Dream of Me/Believe in Me (21 page)

“How long has it been since we got drunk together?” Wolf wondered aloud some unknowable time later. They were sitting on the ground in front of the hall, although he couldn't quite remember when they'd moved out there. The moon had set and the sky was a sea of stars, split almost in half by the vast silver river along which the gods rode to glorious battle.

“Too damn long,” Dragon replied. “Ought to do this
regularly. Good Vikings get drunk.” He thought for a moment, then added, “And pillage. We're supposed to do a lot of pillaging. People expect it.”

Wolf nodded, pondering that as he might a childhood memory. “Times are changing.”

“Perish the thought!”

“No, it's true, they are. Look right here with us.” He waved an arm to encompass the hill fort and the town beyond. “How much pillaging do we actually do? I mean really? We fight when we have to—and we do it too damn much thanks to the bloody Danes and Saxons. But we're traders, brother. We make an honest profit—”

Dragon laughed. “A damn big honest profit.”

“Nothing wrong with that but it's still trading. And there are other changes, too. You think Brother Joseph stays here because he likes the climate?”

“What's wrong with the climate?”

“Nothing, I'm just using it as an example. He's here 'cause people are listening to him. Hell, sometimes
I
listen to him.”

“You do? Really? What's he say?”

Wolf frowned, wanting to get it right even if it didn't make much sense. “He says we're supposed to love each other.”

Dragon mulled that over. He was silent for a while, drinking, then remembered what they'd been talking about. “He doesn't mean everybody, does he? Couldn't mean that.”

Wolf started to shake his head, decided that wasn't a good idea, and shrugged. “I think he does.”

His brother blinked at him owlishly. “Why?”

More thinking, then, “Something 'bout being the children of God and him sending his son to die for us.”

“Sacrifice.” Dragon nodded. This was something he could understand. “You don't allow those here anymore, do you?”

Wolf hesitated. Images slipped through his mind, stories his father had told him of men and sometimes even women and children sacrificed to the Aesir, the great gods. Nine times nine, they were hanged from the branches of trees, their blood soaking the ground for nine days. Sacrifice was still an accepted part of life but it was slowly dying out, replaced by a sense of—what? Other possibilities? Other hopes?

“I don't mind the occasional goat getting its throat cut,” he said and emptied his drinking horn.

Later still, still singing, Wolf entered his lodge. Determined not to wake his wife, he put a finger to his lips and said “Shuush” loudly. That made him laugh, which he was still doing when he lost his balance and thumped into a table.

Righting himself, he stumbled in the general direction of the bed, but since it was moving—
Ought to talk to Cymbra about that, bed shouldn't be moving, least not unless I'm in it with her
—he missed and careened off back toward the door.

Sitting up in the bed, watching these antics with a tolerant eye, Cymbra shook her head in amusement. She knew well enough that men drank, often to excess, but she hadn't expected her husband to overindulge. Mayhap it was just as well that he let his iron control slip once in a while.

At least he was a cheerful drunk, singing again and still shushing himself. But if he kept on the way he was going, he was liable to break his neck. She left the bed, wrapped a blanket around herself, and retrieved Wolf from where he'd wandered off a short distance from the lodge. He blinked at her in surprise, then produced one of those devastating smiles that made her toes curl.

“Shymbra,
elskling
, I was jus' lookin' for you.”

He had called her “sweetheart.” How nice, even if he
did have to be drunk to do it. “I'm sure you were,” she murmured. “Come on now.”

He went, holding her hand, docile as a lamb until they were back inside, at which point he grabbed her and tumbled them both onto the bed. “Have I tol' you how beaut'ful you are?” he asked.

“Well, no, not in so many words, but you get the idea across.” Pushing against his shoulders, she tried to slip out from under him. “Let me get up and I'll take your boots off.”

He stared at her. “You will, really?”

“Absolutely.” One more good shove and she was free, but only because he had rolled over onto his back. Lying there staring up at the ceiling, he said, “You're sush a good wife.”

“Thank you.” She went to the end of the bed, took hold of one boot, and began tugging. It gave but only slowly.

“I really didn't think it'd work out that way,” her husband informed her.

“Didn't you?” The dead weight of his leg was making her arms ache but she kept pulling until finally the boot came free. She tackled the second.

“You bein' Saxon and all, thought there'd be problems. Then there's the way you look.” He nodded sagely. “Tha's a big problem right there.”

“I thought you decided you like the way I look.”

He gave a sharp laugh. “Me and every other man, tha's the problem. Can't think straight when you're around. Can't think 'bout anything 'cept spreadin' your luscious legs and—”

The second boot came off, distracting him. She tossed it onto the floor and pulled the covers up over her husband. He tried to grab hold of her again but she deftly sidestepped him.

Wolf shot her a sulky look, for all the world like a child deprived of a favorite toy, and fell back against the pillows. A moment later, he was snoring loudly

Cymbra considered trying to get back to sleep but she didn't feel tired. It would be light soon and there was much to be done. Humming softly, she dressed, tied her keys to her belt, and gave Wolf a last, fond look.

He lay with arms and legs akimbo, his big, lean body taking up most of the immense bed. A lock of ebony hair fell across his forehead. Thick lashes fanned out over his cheeks. In sleep, his features were relaxed, making him appear younger and much less formidable than the mighty Scourge of the Saxons.

Cymbra supposed that was how he had looked before life hardened him. The thought made her heart tighten.

She made sure he was well covered and dropped a light kiss on his brow before going to the door. Even then she couldn't resist a glance over her shoulder. Truly, she was the most fortunate of women, she couldn't have asked for a better husband.

Their marriage was going to be a complete success.

She was absolutely sure of it.

T
HEIR MARRIAGE WAS A DISASTER. HE WAS
an arrogant, unfeeling, insensitive b rute of a Viking and she had been a fool ever to believe otherwise.

In the grip of such dire thoughts, Cymbra stared up at her husband and blurted out the first thing that came into her head: “You can't mean it!”

They were standing near the open gate in the berm surrounding the hill fort. Cymbra had just returned from the town, where she had treated a burn suffered by a young boy who strayed too close to one of the many open fires.

Fortunately, it wasn't serious and the boy would be fine. His gratitude at the relief of his pain and his parents' thankfulness had reminded Cymbra yet again of why she was a healer.

Or at least she was if she was allowed to be, and that teetered in the balance. Her heart lurched the moment she realized Wolf had returned early from visiting a settlement on the opposite side of the fjord. Seeing him crossing the field, bare-chested after a swim, laughing with
several of his men, Cymbra tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. But for some reason, the concealing disguise of her plain gray cloak didn't work.

He came straight at her, his face hard and his manner implacable. In an instant, he assessed the situation—correctly, damn him—and rendered his verdict.

“I can't go into town at all? Not even with an escort? That's absurd! I'm not a prisoner here! I'm—”

His hands came down heavily on her shoulders, abruptly stopping her. “You are my wife and a disobedient one at that. Or are you going to claim you did not know that you were only to leave here with permission
and
with an escort?”

Cymbra would have given just about anything she had to be able to claim it but she could not. It was just that in the past week the unbroken accord between them had made her believe Wolf was coming to trust her. Now the realization of how foolhardy she'd been to think any such thing struck her hard.

“I could not find you to ask,” she said, “and a child was hurt. I could not wait.”

“Then the child should have been brought to you here.” His lean, hard fingers moved against the coarse fabric of her cloak. Were it not for his intimate knowledge of her body, even to the graceful way she moved, he would never have recognized her, so well disguised had she been by the anonymous garment.

He scowled as a possibility occurred to him. “How many times have you worn this, Cymbra? How many times have you concealed your identity to evade my will?”

Unable to meet his eyes, she looked down. Her gaze swept the broad, heavily muscled expanse of his bare chest. She swallowed hard and stared hastily at the ground, rubbing her foot in the dust. “Not often and only when it was necessary.”

His hands tightened again, compelling her attention.

The thought that she had defied him not once but several times sent a surge of anger through him. Had she been anyone else, there would be no question but that she suffer punishment sufficient to reform her ways.

He knew that was the proper response to such disobedience, knew it was his duty to impose such punishment to uphold the order and discipline vital to survival. As jarl, he was required to put aside his personal feelings and do as he knew was right. Yet, understanding that full well, he could not act as he knew he should.

Instead, he said, “It is not your place to decide what is necessary or not. My orders are to be obeyed in all circumstances.”

A small voice of caution warned Cymbra that this was not the time to challenge him. Hadn't he said something to her about a man being more inclined to grant favors when he was in a mellow frame of mind? If she had any sense, she would seek to placate him, work whatever feminine wiles she possessed to get her own way.

Apparently, sense was not one of her great attributes.

“Even when those orders are wrong? Surely you don't believe I could come to any harm? No one in Sciringesheal is so foolish as to displease you.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “No one? Only my Saxon wife, it seems.” When she would have answered that, he forestalled her. “I have treated you with great patience and restraint from the beginning, and I continue to do so. Were that not the case, you would be punished right now for your disobedience.”

He took hold of her chin and forced her to look at him. “Let us understand each other,
wife.
My word is law here. You will do exactly as you are told—exactly—or you will suffer the consequences. Is that clear?”

The color fled from her face, only to return with a vengeance. Her fists curled at her sides as her eyes blazed. “So I am not to use my own judgment even when I know it
to be sound? I am merely to be the slave to your will? I am no thrall,
husband.
The very existence of such poor creatures disgusts me. So does the suffering I see around me that sometimes could be readily eased or avoided altogether. I understand what you said about this being a harsh land but I don't see why the harshness must be added to. It is no weakness to seek to make life better.”

Several thoughts occurred to Wolf. Despite the fair— and more than fair—warning she had received, his wife was still defying him. She was actually angry at his dictate while seemingly unaware of the magnitude of the concession he was making by not punishing her at once.

“This life you hold so precious depends for its very existence on order.” His hands tightened further on her shoulders and, for good measure, he gave her a little shake. “Transgress again and you will be punished, this I promise you.”

Her lovely face tightened. Distantly, he realized that she was afraid, and he regretted that, but far more he saw her courage and admired it. “What will you do,
husband?”

She said the word again, every bit as challengingly as before, but then everything about her was a challenge. “Tie me to the punishment post, whip me as you did that poor man?”

The very thought made Wolf feel as though he had plunged into the coldest sea. He wanted to shout his denial, gather her to him, comfort and reassure her. But he was a man and she a woman. The balance of power between them had to be maintained.

Slowly, he forced himself to smile. His hands slid down her arms, no longer cruelly demanding but caressing her. His smile became real when he saw the startled look in her eyes.

“How dramatic you are,” he said. One hand held her firmly around the waist, the other slid lower. Without
warning, he squeezed her buttocks hard. At her little yelp, he laughed.

“I would merely apply correction where it would do the most good. You might have trouble sitting down for a day or two, but you wouldn't suffer any permanent damage.” He couldn't resist adding, “Except perhaps to your dignity.”