Dream of Me/Believe in Me (27 page)

By the time she was naked, the sauna was well warmed. Or so he thought it. Cymbra took a breath, testing the air cautiously, and said, “It's very hot.”

Sweat had begun to form on her lovely breasts. He ran a hand along her smooth, slick arm. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“No …” Her voice trailed off. She couldn't seem to do anything except look at him. He turned away to throw a ladle of water on the stones and she followed the movement of his big, perfectly honed body.

Her eyes, drifting over him, might have been her hands, so vividly aware was she of hard muscles bunching beneath smooth, warm skin. Steam hissed up suddenly

“That's why we call it sauna.” He drew her over to a bench, where he sat down and stretched out his long legs. “It's wet heat, not dry, better for the bones.”

Beside him, Cymbra nodded. The dark, moist warmth of the chamber half-buried in the earth seemed to be seeping into her. The world beyond might have been as far away as the stars she could just glimpse glittering through the hole at the top of the roof. She took another breath, letting the scent of pine fill her, and felt her senses spin.

“Lie down,” Wolf said. She heard him as though from a distance, yet she obeyed. He positioned her facedown on the bench, her head turned so that she could see the glow of the fire. She heard the faint sound of a vial being opened and a moment later smelled a tantalizing scent she couldn't identify.

“Patchouli,” he said, “from the East.”

A sigh of pure delight escaped her as his hands, slick with the perfumed oil, moved over her shoulders, down to the curve of her waist, and back up again. Slowly, methodically, he massaged away the tension and fatigue of the long day, the days of worry that had preceded it, and the largely sleepless nights.

With more oil in his palms, he went farther, lingering over the high, firm curve of her buttocks and along each slender, shapely leg. His fingers just grazed the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, making her squirm deliciously Little whimpers broke from her, becoming outright moans when he dug his thumbs into the balls of her feet and flexed each toe separately.

Having attended ever so thoroughly to one side of her, he turned her over and smiled into her smoky gaze. “Feeling better?”

“Hmm. Do I get a turn?” The thought of running her oiled hands over every inch of his body made the sensation of liquid heat pooling within her even more intense.

“Maybe later.” She watched, enthralled, as he poured more oil into his palms, rubbed them together to spread it evenly, then settled his hands on the curve of her waist. “Have I told you lately how exquisitely beautiful you are?”

She shook her head. “No, not since that night you and Dragon got drunk, but—”

“We weren't drunk. We were just a little …” He paused, looking for the right word.

“Sotted?” she offered helpfully. When that didn't seem to do, she tried again. “Grogged … scrooched … guzzled … toss-cupped?”

His laugh was rich and deep. “All right, we were drunk. It doesn't take that to get me to tell you that you're beautiful.”

“There was a time when I was very, very tired of being thought beautiful….” Her voice trailed off as he ran his hands up to cup her breasts, his slick thumbs rubbing over her erect nipples. A little moan caught in her throat. Helplessly, she felt her hips rise.

“Why did you feel that way?” he asked, continuing his ministrations.

“It … it just made things … Wolf,
please
—”

“Things how?”

“More complicated.
Please!”

His teeth gleamed in the firelight. “Don't you know I always want to please you, Cymbra? Can't you feel that when I'm deep inside you? How I hold back, waiting for you? How I stroke deeper and deeper, touching you where you're most sensitive and—”

She writhed on the bench, caught by the dark, smoky sensation of his words and touch, turning to fire beneath his hands. Helpless.

And not helpless. She stroked his granite thigh, her fingernails raking him lightly. “A smart man might think that a woman would find a way to get back at him for playing with her like this,” she reminded him.

“I am playing,” he admitted without a flicker of remorse. “I love
playing
with you … touching you … discovering you—” His hands slid lower over her belly, moving between her thighs, his touch suddenly so soft she was scarcely sure she felt it until, abruptly, he thrust a finger deep inside her and rubbed his thumb tightly against her distended nub.

She came in a rush, her body bowing as seemingly endless spasms of pleasure seized her. They had just barely begun to ebb when Wolf lifted her off the bench. He sat down on it, placed her with her legs straddling his iron-hard thighs, and lowered her onto him.

“Your turn,” he rasped, the cords of his neck standing out in high relief as he fought to keep himself from coming at once. His hands braced her back beneath the luxurious fall of her hair. Slowly, hesitantly, she began to move. She felt almost overly sensitized, overly filled, stretched to unbearable proportions. Almost, not quite. She clasped him fully, savoring the freedom to move as she would, drawing herself up almost completely before lowering herself again inch by delicious inch.

He groaned, his head falling back against the wall of the sauna. She saw the sheen of sweat on his burnished skin, the flexing of muscles and tendons in his massive shoulders. Saw, too, the hard glitter of his eyes as they met hers.

Again she rose, smiling now, lingering at the very tip before drawing him deep once more. Her mouth took his. She found his tongue, sucked it, bit his lower lip ever so lightly.

“I like this,” she murmured, clasping his head between her hands, clasping him within, kissing him again.

Her breasts rubbed against his chest, her hips rose and fell faster, her tongue thrust deeper. She felt the big, smooth tip of him begin to pulse, felt him try to hold back, and deliberately contracted her muscles, compelling him to yield.

Her name on his lips was half blessing, half curse. He exploded within her, convulsing over and over, his powerful body slamming into the bench. Her own response came hard and fast. Their cries of pleasure drifted on the hot, perfumed air of the firelit chamber cupped in the palm of the earth.

W
HEN CYMBRA WAS NEXT AWARE OF
anything at all, it was of staring at her husband in bewilderment. He had spoken, she thought she had heard him, but what he had said made no sense at all.

He was lying stretched out on one of the benches. She lay draped over him. From her position, she was just able to raise her head and look down at him, trying to see if he could possibly be serious. “The river? The river out there?”

He nodded, although it seemed to cost him. “That's how a sauna works. First you heat up with the steam, then you run outside and jump in the river to cool off. It's very invigorating.”

Since he sounded rather hesitant himself, Cymbra couldn't help but laugh. “Oh, I'm sure it is. Go right ahead. Just leave me out of it.”

“Truly, if you're going to have a real sauna experience, that's the way you should do it.”

She raised her head higher and grinned at him. “I did
just have a
real sauna experience.
It might not be the usual kind but believe me, it counts.”

On a sudden thought, she added, “And please, don't make me describe what would happen to you if you gave even the teeniest little thought to carrying me out of here and tossing me in that river.”

He propped an arm behind his head, gazed up at her, and smiled. “Something terrible?”

“Something
excruciatingly
terrible.”

“Too horrible even to speak of?”

“Much too horrible.”

He flopped back down on the bench and ran his hands along her sleek flanks. “Well, terrible woman, since you have drained me of all strength, I suppose you're safe enough. For the moment.”

They lay awhile longer, gathering themselves, before Cymbra murmured, “Besides, I have a much better idea.”

She rose gracefully, stretched so that her fingers brushed the curving roof of the sauna, and lowered them to find her husband studying her appreciatively. With a flush, she searched among the items he had brought until she found one of her bars of scented soap.

Delighted, she appropriated one of the buckets of water beside the firebox and dipped in a finger to test the temperature. “Perfect.” Lathering her hands, she began to wash herself.

Before very long, Wolf was on his feet, showing surprising resiliency for a man who claimed to have had all the strength drained out of him. “You shouldn't have to do that all by yourself.” Ever helpful, he took the soap from her and ran it through his hands.

Slowly, gently—and very, very thoroughly—he washed her. With equal care and attentiveness, she did the same for him. They rinsed off by throwing ladlefuls of water at each other, laughing, until the laughter faded
suddenly. Wolf caught her to him, lowered her carefully to the smooth plank floor, and loved her with his hands, his mouth, his body, until nothing remained save rapturous bliss.

Later still, after the embers in the firebox had burned low and steam had long since ceased to rise from the stones, the Norse Wolf carried his sleeping wife back to their lodge. He nestled her beneath smooth linen and soft fur, gathering her close beside him. In the final moments before sleep took him, he felt an irresistible need to give thanks for this woman who touched his very heart and soul.

He had little experience with prayer other than before battle when he offered sacrifices to Odin and afterward when he offered up thanks for victory. This was different. It didn't seem to have anything to do with Odin or any of the others, not even Frigg, despite his undeniable affection for her.

Still, thanks were owed. His eyes were closing when he thought suddenly of the Christian God, the strange one without sword or thunderbolt. With only the cross and the empty tomb. Strange God, dying and undying. God not of endless battles but of one everlasting victory.

It seemed to fit somehow. He said his thanks and fell asleep, his last thought that somewhere, somehow, someone had heard.

B
RITA FINGERED THE CLOAK, LOOKED AT IT CLOSELY
, and glanced at Cymbra. Mildly, the young Irish girl asked, “Would you happen to know what this stain is from, my lady?”

From her perch in the bed, where she was eating the breakfast Brita had thoughtfully brought—and trying not to gobble it down, for she was
very
hungry—Cymbra did
her utmost not to blush. As casually as she could, she said, “Whey, I believe.”

“Ah, of course, whey. And this would be—?”

“Milk. That one would be milk.”

“That's fine then.” Struggling not to smile, and not entirely succeeding, Brita put the garment aside. “We won't have any difficulty getting those out. Now, as for his lordship's tunic—”

“Honey,” Cymbra blurted. “And cheese, possibly, and eggs. I really am sorry about the mess.” She hoped it was understood she wasn't speaking only of the messy clothes that needed to be washed but of the much larger mess that had been made in the kitchens.

“Oh, no, my lady! There's no need for you to apologize. We're all just … Well, there's just no need, that's all.”

Brita bundled the clothes away quickly, mercifully saying nothing about Cymbra's torn gown, and picked up a comb from the table beside the bed.

“Would you like me to tend to your hair while you breakfast, my lady?”

Cymbra plucked at a tangled strand ruefully. “The condition it's in, it might take through breakfast, midday meal, and supper. I really shouldn't sleep with it un-braided.”

“These things happen,” Brita observed, the very soul of tact. She sat down on the edge of the bed and began gently running the comb through Cymbra's knee-length tresses, beginning at the bottom and slowly working her way up. Her touch was so gentle that Cymbra winced only once or twice.

“Have you heard anything from Mikal and Nadia this morning?” Cymbra asked after she plucked yet another slice of warm, honeyed bread off the platter. She couldn't remember ever being so famished.

“Oh, yes, my lady. Mother and son are both doing very well and Mikal was especially delighted with the gift Lord Wolf sent. He said he had never seen such a fine drinking cup and would treasure it forever.”

Cymbra smiled, delighted that her husband had found so swift and thoughtful a way to show that he held the Rus trader and his family blameless.

“That's good then. And everyone returned safely? There were no injuries?”

“None, my lady. But—” She broke off, suddenly very preoccupied with Cymbra's hair.

“But what?” When this was greeted only with silence, Cymbra twisted around so that she could see Brita. “What's wrong? What happened?”

“Nothing, I shouldn't have spoken. It is for Lord Wolf to say—” She dropped her eyes and concentrated again on the tangles.

Cymbra didn't persist. She had no wish to make the Irish girl uncomfortable. A feeling of apprehension grew in her, making her glad when at last she was dressed and able to leave the lodge.