by Josie Litton
Without releasing her, he said, “He will hang there until morning. It is part of his punishment. If Odin wills and he lives through the night, Ulfrich will see to him. You are not to go anywhere near him. Is that clear?”
When she remained silent, glaring at him, he tightened his hold on her arm. “And you are never again to question anything I do.” He paused. “At least not among our people. If you have some comment to make, do so when we are private. Is that also clear?”
Distraught though she was, Cymbra could not miss the significance of what he had just said. He was insisting on her absolute obedience and respect—in public only. Much as she wanted to hold on to her anger and disgust at what she had just witnessed, she could not quite do so in the face of so great a concession.
Slowly, not taking her eyes from her husband's stern features, she said, “I am not accustomed to such things. This is … difficult for me.” It was the closest she had yet come to revealing the truth of herself and the strange curse/blessing that had shaped her life. What would he think of her—this man of such grace and strength—if she told him how very different she truly was, even to the extent of suffering the pain of others? Their ills, their torments, their wounds and scars, all their afflictions could overtake the outward beauty he saw and twist it into a hideous thing of endless suffering. If she did not find some safe place for her gift in the suddenly changing landscape of her life.
“I know that,” Wolf, who did not know at all, replied. His voice gentled. “You lived a very sheltered life at Holyhood. I am sure that even among your brother's people, such punishment is common.”
Cymbra could not contest that. Indeed, she suspected it was one of the reasons Hawk had chosen to shelter her from the ways of her people.
“I wish there were another way,” she said quietly. He had loosened his grip on her arm but not let go. His fingers moved gently over her skin, stroking her.
“You are too tender-hearted.” His tone robbed the words of any sting. He bent his dark head and lightly brushed his lips down her throat.
“Are you hungry?” he murmured, tracing the curve of her cheek to nuzzle her just behind the lobe of her ear where he knew her to be exquisitely sensitive.
A tremor ran through her. Hungry … food … supper. She was supposed to have done something about that but she couldn't seem to remember— “No,” she whispered, as he clasped her hips, moving her against him, letting her feel his need.
He raised his head, silvery eyes faintly mocking. “No?”
“No, I'm not hungry … for food.”
His beautiful, hard mouth curved in the intimate smile that never failed to make her knees go weak. “Good.” He was pleased, arrogantly so, for having been able to distract her from her duties. He was also relieved, for there had been a moment, just then, when she seemed on the verge of saying something … serious, something he did not especially wish to hear. Life should be simple, elsewise it could not be controlled. Most especially, he wished no complications with his Saxon bride. Controlling her was vital for the peace that was his greatest dream and, too, for his pride as a man.
Cymbra gave a little yelp as the ground gave way beneath her feet. Swept into the Wolf's strong arms, she was carried in long, swift strides across the field and into their lodge.
The jarl and his wife did not appear at supper that eve. They left the timbered great hall to their retainers, servants, and slaves. Dragon, realizing before the others did, broke out in hearty laughter and raised a cup to his absent brother.
It was as well there was good ale to drink, for the food was truly appalling. Even the normally oblivious men grumbled a bit before getting sensibly drunk.
WOLF DREW A RAGGED BREATH AGAINST WHAT felt like a band of metal constricting his chest, and continued the slow, skilled caress that was relentlessly driving his lovely wife to madness. He watched, fascinated, as her head tossed back and forth across the pillows. Soft cries broke from her and a fine sheen of perspiration glistened on her creamy skin.
Their first coupling, scant minutes after gaining the lodge, had been as hasty as it was fulfilling. With the worst of his urgency slaked but his desire only heightened, Wolf was doing what he had not managed to do since their marriage. He lingered over his wife, savoring her beauty and her passion, exploring her body with gentle thoroughness, drawing out her pleasure until she dug her nails into his shoulders and cried his name.
“Wolf!”
He laughed, a raspy sound of male triumph, and moved up her body, taking her mouth, his tongue thrusting possessively even as he guided himself into her. She tightened around him reflexively, the pleasure of this most intimate caress so intense it teetered on the edge of pain. He groaned and moved within her, unable to hold back any longer, driving them both to wave after wave of release.
Afterward, holding his wife in the crook of his arm, with her head resting on his shoulder and her hand lying just above his heart, Wolf reflected that there was much to be said for lingering. He chuckled softly.
Cymbra raised her head and looked at him uncertainly. “What?”
“I'm meditating on the virtue of patience.”
It took her just a moment to realize what he meant. Fiery color moved over her face. She sighed elaborately and reclined against him. “Oh, that was patience.”
Wolf stiffened but only until he heard her teasing tone. He smacked her bottom very lightly. “Perhaps it was not enough. Would you prefer for me to draw out your pleasure even longer?”
She ran a long-fingered hand up his thigh, her nails scratching him just enough to send a quiver along his spine. “Perhaps you would like to consider how a woman might take vengeance for such a thing.”
“Vengeance? My sweet, gentle, obedient wife?” His wolf's eyes widened in mock astonishment.
“No,” Cymbra said dryly. “The wife you actually have.” And proceeded to show him just what she meant.
It was very late when next Wolf stirred, surpassingly content. Never had he expected his bride of scarcely a week to prove his match in passion and control. In the end, it had taken every ounce of strength he possessed not to simply throw her on her back and satisfy the burning, raging lust she unleashed in him.
He had held on, if only barely, and been rewarded finally by the sight of his exquisite Saxon beauty slowly lowering herself onto him inch by rock-hard inch, her face a vision of delighted discovery as she began to move, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence. The hushed lodge seemed still to reverberate with their cries of pleasure.
He was drifting from such pleasant thoughts to even pleasanter sleep, when Cymbra stirred. Wolf's eyes flew open with just a hint of alarm.
“About being hungry,” she said. She sat up, tossed her glorious hair out of the way, and stretched languidly. “I am now.”
“Hungry?” Incredibly, impossibly, the sight of her made him stir again. It was true then; a man's cock really would try to kill him. “For food?” He sought distraction more than clarity. If he stared at the pale aureoles of her breasts much longer, the shadows of her ribs, the exquisitely graceful curve of her hips and thighs—
“We missed supper,” she reminded him with a winsome smile. Displaying energy he could not help but resent, she left the bed and began to dress. “You stay where you are. I'll just go over to the kitchens and get something.”
Wolf scowled. The sight of his bride traipsing about in the middle of the night to fetch a belated meal because he was too drained to crawl from his bed would have the watch so consumed with guffaws as to virtually invite an invader to walk right past them. By morning, everyone in the hill fort, the town, and the smallest settlement miles distant would know that the mighty jarl had been bested by his bride, if only in the sweet combat of the marital bed.
Nor would it stop there, for the jokes would spread on the sails of merchant ships, repeated from the golden palaces of Byzantium to the ice-encrusted huts of the wild Lapps until the veritable world itself rocked with laughter at the expen
se of the mighty Lord of Sciringesheal.
“I'll go with you,” he said. He dragged himself from the bed and began pulling on his clothes.
The kitchens consisted of several small buildings set a short distance from the great hall. One held a deep, straw-lined pit into which leather buckets of milk were lowered to be kept cool. Here, too, cheese was made, the whey separated out, milk churned for butter, and eggs stored for use. Nearby was a smokehouse where fish and meat were hung to absorb the scent of slowly burning fires fed by charcoal, apple wood, and occasional handfuls of seaweed. The largest of the buildings contained the main work area as well as storage for grains, flour, spices, and ale.
Her hand clasped in Wolf's, Cymbra unlocked the door with one of the keys on her belt. A low fire still burned in the hearth at the center of the kitchen. The light of its embers and the moonlight streaming through the open door were enough to see by.
A heartbeat later, she wished for deepest darkness.
The kitchen was a shambles. Dirty pots and trays had been left where they were dropped. Food, abandoned on the worktables, already smelled in the summer warmth. Even as she watched, horrified, a rat glanced up from his meal, stared at her boldly, and shuffled off at no great haste.
She dropped Wolf's hand and walked farther into the disaster. Fury filled her as she beheld the blatant message from Marta and the other women. She closed her eyes, struggling for self-control, only to open them when she felt her husband watching her.
“I'm sorry,” Cymbra said, her voice choked with tears. “Obviously, I've made a mess of things.”
He looked around the room and back at her. His expression was unreadable. “Has this been going on all week?”
Although he spoke mildly enough, Cymbra wasn't fooled. She was certain her husband was coldly, furiously angry at her, as he had every right to be.
Not attempting to defend herself but determined only to tell the truth, she replied, “It hasn't been this bad. As long as I've been there to watch them, at least some things get done properly, but tonight—”
“Tonight they took advantage of your absence.”
She dropped her head, shamed. “I'm afraid so.”
He came to her, closing the distance between them until they stood so near she felt his breath. Still, she couldn't bear to look at him. Clasping her chin, he forced her head up. “You asked Marta for the keys.”
It wasn't a question, but Cymbra nodded stiffly, as best she could in his hold.
“She refused them and organized the other women against you.”
“Not all the women. Brita and the other female slaves have done everything they could.”
“Because they, like you, are strangers here and know what that can mean.”
He paused, compelling her to meet his gaze. “What happened on our wedding night?”
Cymbra paled. He could not possibly know— “W-what do you mean?”
His grasp tightened implacably. “You appeared only a little nervous when you left the hall with Marta and the women. By the time I joined you, you were terrified. What happened?”
“Nothing … it was just so new and sudden, I—”
“Cymbra!” He made her name a warning. She didn't need more. Color returned to her face and deepened rapidly. “Marta said something about you hurting me.” Quickly she added, “I didn't believe her, not really, but I felt very alone and—”
He let go of her so suddenly that she almost fell. Barely had she caught her balance then he was out the door and striding across the field.
Chapter TEN
THE WOMEN WORKED BY TORCHLIGHT. Several knelt, scrubbing the floor, while others rubbed down the tables with sand, and still more cleaned the dishes and utensils. They labored in silence, watched over by their scowling menfolk, who no more liked being rousted from their beds than did the women but who stood foursquare in support of their jarl. Besides, the food really had been terrible.
The slaves were not permitted to help. Brita and the others, awakened by the commotion, were sent back to their beds and told to take the coming day for rest. They would do no work, not so much as the lifting of a broom, until the freewomen had restored all to rights.
Nor was Cymbra allowed to help. When she tried, Wolf pulled her away. He stood, silent and forbidding, until he was satisfied that the work was well in hand. Then he gestured to several of the guards who stood ready. They closed in around Marta, who gasped and tried to slip away but could not.
“Come,” Wolf said and stalked off, leaving a small parade of wife, guards, and the curious to follow him into the timbered great hall. He sat alone at the high table and stared at the others. The silence dragged out until Cymbra truly believed she could bear it no longer. At length, the jarl spoke.
“Marta Ingridotter, you are the widow of a man who held my greatest respect. For that reason, I did not hesitate to give you the ordering of my household while still I lacked a wife. But you betrayed my trust by deliberately seeking to turn my wife against me and by refusing her that which was hers by right.”
When the woman would have tried to speak, he cut her off with a look. The others shared glances among themselves. Clearly, they knew of the issue with the keys but the rest, how she had tried to turn Cymbra against her husband, was by far the graver matter and made all the more so for being mysterious. To sow such disharmony was to betray them all.
“You will leave Sciringesheal,” Wolf went on implacably. “And your daughter with you.” He ignored Marta's strangled cry. “You will make your home at the settlement at Oslofjord. It is within my holdings and the landsmann there is a strong leader. Behave properly and you will be fairly treated. Otherwise—” He shrugged, making it clear that Marta would be responsible for her own fate.
She was crying softly, her head buried in her hands. Wolf rose, facing his people. More had crowded in as word spread that Marta was being judged. Deliberately, he said, “This woman chose her path when she stood against my wife. Let all here know that and take lesson from it.”
He looked slowly and directly around the room. To Cymbra, his gaze seemed to stare into their very souls. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him for he nodded finally. The crowd, silent and subdued, dispersed.
Marta and Kiirla were taken away to their quarters by the guards. They would be given a chance to pack their belongings and say goodbye to whichever friends were brave enough to visit them. With morning light, they would be gone.
Alone with her husband in the great hall, Cymbra prayed for calm. All but overwhelmed by his swift and absolute support of her, she was nonetheless horrified by the punishment he meted out so unhesitantly
In all likelihood, Marta had come to Sciringesheal as a young bride. Perhaps she had even been born and raised there. It was certainly the only home Kiirla had known. Now they were both to be cast out, forced to start over in a place where they would be looked down upon and where no one would have reason to offer them anything beyond the bare minimum needed for survival.
And all because she, the Lady of Holyhood, had not known how to win over her husband's people.
Cymbra straightened her shoulders. Through the open doors of the great hall, she saw the first gray rim of light above the horizon. There was very little time left.
“I am also to blame,” she said quietly. “If I had better known how to—”
“Yes, you are.”
Her husband's prompt agreement in the matter of her guilt brought Cymbra up short. She had thought to have to explain it to him, even persuade him to it, but it seemed that was not necessary after all.
“Your fault lay in your refusal to tell me the truth of the matter from the beginning.” He came closer, looking at her, his voice emotionless. “I am master here. When all is said and done, nothing matters save my will. You thought to hold yourself apart from that.”
“No!” She could not let him make that charge against her, for of that she was truly innocent. “I only wanted to be a good wife, to manage my duties for myself w
ithout troubling you.”
Wolf was at a loss to understand why she had tried to keep the problem from him. Had he not been supremely gentle and patient with her, beyond any measure he would ever have thought himself capable of achieving? Was he not the very model of a kind, tolerant, even indulgent husband, whom she should have approached at the very first sign of difficulty? Well, no, apparently he wasn't, and that stung, making him wonder as it did what really went on behind those remarkable eyes as blue as the tranquil sea, yet hiding unknowable depths. What did she truly think of him, of their marriage, and, most important, of the crisis that would inevitably occur when her husband and her brother stood face to face for the first time? Would that meeting come over locked swords or raised drinking horns? The answer lay buried within her heart, as well shielded as the most impenetrable stronghold.
Spurred by such thoughts, he raised an eyebrow, silently reminding her of the trouble she had brought by not being troubling. “I think,” he said consideringly, “you are too proud.”
“Proud? Me? I am not—” That was outrageous. It was other people always appealing to her pride, telling her of her beauty and her skill, praising her to the skies until she had to fight back the urge to scream that she was only a woman like all the rest, frail as any other human.
“It is your pride that drives you to not want to disappoint people. To live up to what you imagine their expectations to be, whether those are at all realistic or not.”
She stared at him, dumbfounded. A strange, undefined sense sparked within her, grew stronger, threatened to overtake her. She recognized it then, a sense of being invaded, as though he had reached straight into her mind. It was what she had seen him do with the others in the hall but far more so.
With a shock, she realized that he knew her. That wasn't possible. She had kept too much hidden for too long. And besides, she was the one who knew what others felt, who could sometimes even sense fragments of their thoughts. Never was she the known. Until now.
