Dream of Me/Believe in Me (36 page)

Three against one. Even one so mighty as the Norse Wolf. They might yet emerge from this night alive, and for any who did the rewards would be beyond calculation. To smite the mightiest warrior would be to elevate them instantly to his stature. They would be as giants among men.

But first they had to live. And the Wolf had to die.

The one who was the ring leader shouted an order and the other two fanned out. They advanced together, coming at Wolf from the front and both sides. Three blades flashed high.

Another scream bubbled up in Cymbra's throat but she had no breath for it. To her horror she saw that her husband stood and watched the attackers come, his sword held almost loosely at his side, his huge, powerful body seemingly at ease. Incredibly, he looked coldly amused. Closer and still closer they came. When they were scarcely a blade length away, he raised his sword arm,
threw back his head, and emitted a blood-chilling cry to the sky.

The howl of the Wolf, loose in the land. While yet the air reverberated, he moved. The hilt of his sword clasped in both sinewy hands, his huge body flowing with deadly grace, he slashed once, twice, thrice. So swift was he that it was done before any of the three could react.

They stared in bewilderment at the thin spurt of blood blossoming down each of their chests, a strange wound, not grave for all that the same motion could have split a man in half. Perhaps they considered that, for they hesitated momentarily. The ring leader recovered first and moved to attack but Wolf easily parried his thrusts, as he did those of the other two. In the process, he delivered three more blows, as meticulously calibrated, cutting open the right cheek of each.

Cymbra gasped as she suddenly realized what he was doing. The scratches between her breasts, the blow to her face, he was marking each as they had marked her. While they were intent on killing him, he but toyed with them.

Twisting in Dragon's hold, she pleaded,
“Stop him
, don't let him do this! He's wasting his strength, they'll kill—”

But Dragon's attention was over her shoulder. Abruptly, his big hand closed on the back of her head and he pressed her face into his chest. “Don't look just now,” he said gruffly.

“Wolf… !”

“No, no, he's fine, just wait—”

She was too frantic to heed him. Squirming loose, she searched desperately for her husband only to see him standing upright, sword in hand as he faced the two attackers—

Two? Then that bloody heap there on the ground must be … “Oh, God,” she whispered as bile rose in her throat. Yet could she not bring herself to look away. This
was a Wolf she had never seen before. Not husband or lover, not jarl, not even the threatening stranger he had first been to her. In the light of the torches, his eyes aglow like the animal whose name he bore, this was a figure out of a nightmare.

The chiseled planes and angles of his face stood out in harsh relief. His body moved with power that seemed more than human. Again, he raised his head to the dark, smoke-smeared sky and again his battle cry resounded. Again, steel sang.

Blood spurted and another man crumbled. Only one was left, the ring leader. He looked at Wolf with raw hatred in his eyes, crouched in a fighting stance, spittle dripping from his chin. Cymbra felt a wave of malevolent energy move over and through her, reeking of violence and death, of twisted cruelty and festering rage. She choked on it, unable to breathe.

With a scream that sounded like devils pouring out upon the earth, the man leaped at Wolf. So swiftly did his sword slash that it seemed to Cymbra's terrified gaze nothing could elude it. Yet more swiftly did the Wolf move, a dark, remorseless shadow, one with the night itself.

“Close your eyes,” Dragon ordered and, lest she not obey, he clapped a hand over them. Yet he could not shut out her hearing. There was a sickening sound of bone and flesh parting, followed by more of the same, and a voice so tormented as to be almost beyond understanding, begging for death.

One final time, the sword descended. Then there was silence.

Silence that lasted less than the space of a heartbeat before the crowd exploded in blood-maddened cheers. As one, the people swarmed around Wolf, hailing him as their own and proclaiming their loyalty to him. Before their savage joy, the world itself seemed to tremble.

Dragon relaxed his hold on Cymbra but she made no attempt to move. It was enough that her legs held her and that her stomach had no contents to vomit up. The terror of the dead men still reverberated within her. She felt it as keenly as if it were her own blood sinking into the earth.

Dragon steadied her with a hand. She felt his concern, too, but could not bring herself to turn her head and look at him. There was nothing in her sight or her mind save the brutal, barbaric figure who stood, blood-drenched sword still in hand, lit by flame against darkest night. Their gazes met and held. Even as she watched, he shrugged off the acclamation of the crowd and walked toward her.

He said something to his brother but she didn't hear it. So, too, did he speak to the crowd, but again the words were lost in the screams echoing in her mind. He took hold of her arm but did not draw her close to him. The stench of blood enveloped her. Her senses swam and for a horrible moment she feared she would faint.

When next she was fully aware, the lodge door had shut behind them. She was alone with the Wolf.

T
HE WATER IN THE TUB MUST BE TEPID. SHE
should offer to fetch hot water for him, or to send someone for it, or … something. But Cymbra could not move or speak, could not do anything save stand where Wolf had left her and watch.

He said nothing, merely went over to a chest and withdrew a cloth along with a small vial of oil. These he used methodically to clean his sword before returning it to its leather sheath. Having laid both on the table beneath the window, he kicked off his boots and in a single, lithe motion, pulled the blood-drenched tunic over his head.

Still without acknowledging her presence, he stepped into the tub, sat down, and proceeded to wash himself with the same efficiency as he had used to clean the sword. He even dunked his head under the water and soaped his hair. When he was done, he rose, water streaming from him, his body glistening, and toweled himself dry.

The towel joined the discarded tunic on the floor. Naked, he came to her. His hand brushed the curve of her uninjured cheek.

“You need to rest.”

Her husband's voice.
Her husband.
She stared up at him, seeing the concern in his eyes—and the caution. Seeing, too, firelight and blood, anguish and death, justice and revenge.

He had won. She knew beyond question that no one would ever again make the mistake of questioning his power. But far more, he was alive. And whole. And with her.

Thinking only of that, she caught his hand. Holding his gaze with hers, she touched her lips gently to his knuckles, let them drift over his fingers, and lightly bit the tips. Before he could react, she pressed a kiss into his cal-lused palm.

His eyes flared in surprise and something else—relief? No, not merely that. Hope. What had he thought he needed to hope for? The answer came to her in a ripple of understanding as her lips lingered against his skin and her gaze held his. Hope that she would not be so disgusted and frightened by what she had just witnessed as to turn from him in revulsion. Hope that they could recover what had existed between them before all this. Hope that she would accept him for all that he was.

Tenderness filled her. This was a part of him she knew instinctively he had never shown to others—not the indomitable warrior or mighty leader but the man with all the yearnings that she herself shared.

Still gazing at him, she drew his hand back and joined it with her own so that their fingers met and intertwined. As she did, she noted the contrast between them. His hand was so large as to easily engulf hers, hard and sinewy, the skin burnished, the palm callused. Yet this same hand that wielded death touched her with consummate care, as though she were the rarest and most delicate of flowers.

Rising on tiptoe, she touched her mouth to his, softly coaxing his lips apart. When her tongue met his, he
groaned deep in his throat, loosed her hand, and made to catch her in his arms. But she caught his wrists instead, though her fingers could not close around them. With a smile his dazed mind thought must surely be goddess-born, she drew him to their bed.

He did not take his eyes from her as she gently urged him down with a light but urgent touch to his massive shoulders. When he was seated on the edge of the bed, she stepped back a little. Although she trembled inwardly, Cymbra did not hesitate. Slowly, watching him every moment, she removed her gown, drawing it down first one arm and then the other. Driven by desperate needs—to banish his concern, to celebrate his life, to give thanks for all they had—she gathered her courage.

For a moment she held the fabric so that it continued to conceal her before letting it drop. It made a soft, slithering sound as it slipped over her breasts with their high, peaked nipples, past the indentation of her narrow waist, and down her sleek flanks. When it pooled at her feet, she stepped out of it and shook her hair so that the silken mass tumbled around her like a veil.

She saw his unmistakable response and was emboldened by it. He followed the direction of her gaze and grinned. The gesture stole years from him and made it seem as though the barbarian warrior of so short a time before was little more than illusion. Even as Cymbra knew he was not, she couldn't help but laugh when her husband said wryly, “Men are so subtle.”

Gracefully, she knelt before him and ran her hands over his calves and thighs bulging with muscle, the palms of her hands tingling with the teasing sensation of fine, dark hairs and warm, taut skin. Her body stirred hotly. Gently, she urged his legs apart and moved between them.

Caressing him with her eyes, she murmured, “The last thing I'd call you is … subtle.” Magnificent, fascinating,
thrilling, she could think of a good many ways to describe him but just then she didn't want to think at all.

She lowered her head, the fall of her hair drifting over them both. Scant moments passed before Wolf moaned. He tried to draw her to him again but she resisted. “Let me,” she murmured, half demand, half plea.

He hesitated only briefly before falling back across the bed. His arms stretched above his head, his big hands grasped the wooden posts as he fought the nearly overwhelming urge to halt her love play and take her at once. Three days of feasting and before that four days at the hunt, a week in all since he had lain with her. His need was immense, his body ravenous. He wanted to bury himself deep within her silken heat, to feel the pulsating ripples of her pleasure that drew from him his own.

Yet, too, he wanted her to continue exactly what she was doing even if it damn well killed him. Her boldness delighted him, filled him with immense relief and passion that knew no bounds. Sweat shone on his burnished skin, his breath came harshly, muscles leaped in his arms, down his rock-hard chest, and along the ridged expanse of his abdomen.

When her tongue swirled around the tip of him, he moaned again, his control teetering. When she took him fully into her mouth, he all but came up off the bed, only to fall back with a sound of pure rapture. She brought him to the very brink before slowly drawing away. With a last, lingering stroke of her tongue, she slipped up his body to join him on the bed.

“I love being able to touch you,” she said huskily. “You're so strong, it amazes me that you have never hurt me. I love the way you can make me feel so helpless yet so protected, too.” She dropped light kisses around his navel, up over his chest, and along the hard curve of his jaw. Lying draped half over him, she slipped a hand down to caress what she had just savored. “I love being under you,
feeling all the power you command as you thrust into me, but I love being like this, too.”

She smiled down into his taut features. “I wonder if I'll ever be able to make up my mind which I enjoy more.”

“Feel free,” he rasped, “to take your time deciding.”

M
UCH, MUCH LATER, CYMBRA MANAGED TO LIFT
her head off the pillow and gaze at her husband. He appeared to be asleep—finally The man was astounding; he had more stamina than she would ever have believed possible and the devil's own determination. Deep within her, she still felt the echoing pulsations of the wild pleasure he had driven her to again and again.

She turned onto her side, lightly tracing the contours of his mouth with one finger. He was such a beautiful man, so perfectly formed in body and spirit. She gloried in their intimacy, felt reborn through their love. Never would she have thought it possible to be so blissfully happy.

On such exaltant thought, she was drifting into sleep when a rumbling sound startled her. She stared at her stomach and suddenly recalled how very little she had eaten in the past few days. And realized at the same instant how very hungry she was right then.

Right then.
If she didn't eat soon, she suspected she'd be gnawing on the nearest piece of wood. With a grimace, she rose from the warm comfort of the bed and found her discarded gown. Slipping it on, she tiptoed soundlessly across the room and oh so carefully eased open the door.