Dream of Me/Believe in Me (48 page)

“She thought that
until
everything happened, then she was worried sick.”

“So she confided in
you?”

Dragon smiled modestly. “Women like me. It's a curse, to be sure, but I bear it.”

Hawk laughed but stopped abruptly when he caught sight of the Wolf's expression. Hastily, he said, “It all worked out for the best.”

Wolf surveyed the pair. Slowly, his scowl gave way to a broad smile. He sat back on the bench, folded his powerful arms behind his head, and contemplated the future. “True enough it has—for me. We'll have to see what happens with the two of you.”

Despite the heat of the sauna, Hawk and Dragon exchanged looks of frozen horror. That amused the Wolf even further. He was in high good humor when he returned to his wife.

H
E FOUND CYMBRA SITTING UP IN THE BED, FRESHLY
bathed and gowned, her hair in ribbons and her child in her arms. She looked up from her contemplation of the little one, bestowing on her husband a smile that would have stolen his heart had it not already been hers.

Her eyes widened as she beheld him. Gone was the fierce Viking warrior of the day before. He had bathed and shaved and was garbed not in armor but in a tunic of deep purple trimmed with bands of gold. His thick, ebony hair was secured at the nape of his neck, revealing more clearly
than ever the harshly beautiful planes and angles of his face. Arm rings of gold glinted around his powerful biceps and the wolf's-head torque shone at his throat.

At the sight of it, her hand flew to her own bare neck. He saw the gesture and smiled. Drawing a small wooden chest from behind his back, he held it out to her. “Looking for this?”

She opened it to find her jewels, including the torque he had given her on their wedding day. With trembling hands, she drew it out. Wolf stepped closer to the bed. Gently, he took the torque from her and with great care placed it around her throat. The wolf's diamond eyes gleamed in the morning sun.

The baby woke then, opening eyes the same deep blue as his mother's yet surrounded by rims of silver. He looked up at his father solemnly. Wolf reached out to touch a hand so tiny it would have disappeared into his own palm. To his surprised delight, his son grasped his finger and held on firmly.

“Strong little cuss,” Wolf murmured with a grin.

“And in need of rather a different name than that,” his wife chided. Smiling tenderly at the two males she adored, she said, “What think you of calling him Hakon?”

Deeply touched that she would think to name their son for his grandfather, Wolf nodded. But a moment later he was grinning again as his son made his own opinion known.

“We may name him Hakon but I suspect he's more likely to be known as Lion. Surely that roar is worthy of the king of the beasts.”

Cymbra laughed but didn't disagree. With just a little nervousness for a task still so new, she set him to her breast. He rooted around for a moment before finding what he sought. Silence descended, to the great relief of the besotted parents.

A
MAZING, HAWK MUTTERED A FEW DAYS LATER AS
he stood in the chapel listening to his nephew's response as the holy water of baptism was placed on his brow. The baby's bellow of outrage reverberated off the stone walls, causing Brother Joseph to speed up his prayers noticeably. To the intense relief of all assembled, Norse and Saxon alike, the good monk finished quickly and returned the child to his mother. He quieted after one last howl that caused even his mighty father to wince.

“A fine set of lungs,” Brother Joseph observed tactfully when the service was concluded.

From her husband's arms—Wolf having agreed to her coming downstairs only if he carried her everywhere—Cymbra said, “And a fine service despite the accompaniment. Thank you for it.”

The young monk smiled. He glanced at the fierce jarl with a twinkle of amusement. “I am glad to have been of use after all, my lady, and for a much happier task than to try to persuade you to return.”

Cymbra, too, was delighted that Wolf had insisted on bringing Brother Joseph along, no matter what the reason. She much preferred him to Hawk's house priest, the dour Father Elbert. He was somewhere in the crowd, no doubt in the company of Daria, for the two of them seemed of the same ilk. On the excuse that Brother Joseph had helped to officiate at her marriage, she felt no qualms whatsoever about asking him to baptize Hakon.

As promised, Hawk seized that as an occasion to celebrate the unity of Norse and Saxon. Despite Daria's dire predictions, the feast proceeded smoothly. Guests were present in such numbers that the great hall could not contain them and even the bailey yard looked full to bursting. Tables set up inside and out groaned under a bounty of
food scarcely seen in spring. That this was due in part to the provisions Wolf had brought along in anticipation of a siege was politely ignored.

Wolf placed her in a chair at the high table and took his own seat beside her. Hawk and Dragon were on either side of them. Scarcely had they settled than a steady stream of guests approached to offer greetings. They came from throughout Saxon England; Essex itself was well represented, so was the royal province of Wessex, from which Alfred had sent his own dignitaries, and even the Mercian lords, Udell and Wolscroft, were on hand. Vaguely, Cymbra remembered that the latter had been friend to Daria's late, unlamented husband and was therefore not surprised to see the two of them in conversation. But before very long, she had been introduced to so many lords and ladies that in truth she could notice very little and gave up all hope of remembering more than a handful of their names.

To her surprise, she realized that as eager as they were to meet the Norse Wolf, they were equally driven to satisfy their curiosity about his Saxon wife. From their asides to one another, she gathered they had all heard the stories about her seclusion at Holyhood and her abduction from there. Ordinarily, so much avid speculation would have left her feeling invaded and exhausted. But with Wolf beside her, she basked in his comfort and support, and found that she was thoroughly enjoying the evening.

Never more so than when she caught sight of Olaf and with a quick smile called him to join them. She had known for days that he too was with the Viking army, but he had managed to avoid her until now. The older man came reluctantly, starting with surprise when she reached out and took his grizzled hand. At once, she felt his dread and concern, neither of which could she permit to long exist.

“I am so glad you are here,” she said softly. “I hope my son will have the benefit of your wise counsel as my husband has done.”

Olaf stared at her for a moment as his eyes dampened. Gruffly he murmured, “Thank you, my lady.”

Wolf had been listening. He stood, and in full view of the assembly embraced the old warrior, calling for a chair to be brought that he might sit among them. The grateful look her husband gave her told Cymbra he truly understood that she bore no resentment for his punishing of her.

The feast lasted far into the night but long before then the Norse Wolf carried his beloved wife upstairs to their quarters. Though the revelry continued, he was content and more to remain with her. He lay on his side, his head propped in the palm of his hand, and watched Cymbra sleep. That she was there with him, loving him, was almost more than he could encompass. That they also had made a child together brought him joy beyond any he had ever known.

Since his own boyhood, when he found himself an orphan surrounded by the ruins of the only life he had ever known, a hard knot of anger and grief had existed within him. He had done his best to ignore it, driven as he was to seize the future rather than dwell on the past. Yet had it remained until now. There in the quiet of the room in the high tower, he realized it was gone.

He reached out a hand and with utmost care traced the soft curve of his wife's cheek, passing a finger lightly over the fullness of her lips and down along her delicate throat to where her life's pulse beat. Unbidden, he remembered his first impression of her, recalling how he had thought her something other than human. He knew the truth now; she was utterly and completely a woman endowed with all the mysterious power and grace that had been missing from his life.

She had come to him in an act of vengeance that became an act of redemption. With endless courage and generosity, she had banished the pain of the past and given him a future filled with hope. Cymbra the healer had healed him.

Now together in everlasting love, they would bring the blessing of peace to both their lands.

H
OOVES POUND OVER THE HARD-PACKED
road, dusty in the summer's heat, clods of dirt flung high as the horsemen ride for the proud fortress close by the sun-flecked sea. A day's hunting is well done. Thrown across the mounts' sweat-streaked hindquarters, the carcasses of boar and stag drip blood into the thirsting earth. Cheers resound through the bailey yard, welcoming the lord home, celebrating the kill.

Lord Hawk, master of Hawkforte, dismounts, handing the reins of his destrier to a stable boy. He is a big man, standing head and shoulders above other men, heavily muscled, hard faced, with watchful, sky-blue eyes and the lithe stride of a natural warrior. This day he is pleasantly tired, glad of the diversion offered by the hunt. Glad, too—though he would be loath to admit it—that another day has slipped by without the arrival of his bride.

His unknown, unwanted bride. He sighs and runs a hand through thick chestnut hair that curls at the nape of his corded neck. A man of his position should marry if only to sire sons. This he knows, even grudgingly accepts, but he would have preferred a woman of his own choosing, not this
faceless female sent as a pledge of peace in the effort to bind Norse and Saxon together that they might better stand against the rapacious Dane.

For this reason his sister, the beautiful Lady Cymbra, had wed the powerful Norse jarl, Wolf Hakonson the previous year. Hawk can hardly do less himself for the promise of peace, yet he nurtures no hope that his union will be as successful as that of his sister and the man once known as the Scourge of the Saxons.

He will be glad enough if he can merely tolerate his bride, but he has no way of judging that until she deigns to arrive, something she appears in no hurry to do. However, on this day, there has been progress of a sort….

M
Y LORD
…

Hawk turned, seeing his steward approach across the yard. The man was hurrying but cautiously so, one shoulder turned just a little away as though with a view to quick retreat. Had it reached that point, Hawk wondered, when his own people had to go in fear of him because his temper had become so uncertain? He suppressed a sigh, hoping it was not true, for such weakness would afflict his pride as much as his stubborn sense of fairness.