Dream of Me/Believe in Me

by Josie Litton

  Laying her on the pallet, he grasped her chin and forced her to look directly at him. “Don't move,” he ordered, then released her and deliberately pushed her down farther. She said nothing, merely stared up at him from the silken fall of her hair and the soft, floating cloud of the bed robe, making him think she was either too afraid to say or do anything or was merely being sensible. Either way, he was satisfied—for the moment.

  He went back on deck, thinking this had turned out to be even easier than he'd hoped—save, of course, for the complication of the woman herself and her refusal to be what he expected.

  CYMBRA LAY STILL FOR SEVERAL MOMENTS, UNMOV-ing but for the rapid rise and fall of her shallow breathing. The molten heat of terror had fled, replaced by paralyzing cold that owed only a little to the cool night air and her thin garment. She had never been so frightened in her life. Or so angry.

  Gratefully, she concentrated on the anger. As she sat up, her hair caught beneath her and tugged her scalp sharply. The small pain was welcome, further focusing her thoughts.

  How dare they? How dare they? To penetrate Holyhood by trickery, take her from her very own chamber, and depart with contemptuous ease. What manner of men did such a thing?

  No, not men. Man. She did not doubt for a moment that the leader was responsible, the very same man who had told her she would not be harmed.

  Her own stupidity shamed her. Sir Derward was a vain and brutal man whose mind was darkly twisted, redeemed only by the instinct for self-preservation that had kept him from ever crossing her. Her opinion of him had not changed but she recognized now that it had blinded her to even the possibility that he might, on some occasion, be right.

  How many lay dead in Holyhood because of her arrogant foolishness? She thought of the guards on the walls and near the cell, and her eyes filled with tears. Hastily, she rubbed them away. Crying would avail her nothing. With each passing moment she felt the powerful surge of the vessel moving farther and farther away from Holyhood. From the only safety she had ever known and from the people she must now, more than ever, succor.

  Quickly, she stood. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness in the hold. Chinks in the deck above admitted a tiny amount of light, just enough for her to make out the shadow of the ladder leading above. She climbed it swiftly, holding up her bed robe so that she would not trip. The hatch was closed. She took a deep breath and pressed both her hands against it.

  Mercifully, it gave readily and without a sound. She spared a moment for the sour thought that the Viking war ship was kept in better repair than Holyhood's defenses. Then the cool night air touched her and she thought of nothing at all save escape.

  The same thought was on Wolf's mind. He had taken his place at the oars and was pulling along with the other men, the powerful muscles of his back and shoulders flexing rhythmically. The sea was calm, the wind with them. Very soon they would be beyond even the chance of pursuit.

  Not that it was likely anyone would try. No doubt Holyhood slumbered still. Their escape wouldn't be discovered until morning, when it would be too late to do anything—except to inform the Lord Hawk that his sister was gone.

  Wolf smiled, imagining the reaction that would earn. At the very least, the Hawk would rage at being so contemptuously defied. If he truly cared for his sister, he would be rightly tormented by thoughts of her fate. Sir Derward's remaining days on earth were likely to be extremely unpleasant.

  He felt no regret at that as he put all such considerations aside and concentrated on the task at hand. Or at least he tried to. Thoughts of the lady below intruded despite his best efforts to ignore them. Her beauty still stunned him even as the mystery she presented itched at his mind. Soon enough, he determined, she would yield to him and then he would have the true measure of her.

  For the moment, he decided, it was good that she was afraid. It would make her more pliable, more easily bent to his hand. In time, he would reassure her that her fate would not be quite so dire as she feared. She was bound to be thankful for that. He could think of all sorts of ways she could show her gratitude.

  He was smiling again, a feral smile of purely male anticipation, when a slight motion on deck caught his eye. He stared, first uncomprehendingly, then in disbelief, as the hatch slowly rose.

  Wolf stopped rowing. Paired with him, old Olaf glanced over to see what was wrong. His gaze followed Wolf's and his single good eye widened but he did not slow his pace. Nor did any of the other men who saw what was happening. They kept right on rowing, although more than a few felt a moment's relief that the lady wasn't their problem.

  Wolf sat back, his hands lying loose on the oar, and watched. A head appeared where the hatch had been, followed swiftly by slender shoulders and then all the rest of her as she moved, almost flowed really, across the deck toward the railing.

  Shock roared through him. He had realized her panic but never had he thought she would be driven to take her own life. Horror filled him as he surged across the deck, seizing Cymbra just as she was about to go into the inky water.

  She fought, far more earnestly than she had on the tower when he'd had the advantage of complete surprise. She lashed out with hands and feet, trying both to kick him where it would do the most good and to scratch at his face. All the while, she twisted, struggling to loosen his hold.

  He tightened it instead, cursing under his breath, and hauled the clawing, biting termagant back down the ladder. Flinging her onto the pallet at his feet, he stood with his legs braced apart, hands fisted on his hips, and glared at her in righteous male outrage.

  “What in bloody hell were you thinking of? Do you value your life so little that you'd throw it away?” He was furious at her, actually shaking at the thought of her dying, wanting alternately to strangle and to caress her.

  Incredibly, she seemed heedless of her peril. Tossing hair out of her eyes, she glared at him. “What do you care for my life, Viking?” On her exquisitely lovely lips, the word was a curse. “You invade my home, kidnap me, and expect me to just accept my fate? No!”

  He should have seen it coming, should have at least anticipated it, but he was still so stunned by her words that he wasn't prepared when she leaped up and tried to run past him, seeking again to gain the deck and the water beyond. She almost made it.

  At the last moment, Wolf's hand lashed out, closing on a length of gossamer linen. It tore with a rending sound that reverberated against the walls. He tightened his grip implacably, tearing the cloth farther, dragging her toward him, no thought in his mind but controlling this woman, forcing her to his will. The ruined garment fell from her body, leaving her naked to his gaze.

  They both froze. Neither moved through the space of several heartbeats until finally Cymbra made a low sound of despair and wrapped her arms around herself, turning away from him. She lost her balance and began to fall toward the rough inner wall of the hold. Wolf didn't hesitate. He caught her and lowered her back onto the pallet. She curled on her side, drawing her legs up, the veil of her hair her only concealment.

  He stared at his hands on her—dark and rough against the pale smoothness of her skin, hard, callused hands more accustomed to holding a sword or an oar— and had to force himself to pull away. His breathing was ragged, his heart hammering against his ribs, as he stood. He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. When he looked at her again, he had regained some small measure of control.

  “I understand now why your brother kept you locked up,” he snarled. “You'd drive the sanest man mad.”

  She didn't move, didn't speak, but he saw her stiffen. With a curse that would have scorched the ears of the most hardened warrior, Wolf turned away. He climbed back up to the deck, slammed down the hatch, and slipped his sword through the braces to lock it in place. “Damn woman,” he muttered.

  Pulling hard at the oars, his men grinned.

  CYMBRA LAY TREMBLING ON THE PALLET. SHE KNEW she had to get up, had to do something to save herself, but her legs felt too weak to hold her. The comfor
t she might have taken in the knowledge that at least she had tried to escape was scant indeed.

  All she'd done was worsen her situation. She was naked, trapped, held prisoner by a Viking warlord—she wasn't going to lie to herself anymore about what he really was—and utterly helpless.

  Her stomach clenched at the thought of her likely fate. She moaned and pulled herself into a small, defensive ball, an utterly futile gesture if there ever was one. She had heard the tales about women taken by Vikings. No wonder he presumed she'd been trying to kill herself. It was the more merciful death.

  Nausea swept over her. She was not so innocent that she didn't realize the horror that might await her. Might? What tiny fragment of hope remained to make her think there was even a chance of something better?

  He hasn't hurt me.

  Oh, that was absurd. How could she even think such a thing? He was a Viking, a marauder, a savage straight out of a nightmare. She should have listened to Derward, should have had more sense, should—

  She'd hurt herself struggling against him, true enough. Her whole body ached, but now that she forced herself to think about it, he'd actually held her rather gently. Even when he tossed her down on the pallet, he'd already lowered her most of the way first.

  He'd torn off her clothes.

  Accidentally?

  Cymbra shook her head in amazement. She couldn't believe she was actually arguing with herself about the Viking's actions. Her situation could hardly be worse, yet here she was making excuses.

  Oh, yes, it could have been worse! He left. He didn't rape or brutalize me in any way.

  No, he'd just left her to freeze to death, naked in the hold of his ship. She was a raving fool to think anything of him but the worst. She was going to die horribly. If she had any sense at all, she would use whatever time she had left to pray.

  She tried, she really did, but the familiar, comforting words wouldn't come. It was hard enough just to keep from screaming. She pulled herself up far enough to crouch in a corner, shivering, trying very hard not to cry. She wanted to die with courage and before her mind was crushed by pain she could not bear.

  So deep was she in anguished reflection that Cymbra didn't hear the hatch open or the footsteps approaching. She had only the briefest moment to realize she was no longer alone before something very large and furry dropped over her.

  An animal.

  She screamed and started up, trying to shove it off.

  “Stop that,” Wolf said. He crouched beside her, clasping her flailing hands, his deep voice oddly soothing. “It's a cloak.” Patiently, as though she might still not understand, he added, “To keep you warm.” He paused, then said dryly, “And to protect your modesty.”

  A cloak. Not an animal. Slowly, Cymbra ran her fingers over the fur. She couldn't see very well, Wolf himself was little more than a very large, dark shape, but she could feel the luxurious warmth that enveloped her. She had never felt anything so enticingly soft. Fur it was, but not of any common sort.

  “Ermine,” he said as though he'd heard her thoughts. “From the lands of the Russka.”

  He'd brought her an ermine cloak.

  Truly, she didn't understand this man at all.

  “Thank you,” she said with dignity.

  He sighed, a long drawn-out sound of male endurance. “Listen to me.” He waited to make sure she was doing just that. He was very close; she could feel his heat, greater even than that of the cloak, and had a quick, shocking thought of being covered not by ermine but by that big, long, hard-muscled body.

  “Obey me and I will not hurt you.”

  Glad of the darkness that hid her fiery cheeks, Cymbra curled farther into the warmth of the cloak. With honesty, if not great sense, she said, “I'll try.”

  When he did not reply to what another man might have taken as less than full obeisance, she gathered her courage and looked at him directly. His eyes were really more silver than gray, at least in the filtered starlight. She had the odd sensation of having seen them before, somewhere, sometime. In a dream, perhaps.

  So softly as barely to stir the air, Cymbra murmured, “Who are you?”

  He rose, standing very tall and powerful above her, cast in shadow and stone. She felt those silvery eyes touching all along the length of her body. In the still darkness, broken only by the lapping of deep water against the hull of the dragon ship, his voice was like velvet drawn over granite. “Wolf Hakonson.”

  Cymbra gasped. Her senses reeled. Surely God could not be so cruel? Yet, even as she struggled not to believe, she knew the truth of it. Indeed, it all made a strange kind of sense. Who else could he be?

  Who but the most feared Viking ever to come out of the northlands? The man before whom even the Danes trembled. The mighty warlord known the length and breadth of England by the name he had earned in blood and fire—the Scourge of the Saxons.

  And she was his prisoner. Wrapped in ermine and still oddly unhurt, at that moment Cymbra knew herself truly to be beyond hope. She could think of only one more question to ask before fate closed around her.

  “Why?”

  Chapter THREE

  THE LADY CYMBRAS REACTION TO HIS NAME was most satisfying. Yet Wolf was disappointed all the same, wishing she wouldn't indulge in the ploy of pretended innocence. Somehow he'd expected better of her. But then, he had to remember that she was only a woman.

  He went down on his haunches beside her and, without thinking, reached out a hand to brush a stray tendril of hair away from her face. Incredibly soft hair. It went with the incredibly soft rest of her. Thoughts for another time.

  “Why have I done this?”

  She nodded, her gaze locked on his. “Yes, why?”

  He would be patient. She would learn soon enough that her woman's games would not work with him. “Why did you reject an honorable offer of marriage that would bring peace between our peoples and aide in our mutual defense against the Danes?”

  Her mouth dropped open. He really didn't want to think how those lips would feel yielding beneath his own, admitting the hard thrust of his tongue, but he thought of it all the same and it had the predictable effect.

  “I did what?”

  “You heard me.” He spoke more sharply than he'd intended but there was a limit to his tolerance. Best she learn that, too. “You said that you would never consider marriage to a filthy Viking savage.”

  She blinked slowly long lashes lying against her pale cheeks. When they lifted again, her eyes were steady. “I never said that.” She seemed genuinely offended.

  “What did you say then?”

  “I said nothing. I never heard of any offer of marriage.”

  He frowned. She sounded utterly sincere. It was possible, just possible, that she was telling the truth. Wolf shrugged. “Then your brother said it. He replied on your behalf.”

  “No.” There was no artfulness to that, no strategy. She just blurted it out. “Hawk wouldn't do such a thing.”

  He sat back, regarding her with undisguised skepticism. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. First, he would have discussed any such offer with me and he did not. Second, even if he decided that such a marriage was not advisable, he would never have answered you in such terms. My brother wants peace.”

  It was good that she trusted her brother, even if such trust was sadly misplaced. Regretting the need to disillusion her, but determined all the same, Wolf drew a parchment from beneath his tunic. “Can you read?”

  She gave a short, jerky nod. “Yes, can you?”

  “I certainly had no difficulty reading this.” He handed over the parchment, then rose and used flint to light an oil lamp in a small, stone-lined recess near the pallet. “Promise me you won't try to set fire to the ship,” he said as pale, flickering light cast a circle over them both.

  Her mouth tightened. She held the parchment up and scanned it quickly.

  “Do you recognize the hand?” Wolf asked.

  “It isn't Hawk's.”

  “He wri
tes?” Wolf was surprised. Few men did, even those of noble birth. He had learned himself because he saw no reason to trust others with essential information.

  Cymbra nodded. “It isn't widely known but Hawk actually considered becoming a monk when he was younger.”

  “What stopped him?”

  “Something about women.” She went back to her study of the document. “He writes his own letters to me but he does use scribes for some correspondence. It's possible that I wouldn't know all their hands.”

  She was honest in that at least. Pleased, Wolf pointed a finger at the seal on the bottom of the parchment. “Is that his?”

  Cymbra stared at it long and hard. Slowly, with the utmost reluctance, she nodded. “It does appear to be.”

  Wolf took the parchment from her, folded it again, and slipped it back into his tunic. “Then these are his words.”

  “No, they are not! I can't explain how his seal comes to be on this parchment, but I know beyond any doubt that Hawk would never have done something like this.” Again, she said, “My brother wants peace.” By the light of the small lamp, her eyes looked shadowed with dread. “But what you have done will bring war.”

  “Perhaps.” He gave no hint that he felt the slightest regret. Rising, he snuffed out the flame between his fingers, plunging the hold back into darkness. “We'll see. For now, you should get some sleep.”

  “Sleep?” She sounded incredulous.

  He couldn't keep the amusement from his tone. “Yes, sleep. You lie down, relax, close your eyes.”

  “I can't possibly sleep.”

  “Then perhaps we can find some better use for this pallet.”

  “I'm almost asleep now.”

  He laughed, unable to stop himself. The lovely Lady Cymbra had more courage and nerve than he had ever thought possible. She was a fascinating, enticing bundle of contradictions. He would relish the taming of her. Indeed, he couldn't remember when he'd looked forward to anything more.

  In high good humor, he left her and returned to the deck, where he stretched out beneath the stars. Shortly after that, the Wolf, too, slept.