Dream of Me/Believe in Me (14 page)

Cymbra flushed and reached down for the sack. She clutched it in front of her as though it might offer some scant protection, not from him but from the extraordinary waywardness of her thoughts.

Wolf's smile deepened. He reached out a large, sinewy
hand and took hold of the sack. Cymbra refused to let go of it. A tug-of-war ensued, one-sided to be sure and of foregone conclusion. Steadily, relentlessly, the Wolf pulled his wife toward him.

“Perhaps you'd like me to show you what's in here,” she ventured nervously. “Each plant is unique. Their properties vary tremendously. Why, I could spend hours just explaining to you how—”

“Be quiet.” Wolf closed his arms around her, not harshly but preventing any possibility of escape, tipped back her head, and claimed her mouth with ruthless thoroughness. He had thought to dominate her, to bend her to his will, but the moment his lips touched hers, his intent changed drastically. He wanted only to lose himself in her, to know again the incredible sense of completion she had given him on their wedding night, and to bring her to the same.

Swiftly, allowing her no chance to protest, he drew her down to the moss-draped ground. Her sack was laid aside, her mantle swiftly following. He kissed her brow, the curves of her cheeks, the delicate line of her jaw, his hands wandering at will over her, tangling in the thick mass of her chestnut hair, stroking the high, firm curves of her breasts, sliding down to grasp her tunic and bare her long, slender limbs.

Cymbra cried out softly. He meant to bed her right here and now, where there
was
no actual bed and where anyone might come along at any moment. Worse, she couldn't find it in her heart to object. On the contrary, after two long days of being without his touch, she was on fire for him, eager to experience again the delights he had shown her.

She pulled at his tunic, trying to get it up over his head. When he obliged her, baring his powerful chest, she gave a sigh of pure pleasure and pressed her palms against
him, feeling the crisp, tickling sensation of the dark hair that spanned the great distance between his flat, male nipples before tapering down in a thin line that vanished beneath his trousers.

Her senses whirled as she refused to let herself think, or doubt, or hesitate in any way. She had waited long enough for him to regain his male stamina and who knew how long she would have to wait again? Best to avail herself of the moment while she could.

Wolf grunted in surprise at her eagerness but wasted no time taking advantage of it. Her gown laced down the side. He made a brief, halfhearted attempt to undo the laces, gave up promptly, and ripped them apart. Her scent and heat enveloped him. Clasping her breasts in his big hands, he squeezed lightly, moving from one to the other, suckling the rose-hued nipples that tightened at his slightest touch. At the same time, he thrust his iron-hard thigh between hers, pressing against the center of her womanhood.

Far in the back of his mind, he knew that he should go slowly. She was still so new to the act and he hated the idea of hurting her again. He prayed for patience as he reached down between her legs, his fingers probing through the silken nest of curls, stroking between the delicate folds. A heartfelt groan broke from him when he found her already hot and wet, ready for him. Later, he told himself, he would think about the meaning of that. For now, he could not think at all.

Freeing his engorged length, he hesitated just at the entrance of her, gazing down into her beautiful, flushed face. Her eyes were smoky with desire, her mouth curved in a smile of unmistakable delight. A surge of tenderness washed through him, different from yet somehow allied to the hot, driving passion that had him nearly mindless. He was vividly aware of her not merely as a woman, not
even simply as his wife, but as Cymbra, a unique, enticing, mysterious individual his spirit called out to as surely as did his body

What little control he had left snapped and he drove within her, seating himself in a single, powerful thrust. Clasping her hips, he held still long enough to give her some time to adjust to him. When her inner muscles clenched slightly, tentatively, he was lost.

He struggled to hold on to some degree of gentleness, but it was consumed in the red, raging mist of need. He plunged into her again and again, her soft cries and clasping hands urging him on and on, until the spasms of her release ignited his own and he surrendered to her in a long, jetting rush.

When next he knew anything at all, Wolf found himself slumped on top of Cymbra, their bodies still joined and faint aftershocks of pleasure still reverberating through him. Slowly, he withdrew from her and touched his knuckles lightly to her face. She opened her eyes and gazed into his. He was relieved to see that she was as disoriented as he, but her vision cleared quickly and she smiled.

“I truly had no idea of this,” Cymbra admitted. The self-consciousness she had felt earlier was gone. While she was still amazed to be so at ease with him under such intensely intimate circumstances, she supposed it merely meant that she was becoming accustomed to him. “There is so much power and beauty in it,” she said softly and stroked his cheek, letting her finger trail over the sculpted line of his lips.

Wolf caught her finger between his teeth and bit down just enough to wring a playful yelp from her. He felt absurdly happy. At that moment, he was utterly delighted with his Saxon wife, and indeed, his life in general. “I'm glad you think so.”

The soft rumble of his voice made Cymbra quiver.

“It's not always like this, is it?” She hastened to answer her own question. “I mean, it couldn't be, or people would never do anything else. Perhaps it's just as well that men need time to recover.”

That seemed a sensible arrangement on nature's part, for truly, were it not so, she failed to see how the world could possibly go on, so distracted would everyone be.

Wolf raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

She wasn't sure what he meant at first but divined it quickly and gave him an understanding smile. “Two days seems hardly any time at all. Does it usually take longer?”

A moment later, as she saw his expression, she wondered if she had been too frank. As a healer, she was accustomed to thinking about the human body without shame or restriction. But perhaps it would have been better in this case to keep her thoughts to herself.

Too late now, for her husband was looking at her most peculiarly. Wolf's eyes darkened. He flopped over onto his back, stared up at the sky as though seeking something there, then propped himself on an elbow and gazed at her.

“You thought I needed two days to recover from making love to you?” The corners of his mouth twitched.

“Oh, please, don't think I meant that as criticism. On the contrary, I realize you're unusually … uh … that is—” Floundering, she tried to hide her face in her hands.

Wolf wouldn't let her. He moved over her again, pulling her hands down and securing both of them with one of his. “I'm unusually what?”

Damn it, he was enjoying this while she was beginning to feel embarrassed clear to her toes. “Strong, unusually strong.”

He smiled, stretching her captured hands above her head, his gaze settling on her breasts. With his free hand, he played with her, stroking her nipples lightly, repeatedly, until her hips arched and she moaned. Pleased by
her response, he released one of her hands and guided it down his body to close her fingers around him.

Cymbra's cheeks flamed even as her eyes flew to his face in bewilderment. Keeping her hand firmly in place, he said, “Sweet wife, I let you sleep untouched for two nights in deference to your virginal state when first I took you. Be assured I feel no such restriction now.” As though to express its eager agreement, his cock hardened yet further beneath her touch, the velvety tip nudging her palm like a playful animal wanting to be petted.

“Oh, my,” Cymbra murmured. Caught in helpless fascination, her body responded in kind despite its recent satiation. Lying back against the welcoming earth, she drew her husband to her.

H
ER LUTE WAS BROKEN. CYMBRA STARED
at the splintered fragments of wood and tangled strings on the table beneath the windows that overlooked the harbor of Sciringesheal. Slowly she picked up the ruined instrument and turned it over in her hands, as though somehow her touch might heal it. The lute was beyond hope of repair.

She had played it for Wolf just the night before, after they had left the great hall and sought the privacy of their lodge. The memory of that and what had happened immediately afterward in the great bed they shared was most pleasant, but this discovery cast a shadow of pain over it.

Someone had done this deliberately. There was no other explanation. The lute had been fine when Cymbra last saw it scarcely an hour before. In that time, there had been no reason for anyone to enter the lodge.

She had been busy elsewhere and Wolf was out all day hunting with the men. Brita, who, in gratitude for her new position had insisted on taking on myriad duties, including tidying Cymbra's quarters and caring for her clothing, had been with her mistress. While they were all so
occupied, someone had entered the lodge, smashed her lute, and left the pieces where Cymbra would be sure to find them.

A shiver moved down her spine. The wanton act of destruction carried a message she had no difficulty understanding. Since returning with Wolf the previous day, astride his great horse, she had been aware of a heightening in the resentment of Marta and some of the other women.

Her full mouth tightened when she remembered how the older woman had looked her up and down, taking in the mantle Cymbra held clutched about herself to conceal the disarray of her clothing, the bits of moss and grass caught in her hair, and the high color of her cheeks. All this no doubt made it perfectly clear what the jarl and his Saxon wife had been doing during their absence from the hill fort.

Wolf hadn't seemed to notice anything amiss but gave her bottom a pat, grinned, and went off to rejoin his men. Cymbra beat a quick retreat to the lodge, where she bathed and dressed before reappearing.

Her first priority had been to seek out Brita and inform the young woman of her new duties. She'd had no time to think of anything else, much less notice what Marta and the others might be up to. Now, reflecting on it, she realized she should have made the time.

So long as the Wolf took no wife, Marta had enjoyed a position of power and respect among the women. She wore the keys to the keep's storage rooms as the visible symbol of her authority. As yet, Cymbra had not asked her for them. She had thought to ease her way in, win the trust and if possible even the affection of the people before asserting her rights. Truth be told, she had also hoped that Wolf might notice the problem and simply order Marta to turn the keys over to her.

She should have known better. Let a chunk of dirt fall
from the protective berm around the fortress, let a fragment of rust appear on a weapon, let a man take an instant longer to react on the training field, and Wolf would know. But anything that smacked of the purely domestic he ignored completely

She had noticed that he appeared oblivious to what he wore, what he ate, what the temperature was, and all manner of other concerns related to simple comfort. In that, he was very much like her brother, Hawk, who had precisely the same tendencies. She was far too wise to think her husband would ever change. To go to him with a problem he would think of no consequence would mean belittling herself. So, too, it would mean failing at her self-appointed task to be a good wife, a task she was desperate to accomplish. If Wolf and his people could truly accept her, if she could truly make a place of honor for herself among them, Hawk would be far more likely to accept both her marriage and the alliance that must of necessity go with it. That she might also wish to please the husband who had unleashed such unexpected feelings within her was a possibility Cymbra did not wish to contemplate. Confused, bewildered, and still deeply worried about her brother, she shied from her emotions as she had always shied from those of others.

Before such thoughts could run away with her, she walked swiftly out of the lodge, across the field, and into the great hall. As expected, Marta was there, directing the servants in preparation for the evening meal. Trestle tables were being set up and wiped down, benches put in place, and large platters of fresh-baked bread distributed.

Cymbra walked directly up to Marta and held out her hand. “Give me the keys.”

Around the hall, all activity stopped. The women stared at Cymbra.

Marta looked her up and down very deliberately and sneered. How bold she was when there was no one she
feared about, Cymbra thought. That would change, and soon.

“You think because you satisfy the jarl's lust you should have the running of this place?” Marta asked. She raised her voice enough to be heard by everyone in the hall. “Any whore can spread her legs for a man. It means nothing.” Around her, the women tittered.

“The keys,” Cymbra said again. She refused to give Marta the satisfaction of seeing her angered. “Then you will remove yourself from here and not return until I have given you permission to do so.” Lest there be any misunderstanding, she concluded, “You are a vindictive and destructive person. Until you change, you are not worthy of trust.”