Dream of Me/Believe in Me

by Josie Litton

  Before this night was done, their positions would be reversed. His lust would be satisfied or at least so eased as to be the nearest thing, whereas hers— He smiled and slid his hands down her sleek flanks, cupping her buttocks, squeezing, and feeling her muscles clench in response.

  He would leave her so dazed with pleasure, so primed for arousal, that she would be utterly willing, pliant, and obedient. Exactly as she should be. So resolved, he moved farther down her body, savoring every exquisite inch, and lifted her to his mouth.

  Cymbra gasped. Even through the molten haze of pleasure he had unleashed, she was stunned by the sudden daring of his caress. She couldn't believe he would touch her there … and in that way. The intimacy of it shattered her even as pleasure mounted to unparalleled heights.

  He probed her lightly with his tongue, drawing out her most sensitive nub, and stroked her relentlessly as she twisted helplessly in his hands, her satiny skin covered with a dewy flush. Not satisfied with that, he delved farther, probed deeper, maddening her with his touch.

  His claiming of her body, so absolute and irrevocable, shocked her deeply. He left her no place to retreat, no way to deny him anything. She fought to do so, instinctively seeking to keep some part of herself intact, but still he pursued her.

  A harsh groan broke from him, relief mingling with victory, as he was rewarded with the nectar of her arousal. Swiftly, he moved up her trembling body, covering her mouth with his own. He kissed her deeply, repeatedly, his hands moving over her, spreading her thighs wide, positioning her for him.

  Cymbra felt the probing pressure, massively thick, steel hard. Instinctively, she tried to pull back, but he was holding her by the hips, preventing her from moving except by his will. She gazed up into his gleaming eyes and knew that he would wait no longer.

  “Hold on to me,” he ordered gutturally and released her just long enough to place her hands on his shoulders. The solidness of his strength was oddly comforting to her. She clung to him, left with no choice but to trust that he would not hurt her too much, as the pressure continued to build. A burning sensation filled her. She cried out but did not let go of him.

  Wolf's features were harshly contorted, his breath coming fast, as he fought to hold on to the last shreds of his control. His warrior's spirit screamed for relief.

  The exquisite anguish of restraint threatened to consume him as he forced himself to move slowly, entering her little by little, giving her at least some chance to adjust to his size. When he felt the barrier of her virginity, he gazed down into her eyes, pools of indigo wide with fear but lit, too, by what he prayed was the dawning of fulfillment.

  “You are mine, Cymbra,” he said harshly. “Never forget it.”

  He took her mouth, swallowing her scream at the same time as he tore through her maidenhead. She struck out instinctively, her fists pounding against him, but he held her fast, waiting until the initial shock passed.

  “Easy,” he murmured, “easy … hush, love, it will be all right.” He kissed her tears away, whispering words of comfort, hardly knowing what he said, until he felt the slight relaxation of her body easing around him.

  Slowly, watching her intently, he moved within her but not thrusting, not yet. The hard, broad tip of him flexed, stroking a place within her she had never known existed, and the world came undone. After the initial pain, there was nothing except wave after wave of sensation, carrying her higher and higher, the crest seemingly endless.

  She cried out, her hips lifting even as her body tightened, drawing him even deeper within her. Wolf's harsh shout joined her own. The exquisite milking sensation undid him. He erupted within her in a hot, surging jet that seemed to go on forever.

  When the spasms of his release finally lessened, he was slumped against her, his lungs working like bellows, his body sweat-slicked, the smell of sex lingering in the air around them. Slowly, Wolf raised himself on his forearms. He stared down at his wife.

  Cymbra's eyes were closed, the thick lashes fanning against her delicately flushed cheeks. Her lips, slightly swollen from his impassioned kisses, curved in a small smile. She looked supremely … content.

  He groaned and flopped over onto his back, any further movement being impossible. Long moments passed before he was aware of much of anything save the utter satiation of his body. He looked at Cymbra curled at his side. The silken curtain of her hair alternately concealed and revealed her perfection, but hardly offered her much in the way of warmth.

  Lest she become chilled, he used what little strength had returned to pull the covers over them both. She murmured her thanks and snuggled closer to him. At the touch of her silken limbs, or perhaps it was the honeysuckle scent of her skin, or maybe the brush of her breast against his arm did it, or—Whatever the cause, his manhood stirred in instant response, tentatively but with obvious enthusiasm. Wolf groaned, torn between astonished wariness and reluctant pride.

  Cymbra stiffened. “Is something wrong?” She couldn't meet his gaze, swept as she was by mingled shock and embarrassment at her unbridled response. But still she was his wife and must be mindful of his welfare. Especially since he had been so thoroughly attentive to her own.

  “Not at all,” her husband murmured. What could possibly be wrong? Never mind that his grand plan showed every sign of having failed, at least so far as giving him back the control he had always taken for granted before this earthly goddess came into his life. He was hardly the sort to give up; the battle between them was only just begun.

  Yet neither could he give vent to the hot, surging lust that, incredibly, burned anew in his veins. She was too untried, too delicate. If he took her again before she had time to recover from this first joining, it would be nothing more than abuse.

  With a half-stifled groan, he rolled out of the bed. There was some satisfaction in his wife's quick, wide-eyed glance in his direction before she promptly ducked her head back down, but it really didn't help much. Smothering a sigh that would have shaken the rafters had he uttered it, he went to the basin of water left out on the table, dampened a soft cloth, and returned to the bed.

  As he pulled back the covers, Cymbra tried to grab hold of them. “What are you doing? Don't—”

  “Be quiet,” he said gruffly and sat beside her. Ignoring her startled response, he shoved the furs to the foot of the bed and forced a hand between her legs, which she had tightly clenched. “I want to be sure you've stopped bleeding.”

  She opened her mouth to protest further but before she could do so he applied just enough pressure to her knees to force her legs apart and quickly placed the cloth gently against the juncture of her thighs. She had bled, and he who had waded through rivers of gore on uncounted battlefields winced to see it, but it had stopped. As had all thoughts of taking her again so soon.

  He tossed the cloth onto the table, pulled the covers over her, and got back into bed. She remained very stiff, shocked no doubt by his frank speech and action. She needed to learn that he would have his way with her, for she was no more—or less—than his property. But in the meantime …

  Wolf sighed and gathered his wife to him, ignoring her efforts to hold herself apart. Although sleep beckoned, he forced himself to stay awake, gently stroking her back until she relaxed.

  Her breathing had grown slow and deep when he reflected that merely getting married had been a great deal more trouble than he would ever have expected. However, now that he had Cymbra safely wedded—and bedded—that was bound to change.

  She was a gently reared girl, schooled in the duties of a lady. After tonight, she'd make a nice, quiet, docile wife, exactly as he had expected. He was quite confident of that, he told himself groggily. There was no doubt about it. No doubt at all.

  Chapter SEVEN

  MARRIAGE, WOLF SAID GRIMLY, IS SUPPOSED to be for a man's convenience. A wife exists to ease his burdens, keep his home, and give him children. There's nothing unreasonable about any of that, is there?”

  Thus appealed to, Dragon looked though
tful for a moment. I suppose it's worked out that way a time or two. But from what I can see, generally it's the women who call the tune.”

  “That's ridiculous,” Wolf snapped. “Men are stronger and wiser. We are calm, capable of reason, not ruled by emotion. Obviously, the gods meant us to be in charge.” As though to emphasize his conviction, he swung his long sword high over his head and brought it straight down at Dragon.

  His brother grinned, leaped back, and parried with his own weapon. The clash of steel rang across the training field. Here and there, men stopped their activities to watch this battle between two supremely powerful and well-matched opponents.

  “Mayhap,” Dragon said, his breathing little altered despite his exertion, “but the average man left to his own devices goes from woman to woman, enjoying himself He doesn't worry particularly about the roof over his head, or even so much about the crops in his fields, or indeed whether or not he has any fields.”

  He slashed the air in front of Wolf as steel struck steel again. “If he wants to pick up and go adventuring, he goes. He enjoys his life and doesn't concern himself too much with the future. But let a man get a wife and all that changes. He's got responsibilities then and she damn well makes sure he knows it. The bull is yoked, whether he wants to be or not.”

  Dragon shook his head decisively and thrust at Wolf again. “No, marriage is a woman's creation. She gets a man to protect and provide for her and her children. A man gets—what?”

  “Children he knows are his own?” Wolf suggested, parrying his brother smoothly. Offhand, he couldn't think of anything else.

  Dragon laughed. “Aye, they might be, but I've known many a wench who didn't let her bed grow cold when her husband was away, and if she happened to get a babe in the bargain—” He plunged again, from a different angle, aiming to slice Wolf's legs out from under him.

  Wolf grinned at the strategy and moved almost too swiftly to be seen, coming up behind Dragon and forcing him to turn.

  “Who do you think dreamed up all those stories about gods sneaking into unsuspecting females' beds in the dead of night or waylaying them in forest glens?” Dragon asked as he swung at Wolf's head. “No man ever thought of that one, let me tell you. Women are damn improvising when they need be.”

  “Do you never think to marry then?” Wolf asked as they locked swords.

  “Me? Perish the thought. Oh, I wouldn't mind a quiver of sons, but I need no marriage for that, only a willing woman or two or three.” His grin flashed white against burnished skin. “And there's no lack of those.”

  “You said yourself, you wouldn't know the get was yours.”

  “I can count to nine as well as you. Besides, a man's got to know how to keep control of a woman, not give her an opportunity—or a need—to go wandering off.”

  Wolf's eyes hardened. “And when a woman's beautiful as the morning, tempting as a river of gold?”

  “Then the man better be damn good with a sword, brother, damn good indeed.”

  Wolf grunted, dug his feet into the soft ground, and knocked Dragon off balance. His brother landed hard on the dark earth and shot him a rueful smile. “Not bad, Lord of Sciringesheal, not bad at all. But shouldn't marriage have dulled your sword just a little?”

  Wolf sighed, sheathed his blade, and offered a hand to help Dragon up. They had dueled often over the years and stood even in number of wins. Their conflict was saved for the practice field; in all other matters brother stood stalwartly beside brother.

  Wolf trusted Dragon as he would never trust another man, and he knew that trust was returned in full. Still, he was glad their combat was over for the moment. He was worried about the wound Dragon had suffered and its aftermath.

  “Not this marriage,” he said as they walked to the barrel of cool well water set in the shade. Wolf took a ladle, poured it over his sweat-streaked head, and sighed. “I swear, she hasn't missed a chance to irk me.”

  “Your sweet, gentle bride?” Dragon laughed. “But I see her everywhere, brother, interested in everything, inquiring about all manner of things. She obviously takes her responsibility to run your household seriously. I swear, in the scant two days you've been married, she's been in every corner of this stronghold.”

  Wolf grimaced. His brother spoke the truth. Cymbra was a veritable whirlwind, seemingly busy everywhere at once, now in the weaving shed, now in the dairy, back and forth to the kitchens, the dying vats, the smithy, and on and on and on. The woman didn't stop moving from dawn to dusk. And she had an opinion about everything, a suggestion, a different notion of how this or that should be done.

  Worse yet, she seemed to need no help from him at all. She had only to murmur a few words and people stumbled over each other to carry out her wishes. Well, not all people. Marta looked like she'd swallowed a mouthful of brine whenever she was near Cymbra. Some of the other women, those he vaguely knew to be Marta's friends, seemed to be following her lead.

  A frown darkened Wolf's face. The last thing he needed was a war among the women. The mere thought of that sort of thing made any sane man yearn for a long sea voyage.

  He'd heard about an island found only a few years before, west of the Irish Islands, a wild place with mountains that ran with hot mud, barren landscapes that appeared not of this earth, immense mineral streams bigger than any seen in the Norse lands, but also with beautiful fjords and bays, and rich earth for growing or pasture. People were settling there already and more were likely to go. Not only that, but there were rumors—whispers really coming from wild-eyed Irish monks—of an even vaster land yet farther to the west, beyond the setting sun, a land they said had no end.

  A sensible man could take off if he liked, but a leader didn't have that luxury. He had to do what was best for all. And that, Wolf decided, was to stop this problem with his bride before it could go any further.

  “She's just settling in,” he murmured. “That's all it is.”

  Dragon laughed. “Who are you trying to convince, me or yourself?”

  Wolf's only answer was a grunt. He strode off in the direction he'd last seen Cymbra, only to discover that she was nowhere to be found.

  “I have no idea, my lord,” Marta said with cold pleasure when Wolf finally broke down and asked her if she knew where his wife had gone. Emboldened by his obvious annoyance, she added, “If you don't mind my saying, the Lady Cymbra seems a very headstrong individual, perhaps the result of an overly privileged upbringing.”

  Wolf did not appreciate hearing any criticism of the woman whose behavior, after all, reflected most directly on him. But he had to admit, if only to himself, that Marta might have a point. Cymbra's brother appeared to have given her virtually free rein to live as she pleased. Perhaps it wasn't really her fault that she didn't defer as she properly should, but she would have to learn. And damn fast.

  He hurried to the stables, determined to find his wayward wife.

  LOOK, CYMBRA SAID. HOREHOUND. SHE EASED THE small plant from the earth, keeping its roots intact, and nestled it in the palm of her hand. “I had no idea I'd find it here. It's wonderful for coughs and inflammations of the lung.” Smiling, she carefully tucked it away in her sack along with the several dozen other plants, mosses, and lichens she had already found.

  “It's amazing how much you know,” Brita said shyly. After several hours in Cymbra's company, helping her find and collect herbs, the slave had lost some of her reticence. “My mother had a little skill at healing, but nothing compared to what you know. How ever did you learn so much?”

  Cymbra hesitated. As always when speaking of such things, she chose her words with care. “I became interested in healing when I was a child. My brother was very kind and arranged teachers for me.”

  “You were fortunate. I, too, had a brother….” Brita looked away quickly.

  Pain rose in Cymbra, the pain of loss, of fear, of anguish almost too great to be borne. She forced herself to breathe slowly and steadily, not fighting it for she knew by hard experience that there was
no point, but separating herself from it, erecting a shield that allowed her to acknowledge the pain without being crushed by it.

  In the midst of that pain, she had a fleeting thought of the message Wolf must surely send soon, if he had not already, informing her brother of her whereabouts. She was torn, wanting to reassure Hawk of her welfare and having him see her thus, yet dreading the confrontation to come between husband and brother. A shiver moved down her spine even as she turned away from her own anguish to soothe Brita's.

  “I'm so sorry.”

  The gentle touch of her hand on Brita's startled the girl. They knelt together on the mossy hillside beyond the keep. Around them, the day glittered, bright with sunlight, soft with the balmy breeze of summer. Brita blinked hard and rubbed a hand across her cheeks. “It was a long time ago now.”

  “How long?”

  “I was taken in my twelfth year.” As though a dam had broken and released its torrent, she could no longer avoid speaking of what had happened to her. “My family lived near the coast of Ireland, beside a place we call the Mountains of the Morne. They aren't as big as the mountains here, not at all, but we thought of them as mountains all the same.”

  Her eyes filled with memories both sweet and savage. “We'd heard rumors about the Norsemen but none of us had ever seen them until they came of a sudden just two days after Easter. The men fought but there was nothing anyone could do.”

  A heart-wrenching sigh escaped her. “I don't even know if any of my family survived. The last I saw was the smoke rising from our burning homes. I was taken many days to a large town and put in a pen there with many other captives, then sold. Eventually, I was brought here. That was five years ago.”

  She paused and looked at Cymbra. “There have been times when I thought of dying but our faith forbids it. I was a sheltered girl and just presumed that I would have a home, a husband, children. Never would I have believed that instead I would be a slave, a thing of no account, to just be … used without thought or care.” Her lips trembled. She lowered her head quickly. “Forgive me, lady, I did not mean to burden you.”