Dream of Me/Believe in Me (5 page)

“You heard me.” He spoke more sharply than he'd intended but there was a limit to his tolerance. Best she learn that, too. “You said that you would never consider marriage to a filthy Viking savage.”

She blinked slowly long lashes lying against her pale cheeks. When they lifted again, her eyes were steady. “I never said that.” She seemed genuinely offended.

“What did you say then?”

“I said nothing. I never heard of any offer of marriage.”

He frowned. She sounded utterly sincere. It was possible, just possible, that she was telling the truth. Wolf shrugged. “Then your brother said it. He replied on your behalf.”

“No.” There was no artfulness to that, no strategy. She just blurted it out. “Hawk wouldn't do such a thing.”

He sat back, regarding her with undisguised skepticism. “Really?”

“Yes, really. First, he would have discussed any such offer with me and he did not. Second, even if he decided that such a marriage was not advisable, he would never have answered you in such terms. My brother wants peace.”

It was good that she trusted her brother, even if such trust was sadly misplaced. Regretting the need to disillusion her, but determined all the same, Wolf drew a parchment from beneath his tunic. “Can you read?”

She gave a short, jerky nod. “Yes, can you?”

“I certainly had no difficulty reading this.” He handed over the parchment, then rose and used flint to light an oil lamp in a small, stone-lined recess near the pallet. “Promise me you won't try to set fire to the ship,” he said as pale, flickering light cast a circle over them both.

Her mouth tightened. She held the parchment up and scanned it quickly.

“Do you recognize the hand?” Wolf asked.

“It isn't Hawk's.”

“He writes?” Wolf was surprised. Few men did, even those of noble birth. He had learned himself because he saw no reason to trust others with essential information.

Cymbra nodded. “It isn't widely known but Hawk actually considered becoming a monk when he was younger.”

“What stopped him?”

“Something about women.” She went back to her study of the document. “He writes his own letters to me but he does use scribes for some correspondence. It's possible that I wouldn't know all their hands.”

She was honest in that at least. Pleased, Wolf pointed a finger at the seal on the bottom of the parchment. “Is that his?”

Cymbra stared at it long and hard. Slowly, with the utmost reluctance, she nodded. “It does appear to be.”

Wolf took the parchment from her, folded it again, and slipped it back into his tunic. “Then these are his words.”

“No, they are not! I can't explain how his seal comes to be on this parchment, but I know beyond any doubt that Hawk would never have done something like this.” Again, she said, “My brother wants peace.” By the light of the small lamp, her eyes looked shadowed with dread. “But what you have done will bring war.”

“Perhaps.” He gave no hint that he felt the slightest regret. Rising, he snuffed out the flame between his fingers, plunging the hold back into darkness. “We'll see. For now, you should get some sleep.”

“Sleep?” She sounded incredulous.

He couldn't keep the amusement from his tone. “Yes, sleep. You lie down, relax, close your eyes.”

“I can't possibly sleep.”

“Then perhaps we can find some better use for this pallet.”

“I'm almost asleep now.”

He laughed, unable to stop himself. The lovely Lady Cymbra had more courage and nerve than he had ever thought possible. She was a fascinating, enticing bundle of contradictions. He would relish the taming of her. Indeed, he couldn't remember when he'd looked forward to anything more.

In high good humor, he left her and returned to the deck, where he stretched out beneath the stars. Shortly after that, the Wolf, too, slept.

C
YMBRA GAZ ED OUT OVER THE EXPANSE OF GRAY
-blue water, tugged the ermine cloak more closely around herself, and sighed. Wind filled the sails, but the men were not relaxing. They strained at the oars until the dragon ship seemed to fly across the sea.

During the night, the world had narrowed to the vessel alone amid the seemingly endless expanse of sea. From where she sat in the bow, the iron-riveted deck stretched at least fifty feet to the fearsome dragon prow. A single mast rose from the massive oak block fixed at the center of the keel, rigged with the square sail emblazoned with the emblem of the wolf.

The men sat two to an oar on benches on either side of raised planking laid down the middle of the deck. Most had stripped off their shirts and rowed bare-chested beneath a pale sun wreathed in clouds. The only sounds were the creak of the rigging, the occasional grunts of the men, and the slap of water against the sides of the vessel where the shields were hung.

How many miles were they from Holyhood? Certainly more than she had ever been before, for she had never even been out of sight of land. Amid the vastness of sea and sky, Cymbra felt lost and insignificant. The wound of worry for all those left behind throbbed incessantly.
Again and again her thoughts returned to her brother and the survivors of the Viking attack. With every breath she drew, she felt their pain. After a lifetime of training herself to stand apart from her emotions, the conflagration within her was like staring into the sun.

And yet, for all that, she could not deny a strange, unsettling sense of… what? Surely not excitement? Even less exhilaration? She could not possibly be taking pleasure in the sudden shattering of her well-ordered life, could she? Beneath the veil of her lashes, she glanced at the man responsible at once for her peril and for the only possible hope of ending it.

Wolf had directed her to the bow when he brought her up on deck in midmorning. He sat nearby, one hand resting on the rudder, which he steadied occasionally. At first light, when she was still in the hold and just barely awake, he'd brought her food and water. That consideration emboldened her to ask for something to wear besides the ermine cloak, only to have him blandly tell her there was nothing. Not a tunic or a shirt, not a length of wool or linen, that she might put between her skin and the soft, sensual, seductive fur.

She didn't believe him; there had to be
something.
But she sensed that he wanted her to argue and she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Nor would she talk to him. She'd had time during the night to think over her situation. As fear eased, resentment grew. Even if Hawk had sent that reply—which he absolutely had not but
even if
— that was no excuse to risk plunging into war. Surely there could have been some further diplomatic effort?

Good King Alfred, bless his name, was always saying that war should be the last resort, not the first. Not that the scion of Wessex ever hesitated to wield a sword when needed, but at least he paused long enough to see if there might be an alternative.

But not Wolf Hakonson. Oh, no; at the first hint of
insult, the Wolf rose from his lair to see what havoc he could wreak.

“Typical man.”

“What's that?” Wolf asked. After hours of silence, he was delighted to hear a sound from her even if he couldn't make it out.

Cymbra started. She hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud. “Nothing,” she said quickly and resolutely returned her gaze to the sea.

He shrugged, as if indifferent. Then, seeing where her attention was directed—instead of to him—he said, “You might not have drowned right away. Sharks could have gotten you.”

There, he had her attention. She stared at him dumbfounded. “I'm an excellent swimmer and we were still within easy reach of the beach.”

She hadn't meant to take her own life. She'd actually thought she could get to shore. She was wrong, of course, but he was relieved all the same. He didn't like to think she preferred death to him. A man had his pride.

“You'd never have made it in the dark.”

“We'll never know, will we?”

He sighed, not really wanting to irk her. She was a surprisingly bristly little thing, rather like a hedgehog he'd had as a boy. The thought made him laugh.

Her eyebrows rose eloquently. “I amuse you?”

“I was comparing you to a hedgehog I used to have.”

He was joking. He had to be. She'd never been compared to a hedgehog or anything remotely like it in her life. Truth be told, she was most commonly said to resemble a swan. That was nonsense, of course, but still … “You think I look like a hedgehog?”

“I think you act like one.” She was talking to him. A victory. He leaned back at his leisure and surveyed her. “But I suppose you could be said to look like some furry animal. You have a great deal of hair.” She had the longest,
softest, most enticing hair of any woman he had ever seen. He yearned to feel those silken tendrils over his body to twine his hands in them and ease her ever closer until—

“On my head,” she pointed out. “Not all over.” Too late she realized the trap he had led her into and flushed. If he said one word about having seen her naked … And for that matter, just what
had
he seen while he was lingering outside her tower chamber, waiting to commit his nefarious deed?

“Hmmm,” Wolf murmured and smiled. He gave his attention back to the rudder. The morning wore on.

The sun was high in the sky when Olaf brought them food. He handed it to Wolf, not so much as glancing at Cymbra.

“She's got your cloak,” he observed.

“I gave it to her.”

“I suppose you'll have a new one from those pelts I owe you.”

“I might.”

Olaf grimaced. “I shouldn't gamble against you. You always win.”

“It was a decent enough bet. We might not have gotten in so easily.”

Cymbra couldn't resist. She waited until Olaf had gone, then asked, “What bet?”

Wolf shrugged. “Olaf bet me ten pelts that I couldn't just walk into Holyhood and take you out. He thought we'd have to fight.”

They'd gambled on the success of his trickery. No doubt they'd also gloated over it. She remembered her thoughts the previous night and could not conceal her bitterness.

“You don't consider killing all those guards fighting? No, I suppose it wasn't. With so little chance to defend themselves, it was just murder.”

He looked at her as though she were daft. “Little
chance? They were warriors who were supposed to be able to defend
you
, much less themselves.”

“They also had families, wives and children! What do you suppose will happen to those poor souls now?”

He stared at her flushed cheeks and the angry glitter in her eyes. She really was magnificent. Still much too perfect, though. He really would have to do something about that. “I suppose that depends on how merciful your brother decides to be.”

Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” He realized that his teeth were clenched and forced himself to relax. The damn woman wasn't going to irk him like this. “We left the guards bound and gagged. Aside from sore heads, they should be fine.”

Cymbra wondered if she'd misunderstood him. She hadn't spoken Norse much since learning it from an elderly monk who lived at Holyhood for several years before passing on. Brother Chilton had devoted several decades of his life to bringing the word of God to the pagans of the northlands. He'd told her a great many stories about them. She shivered at the grim memories.

“I'm surprised you would hesitate to kill anyone.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “A filthy Viking savage wouldn't have any such qualms?”

“I didn't say that!”

He clearly didn't believe her. Being thought of as a liar was a new experience for Cymbra; people tended to take her at her word. She stared at him, wishing she could convince him and at the same time wondering why she should care.

T
HE NEXT SEVERAL DAYS REPEATED THE PATTERN OF
the first. Each morning, Wolf brought her food as well as water for drinking and washing. She suspected she
got more than her fair share of the latter but couldn't bring herself to refuse it.

When she was ready, he escorted her up on deck. The weather stayed fair and she was glad to be out of the hold, but the silence and utter boredom grated on her nerves. The men, including Wolf, spent hours at the oars. They seemed inured to physical hardship and spared themselves nothing. Not one of them was without an array of scars that made Cymbra wince to see. Undoubtedly they had all been marked in battle, but she suspected that at least some of the scars came from the ordinary occurrences of a harsh life.

Having never before been exclusively in the company of men, Cymbra couldn't help but be curious about them. Men were very different when they dealt with women, she observed—or perhaps only with women of her own class, she couldn't be sure.

In either case, among themselves they were taciturn, saying little, but startlingly blunt when they did speak. She tried very hard not to eavesdrop, but in the confines of the ship that was really impossible. After having her ears reddened several times, she was surprised to find herself becoming accustomed to the men's frankness. She also learned when to avert her eyes, for the men were as matter-of-fact about their bodily needs as they were in their speech.

Wolf was the only one who spoke to her, and he did so rarely, usually only at the midday and evening meals. He did not mention his reasons for taking her again, nor did he give her any indication of what her fate would be. Cymbra considered asking, but her sense of vulnerability remained so great that she preferred not to know his answer. It was enough to dwell with her confusion over his claim that those left at Holyhood were unharmed—please God let that be so!—coupled with her continued dread
about her brother. Barely would she begin to contemplate Hawk's likely reaction to her abduction than she would shy away from it as though from the fury of a storm. She loved her brother dearly just as she held him in great respect, but she knew him to be a man of implacable strength and a will capable of ruthless violence. Much as she longed for rescue, she did not even let herself pray for it, knowing as she did the bloodbath it would bring.

Yet for all that she could hardly claim that her confinement was horrible. Another pallet had been added to the first so that she had a comfortable enough place to sleep. Except for the fresh-caught fish cooked over small, contained fires, the food was either dried or salted, but it was so ample she couldn't finish it. Aside from the lack of clothing other than the ermine cloak, she was denied nothing.