by Josie Litton
Even then, she cautioned Mikal, “Send for me if anything untoward happens whatever the hour.” At his sudden frown, she added hastily, “Not that I'm expecting trouble. Nadia did extremely well and your son is very healthy.”
Mikal beamed, both reassured and proud. But when Cymbra put on her cloak he sobered and began reaching for his own. “I will come with you, lady. You must not go alone.”
“And you must not leave your wife and child. They need you.” When still he hesitated, she said, “Mikal, tell me truly, who do you think would endanger me? Aside from the fact that no one is out in this foul weather, who should I fear?”
He had no answer for that and admitted as much. “I don't know, my lady, but it is the principle of the thing.”
“Do you allow your wife to go about the town on her own?”
The mere thought of trying to restrict Nadia in such a way surprised him. “Of course, but—”
“Do you trust me less than her?”
“Certainly not! But, my lady, we both know that is not what this is about. You are guarded, protected, as a sign of respect.”
She nodded, well understanding that. “Respect for my husband, not for me. Respect for me, or for any woman, would be to allow us to go about our lives unmolested.”
Mikal spread his hands, not unkindly but in acceptance of what was. “You speak of a different world, my lady.”
“Perhaps I do. Let us be practical then. Even in this flawed world, no man would risk the jarl's anger.”
“Anger?” Mikal looked at her as though she had just described a howling wind that froze men's blood in their veins as though it was no more than a summer's breeze. “My lady, I most profoundly hope I am never so foolish as to incite such anger. Were I to do so, it is the last thing I would ever do.” He shuddered at the very thought. “Save for dying, of course, and that would be a kindness.”
Cymbra chose not to dwell on what exactly Mikal imagined her husband capable of doing. She was occupied enough with the sudden realization that the Rus trader had, all unknowingly done exactly what he most feared.
Brother Joseph, Ulfrich, and Brita had obviously known of her husband's order that Cymbra remain in the fort, but Mikal had not known, nor had Nadia. Cymbra had told them only that Nadia should come to the fort when her labor began because everything needed to care for her was there. Pride, resentment, whatever had kept her from revealing that “everything” included herself, she who was as much captive as bride.
Horror filled her as she comprehended the extent to which she might have placed Mikal in danger. With it came even greater resolve that no one but herself would pay the price for defying the Wolf. If indeed there was a price to be paid.
Although she was by nature an honest and forthright person, it occurred to her that perhaps her husband need not know of this. She would return safe and sound. Why should he be troubled by something that was over and done?
Such thoughts sped her on her way. She checked once more on Nadia and the baby, reassured Mikal yet again, and took her leave. The light was fading rapidly as she passed out of the town and began to climb the hill to the fort. She was more tired than she had realized and the climb left her just a little breathless.
Near the top, she paused, looking ahead through the rain, and saw with relief that the gates were still open. Swiftly she passed through them and hurried, a gray shadow, through the rain until she came to the lodge she and Wolf shared.
With a sigh of relief, she went inside and returned her medicine box to its proper place beside the table. Removing the gray cloak, she shook it well before hanging it spread between two pegs set into the wall. The braziers were lit, warming the room and casting a cheering glow. She gave silent thanks to Brita, who undoubtedly had thought to light them.
For a moment she was tempted to crawl into the huge bed and go straight to sleep. But the churning of her stomach reminded her that she had eaten almost nothing that day.
It would be time for supper soon. In the meanwhile, she decided to look in on the kitchens and see how the meal was progressing. Perhaps she'd just grab a taste or two to tide her over.
Donning a dry cloak, she left the lodge, skirted around the timbered hall, and went down the short flight of stone steps into the kitchens. They were as crowded as she had expected at this hour.
A dozen or so women worked around several tables, preparing meat for roasting over the great fire in the hall, scraping fish, and peeling vegetables. Children helped stir simmering pots from which delectable aromas wafted. Other women were taking loaves of bread out of the brick ovens, placing them in baskets to be carried into the hall along with golden rounds of cheese and platters of bright berries.
Cymbra slipped in unseen and promptly made for the berries. She took several, popped them into her mouth, and was just savoring their sweetness when a sudden silence descended. Glancing around, she found herself to be the object of all eyes. One by one, the women stopped what they were doing, knives and spoons halting even in midair, and stared at her.
Suddenly aware of her berry-stained fingers, she tucked them behind her back and said self-consciously, “I missed midday meal.”
No one replied, no one so much as moved. They might have been statues frozen in place by the breath of an ice god. Except for the dawning looks in their eyes of… sympathy, concern … fear.
Cymbra's heart pounded against her ribs. She swayed slightly and put out a hand to steady herself against the table. Too late, she remembered what she should have noticed before, and would have if she hadn't been so tired and preoccupied with her hunger.
The lodge, the bed into which she had been so tempted to creep, and on the foot of that bed, her husband's cloak left where he had tossed it.
The Wolf had returned to his lair. While she was away, disobeying his most clearly expressed orders and despite his clear warning of what would happen were she so foolish to do so.
Yet even as she thought of that, she couldn't help but be elated. He was back, he was safe. She was overjoyed … and filled with dread. Tremendously relieved … and deeply apprehensive. Even as she ricocheted between contrary emotions, another joined the mix. She resented being so worried when she should have been so happy.
She had merely done what was right. He should see that and agree. She lifted her head, straightened her shoulders. He would have to see; she would insist that he do so. She would—
“Out.” The single growled command ripped apart the unnatural silence. Pots dropped, knives fell from hands, footsteps thudded. In an instant, the kitchens were empty.
Save, that was, for Cymbra, who turned to greet her lord, her noble husband, the man to whom she had sworn obedience. The enraged Viking who stood, feet planted solidly apart, fists on his hips, glaring at her.
Chapter FOURTEEN
THE FIRST SIGHT OF HER HUSBAND EMPTIED Cymbra's lungs and left them starved for air. Memory could not encompass the reality of him. Shorn of his helmet and leather armor, wearing only a simple tunic, he was yet bigger, harder, more massive, more virile even than she could recall.
He was also … grubby. He looked as though he'd slept in his clothes, which undoubtedly he had. He needed to shave, as his jaw bore the dark shadow of a week's growth of whiskers. His hair was unkempt, falling thickly to his broad shoulders.
He looked … wonderful … enraged … exciting … infuriated … tantalizing … dangerous.
“You—” He got out that much from between gritted teeth, no more. She couldn't bear to hear what he would say, what accusations he would throw at her—all unfortunately true but still intolerable. She had done nothing wrong, or at least not when weighed against the right she had also done.
“I had to!” Cymbra blurted. “A woman and child's lives were at risk. And besides,” she hurtled on, determined to say it all before he could stop her, “Mikal knew nothing of your order. He's entirely innocent, as is Nadia. I'm the only one to blame, no one else.”
She stopped as abruptly as she had
begun and stood, her arms hanging at her sides, looking at him. Surely he would understand. She thought of all they had shared, the joy they had made together, and told herself he would never really hurt her.
“I warned you,” Wolf said. He advanced toward her, his face implacable. “You had every chance to mend your ways. Too much chance, it now seems.” He stopped, scarcely the length of a man away from her, and shook his head regretfully. “You leave me no choice, Cymbra.”
She could have stood almost anything better than the disappointment in his voice. That and the intent stamped clearly in every inch of his bearing. He had warned her. She knew exactly what he meant to do.
No one had ever struck her. In all her life, she had never experienced any such thing. She knew full well how unusual that was, but that made no difference. Besides the physical hurt and humiliation, she truly doubted whether she would ever be able to forgive him for not understanding.
“You—” It was her turn. She searched for words and found none. There was nothing but hollow pain, pulsing within her, and the acid resentment of her anger spilling up and over any wall she could ever hope to build.
Her lips moved stiffly, forming each separate word with care. “Don't … you … dare.”
He looked at her, she thought, as though at a horse that had suddenly opened its mouth and spoken. A woman daring to defy him must be as rare a beast. For just an instant he paused, but his intent did not waver. He continued toward her, speaking quietly with regret that in no way lessened his resolve.
“You will remember this, Cymbra, and then we will go on. You will not be so foolish again—”
That did it. The walls crumbled and all poured out. “Foolish? It is not foolish to help people in need! It is not foolish to trust in my own judgment! You told me—told me!—to take care of things here. Or perhaps you don't remember that, husband. Perhaps it is conveniently forgotten. Would you return to a dead woman and child, and me simpering that they died because I couldn't venture a quarter mile into a town? Would you have me live with that on my conscience for the rest of my life. Would you?”
No, not merely a horse that spoke. A pink one that sprouted wings, flew around the room, and sang. He looked so startled that she was almost tempted to laugh, just for a moment, before the urge to cry overtook her.
She'd be damned if she'd give him that. Oh, no! Instead, she'd give him—Hardly knowing what she did, she reached across the table, seized the first thing she touched, and hurled it straight at Wolf.
The ball of cheese hit his chest with a hollow thud and fell to the floor, rolling away into a corner. He watched it roll, looked at her, and looked at the cheese again, now lying still and slightly dented. When he raised his head once more, the light in his eyes had changed. Gone was the ominous darkness. In its place was silver fire.
“The first time I saw you,” he said, almost pleasantly, “I thought you needed messing.”
“W-what?”
“Messing. You looked too perfect to be real.” He glanced around almost casually before his gaze lit on a bowl on a nearby table. He picked it up, hefted it lightly, and tossed the contents right at her.
Cymbra yelped, more in surprise than for any other reason, and tried to jump back, to no avail; she was splattered with whey. The drippy, oozing stuff landed in her hair, on her cheeks, on the front of her cloak. She stared down at herself in disbelief. “Why, you—”
She picked up a honeycomb and threw it right at his face. It landed, stuck, and stayed there until he pulled it away.
“If that's how you want it, my lady—” He strode toward her, honey dripping from his face, and before she could move, caught her around the waist. “Far be it from me to deny you.”
The world turned upside down. Cymbra landed in a pile of flour sacks. Instantly she tried to get up, but her husband came down on top of her, holding her trapped. He caught her flailing arms and pinned them down. His teeth flashed whitely. “Not so bold now, wife?”
She'd show him bold. She'd show him what a Saxon woman was made of. Frighten her, would he? Smear her with whey? She'd make him regret— Trying to gain leverage against him, Cymbra dug her heels into the sacks. Dug … and dug … and stopped digging abruptly as the fabric gave way and flour shot up, covering them both.
As the powder settled around them, she looked up into her husband's face, streaked with honey and coated with flour, and laughed. She couldn't help it.
He quirked an eyebrow. “This amuses you?”
Her response wasn't smart but it was honest. She nodded.
He held her eyes, smiling, looking oh so very beguiling as she remembered how worried she'd been for his safety and how truly glad she was, despite everything, that he was home. It was so silly of them to waste time like this. They had been apart for a week. They should be—
“Oomph!”
Milk poured over her, a sea of milk emptying from the bucket her insufferable husband had seized. She was soaked through, covered with whey, flour, and milk.
She was at a loss how to respond until her eye fell on a basket of eggs lying nearby. With unholy glee, she yanked away from Wolf, who was nearly doubled over with laughter, seized the eggs, and pelted him with them. Yellow yolks and runny whites matted his hair, dripped off the end of his nose, and turned the flour all over his tunic to glue.
She was on her feet, trying to scramble to the steps, when Wolf caught her by the skirt. She landed again in the torn sacks, briefly blinded by a new shower of flour. When her vision cleared, it was to see him over her, holding a handful of ripe berries descending right toward her—
—mouth. “Open up,” Wolf growled. Dazed, heart pounding, she obeyed. He slipped one of the succulent fruits between her lips. Instinctively, she chewed and swallowed. He watched her intently.
Slowly, deliberately, the Norse Wolf fed his disobedient wife berries as they lay amid the shambles of the kitchen, stained, sticky, and dripping.
Until the berries were forgotten. Slowly, sweetly, their lips met. Cymbra moaned in relief, in need, in sheer pleasure. Wolf's beard rasped her delicate skin. His hands moved over her, possessive, urgent, yet controlled.
“Missed you,” he murmured against her mouth. “So much.”
“Mmm … the same …” She tugged at his tunic, shameless in her hunger for him. He pushed aside her cloak and raised her gown over her legs, bunching it at her waist.
“Someday,” he muttered as he rose over her to undo the ties of his trousers, “I'm going to take my time with you.”
“But not right now,” she said, demand and plea together. She clasped his upper arms, her fingers digging into the powerful muscles. A sob of pure desire broke from her as he spread her legs and moved to join their bodies.
He was so big, filling her so completely, that for just a moment she felt too stretched, too invaded. But she adjusted quickly, her hot, silken sheath alternately tightening and relaxing around him. She was rewarded by his husky groan.
Moving within her, he whispered of how she felt to him, how he wanted her to feel, how he had thought of her when they were apart, what she did to him. His bluntness shocked and excited her. She felt herself spiraling out of control and clung to him even more tightly.
He raised her legs, clasping them around his hips, and drove even more deeply. She rose to meet him, her back arching, her head falling back to expose the vulnerable curve of her neck. He laid his mouth against her delicate skin, tracing the pale blue line of her life's blood down to where it disappeared beneath the gown she still wore. His teeth tore at the fabric, ripping it aside, freeing her breasts. Urgently, he suckled her, drawing her deeply, raking her lightly, the sensation teetering on the edge between pain and pleasure. Before it could tip over, he raised his head and took her mouth, his tongue thrusting with the same powerful, driving rhythm as his sex.
She was lost, the world shattering, every particle of her being resonating with the exquisite fury of her release. Yet still she felt his own when it followed swiftly, i
ncredibly renewing and extending her ecstasy until nothing remained save sweet, soft oblivion.
GAZING DOWN AT THE FACE OF HIS WIFE, WOLF traced a finger carefully over the faint, half-moon smudges beneath the thick fringe of her lashes, and a little farther over the curve of her cheek, along the delicate line of her jaw, lingering on her rose-petal lips, now slightly swollen. He kept his touch feather-light, careful not to disturb her. A rueful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. A man could do worse than to make his wife faint with pleasure. Much worse.
Tentatively, he sought the stinging anger that had struck him the moment he realized what she had done, anger he had struggled mightily to control even as he faced the grim but seemingly inescapable duty of punishing her. Only the faintest echoes of it remained and those were fading fast. He let them go gladly.
If he had failed in his duty, so be it. For once in his life, he was content and more than content to be only a man—and a husband. Cymbra's husband.
The sudden image of his wife as she had looked when she threw the cheese at him made him chuckle. No meek, docile little woman, his Saxon bride. No cloying, simpering female to make him long to go adventuring.
No wonder Frigg favored her. She had the spirit of a true goddess. For surely she had taken him like one, milking the life from him in a soul-shattering rapture he could still scarcely believe for all that he had experienced it. He could well believe that no god had ever climaxed as long, as hard, or as intensely as he had just done. She made him feel like he could conquer worlds, if only to lay them at her feet.
Something nibbled at the edge of his awareness, slowly distracting him from the pleasant contemplation of his wife. He glanced over his shoulder, seeking the source of the faint, dripping sound, and saw the upturned pitcher of water, no doubt spilled in their … contest. Yes, it would be as well if he thought of it that way. A contest between two superbly matched contenders, so well pitted as to assure that both emerged victorious.
