Dream of Me/Believe in Me

by Josie Litton

  They proceeded to supper, which was as fine as any served in his hall since Cymbra had taken the keys. Nor did he deny himself the pleasure of telling her so, if only to see her veiled surprise at his graciousness.

  “I've never had better haddock. Taking into account that I'm not particularly fond of fish, this is amazingly good.”

  She had eaten very little, only toying with her food. Now she dropped all pretense of interest in it and looked at him cautiously. “You don't like fish?”

  “Not especially. I probably ate too much of it as a child.”

  A child? Her stomach did a slow tumble. The thought of a child like Wolf, a small, black-haired, gray-eyed mischief maker for her to love and nurture, swept over her with sweet longing. Her cheeks warmed.

  “Why was that?” She was hardly aware of what she asked, wanting only to distract him so that he wouldn't notice her sudden self-consciousness.

  He lifted his horn of mead, drank, and set it down again in the curled iron brace made for that purpose. “There were times when we had no fodder for the animals and they had to be slaughtered. When the crops also failed, there was only the sea to keep us alive.”

  Cymbra could not mask her surprise. “I had no idea you endured such hardship.”

  He shrugged dismissively. “We were not always so prosperous. In my childhood, there was great disorder. Many holdings were raided repeatedly, ours among them. My father tried to protect us, but as often as not, our walls were breached. We had to run and hide while the raiders took whatever they wished and burned the rest.”

  Struggling to reconcile what he had just told her with the wealthy, powerful man he had become, Cymbra asked, “How did you go from that to all of this?” She gestured around the hall filled with the trophies of victory, gleaming gold and silver plate, vivid hangings, and, most important, happy, prosperous people.

  He hesitated and for a moment she thought he would not answer. His expression was guarded. “In my twelfth year, raiders came again. This time both my parents and a good many others were killed. There was nothing left for Dragon and me. We went to sea.”

  Cymbra waited, thinking he would follow this matter-of-fact recitation with something more. When he didn't, she looked to her brother-in-law. “How old were you then?”

  “I was eight.”

  “Weren't you afraid?”

  “I was more afraid he might leave me.” He cocked an eye at Wolf. “But he wouldn't have. After we buried our parents, we stood beside their grave. Wolf put his arm around my shoulders and promised me everything would be all right.”

  Cymbra's throat tightened painfully. Vividly she could see the two boys as they had been, one still a child, the other little more, setting out alone to face a dangerous and hostile world.

  “You were lucky to survive.”

  “We did more than that,” Dragon said lightly. “Wolf seemed to have a knack for figuring out which voyages to sign on with. He was big for his age and already handy with a sword, so he didn't have too much trouble convincing shipmasters to take him on. It was only after they thought they had him that he'd mention I came along, too.”

  The two men shared a grin over the memory. Cymbra marveled at it. A past that would have destroyed most people seemed only to have strengthened the valiant Hakonson brothers.

  “We sailed the world,” Dragon said, “or at least most of it. Everywhere we went, Wolf studied how people fought and how they defended themselves. The rest of us would be …”he sought a discreet term suitable for her tender ears, “… relaxing while he'd be making sketches of fortifications or having long discussions about the best way to smelt steel.”

  Cymbra eyed her husband skeptically. “Didn't you ever …” she paused, mimicking Dragon, “… relax?”

  “My brother exaggerates,” Wolf said with a chiding look at that worthy. The smile he turned on his wife was purely, breathtakingly male. “And I think you already know the answer to that.”

  Her cheeks flared. She looked away hastily, resuming her pretense of interest in her food. Indeed, she knew the answer too well, having been the recipient of skills he could not possibly have acquired examining fortifications or talking with blacksmiths.

  “You really should eat,” he said pleasantly. “Especially after going to so much trouble to prepare such a magnificent meal.”

  Recalling on what terms they had parted when he ordered her to see to supper, she replied tartly, “I assure you, my lord, I went to no trouble at all.”

  “Oh, but you must have. There's no reason to deny it.”

  “It is as easy to prepare good food as poor,” she insisted, “provided just a little thought is given.”

  “You are too modest. Surely only a great effort could produce such a feast.” He gestured to the array of rich dishes on the table.

  “Not at all,” she assured him. “Indeed, hardly any effort was required.”

  “I cannot believe that. The servants alone could never have managed this. You must have stood over them for hours, guiding their every movement, attending to every detail, and—”

  “I did no such thing!” Cymbra burst out. She caught herself but too late and now she had to face his look of blatant amusement. Truly, he had baited the hook well, playing to her barely suppressed anger and her pride. She had to admit, he'd done it awfully well.

  Dragon clearly thought so, although he was being very careful not to look at either of them. Nor was anyone else, as it seemed that every man, woman, and child in the great hall was suddenly intensely occupied with their own matters. Yet she knew they were full well aware of the tension between their jarl and his Saxon bride.

  Tension that suddenly weighed down on her unbearably. She longed for a return of the accord they had so briefly known and dreaded the thought that such strife might instead be the pattern of their days together.

  “Wolf—” she said tentatively.

  “I thought you'd taken to referring to me as husband.”

  He said it in exactly the tone she had used, at once disdainful and challenging.

  Cymbra flinched and looked at him swiftly but he was smiling and there was a look in his eyes that took her aback. “My lord—”

  He leaned closer, so close that the breadth of his shoulders and chest blotted out the light. She felt the warmth of his breath, its touch sending tremors through her. “I prefer my own name on your lips,” he said, so softly only she could hear him. He leaned closer still. “I especially prefer it when you say it in certain ways … at certain times.”

  Her face flamed. She felt confused, uncertain … and excited. The cool restrain she had tried so hard to maintain was melting away as though it had never been.

  Beneath it, and vastly more important, the walls she had built around her emotions from earliest childhood seemed to be dissolving. She had an image of them in her mind as no longer solid and strong but fading in and out, almost transparent.

  The thought terrified her, for she knew too well the devastating pain that could lie beyond them. And yet the idea of being without those walls that were as much prison as protection … To be truly free …

  “What is it?” Wolf's eyes had gone dark as he watched her. He raised a hand, lightly touching the backs of his fingers to her cheek. “Are you all right?”

  His obvious concern touched her deeply at that moment when she was so intensely vulnerable. She tried to tell him she was fine but her throat was suddenly very tight and a glimmer of tears clung starlike to her thick lashes.

  Wolf cursed under his breath. He stood and lifted her out of her seat in one fluid motion. Instantly, all conversation—and all pretext of disinterest—vanished. Every eye turned on them.

  “Lady Cymbra is weary,” he said in a tone that brooked no disagreement from her or anyone else. Holding her high against his chest, her silky hair spilling over his arms and down his legs, he strode from the hall.

  Before he had gotten very far, Cymbra recovered sufficiently to protest, if halfheartedly. On a not
e of self-disgust, she said, “They will think me a weak-willed ninny.”

  He looked down at her but didn't stop. “They will do no such thing, but would you truly care if they did?”

  The question surprised her. “Of course.”

  He did slow his step just a little then and studied her closely. The moon had risen. By its silver light, she looked gloriously pale. His body stirred, inevitably, but beneath the hard thrust of passion was tenderness he could no longer ignore. “Why would you?” he asked softly.

  “Because your people are my people now. It's only natural that I would seek their good opinion.”

  A fierce pleasure rippled through him. Her people. Was it true? Had she accepted so much, so quickly, after being so badly begun? Dare he believe her?

  Her worry over her brother must be even worse than he had thought, else how to explain her sudden fragility? Remorse filled him but with it came the steely determination to end her uncertainty soon.

  Soon, very soon. But not this moment, not with the moon on them and the scent of her skin filling his breath. Not with their lodge only a few rapid strides away.

  Wolf kicked the door open, passed beneath the lintel emblazoned with the crossed-ax symbols of his rank—and responsibility—and shut out the world. The shutters were open, filling the room with moonlight. The covers of the bed were turned down, revealing fresh linens he knew had been scented with herbs, a luxury he would have thought foolish were he not coming to realize that it was his wife's way to show her care in small, meticulous touches.

  His wife. His beautiful, courageous, compassionate, proudful wife whose hands had trembled when he spoke of the hardships of his youth and whose eyes had filled with tears when he reminded her of their quarrel.

  Cymbra.

  It came to him suddenly that he had known her only a few short weeks yet she was already far more important to him than he would have believed any woman ever could be. And not because of the alliance she represented. Something in her spoke to a part of himself he had barely acknowledged, the part that was not responsible brother, not resolute jarl, not deadly warrior or leader of his people or even seeker of peace but simply and supremely a man.

  And he loved her for it. The shock of that roared through him. Love was weakness, vulnerability, a kind of madness that shredded reason and made the most sensible man a fool. He had always scorned it, denying its very existence, yet there it was, full-blown within him. He could no more root it out than he could tear out his heart.

  The knowledge was a sweet agony, bringing him a furious pleasure. He dropped his arm from beneath her legs and, holding her around the waist, let her slide down the length of him until her feet just barely touched the ground.

  She raised her head, a little startled. With ruthless thoroughness, he molded her to him, claiming and controlling. He held back nothing, gave her no quarter, but sought to establish his mastery beyond the shadow of a doubt.

  She made a sound deep in her throat but he felt no fear in her, only feminine strength and need rising to match his own. Elation drove out resentment. He felt a sense of recognition, as though the very essence of him knew her in a secret, eternal way that surpassed the frail boundaries of life itself.

  They undressed each other hastily, clumsily, without regard for the finer points of brooches and buckles, laces and garters. They fell across the fur-covered bed, limbs entwined, mouths seeking, amid hotly murmured words and soft, indiscernible sounds.

  As so often happened, their first coupling was swift and fierce. Wolf eased her beneath him, his hands running over her, desperate to know her silken heat. She parted her legs. He hesitated, meeting her eyes, desire and doubt mingling in his.

  “Please,” she whispered, “I need you so badly … please….”

  He went into her carefully. When he was fully seated, he rose, the muscles of his powerful arms and shoulders bunching, and gazed down at her. Her lips were parted, her cheeks flushed. She looked well and thoroughly like a woman in the throes of passion, and it pleased him mightily to know she returned his desire in full.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said, swelling even further, “so exquisitely …”he moved within her, “so utterly …” again he moved and again, “so completely …” he thrust harder, deep and deeper. Her hips lifted to meet him. He caught her hands in his, their fingers entwining against the scented pillows. His mouth on hers, he groaned, “… a woman. My woman.” The silken sheath of her body flexed around him as though acknowledging his claim even while making its own.

  “So beautiful,” she said as the first curling edges of hot, sweet pleasure took her. Her gaze locked on his. “So beautiful,” she repeated, making it clear she meant him. He started to laugh at the notion but the pleasure was upon him as well, and he could only gasp. He was at the edge before he knew he was close to it, fighting to hold back, wanting to give her everything and more.

  He let go of one of her hands and slid his own between their joined bodies, stroking her until she cried out, her head twisting on the pillow. “Don't stop, oh, please, don't stop …”

  “I won't.” He continued the caress as he drove again within her. Scant heartbeats passed before she convulsed around him, her exquisite body arching up from the bed, his name a cry on her lips.

  “Wolf!”

  He growled in response, rising above her, gripping her hips between his hands, driving harder and deeper yet until he, too, was taken, convulsed by pleasure so intense he lost all awareness of the world, of himself, of everything save the woman who clasped him to her, gently stroking his sweat-dampened back.

  Such was the first time. Afterward, Wolf resolved to do better. Well, not precisely better. Just longer. He wanted to linger over her, savoring every inch of her. A man was a fool to waste such beauty and passion in hasty coupling.

  Call him a fool, then, for he could not manage such restraint the second time, although by Odin he did try. Nor did he think he mistook the little laugh he heard from her afterward, as though she was mightily pleased by his lack of restraint.

  He lifted his head then, from where it rested slumped against her lovely breasts, and eyed her narrowly.

  “Amused, wife?”

  Her delicious mouth curved in an enticing smile. “Well satisfied, husband.”

  “You think so?” He felt himself growing hard again. She felt it, too, and her eyes widened most gratifyingly

  “Wolf…?”

  “Hmmm?” He moved, as though to withdraw from her, but returned quickly enough when she clasped his buttocks.

  He smiled down at her, gray eyes gleaming, and moved again. “Oh, is this what you want?”

  It was and she made that clear enough to send them both whirling into a red mist of release before he found himself once again slumped against her, scant-breathed and lack-sensed. This time she managed not to laugh but he knew, though he had not the strength to raise his head, knew beyond doubt that she was smiling.

  He woke later to feel her silken thigh thrown over his and the swell of her breast against his arm. Incredibly, that was enough. His cock stirred in cheerful anticipation. Wolf groaned and stared down the length of himself. His cock moved again, as if waving at him. He bit back a wry curse and glanced at his wife. She was asleep. He couldn't wake her. She was only a woman. She needed to rest, to recover from his manly attentions.

  Her thigh moved, warm, smooth, slightly moist with the mingled essence of him and her. Tempting, testing, enticing. She raised her head, tossed back her hair, and smiled at him.

  Would death in the sweet combat of the marital bed qualify him for Valhalla? he wondered. He imagined himself trying to make that claim before Odin and all the gods, thinking of how they would laugh. Ah, but he would have an ally. Frigg would welcome him. No doubt, she'd seat him right beside her.

  “We used to sacrifice to Frigg,” he whispered still later against his wife's sweet skin. “Mayhap you wish to revive the custom.”

  She laughed but, he noted, didn't deny it, an
d curled against him, her breath soft against his chest. He thought she slept and thought to do the same, until she stirred beside him. Slowly, she lifted herself, the curtain of her hair falling over them both. He saw … uncertainty in her eyes, hesitation, and something more. Fear? No, surely not that.

  “I have been meaning to ask you,” she said slowly, for clearly the asking was not easy. “You have not said …” In the dim light of the lodge, he saw her glance away and knew in an instant what she meant to ask. What must be uppermost in her mind, what he should have told her, what it was cowardice to deny and delay.

  “No,” he said suddenly. He cupped the back of her head, pulling her down to him. He would not let her go. Holding her close to him, feeling her soft lips on his chest, he said, “I have not sent word to Hawk, not yet.”

  Silence and then, shivering softly through it, “Why not?”

  Why, indeed? He had never hesitated in battle, or on those occasions when he had to render judgment, or in any other arena of his life save this. What could he say to her? That he was as yet uncertain, that she was more than he had ever even dared to long for, that he was at some level deeply afraid?

  He was man and jarl, husband and leader. He could not admit to his fears.

  “I thought it best to wait. It may sound cruel now, but your brother will be more likely to accept our marriage if he has had some time to worry over you.”

  “He will be worried,” Cymbra said softly, “very worried and very unhappy.”

  “I am sorry for that.” He meant it. What was happening to him that he should be concerned over the tender feelings of a Saxon warlord who would joyfully dispatch him to Valhalla? Had he truly become so craven?

  Her breath was warm and tempting as she relaxed against him, her slender form molding to his. The confession of his regret had carried the day, or at least the night. He said a silent prayer of thanks to Frigg, for he had no doubt the credit was hers.

  Thus reassured, Cymbra fell into sleep as though off the edge of the world. He dozed again, the light sleep of a battle lull, and woke toward dawn feeling oddly energized. After a cautious look to be sure Cymbra did not stir, he pulled on a pair of trousers and took himself outside where he stood stretching in the pearl gray morn.