by Josie Litton
All his men were on their feet, watching her relentlessly. He swept them a quick, warning glance that none misinterpreted.
Mine.
They knew it and kept a careful distance from her, but they couldn't contain the urge to stare. Nor could he blame them.
Cymbra looked quickly at the other men and as swiftly looked away. She concentrated on the leader. He was more than enough to manage. Except for her brother, she had never seen as tall a man or one so powerfully built.
Interestingly, captivity didn't seem to trouble him. She could scarcely imagine how Hawk would be in such circumstances; probably taking the cell apart with his bare hands. But not this man. He appeared the very soul of calm and reason.
“Are any of your men wounded?” She was standing close enough for him to smell the faint honeysuckle scent of her skin and feel her warmth. For an instant, his senses reeled. He had to remind himself that she was only a woman, and an enemy at that.
“No.”
“Good.” She turned and gestured to an older woman who remained outside the cell. The woman's dried-apple face was creased with fear. Her eyes never left her mistress as she handed over the pile of blankets she held.
Cymbra said a soft word to her and turned back to the cell. She began to give him one of the blankets, realized his hands were still tied, and frowned. “You cannot remain like that.”
He waited, not moving, curious to see what she would do. After a moment, she put down the blankets, removed a small knife from a sheath at her waist, and approached him. “Please,” she said, gesturing to the ropes that bound his wrists.
He held out his hands to her. She looked at them, then up at him very quickly before returning her gaze to the ropes. The knife was only middling sharp, or perhaps he had to make allowance for her lack of strength. She had to saw for several minutes before the ropes finally parted.
They stood almost touching, his hands free, her knife easily within his reach. She looked up again, their gazes locking and he saw, quite clearly, that she knew her own vulnerability. Understood it full well, yet was trusting him to keep his promise not to harm her.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. Rubbing his wrists, he took a step back.
She nodded and, with her eyes averted, handed him a blanket. But she didn't stop there. Instead of leaving the rest for him to distribute, she handed one to each of his men after first cutting through his bonds. She did so silently, and he saw that she did not look directly at any of them, but her simple act of aiding—and thereby acknowledging—each man was one more surprise.
That done, she turned back to the old woman, who had used the time to fetch a basket and ewer. These too she handed through the open cell door under the watchful gaze of the guards. Cymbra set them down near Wolf, then straightened. Her hands were folded in front of her. He wondered if she did that to keep them from shaking.
“I will return in the morning,” she said, waiting until he acknowledged this with a nod. The moment she stepped back outside the cell, the guards leaped forward and slammed the door.
The clang of the metal bar falling back into place still echoed off the stone walls as Cymbra said, “Sir Derward, I would not care to learn that these men have been harmed during the night. I would be most displeased. Do you understand?”
The knight took a breath, fists clenched at his sides. “Aye, milady.”
Rooster-brained he was but still not so great a fool as to tempt himself beyond endurance. Scarcely had the Lady Cymbra vanished up the steps than Sir Derward did the same. He left only a pair of guards to slump back against the wall, eyeing their prisoners glumly.
No one moved in the cell until, after several moments, Wolf gestured to the basket. “We may as well eat.”
The men gathered around, finding bread still warm from the ovens, rounds of golden cheese, plump apples, and several roasted hens. Better yet, the ewer held good ale, plenty for all of them.
“A feast,” exclaimed Magnus, the youngest of the group. He helped himself to a crisp-skinned leg and sat back with a sigh of pure contentment. With his mouth full, he said, “This is amazing, isn't it? Did you see her?”
Swallowing a hunk of cheese, one-eyed Olaf grinned. “That's not a woman. That's a goddess come down to earth.”
That did it. Everyone had to comment then.
“Those eyes …”
“That hair …”
“That mouth …”
“That body—”
Silence suddenly descended and quick glances were cast at Wolf. He tore off a piece of bread and shrugged. “We go as planned.”
No one disagreed but he saw the flickering looks that passed man to man, the silent thought expressed that perhaps the Lady Cymbra—as kind as she was beautiful— did not deserve the fate the Wolf intended for her. It made no difference. His will would be done.
His will. What was that now? He had come wanting vengeance, believing it fully deserved. Now …
Now he wasn't sure. She was vastly different from anything he had expected. She surprised him. She made him feel uncertain. No one had made him feel like that in a very long time. He didn't care for the experience.
He had promised not to harm her.
Aye, that was a complication. Of course, the lady's idea of what was harm could be very different from his own. He'd just have to persuade her to see things his way.
Sharp teeth tore at the soft, warm, fragrant bread. A wolf's smile flashed in the dim light of the cell.
Chapter TWO
CYMBRA LEANED BACK, RESTING HER HEAD against the rim of the leather tub, and sighed deeply. Warm water lapped at her limbs. The scent of herbs sprinkled in the bath teased gently at her nostrils. The soft crackle of the fire and Miriam's quiet movements were the only sounds in the chamber. For the first time in far too many hours she could relax and, just perhaps, gather her thoughts.
What thoughts they were! She knew very little of Vikings except that they seemed to be of two types—merchants and raiders. Despite her claim to Sir Derward, she didn't really suppose that the difference was questionable. The prisoners didn't look like the sort who would want to sell her a few lengths of cloth. Yet neither had they behaved as the brutal killers and despoilers that Derward had branded them.
Authority was very weak in parts of England, with the result that the Danes had seized control over broad swaths of land. They were poised to seize even more, and might if men like her brother didn't succeed in stopping them.
Which made these Vikings … what? Even as she told herself it wasn't her problem to solve, her mind could not resist turning over the puzzle. Nor could it keep from drifting irresistibly to the leader, the tall, heavily muscled man with the midnight-black hair and the icy gray eyes.
No, that wasn't quite true. His eyes weren't always icy. There had been times when they brushed her like white-hot fire.
She didn't want to think about that, mustn't think of it. Her body felt oddly heavy, especially between her legs, where a hot, moist sensation was building. She glanced down, surprised to see that her nipples were peaked, and flushed. Quickly she rose from the bath and seized the drying cloth Miriam had thoughtfully laid nearby. With that wrapped around her, she felt a little calmer.
Seated by the fire, she murmured her thanks as Miriam began to brush out her hair. As always, the motion soothed her but she stopped it before very long. Miriam's hands were sore now more often than not, and the unguents Cymbra made for her didn't always take the pain away completely. Gently, she laid her hand over the old nurse's.
“I'm sorry I worried you today.”
Miriam sighed. She sat down beside the young woman who had been her charge since the tender age of three days, when Cymbra's own lady mother had passed beyond the veil of this world. She loved Cymbra dearly but she didn't pretend to understand her in the slightest.
“You terrified me.” She shook her head in bewilderment, sparse strands of gray hair escaping from beneath her wimple. “How could you do such a thing? Much a
s I hate to say it, Sir Derward is right; Vikings are animals. They could have killed you without a second thought.”
“What should we do then?” Cymbra asked softly. “Kill everything we fear? If we do that, others will fear us and seek to kill us in turn. It will never end. One cruelty begets the next endlessly.”
The old nurse shrugged. “ 'Tis the way of this world. No man can change that, and certainly no woman can.”
Cymbra sighed and rose, standing before the copper brazier that dispelled the evening's chill. Her shoulders and arms were bare, the cloth barely covering the swell of her breasts. She shivered slightly. “Perhaps not, but still I must try. There is too much pain.”
Miriam cast her a quick look. “You never speak of that anymore.”
Both women shared a memory of the very young Cymbra, screaming and screaming, unable to explain what was wrong. It happened many times … when a stable boy cut his foot on a scythe, when a kitchen maid was scalded with water, when a warrior died of a wound that would not heal.
That had been the worst, going on for days until finally Hawk had drugged her with the juice of poppy brought from far lands and sat, holding her in his arms, through an endless day and night, his face grim as he decided what had to be done.
Holyhood became her sanctuary. Safe within it, she learned how to control what was at once gift and curse. Miriam didn't know how, could only dimly imagine the struggle Cymbra had waged. She'd won in the end, though at great cost. Now she could care for the injured and ill, even for the dying, without making their pain her own. She felt it still, Miriam was sure of that, but she managed to keep it apart from herself. Usually.
“There is nothing to speak of,” Cymbra assured her with a smile. She drew the cloth more closely around herself and stared into the flames, but instead of seeing them she seemed to see only midnight-black hair, burnished skin, and eyes the color of slate. She shook her head, impatient with herself, and dropped the cloth, reaching for her bed robe.
“Go to your rest, Miriam,” she said as she wriggled the garment over her head: Emerging from the mass of gossamer linen, she tugged her hair free—no small task in itself—grinned, and gave the old nurse a kiss. “Heaven knows, you earn it putting up with me.”
Clucking a denial Miriam did as she was bid. When the door had closed behind her, Cymbra stretched her arms far above her head, standing on tiptoe, and made a small sound of contentment as more of the tension eased. She needed to sleep yet felt oddly energized, as though the day had lasted minutes instead of hours.
Tomorrow word would come from Hawk about the fate of the prisoners. She drew her brows together as she wondered what her brother would decide. Likely he would have them brought to him at Hawkforte to judge them for himself. She would never see the gray-eyed man again. Not that it mattered, couldn't, shouldn't matter. Why then did she ache?
Thought of sleep fled. She glanced around the chamber that had been hers most of her life. There near the brazier was her needlework, awaiting her hand. There, too, was the chest holding her medicines and precious manuscripts. Her lute was on a table next to the wooden coffer that held her paper, pens, and inks. All manner of distractions beckoned but she could not settle on any of them. Instead, she opened the door that led out onto the tower walkway just beyond her room. The night was cool but she felt unaccountably warm. The perimeter wall of the tower came almost to her shoulders. Her modesty was well protected as she stepped out, clad only in her night robe.
Protected surely from anyone on the ground. But not protected from the man who stood in the shadows of the walkway, watching her every movement. Wolf gazed at the play of light and shadow over her exquisite form and fought for the self-control that always before had been as natural as his next breath. No more.
Having scaled the tower, a simple feat, only to find the old woman in the room, he had waited, unable to tear his eyes away as Cymbra bathed, rose from the tub, draped herself in that ridiculously thin cloth. Then, as if to finish him off, discarded it in favor of a bed robe that couldn't have protected her from a balmy breeze, much less from his eyes.
In the northlands, people dressed sensibly—or not at all. She would have to adjust to that.
And rather more than that.
The men he had sent into Holyhood the preceding day disguised as merchants had done their job with expected precision. The guards outside the cell lay unconscious, bound and gagged. So, too, the guards on the palisade wall. His men kept vigil by the great hall just in case Derward or any of the others arose, but there was slim likelihood of that. They were all snoring deeply.
That left the Lady Cymbra—completely unprotected.
She was close enough for him to touch, a vision of pale beauty caressed by starlight. He smelled the fragrance of her skin, felt the brush of a strand of her hair lifted by the night wind. He heard her sigh, saw the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed deeply.
It was more than any man could be expected to bear and he had no intention of doing so. Still, he was oddly loath to disturb her peace. She would know little enough of that in the days—and nights—to come.
Cymbra looked out over Holyhood, her sanctuary and prison both. An uncharacteristic impatience filled her, a longing for something she could neither define nor deny. Such foolishness. She was the Lady Cymbra, sister of the Hawk, and a healer. She had a place where she belonged and work that was her life. In all that, she was blessed.
Why then did she yearn for more? She was like a child wishing for the moon, rather than a grown woman who should know better.
She had to be sensible. It was late, she would go inside, lie down, and in time she would sleep. Morning would come, the prisoners would leave, life would go on. Yet she lingered a moment longer, gazing out at the walls of her home. Holyhood's walls, where Sir Derward's guards pretended to watch, nodding over their spears, their dark, drowsing shapes so well familiar to her that she scarcely noticed them—save when they were gone.
Gone. Cymbra stiffened suddenly. She leaned forward, staring. There was no mistake. She scanned every part of the palisade that she could see, and not a guard was in sight. Holyhood's security was more gesture than reality, but never before had there been no guards at all. Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Vikings.
Hawk would have been taking the cell apart with his bare hands.
The gray-eyed man was so calm.
So unconcerned.
From the wrath of the Norsemen preserve us, oh, Lord.
She turned, already running, meaning to call the alarm.
Running … straight into steely arms and a merciless hand that slammed down over her mouth. Hot, piercing terror tore through her. She struggled with desperate strength but uselessly. In an instant, she was lifted high against a rock-hard chest and felt herself being carried through her room, down the winding steps of the tower, out into the night.
“Be silent,” Wolf said implacably. “If you scream, anyone who comes will die.” He looked down into her eyes to see if she understood. She did. He released her mouth so she could breathe more easily but he did not lessen his hold on her or slow his stride. She was dimly aware of other men moving alongside them, more in number than the prisoners had been, swords gleaming. She caught a glimpse of the gates of Holyhood standing open. Then the fortress was behind her and there was only night and wind. And fear so great it threatened to swallow her.
WOLF GLANCED DOWN AT THE WOM AN IN HIS AR MS. Her pallor worried him, as did her silence. She hadn't fainted as he'd thought she might but she was unnaturally still. Her eyes were very wide and he felt her heart beating like the wings of a frantic bird against his chest. Yet she had conquered her fear when he warned her it would mean death for others.
He understood nothing about her—not her kindness to captive Vikings, not what he had heard her say to Miriam about the cruelty of the world. She was utterly beyond his experience.
It wasn't supposed to be that way, he reminded himself again
. She was supposed to be a captive woman taken for vengeance. She was supposed to suffer for the insult done him and the willingness to condemn innocents to continued war. He'd had her fate all planned. And now …
She was probably cold. He'd have to do something about that. Ahead, he saw the gleam of starlight on water and the dark shape of the dragon prow. The rest of his men—those hidden from Derward, who was too blessedly stupid even to wonder how six men could have managed so large a vessel—were already at the oars.
Wolf waded out into the water, hardly noticing as it lapped around his legs. Young Magnus was right beside him. Wolf directed a single, warning glance at him and handed Cymbra into his arms.
Magnus had the great sense not to speak or move, to give absolutely no indication that he was capable of any feelings whatsoever. He might have been holding a sack of wheat.
In an instant, Wolf was on the deck and had retrieved her. Magnus let out a relieved breath, dunked all the way under the water, and came up grinning. Wolf shot him a wry look as he turned toward the hold.
He took the ladder down and straightened, his head just clearing the deck. The hold ran the length of the vessel but was separated into several compartments. Aft was the space used for storing supplies including weapons. Adjacent to it were the men's quarters, although they used them only in the worst weather, generally preferring to sleep on deck.
Toward the bow was an area most often used for booty or trade goods. It was empty now save for a single thin pallet. Wolf frowned when he saw it. He had intended that the Lady Cymbra's conditions be deliberately harsh at first, the swifter to break her will and make evident her dire circumstance.
Now he was reluctant to leave her there even for the short time needed to get clear of Holyhood. Still, he had little choice. Until their escape was made good, his first duty was to his men.
