Dream of Me/Believe in Me (6 page)

A captive woman amid a Viking war band, her worst problem was boredom. That and worry over what her brother must be thinking—and planning.

On the seventh day at sea, just when Cymbra thought she might break down and weep if something didn't happen to interrupt the unending sameness of the hours, something did. She was seated as usual in the bow, her face lifted to the sun, her mind drifting, when a gull glided by on the wind. She straightened up, watching as the bird circled the boat.

One of the men threw a fish head into the water. The gull swooped, caught its bounty, and swallowed it whole. A short time later, a second bird appeared and was duly fed. Not long after that, Cymbra glimpsed the slight rise along the eastern horizon that she had expected since sighting the first bird.
Land.

At the prospect of their journey's end, her calmness vanished. She cast her mind ahead, trying to imagine what awaited her. The Norse merchants she had met were pleasant enough but merchants naturally made themselves
congenial, the better to attract business. Brother Chilton, who had actually lived among the Norse, had painted a very different picture of them. A picture lit by fire, drenched in blood, imbued with hideous pagan practices too dreadful for him to describe in more than the most general terms.

Was that why she had been left unharmed this long? Did the Wolf intend some truly terrible fate for her beyond her capacity to imagine? The color fled from her cheeks as she fought the sudden return of all her fears.

Wolf saw the change in her and was surprised by it. He would have thought her glad to have the voyage over soon. But on reflection, he realized why she might well feel differently. Deliberately, he had given her no indication of his intent, preferring to let her dwell on the possibilities. She was, he had concluded, an intelligent woman, sensible enough when the time came to weigh alternatives and pick the one that was best for all concerned.

With a start, he realized that he was beginning to trust her, at least in some ways. That wouldn't do. She was a Saxon, a valiant but unpredictable race that had seemed bound for extinction in England until Alfred rose in the west to lead them against the voracious Danes. Well and good, but a people shouldn't be so dependent on a single leader for their survival. Certainly, his were not.

At the thought of his people, his mood lifted. As always when he had been away for even a short time, he felt a deep, irresistible yearning for the land of his birth. Soon now he would see the smoke rise from his own hearth and be content. But first they would make landfall, stretch muscles stiff from the days at sea, and hunt fresh meat. He was sick of fish.

Cymbra felt the slight change in course and stared ahead at the land they were rapidly approaching. She saw a coastline that sloped low to the sea, thick with pine forests and dotted with innumerable rivers and bays.

With a flush of surprise, she realized that she'd expected something very different—ice floes, unscalable cliffs, a dreary and threatening aspect. This place was … beautiful.

The men bent to their task, their bodies moving as one, powerful and also strangely beautiful. Wolf had given over the rudder to old Olaf and taken his place at an oar. He was stripped to the waist, wearing only close-fitting trousers and boots of soft leather. Cymbra stared at his broad, tapered back, the muscles flexing powerfully with each sweep of the oar. His long, corded legs were braced before him, his black hair swaying over the massive sweep of his shoulders. He glanced around to say something to the man behind him, his grin flashing in the bright sunlight. She looked away quickly, finding it oddly difficult to breathe.

The shore seemed to fly toward them. Cymbra saw a golden curve of beach and here and there small islets dotted with gulls and the gray, rounded shapes of basking seals. So swift was their approach that she had scarcely a moment to realize they were about to make landfall when Wolf shouted a command, the oars were suddenly raised, and the stone anchor and its iron chain splashed into the water. The vessel shuddered once and settled into place, swaying gently on the swell.

Several of the men took up weapons and shields and waded to shore. Others busied themselves securing the oars and furling the sail before they joined the rest.

Cymbra eyed the expanse between the vessel and the beach. She longed to dive into the water as the men had done, but the ermine cloak would weigh her down dangerously and going without it was out of the question.

She glanced at Wolf, who had been busy off-loading supplies to some of the men, and was surprised to find him watching her. His eyes were narrowed with amusement
and, lest she be left in any doubt of his mood; the corners of his mouth twitched.

“Planning to sit there all day?” he asked pleasantly

She turned her back to him. Addressing the water, she said,
“If
I had something sensible to wear, I could wade in like the rest, or swim.”

“Oh, that's right, you're a good swimmer.”

When he said nothing more, her anger rose. She felt painfully alone and vulnerable. There was no sign of a settlement or habitation of any kind on the pristine, golden curve of beach, and she had no idea why they had stopped there or what might happen to her now. Suddenly her throat was very tight and she felt horribly close to tears.

Before she could say or do anything, Wolf lifted her into his arms, adjusted the cloak around her, and strode to the railing.

It was old Olaf's turn to play blind, deaf, and dumb. He held her until Wolf was in the water, no longer than a heartbeat. Clasped high against a rock-hard chest, Cymbra was carried up the beach and deposited gently near where the men were making a fire.

For just a moment Wolf lingered beside her, his hand touching her shoulder in a gesture that was oddly reassuring. Then he turned away and reached for his weapons.

“I've a taste for meat tonight.” He called several of the men to him, gave instructions to the rest, and ran easily up the beach, out of sight.

Cymbra got up after a while and stretched her legs. She found some needed privacy behind a thick clump of bushes, then walked a little farther. It occurred to her that she could just keep on walking, and she wondered how far she would get before the men came after her.

Or perhaps they wouldn't. How could anyone pursue an invisible woman? She smiled at her whimsy and decided not to tempt fate. Her decision was confirmed a
short time later when she returned to the camp site. Olaf looked up from the pot he was tending on the fire, met her gaze, and nodded once in acknowledgment. Not quite invisible after all.

She sat down again on the sand, wishing she could stretch out as the men were doing, and felt her stomach rumble as a tantalizing aroma wafted by. Olaf was taking herbs from a small bag at his waist and adding them to the pot where water simmered. As she watched, he sniffed, considered briefly, added another pinch, and appeared satisfied.

“What are you using?” she asked.

He looked startled that she would speak. The other men stiffened, although they were careful to look anywhere but at her. She thought Olaf might do the same but finally he cleared his throat.

Concentrating his attention on a stick of driftwood he was carving into a simple ladle, he said, “Salt, parsley, sage, and one or two other things for me to know.”

She smiled, unable to hide her pleasure at simply hearing a voice directed to her. Walking over to the pot, she took a sniff. “Caraway seed and … black pepper.”

The men grinned. A couple even looked her way when she added, “You're expecting rabbits then?”

Olaf shrugged, doing his best to appear unimpressed but not entirely succeeding. He took turnips, some pearly white barley, and a head of cabbage from a sack and began adding them to the pot. “Not much sense going for something bigger when we'll only be here the night.”

Having had that particular question answered, Cymbra decided to try another. “Just where is here?”

He looked surprised that she didn't know. “It has no name. It's just a spot Wolf likes, with good anchorage and hunting.”

“Do you live near here?”

He might have answered but just then one of the men called out. Wolf and the rest of the hunting party were returning.

Rabbits it was, skinned, gutted, sliced up, and deposited in the pot. Cymbra wondered why they just didn't skewer them for roasting over the fire, but when the dish was ready and she took a taste, she understood. Olaf would have been king of any kitchen.

By the time the meal was over, the long summer twilight had settled over the land. Cymbra watched the gulls and petrels fly to their rests. A thin sliver of moon shone against the pale sky. The breeze picked up a little but it was still pleasantly cool.

The men were settling themselves for sleep, talking quietly among themselves. With a little start, she realized that she was more aware of their feelings than she had been before. Despite the close quarters of the boat, they had kept themselves very much apart from her, not acknowledging her existence by so much as a glance. Her conversation with Olaf, brief though it had been, had relaxed the barriers between them just a little. Instinctively, she took refuge behind the sheltering walls of her mind, but not before she felt the men's mingled contentment and anticipation as they thought of home.

A sense of melancholy rippled through her, a longing for all that she had taken for granted and might well have lost forever.

Being on the edge of tears all the time was very tiresome.

Wolf stood. He dusted the sand off himself and held out a large, sinewy hand. “Come.”

Cymbra's throat closed. She considered refusing, but what would be the point? They both knew he need make only the slightest effort to force her obedience. She took a deep breath, fighting for calm, and stood, but wouldn't
give him her hand. He looked at her chidingly but didn't insist. Instead, he began walking up the beach. Fighting the urge to comment on his nature, his parentage, and his grasp of the most basic courtesies, Cymbra plodded along behind him. Her bare feet sank into the damp sand. Keeping the cloak closed around her was awkward and keeping up with his long strides was even more difficult.

Wolf didn't spare her so much as a glance. He kept going until they were a good quarter-mile from the beach. When he finally did stop, it was with so little warning that Cymbra ran straight into his back.

She might as well have gone into a wall. Her breath left her in a rush and with it went her restraint. She glared at him. “Is there some point to this?”

He looked tempted to laugh but instead took something from a sack he was carrying, placed it in her hand, and pointed at a clearing beyond the nearby trees. “I thought you might like a bath.”

A bath? They were in the wilderness with no sign of even the smallest habitation, and he was talking about a bath? The possibility tantalized but she quailed inwardly at the thought of submerging herself in the icy runoff of a glacier. “I don't really—”

“A hot mineral bath.” His hand on her shoulder, he directed her gaze to the wisps of steam rising between moss-draped rocks. When she moved closer, she saw that the rocks framed a small pool simmering gently with the earth's inner fire.

A bath. A real, hot, luxurious bath.

With soap. At least she thought that was what the small block he'd handed her was supposed to be. Though it was far from her own lovely honeysuckle and lavender soaps, she held it like a precious gem.

“Thank you,” she said, “a bath would be wonderful. I won't be long.”

“Take as much time as you like.” Wolf flopped down
on the ground nearby, stretched out on one side, and propped his head in his palm. The position gave him an unfettered view of the pool.

Cymbra's hand tightened on the soap as she fought the urge to hurl it at him. “I should have known.”

“Known what?” he inquired mildly.

“That you wouldn't do something just to be kind.”

“A bath isn't kind?”

“It isn't if I'm expected to take it in front of you.”

He raised an eyebrow in seeming bewilderment. “Why would it bother you to take a bath in front of me?”

He was toying with her but she refused to let him see how much that troubled her. “Why? Because it's immodest and improper. No decent woman would do such a thing. Surely, Viking women don't—”

“We Norse are much more sensible about such things. We enjoy our bodies and aren't burdened by absurd feelings of shame.”

“How very nice for you.” Determined to return to the beach, Cymbra began to go around him. The clasp of a powerful hand around her ankle stopped her.

She had not even seen him move, yet he had reached beneath her cloak and caught her before she could even guess his intent. His fingers were long and warm. She could feel the callused tips moving lightly over her skin.

“Let me go.”

“No.” He tugged gently, forcing her to move closer. His hand slid up her leg, over the slender calf to the back of her knee and slightly higher.

Cymbra froze. No one had ever touched her like that. She was shocked, stunned, and afraid. Not of him, although she was sure that would come. No, her fear was of herself and her response to him. Beneath his hand, following the path of his touch, pleasure exploded through her. A moan rose in her throat. She bit down hard on her lower lip, fighting to suppress the sound, and failed.