Dream of Me/Believe in Me (34 page)

Night came and with it the steady increase of sounds from the feasting halls. The warm, still air of the lodge seemed to press in, smothering her. She jumped up suddenly and paced back and forth across the room but the activity gave her no ease. Too soon, she slumped again in the chair beside the table. A flicker of movement barely visible through the slats of the shutters drew her eye. She leaned closer, peering out, even as she prayed that no one would notice her. To be caught in such a humiliating pastime would shame her even further.

By the light of torches set up at intervals around the hill top, she saw Brita walking toward the women's hall. It
looked as though she was retiring for the night, which Cymbra was glad to see for surely Brita needed her rest.

But wait … there came three stumbling louts, so drunk they could scarcely walk upright. They saw Brita, stopped for a moment, then continued toward her eagerly.

“Jus' wha' we need, a whore ready to hand,” the largest of the three said. He was tall, with the lanky strength of youth, dark haired, and well dressed for all that his clothes were in disarray.

Another—shorter by a few inches and stockier— agreed. “Sthupid to leave the hall without one.”

“No mind, she'll do.” The third was between the two others in height and perhaps a few years older but still very much a youth. He spoke not just with lust but with a note of cruelty that made the fine hairs on the back of Cymbra's neck rise.

Her hand flew to her mouth as she tensed with anger. Was this how they repaid the hospitality of the jarl of Sciringesheal, by assuming that every woman within his domain was a whore available for the taking?

She stood up quickly, intending to call a warning to Brita, but before she could do so she heard the young Irish woman scream. The sound was terrified and terrifying, sending Cymbra scrambling to yank open the door. She all but fell through it and almost tumbled into the guard, who whirled at her sudden appearance and stared at her with mingled disbelief and wariness.

“My lady …”

Brita screamed again. The three youths had hold of her and were dragging her around a corner of the women's hall.

“Go to her!” Cymbra screamed at the guard. Vaguely, she recognized the young man as one of those who had been at Holyhood with Wolf and afterward on the ship coming to Sciringesheal. He was a good sort, always
smiling, but he had watchful eyes. His name was … ? “Magnus, you can see she needs help!”

The young man hesitated. He glanced over his shoulder to where Brita was struggling desperately. Already, the top of her gown was torn, almost exposing her breasts, and the veil over her hair had been knocked off. He turned back to Cymbra.

“Go back inside, my lady.”

She stared at him in disbelief. How could he possibly take even a moment to tell her that when—? “Help her!”

To her horror, he shook his head. “I am forbidden to leave this post.” He took hold of the door, as though to close it in her face.

“Stop! You can't just stand here, you can't!”

He did look again toward where Brita had now disappeared from sight but he remained implacable. “The jarl was clear in his orders, my lady. Do I move from this spot, it is worth my life.”

“What of her life?” Cymbra cried. Horror rose in her. She could still hear Brita's frantic struggles and pleas for help. Abruptly, she made up her mind. She couldn't get past Magnus; he had clearly anticipated her trying to do so and had the door well blocked. But she could—

Without another thought, she darted back into the lodge and slammed the door, shoving the bolt into place. She heard him call to her as she raced for the back window. Tearing the shutters open, Cymbra yanked up her skirts, climbed through the opening, and jumped to the ground.

She landed hard but regained her balance at once and ran around to the front of the lodge. The moment she came within Magnus's sight, he yelled at her to stop. She ignored him and sprinted toward the women's hall and the dark corner where Brita had disappeared. As she intended, he had no choice but to follow her.

Beyond the women's quarters stood the long, peak-
roofed stables. The startled nickering of horses drew Cymbra in the right direction. There were no further screams from Brita. Cymbra came upon her, sprawled unconscious in an unused stall. Blood dripped from a blow to her forehead. Her gown was pulled up around her waist and her legs were yanked apart. Already one of the attackers was kneeling between her thighs as he fumbled with his trousers.

“Scum!” Cymbra shouted. “Filth! Rapist!” She threw herself at him with all her strength, knocking him sideways as she kicked and clawed at him.

“Bitch! Get her off!” He reared up, trying to get away from her but Cymbra held on. She was fueled by rage greater than any she had ever known before and determined to inflict as much damage as possible. Her fingers were going for his eyes when he managed to get hold of her shoulders and throw her against the stable wall. Her head struck a wooden pole and for a moment her vision dissolved into splinters of light. As it cleared, she saw Magnus, his sword drawn, look at her in horror.

Time itself seemed to slow. In the pace of a heartbeat that went on and on like the distant echoing of a drum, Cymbra saw what that moment of distraction cost him. Drunk though they were, the three assailants were trained warriors. They had their weapons out and were advancing. Too late he saw them coming and had no time to prepare before they attacked as one.

Cymbra screamed. She lurched away from the wall, frantically looking for something, anything to use as a weapon. When nothing came to hand, she flew at the attacker in the middle, pounding his back with her fists. He flung her off with a curse. She struck the floor, pain lancing through her shoulder, and looked up in time to see the blades converging on hapless Magnus. The air left her lungs in a soundless rush as he was slashed first in his sword arm, then in his thigh. Blood poured from both
wounds. He collapsed onto the floor, his eyes locking on hers for a moment before unconsciousness claimed him.

“Tie him up,” ordered the lanky youth.

The stocky one made to obey but hesitated. The struggle had stunned them all out of their drunken haze yet left them disoriented. “He's bleeding bad …”

“Let him,” said the oldest, the one Cymbra had instantly thought cruel. It was he who had been kneeling between Brita's thighs but now he glanced at the Irish girl with scorn. His gaze shifted to Cymbra and with a surge of horror she saw the rapacious fire ignite in his eyes.

He recognized her fear and his mouth twisted in cold pleasure. “Forget that one.” He jerked his head toward Brita. “This bitch needs lessoning.”

The other two hesitated only a moment. They stared at Cymbra, disbelief at her beauty dissolving swiftly into mindless lust.

She managed to scramble to her feet but there was nowhere to go except back against the wall. It took all her courage and pride to refuse to yield to the stomach-churning terror that seized her. She lifted her chin and spoke with forced calm. “I am the Wolf's wife. If you harm me, he will kill you.”

To her horror, the oldest merely laughed. “He will have to know who did it first. Mayhap we will not leave you alive to tell.”

Before she could even attempt to reply, he reached out, seized hold of the top of her gown, and tore it from neck to waist. As she clutched at the garment to keep it from falling open, he knocked her backward onto the ground and came down hard on top of her.

“Grab her legs,” he yelled to the other two. Cymbra made to scream but he clapped a hand over her mouth. When she tried to bite him, he reared back and struck her hard across the face. Lights danced before her eyes again. As though from a great distance, she heard him snarling,
“Bitch! Saxon whore! You're not fit for anything but this. Dammit, get her legs open!”

Someone was pulling at her ankles. She fought with all her strength but a dark cloud seemed to be sucking her down. She smelled the rank stench of ale and sweat mingling with rampant lust. The attacker slammed his hand over her mouth again, his fingers pinching her nostrils closed. She couldn't breathe; her lungs screamed for air. A last thought like a soundless sob welled up in her—
Wolf.

B
RIGHT LIGHT MOVED BEFORE CYMBRA'S
shuttered eyes, so bright that she flinched from it. She heard voices but they seemed to be far away. A hand touched her brow and she jerked weakly in response.

“Be easy, my lady. Everything is all right. You are safe now.”

Ulfrich, very close to her, his voice husky with concern. Slowly, she opened her eyes just enough to peer at him, closed them instantly against the light of flaring torches that seemed to fill the stable, then opened them again.

“Ulfrich … ?” Was that her voice, so faint and reedy?

His worn face creased in a smile of profound relief. “It is I, my lady, and glad I am that you know it.” He slipped an arm behind her shoulders. “Here now, I'm going to help you sit up just a little. If it pains your head too much, tell me at once.”

Her head did throb but not overly so. She held on to him as he lifted her with the utmost gentleness and steadied her. She smelled sweet hay and oats and realized she was still in the stall.

Her eyes were adjusting to the light. She could make out the shapes of men, some very close, many more just beyond. A torch flared suddenly and she caught a glimpse of Dragon, his face very hard and tight. He looked at her then, met her eyes, and for a moment she thought she saw surprise mingling with the greatest relief. Then he was gone and she tilted her head back against the wall, her eyes beginning to close.

“Lord …” Ulfrich again, sounding cautious … worried.

There was movement beside her, a sense of overwhelming strength and power. She reached out a hand and it was caught fast, pressed against a rock-hard chest.

“Wolf—”

He said nothing but drew her to him, cradling her in his arms, his big hand stroking her hair so gently as to bring tears to her eyes. Instantly, as she felt his touch, the sweet balm of relief flowed through her. She gasped, surprised by how quickly she could feel safe again, yet in another way not surprised at all. Her solitude was gone; she was joined to this man in a way she would never have believed possible. In truth, she would have feared it, believing as she had that she could exist in the world only when sealed off behind walls of her own making. Now she knew that was not true, and in the discovery she rejoiced.

Off to the side, Ulfrich spoke quietly. “There are bruises and scratches, lord, but otherwise she is unharmed.”

Memories surfaced like sharp, painful shards of ice yet seen as though from a distance, no longer having the power to hurt her. She tried to sit up only to be prevented by her husband, who continued to hold her with carefully measured strength.

“Brita … Magnus … ?” Her voice quivered.

“They will both be fine,” Ulfrich said quickly. “The lass took a blow to her head but she's already regained
consciousness. She'd be here fussing over you herself if we let her. Magnus lost some blood but not so much that he won't recover.”

Cymbra offered up a silent, fervent prayer of thanks for the mercy shown this night even as the means of it remained inexplicable. “How did you … ?” She twisted slightly looking up into her husband's hooded gaze. “How did you find us?”

He stared down at her, his expression inscrutable. Only the jagged beating of a pulse in his jaw revealed the emotion he was keeping in savage check. “I heard you scream.”

She frowned, thinking she misunderstood yet knowing she had not. The stable was much too far from the feasting halls for anyone there to have heard anything, even without accounting for the noise of the feast itself. There was no possible way he could have known she was in danger. Yet he had known and he had come, otherwise she would not have been there now, safe in his arms, unhurt but for a few bruises.

A tremor raced through her, and another, as the meaning of his words became clear in her mind. She was suddenly shaking so badly she felt she might come apart. He held her as the storm broke, murmuring to her softly, his arms her shelter from the world.

Dimly, she was aware of him lifting her, carrying her from the stable. The murmur of voices fell silent as they passed, picked up again behind them. Cool night air touched her. She nestled her head against his chest and refused to let herself think of anything at all.

A large tub of steaming water had been prepared inside the lodge. Wolf set his wife down carefully on the bed and knelt beside her. He gazed for a moment at the torn gown but said nothing as he eased it over her head. To his great relief she did not protest or show any fear of him. He sensed the still watchfulness that had settled within her,
guessed that she was carefully and cautiously trying to come to terms with what had happened. Her trust in him was one more blessing among all those for which he would give proper thanks in due time.

But first he had other matters with which to concern himself.

His big, callused hands were gentle as he caught her hair up and secured it at the top of her head with the pins he had seen her use for the same purpose. That done, he lifted her again and carefully lowered her into the bath.