

“You think so?” He felt himself growing hard again. She felt it, too, and her eyes widened most gratifyingly

“Wolf…?”

“Hmmm?” He moved, as though to withdraw from her, but returned quickly enough when she clasped his buttocks.

He smiled down at her, gray eyes gleaming, and moved again. “Oh, is
this
what you want?”

It was and she made that clear enough to send them both whirling into a red mist of release before he found
himself once again slumped against her, scant-breathed and lack-sensed. This time she managed not to laugh but he
knew
, though he had not the strength to raise his head, knew beyond doubt that she was smiling.

He woke later to feel her silken thigh thrown over his and the swell of her breast against his arm. Incredibly, that was enough. His cock stirred in cheerful anticipation. Wolf groaned and stared down the length of himself. His cock moved again, as if waving at him. He bit back a wry curse and glanced at his wife. She was asleep. He couldn't wake her. She was only a woman. She needed to rest, to recover from his manly attentions.

Her thigh moved, warm, smooth, slightly moist with the mingled essence of him and her. Tempting, testing, enticing. She raised her head, tossed back her hair, and smiled at him.

Would death in the sweet combat of the marital bed qualify him for Valhalla? he wondered. He imagined himself trying to make that claim before Odin and all the gods, thinking of how they would laugh. Ah, but he would have an ally. Frigg would welcome him. No doubt, she'd seat him right beside her.

“We used to sacrifice to Frigg,” he whispered still later against his wife's sweet skin. “Mayhap you wish to revive the custom.”

She laughed but, he noted, didn't deny it, and curled against him, her breath soft against his chest. He thought she slept and thought to do the same, until she stirred beside him. Slowly, she lifted herself, the curtain of her hair falling over them both. He saw … uncertainty in her eyes, hesitation, and something more. Fear? No, surely not that.

“I have been meaning to ask you,” she said slowly, for clearly the asking was not easy. “You have not said …” In the dim light of the lodge, he saw her glance away and knew in an instant what she meant to ask. What must be
uppermost in her mind, what he should have told her, what it was cowardice to deny and delay.

“No,” he said suddenly. He cupped the back of her head, pulling her down to him. He would not let her go. Holding her close to him, feeling her soft lips on his chest, he said, “I have not sent word to Hawk, not yet.”

Silence and then, shivering softly through it, “Why not?”

Why, indeed? He had never hesitated in battle, or on those occasions when he had to render judgment, or in any other arena of his life save this. What could he say to her? That he was as yet uncertain, that she was more than he had ever even dared to long for, that he was at some level deeply afraid?

He was man and jarl, husband and leader. He could not admit to his fears.

“I thought it best to wait. It may sound cruel now, but your brother will be more likely to accept our marriage if he has had some time to worry over you.”

“He will be worried,” Cymbra said softly, “very worried and very unhappy.”

“I am sorry for that.” He meant it. What was happening to him that he should be concerned over the tender feelings of a Saxon warlord who would joyfully dispatch him to Valhalla? Had he truly become so craven?

Her breath was warm and tempting as she relaxed against him, her slender form molding to his. The confession of his regret had carried the day, or at least the night. He said a silent prayer of thanks to Frigg, for he had no doubt the credit was hers.

Thus reassured, Cymbra fell into sleep as though off the edge of the world. He dozed again, the light sleep of a battle lull, and woke toward dawn feeling oddly energized. After a cautious look to be sure Cymbra did not stir, he pulled on a pair of trousers and took himself outside where he stood stretching in the pearl gray morn.

He felt good,
damn
good. Better, indeed, than he could ever remember feeling. What was it Dragon had said—a meek little woman to bear him sons and rub his feet? Wolf laughed. Better a temptress to alternately infuriate and dazzle him. A woman of strength and will to match his own, a true partner in his life as well as his bed.

The cool air, heavy with sea mist, caressed his bare chest. He brushed droplets away idly, chasing thoughts like stags over the hills. What else was it Dragon had said? That he would have to give Cymbra his trust before he could expect her loyalty? That sounded like an alliance between jarls, not a marriage, or at least not how he had always thought of marriage.

Mayhap he needed to think again.

Mayhap he needed to thank the Norns for gifting him with a woman of pride and courage, a fitting mate for a true Viking.

Mayhap he needed to go back inside, shuck his trousers, and make love to his temptress until she cried his name and clung to him in victorious surrender.

He was pushing the door open, already bending his head to enter, when he heard hoofbeats like muted thunder shattering the morning stillness. He turned and saw the rider racing up the hill toward the berm.

His hand fell away, his back straightened. He clenched his fists slowly, grasping air, feeling steel. Bare-chested, mantled in the aura of his rank, he paused just long enough to shut the door gently on his sleeping wife before he walked toward the gates and whatever summoned him from beyond them.