by Josie Litton
“I don't mind the occasional goat getting its throat cut,” he said and emptied his drinking horn.
Later still, still singing, Wolf entered his lodge. Determined not to wake his wife, he put a finger to his lips and said “Shuush” loudly. That made him laugh, which he was still doing when he lost his balance and thumped into a table.
Righting himself, he stumbled in the general direction of the bed, but since it was moving—Ought to talk to Cymbra about that, bed shouldn't be moving, least not unless I'm in it with her—he missed and careened off back toward the door.
Sitting up in the bed, watching these antics with a tolerant eye, Cymbra shook her head in amusement. She knew well enough that men drank, often to excess, but she hadn't expected her husband to overindulge. Mayhap it was just as well that he let his iron control slip once in a while.
At least he was a cheerful drunk, singing again and still shushing himself. But if he kept on the way he was going, he was liable to break his neck. She left the bed, wrapped a blanket around herself, and retrieved Wolf from where he'd wandered off a short distance from the lodge. He blinked at her in surprise, then produced one of those devastating smiles that made her toes curl.
“Shymbra, elskling, I was jus' lookin' for you.”
He had called her “sweetheart.” How nice, even if he did have to be drunk to do it. “I'm sure you were,” she murmured. “Come on now.”
He went, holding her hand, docile as a lamb until they were back inside, at which point he grabbed her and tumbled them both onto the bed. “Have I tol' you how beaut'ful you are?” he asked.
“Well, no, not in so many words, but you get the idea across.” Pushing against his shoulders, she tried to slip out from under him. “Let me get up and I'll take your boots off.”
He stared at her. “You will, really?”
“Absolutely.” One more good shove and she was free, but only because he had rolled over onto his back. Lying there staring up at the ceiling, he said, “You're sush a good wife.”
“Thank you.” She went to the end of the bed, took hold of one boot, and began tugging. It gave but only slowly.
“I really didn't think it'd work out that way,” her husband informed her.
“Didn't you?” The dead weight of his leg was making her arms ache but she kept pulling until finally the boot came free. She tackled the second.
“You bein' Saxon and all, thought there'd be problems. Then there's the way you look.” He nodded sagely. “Tha's a big problem right there.”
“I thought you decided you like the way I look.”
He gave a sharp laugh. “Me and every other man, tha's the problem. Can't think straight when you're around. Can't think 'bout anything 'cept spreadin' your luscious legs and—”
The second boot came off, distracting him. She tossed it onto the floor and pulled the covers up over her husband. He tried to grab hold of her again but she deftly sidestepped him.
Wolf shot her a sulky look, for all the world like a child deprived of a favorite toy, and fell back against the pillows. A moment later, he was snoring loudly
Cymbra considered trying to get back to sleep but she didn't feel tired. It would be light soon and there was much to be done. Humming softly, she dressed, tied her keys to her belt, and gave Wolf a last, fond look.
He lay with arms and legs akimbo, his big, lean body taking up most of the immense bed. A lock of ebony hair fell across his forehead. Thick lashes fanned out over his cheeks. In sleep, his features were relaxed, making him appear younger and much less formidable than the mighty Scourge of the Saxons.
Cymbra supposed that was how he had looked before life hardened him. The thought made her heart tighten.
She made sure he was well covered and dropped a light kiss on his brow before going to the door. Even then she couldn't resist a glance over her shoulder. Truly, she was the most fortunate of women, she couldn't have asked for a better husband.
Their marriage was going to be a complete success.
She was absolutely sure of it.
Chapter TWELVE
THEIR MARRIAGE WAS A DISASTER. HE WAS an arrogant, unfeeling, insensitive b rute of a Viking and she had been a fool ever to believe otherwise.
In the grip of such dire thoughts, Cymbra stared up at her husband and blurted out the first thing that came into her head: “You can't mean it!”
They were standing near the open gate in the berm surrounding the hill fort. Cymbra had just returned from the town, where she had treated a burn suffered by a young boy who strayed too close to one of the many open fires.
Fortunately, it wasn't serious and the boy would be fine. His gratitude at the relief of his pain and his parents' thankfulness had reminded Cymbra yet again of why she was a healer.
Or at least she was if she was allowed to be, and that teetered in the balance. Her heart lurched the moment she realized Wolf had returned early from visiting a settlement on the opposite side of the fjord. Seeing him crossing the field, bare-chested after a swim, laughing with several of his men, Cymbra tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. But for some reason, the concealing disguise of her plain gray cloak didn't work.
He came straight at her, his face hard and his manner implacable. In an instant, he assessed the situation—correctly, damn him—and rendered his verdict.
“I can't go into town at all? Not even with an escort? That's absurd! I'm not a prisoner here! I'm—”
His hands came down heavily on her shoulders, abruptly stopping her. “You are my wife and a disobedient one at that. Or are you going to claim you did not know that you were only to leave here with permission and with an escort?”
Cymbra would have given just about anything she had to be able to claim it but she could not. It was just that in the past week the unbroken accord between them had made her believe Wolf was coming to trust her. Now the realization of how foolhardy she'd been to think any such thing struck her hard.
“I could not find you to ask,” she said, “and a child was hurt. I could not wait.”
“Then the child should have been brought to you here.” His lean, hard fingers moved against the coarse fabric of her cloak. Were it not for his intimate knowledge of her body, even to the graceful way she moved, he would never have recognized her, so well disguised had she been by the anonymous garment.
He scowled as a possibility occurred to him. “How many times have you worn this, Cymbra? How many times have you concealed your identity to evade my will?”
Unable to meet his eyes, she looked down. Her gaze swept the broad, heavily muscled expanse of his bare chest. She swallowed hard and stared hastily at the ground, rubbing her foot in the dust. “Not often and only when it was necessary.”
His hands tightened again, compelling her attention.
The thought that she had defied him not once but several times sent a surge of anger through him. Had she been anyone else, there would be no question but that she suffer punishment sufficient to reform her ways.
He knew that was the proper response to such disobedience, knew it was his duty to impose such punishment to uphold the order and discipline vital to survival. As jarl, he was required to put aside his personal feelings and do as he knew was right. Yet, understanding that full well, he could not act as he knew he should.
Instead, he said, “It is not your place to decide what is necessary or not. My orders are to be obeyed in all circumstances.”
A small voice of caution warned Cymbra that this was not the time to challenge him. Hadn't he said something to her about a man being more inclined to grant favors when he was in a mellow frame of mind? If she had any sense, she would seek to placate him, work whatever feminine wiles she possessed to get her own way.
Apparently, sense was not one of her great attributes.
“Even when those orders are wrong? Surely you don't believe I could come to any harm? No one in Sciringesheal is so foolish as to displease you.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “No
one? Only my Saxon wife, it seems.” When she would have answered that, he forestalled her. “I have treated you with great patience and restraint from the beginning, and I continue to do so. Were that not the case, you would be punished right now for your disobedience.”
He took hold of her chin and forced her to look at him. “Let us understand each other, wife. My word is law here. You will do exactly as you are told—exactly—or you will suffer the consequences. Is that clear?”
The color fled from her face, only to return with a vengeance. Her fists curled at her sides as her eyes blazed. “So I am not to use my own judgment even when I know it to be sound? I am merely to be the slave to your will? I am no thrall, husband. The very existence of such poor creatures disgusts me. So does the suffering I see around me that sometimes could be readily eased or avoided altogether. I understand what you said about this being a harsh land but I don't see why the harshness must be added to. It is no weakness to seek to make life better.”
Several thoughts occurred to Wolf. Despite the fair— and more than fair—warning she had received, his wife was still defying him. She was actually angry at his dictate while seemingly unaware of the magnitude of the concession he was making by not punishing her at once.
“This life you hold so precious depends for its very existence on order.” His hands tightened further on her shoulders and, for good measure, he gave her a little shake. “Transgress again and you will be punished, this I promise you.”
Her lovely face tightened. Distantly, he realized that she was afraid, and he regretted that, but far more he saw her courage and admired it. “What will you do, husband?”
She said the word again, every bit as challengingly as before, but then everything about her was a challenge. “Tie me to the punishment post, whip me as you did that poor man?”
The very thought made Wolf feel as though he had plunged into the coldest sea. He wanted to shout his denial, gather her to him, comfort and reassure her. But he was a man and she a woman. The balance of power between them had to be maintained.
Slowly, he forced himself to smile. His hands slid down her arms, no longer cruelly demanding but caressing her. His smile became real when he saw the startled look in her eyes.
“How dramatic you are,” he said. One hand held her firmly around the waist, the other slid lower. Without warning, he squeezed her buttocks hard. At her little yelp, he laughed.
“I would merely apply correction where it would do the most good. You might have trouble sitting down for a day or two, but you wouldn't suffer any permanent damage.” He couldn't resist adding, “Except perhaps to your dignity.”
He was going to drown in those eyes, so wide had they become. “You wouldn't dare!”
“Wouldn't I?” He softened his hold a little, deliberately stroking her. Had they not been in so public a place, he would have done much more. Briefly, he considered taking her the short distance to the stables.
They were deserted at this hour. His prideful wife might benefit from a swift, sweaty tumble in a hay-filled stall. The temptation was great but he stopped himself. That she would end by yielding to him fully he did not doubt. But at the same time he would be yielding to her and he could not do that, not now, if he had any hope of controlling her.
Instead, he gave her bottom a sharp swat. “Return to your duties, wife. My men and I labor hard this day. We expect a good meal at table tonight. See to it.”
If the glare she gave him was anything to judge by, he would need the services of a food taster before he supped. He watched her go, then turned away only to stop abruptly at the sight that confronted him.
Dragon lounged against a wall nearby, arms crossed over his chest and a broad grin wreathing his face. He had the air of a man who has been well entertained.
“You waste yourself teaching the arts of war,” he said as he walked over to join his brother. “You should be instructing the rest of us poor, benighted males in the proper management of the fair sex.”
A lesser man would have quaked at the look the Wolf shot him and the lip-curling snarl that accompanied it. “I trust your leg fares better than your wits.”
Dragon made a show of flexing the limb and nodded pleasantly. “It fares well indeed, thanks to the ministrations of your gentle, docile”—the word made him choke with laughter—“wife.”
“It isn't funny,” Wolf said, shaking his head. “She en-dangers herself and doesn't even realize it.”
“Does she? She's right, you know, no one in Sciringesheal would dare so much as to look at her wrong.”
They walked some little distance back toward the training field before Wolf replied. “Men of all sorts come and go here. Not all of them are loyal to me.”
“True enough, but none would rush to embrace the kind of death you would mete out. It isn't really their loyalty that worries you, is it?”
Wolf's face hardened. “Do you think to read my thoughts, brother?”
Dragon laughed. “A blind man could read them. It is the loyalty of your Saxon bride that worries you, although I don't really see why. She seems to have settled in well enough.”
“Seems … aye, I suppose she does, but it is scarcely a month since we wed, little enough time to know her heart.”
“Is that why you have yet to send word to the Hawk?”
“Are you so eager for battle?” Wolf countered.
“There won't be one. Hawk will come, Cymbra will tell him she is well and happily married, and, indulgent brother that he is—you can hardly deny he is that—he will accept what has happened and you will have the alliance you have wanted all along. What could be simpler?”
“Nothing,” Wolf agreed though his voice held doubt. “Provided Cymbra plays her part.”
“You doubt it? You think she means to play you false, betray her marriage vows and slay her brother in the process? That seems the far side of unlikely to me.”
Put that way Wolf's concerns sounded even more outlandish than he himself knew them to be. Yet still he had hesitated, letting the days—and the nights—pass without summoning the Hawk.
Now in high summer when the fields shone gold with grain it was difficult to accept that before too long winter would descend over the northlands. Ice would clog the sea channels and savage winds would destroy even the sturdiest vessels. Men would stay to their hearths, counting up the bounty of the harvest, telling stories around the fires and planning the adventures of the coming year.
If he did not act soon, not even the Hawk in all his fury would be able to come for his sister. The matter would have to wait months, well into the new year, until the world gentled once again.
Wolf was tempted to let that happen. He could gain more time to bind Cymbra to him in every way possible. But to put off the day of reckoning meant leaving her to worry over her brother's fate. He had seen that worry in her eyes too often to pretend he didn't know how real it was. When all was said and done, he could not do that to her.
“Only a little while longer,” he said, and added, lest Dragon be disposed to discuss it further, “she is not yet fully to my hand, but she will be and soon.”
“If you say so.” Dragon hesitated but he loved his brother too much not to speak his mind. “Yet do I ask you to consider that loyalty and obedience aren't necessarily the same thing. One is freely given, the other too often forced. It is for you to decide which you truly want.”
“I want both. I expect both.”
“Ah, well, then perhaps you should have wed a docile Norse maiden.”
Wolf arched a brow in blatant doubt. “Is there such a thing?”
“Not on this earth,” Dragon conceded. “Which is why I'm safe from matrimony. The only wife I'd take would be a soothing little woman to bear my sons and rub my feet, and never give me a moment's worry.”
Wolf stared at him for a moment before shouting with laughter. He couldn't help it, the specter of Dragon with such a creature undid him. And, not incidentally, went a long way toward restoring his good
humor, which he suspected was the actual intention.
“Pray you never find her, brother. She'd have you dead of boredom before the bridal flowers wilted.”
Dragon flung an arm around Wolf's shoulders. “Enough talk of women. I say I can throw a javelin ten paces farther than you can.”
“Not even with Odin passing wind at your back.”
They went off to settle the matter, but later, as he swam again in the river and watched the day's long twilight creep over the land, Wolf remembered what his brother had said. He frowned, considering the possibility that Dragon might be right. Perhaps it was impossible to have both Cymbra's unquestioning obedience and her loyalty as well. Perhaps to win her loyalty, he had first to give her his own trust.
It was a hard thought and one he did not accept readily. He was still considering it when he dried off, dressed in clean apparel, and made his way to the great hall.
HE DID NOT, AFTER ALL, NEED A FOOD TASTER. Cymbra greeted him with impeccable courtesy and no lingering sign of her earlier anger. Looking ravishing— and highly ravishable—in topaz silk, her hair set back from her face with jeweled combs but left free to tumble to her knees, she inclined her head slightly as he approached the high table where she awaited him. Firelight glinted off the petal-smooth curve of her cheek. He inhaled the faint lavender scent of her bath still clinging to her and felt himself harden in helpless, resented response.
“Good evening, my lord.” They might have been distant acquaintances, so cool and calm was she. Her control provoked him mightily, particularly when contrasted to his own lack, but he was damned if he'd show it.
“My lady,” he said, all civility. Smoke swirled from the cooking fire at the center of the hall. Children ran among the tables and benches, playing with the eager dogs. People gathered in companionable groups, chatting about the day's events. It was all very normal, very ordinary.
All but his Saxon wife, Frigg-blessed woman, at once bane and joy of his existence. Resolve flowed through him. He would teach her a thing or two about this game, having played it in courts of intrigue from black-watered Dubhlinh to treacherous Byzantium.