Dream of Me/Believe in Me (9 page)

Wolf scowled at the man across the table. He was the same man who had come to greet him on the pier. They were seated in the great hall, a timber building several hundred feet long with a center hearth large enough to hold an ox.

The walls were lined with sleeping recesses covered with blankets and furs, used by those of Wolf's men who were not settled with their own families in the fort or the town. Shields, weapons, and banners hung from the rafters. Trestle tables were set up around the hearth, with the largest of these, where Wolf sat, slightly raised so as to be visible throughout the hall.

A few servants moved about, beginning preparations for the evening meal, but otherwise it was empty save for the two men at the head table.

Wolf raised his drinking horn, took a long swallow
of ale, and scowled at his brother. “She's not what I thought.”

This cursory explanation earned a grin from the man known from the ice caves of the frozen north to the souks of Byzantium as Dragon.

“I only caught a glimpse of her before you spirited her away. What sort of woman is she?”

Wolf thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Gentle. She brought us food and blankets while we were being held prisoner. Later that night I heard her telling her old nurse that there was too much cruelty in the world.”

Dragon's eyes narrowed. “If she thinks that way, why did she refuse your offer of marriage?”

“She says she didn't. She claims she never heard about it.”

“Then the Hawk …”

“No, she claims that isn't so either.” Wolf's mouth tightened derisively. “Her brother wants peace, so she tells me.”

Dragon's brows rose nearly to his hairline. “Well, he'll have a chance to prove it, won't he?”

Wolf grunted agreement and returned his attention to the ale. He knew he was just postponing the inevitable, but a man could be pardoned for taking a bit of time to collect himself. In aid of that, he had another long swallow.

Over the rim of the ale horn, he saw his brother's attention lock suddenly on the far end of the hall. His mouth dropping open, the Dragon rose.

Wolf did the same, quickly, and put a hand on his brother's shoulder. Dragon met his eyes in blank amazement.

“She …”

“I know.” Wolf sighed. “Believe me, I know.” He turned, aware of what he would see yet not truly prepared for it. Cymbra in the dim light of the cell at Holyhood was
exquisite. Wrapped in the ermine cloak, she was lovely. Naked in her bath and in the hold, she was … He would not think about that.

Now, here in his hall, dressed in a simple tunic of indigo wool girded at the waist, with long, form-fitting sleeves and a chastely high neck, she was gut-wrenchingly beautiful. Her glorious hair tumbled free, unhindered by veil or circlet. Her cheeks were in high color and there was an unmistakable light in her eyes as she came toward him.

She could be Frigg, he thought—so far as he was capable of thinking at all—the wife of Odin himself and a power to be reckoned with in her own right. Certainly, Frigg must favor her for all that she was Saxon born. How else to explain a mortal woman with the physical perfection of a goddess?

A serving boy with the ill-luck to be walking across the hall at the moment she appeared went straight into a pillar. Another tripped over his own feet and sent a tray of bowls clattering to the floor. Both picked themselves up slowly, still staring. As were the few others in the hall, including one who ought to have known better.

Wolf moved deliberately, interposing himself between Cymbra and his brother. He caught Dragon's eye again, his message unmistakable for all that it was silent.

Dragon sighed. He hesitated but sat down again. Bluntly, he said, “Did we not share the same sire, I would fight you for her. Best you know that. Others will feel the same and be unhindered by the bonds of brotherhood.”

Wolf did not begrudge such frankness; on the contrary, he welcomed it. Not for a moment did he pretend that the woman he had stolen was other than an immense temptation to any man who set eyes on her. No wonder her brother had kept her locked away. With hindsight, he had to applaud the Hawk's good sense.

“I would like to speak with you,” Cymbra said, her
voice meltingly soft despite her obvious anger, her slight accent delightful as always. She spared Dragon only the briefest glance. All her attention was on the Wolf.

Who duly noted that and was pleased. His brother was thought an inordinately handsome man and enjoyed vast success with women. Yet Cymbra appeared oblivious to him.

“By all means,” Wolf said pleasantly. “But not here.” He took her arm and steered her toward the front of the hall where wide doors stood open to admit the summer breeze. She went impatiently, brimming with words as yet unuttered.

He did not stop or speak again until they had climbed the berm near one of the watchtowers overlooking the bay. He waited then, letting her catch her breath, the silence dragging out between them until finally she couldn't stand it anymore.

Facing him directly, her hands clenched at her sides, she said, “You must realize what you have done. My brother will come after me and there will be a war. Surely you can't want that?”

When still Wolf did not respond, Cymbra burst out, “You must let me send word to Hawk that I am safe!” She paused, staring at her captor, as coldness moved through her. He made no move to calm or reassure her, no effort at all to allay her worst fears. Indeed, his very silence seemed to confirm them. She could delay no longer the question that had been uppermost in her mind since the moment at Holyhood when steely arms had first closed around her: “What do you intend to do with me?”

Her courage pleased him but he was careful not to show it. Shrugging, he said, “Better you ask what I intend for your brother.”

Cymbra paled. “What do you mean?”

Wolf raised an arm, long of bone, weighted with
muscle, perfectly crafted to wield a sword or lance as it did so very often. He pointed down to the beach. “Your brother will die there.”

The rays of the setting sun spilled like blood across the water. Cymbra gasped and put her hand to her throat. “
Why?
You have no reason to kill him.”

“He who is not my friend is my enemy. I gave your brother the chance for peace. I offered him an alliance against the Dane who plagues us both. His answer was a mortal insult.”

“He didn't …”

“Enough! He will come for you, and when he does, he will die. I will have one less enemy in the world and the insult done me will be avenged.”

He grasped her shoulders, deliberately allowing her to feel something of his strength, and forced her to look down at the crimson-lit beach. “Right there, Cymbra, that is where your brother will breathe his last. His life's blood will soak that sand. His last sight will be of these walls.”

“No!” A sob broke from her as she tried to wrench free of him.

Wolf tightened his hold implacably. He pulled her hard against him, his hand clasping the back of her head to press her face to his chest. Softly, almost caressingly, he said, “Unless you prefer a different fate for him.”

She looked up, her tear-filled eyes meeting his. Her voice shook. “What do you mean?”

“Right now your brother has no idea who took you. We were careful to leave no trace. Odds are he thinks the Danes responsible. But soon I will send word to him of where you are and he will come. If he thinks you a captive, abused, perhaps dead, honor will demand that he give battle, and he will perish. But if he finds you safe, honored, content, then he will accept the alliance he should have accepted months ago. All will be as it should be.”

“You mean he will agree to give me to you in marriage?”

“No, I mean he will accept our marriage. If you truly want to save his life, you will let him find you my wife, not my slave.”

She paled. “I cannot marry without my brother's approval.”

He had expected this and was prepared for it. “If you wait for that, he will die before he can give it. We will burn his body, as is our way. He will not even reach your Christian heaven. But who knows, perhaps Odin will welcome him into Valhalla for by all repute he is a mighty warrior. Just not mighty enough to survive the trap I have set for him.”

He held her then as the storm swept through her and knew that she was truly seeing what he had conjured not merely with words but with the steel-stark truth of his intent. For if she refused, what he had promised would come to pass as surely as they stood there above the empty beach with the stars winking on overhead.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, and with no warning at all pulled back her fist and slammed it straight into his jaw.

T
HE NIGHT THROBBED TO THE RHYTHM OF GOATSKIN
drums and bone clappers. Birch flutes joined in, adding a lighter, teasing play, all combining in a robust, joyful tune that reverberated to the star-draped sky and the swollen moon hanging low to the earth.

Men, women, and children milled about, their faces aglow with excitement. Cooks swirled around the fires, working frantically. Servants scrambled to finish setting up all the extra tables, enough for a crowd far too large to be accommodated even in the great hall.

Wolf looked around slowly. What he saw pleased him
well. For a wedding feast prepared in a matter of hours, instead of the weeks that were normally required, he could find no fault.

Absently, he rubbed his jaw, caught himself doing it, and grimaced. She hadn't actually bruised him; he'd checked in a silvered reflecting glass Dragon had brought from the East. But there was no denying that his gentle bride had a surprisingly solid punch when she was riled.

With hindsight, he supposed that as marriage offers went, his had left something to be desired. Promising to kill her brother if she didn't become his wife probably wasn't the surest way to win a woman's heart. But damn it, it wasn't her heart he wanted. It was her obedience. And her body. Oh, yes, definitely her body.

Tonight she would be his. The formidable self-control he had exercised on the voyage would no longer be needed. He would sate himself fully in the beautiful witch. By morning, she would be simply a woman.

That didn't mean he wouldn't value her and treat her kindly, only that he would no longer feel the hot, dazed hunger she triggered in him. He would be himself again, in control.

But first there was this marriage feast to get through.

“Nervous?” Dragon asked as he emerged from his lodge behind Wolf. He grinned challengingly. “If you're not feeling up to it, brother, I'd be happy to—”

“Exactly how eager are you to feast in Valhalla this night?” Wolf asked pleasantly.

Dragon laughed and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Not quite that eager. The lady is yours and welcome to her.” He glanced at Wolf's jaw and smiled broadly. “Gentle. Isn't that what you called her?”

Wolf flushed slightly. Dragon noticed too much. “She will learn,” he said with utter confidence. That there might be any difficulty with her doing so did not occur to him. She was, after all, only a woman, Frigg-favored or not.

“Well then,” Dragon said, “there's no reason to delay.”

Together they walked into the large, open area where the crowd had assembled. They were seen almost at once and a great cheer went up. People pressed forward to greet their jarl and his brother, both warriors of great renown, and to offer their congratulations to Wolf on this happy occasion.

In the midst of much back-slapping and ribald jest, Wolf kept an eye on his lodge. He was just about at the point of going to fetch her when the door opened and Cymbra emerged. He couldn't be absolutely sure but he thought she had some help from Marta, who appeared to give her a little shove. He smiled grimly at the sight of his reluctant bride, then he simply smiled.

She was still wearing the indigo-blue tunic but had added a veil of translucent silk over her hair. Around her neck, no doubt placed there despite her objections, was a golden torque emblazoned with the wolf's head; the gleaming eyes were made of clear white stone said to have come from the fabled lands at the southernmost end of the world. More than anything else, the torque was an unmistakable sign of his possession. Cymbra certainly understood its purpose, for her fingers closed around the gold metal and even as he watched she tugged at it angrily.

Wolf grinned. He couldn't help it, her spirit pleased him. Not for the first time, he considered what a delight taming her would be. His patience suddenly gone, and determined that this not take a moment more than it absolutely must, he strode through the crowd and met Cymbra before she could take more than a few steps from his lodge.

She saw him coming and stopped abruptly. Her breath caught. He was dressed far more luxuriously than she had ever seen him, in a tunic of rich black velvet stretched tautly over his massive chest and close-fitting
trousers of soft leather. The thick mane of his ebony hair was freshly washed and swept back from his high forehead. Bands of gold shone at his wrists, and around his throat he wore a larger version of the wolf-emblazoned torque her fingers were worrying.

The anguish she had suffered since he told her of his plans to kill Hawk, and the humiliation she felt at her utterly uncharacteristic lapse into actual violence, gave way before a strange surge of excitement. She tried to deny it but it flowered swiftly, pushing aside all else. Without thought, she held out her hand. His own closed around it with gentleness that surprised her. She was drawn with him into the crowd.

At the center of the large open area within the berm stood a tree. It was a very old ash with gnarled branches that stretched far out as though in loving embrace. Before it stood a man who appeared almost as old. He was simply dressed in a robe of unbleached homespun and he smiled as Wolf and Cymbra approached.

“This is Ulfrich,” Wolf said. “He will say the words for us.”

“He is a priest?” Cymbra asked.

“We have no priests in our faith. He is a wise and holy man.”

Perhaps Ulfrich saw her perplexity, for he said gently, “You are new to our ways, lady. Please allow me to explain.” He gestured a gnarled hand toward the tree. The people drew closer, falling silent as the music died away and only the deep, gentle voice of Ulfrich remained.