Dream of Me/Believe in Me

by Josie Litton

  Standing, he righted the pitcher, then looked again at Cymbra. She had turned onto her side, one bare leg drawn up, an arm resting over her full breasts. Escaped flour covered the sacks on which she lay and drifted over her skin. Traces of the whey still clung to her and there was a little stain from the berries on her chin.

  He glanced down at himself, noting that he had fared worse still. Flour and egg clung to him along with the sticky honey. A deep laugh rumbled up from his chest. The master and mistress of Sciringesheal, coupling in the kitchen on flour sacks amid the wreckage they themselves had caused. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done something so inappropriate to his rank—or so pleasurable.

  Grinning broadly he lifted Cymbra in his arms. She stirred against him and blinked. “Wolf … ?”

  He looked down at her, his smile softening, becoming tender. “I think the cooks would like the kitchens back.”

  She stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment. “Oh, no!” Turning bright red, she hid her face against his chest. Yet was her muttered distress clear enough. “I can't believe we did this! What were we thinking of? The kitchens! Everybody will know … they'll—”

  “Cymbra,” he said gently, with utmost patience.

  She peered up at him. “What?”

  “They already know we lie together.”

  “Not in the kitchens! Not on flour sacks! Anyone could have come in and—”

  He laughed even more at the sheer absurdity of that. “You're joking! They feared the worst and were glad to get as far from it as they could. When they realize what did happen, they'll be relieved.”

  “Maybe they won't realize. Maybe they'll think we talked and—”

  She faltered, looking around at the kitchen. If Loki and his mischief makers had rampaged through it, it wouldn't have been in worse shape. Were that not bad enough, the clear imprint of where they had lain on the flour sacks made the outcome obvious.

  She hid her face against him once more. Still laughing, he carried her from the kitchens. It was time, he decided, for his Saxon wife to experience another kind of pleasure.

  He went into their lodge just long enough to get a few things, then carried Cymbra back outside and across the flat top of the hill to a beehive-shaped building made of rocks and set low in the ground. She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at it in surprise. “The sauna? I haven't been in there yet.”

  “I know.” He eased open the wooden door and stooped to descend the steps. “Any particular reason why not?”

  “You'll laugh.”

  “That's bad?”

  “You'll laugh at me. An old monk at Holyhood, Brother Chilton was his name, said only devils could endure the heat of the sauna. He thought it proved what Vikings were.”

  “You believed that?”

  “Well, no, but I did take it to mean that saunas are extremely hot.”

  His smile returned. “They can be. We'll go a little easy.” He bent closer, his lips brushing her ear. “This being your first time and all.”

  A shiver ran down her back. She knew he was only playing with her, deliberately inciting memories of their first time together, but it worked. If she wasn't careful, she would be clay in this man's hands.

  Such large hands, honed for battle, callused by sword and rein, bronzed by the sun. Yet such careful hands as he set her on her feet in the center of the small chamber, lingering for just a moment on the curve of her hips before drawing away.

  She looked around curiously. The stone walls narrowed to a small opening at the top of the structure.

  Directly below it, in the center of the floor, was an iron firebox. A hole in the top of it directed the smoke to an opening in the roof. Around the vent lay several dozen smoothly rounded rocks of a size to fit into a man's hand. The floor beyond the firebox was covered with planks of polished wood. Other planks were set up as benches around the chamber. The air was just a little smoky, smelling mainly of pine.

  Wolf bent down in front of the firebox and began feeding branches into it from the stack set nearby. Over his shoulder, he said, “Take your clothes off.”

  When the fire was going strongly, he went over to the door and pulled it shut, securing it from inside. With the faint remnants of twilight gone, the interior was plunged into darkness save for the red glow of the fire. Slowly, Cymbra's eyes adjusted until she could make out her husband taking his own advice.

  He stripped easily, pulling off his boots, then drawing his tunic off over his head and dropping it onto a bench. His leggings followed quickly. Naked, he stretched without a trace of self-consciousness, the powerful muscles of his back and buttocks flexing. With graceful ease he returned to the fire, went down on his haunches, and continued feeding wood into the flames.

  Cymbra swallowed against the fluttering in her throat and tried, without success, to look at something—anything—other than her husband's magnificent body. She moistened her lips, took a quick breath, and murmured, “Isn't that … uh … hot enough?”

  He glanced up, saw that she was still dressed, and shook his head chidingly. The thick mane of his ebony hair brushed his massive shoulders. “You'll pass out if you don't get out of those.”

  When she still hesitated, he went to her and gently put a hand beneath her chin, compelling her to meet his gaze. “Cymbra, is something wrong?”

  How to explain to him that she felt suddenly, almost unbearably self-conscious? He knew her so intimately and so completely that she felt she had no defenses against him. Life had schooled her to an inner world of carefully crafted serenity. He shattered all of that, plunging her into a turbulent sea of emotions in which she could barely stay afloat.

  Why, in scarcely an hour she had gone from worry to fear to anger to passion and now … to what? She felt utterly drained yet oddly exhilarated. And very confused.

  “Cymbra?”

  She didn't answer, only looked at him. He saw again the shadows beneath her eyes, recalled his intention when he'd found her in the kitchens, and remorse pierced him. She had delivered a baby only a short time before. She needed rest and care, not yet more of his relentless passion.

  “It's all right,” he said gruffly. “You'll feel better when you're clean.”

  Encouraged when she didn't object, he removed her cloak, then gently, carefully did the same with the rest of her clothes. He was surprised to see the tear across the top of her gown, having been completely unaware of doing that. It hinted to him of the force that consumed him when he took her and he resolved, yet again, to hold it in strict check.

  By the time she was naked, the sauna was well warmed. Or so he thought it. Cymbra took a breath, testing the air cautiously, and said, “It's very hot.”

  Sweat had begun to form on her lovely breasts. He ran a hand along her smooth, slick arm. “Are you uncomfortable?”

  “No …” Her voice trailed off. She couldn't seem to do anything except look at him. He turned away to throw a ladle of water on the stones and she followed the movement of his big, perfectly honed body.

  Her eyes, drifting over him, might have been her hands, so vividly aware was she of hard muscles bunching beneath smooth, warm skin. Steam hissed up suddenly

  “That's why we call it sauna.” He drew her over to a bench, where he sat down and stretched out his long legs. “It's wet heat, not dry, better for the bones.”

  Beside him, Cymbra nodded. The dark, moist warmth of the chamber half-buried in the earth seemed to be seeping into her. The world beyond might have been as far away as the stars she could just glimpse glittering through the hole at the top of the roof. She took another breath, letting the scent of pine fill her, and felt her senses spin.

  “Lie down,” Wolf said. She heard him as though from a distance, yet she obeyed. He positioned her facedown on the bench, her head turned so that she could see the glow of the fire. She heard the faint sound of a vial being opened and a moment later smelled a tantalizing scent she couldn't identify.

  “Patchouli,” he said, �
��from the East.”

  A sigh of pure delight escaped her as his hands, slick with the perfumed oil, moved over her shoulders, down to the curve of her waist, and back up again. Slowly, methodically, he massaged away the tension and fatigue of the long day, the days of worry that had preceded it, and the largely sleepless nights.

  With more oil in his palms, he went farther, lingering over the high, firm curve of her buttocks and along each slender, shapely leg. His fingers just grazed the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, making her squirm deliciously Little whimpers broke from her, becoming outright moans when he dug his thumbs into the balls of her feet and flexed each toe separately.

  Having attended ever so thoroughly to one side of her, he turned her over and smiled into her smoky gaze. “Feeling better?”

  “Hmm. Do I get a turn?” The thought of running her oiled hands over every inch of his body made the sensation of liquid heat pooling within her even more intense.

  “Maybe later.” She watched, enthralled, as he poured more oil into his palms, rubbed them together to spread it evenly, then settled his hands on the curve of her waist. “Have I told you lately how exquisitely beautiful you are?”

  She shook her head. “No, not since that night you and Dragon got drunk, but—”

  “We weren't drunk. We were just a little …” He paused, looking for the right word.

  “Sotted?” she offered helpfully. When that didn't seem to do, she tried again. “Grogged … scrooched … guzzled … toss-cupped?”

  His laugh was rich and deep. “All right, we were drunk. It doesn't take that to get me to tell you that you're beautiful.”

  “There was a time when I was very, very tired of being thought beautiful….” Her voice trailed off as he ran his hands up to cup her breasts, his slick thumbs rubbing over her erect nipples. A little moan caught in her throat. Helplessly, she felt her hips rise.

  “Why did you feel that way?” he asked, continuing his ministrations.

  “It … it just made things … Wolf, please—”

  “Things how?”

  “More complicated. Please!”

  His teeth gleamed in the firelight. “Don't you know I always want to please you, Cymbra? Can't you feel that when I'm deep inside you? How I hold back, waiting for you? How I stroke deeper and deeper, touching you where you're most sensitive and—”

  She writhed on the bench, caught by the dark, smoky sensation of his words and touch, turning to fire beneath his hands. Helpless.

  And not helpless. She stroked his granite thigh, her fingernails raking him lightly. “A smart man might think that a woman would find a way to get back at him for playing with her like this,” she reminded him.

  “I am playing,” he admitted without a flicker of remorse. “I love playing with you … touching you … discovering you—” His hands slid lower over her belly, moving between her thighs, his touch suddenly so soft she was scarcely sure she felt it until, abruptly, he thrust a finger deep inside her and rubbed his thumb tightly against her distended nub.

  She came in a rush, her body bowing as seemingly endless spasms of pleasure seized her. They had just barely begun to ebb when Wolf lifted her off the bench. He sat down on it, placed her with her legs straddling his iron-hard thighs, and lowered her onto him.

  “Your turn,” he rasped, the cords of his neck standing out in high relief as he fought to keep himself from coming at once. His hands braced her back beneath the luxurious fall of her hair. Slowly, hesitantly, she began to move. She felt almost overly sensitized, overly filled, stretched to unbearable proportions. Almost, not quite. She clasped him fully, savoring the freedom to move as she would, drawing herself up almost completely before lowering herself again inch by delicious inch.

  He groaned, his head falling back against the wall of the sauna. She saw the sheen of sweat on his burnished skin, the flexing of muscles and tendons in his massive shoulders. Saw, too, the hard glitter of his eyes as they met hers.

  Again she rose, smiling now, lingering at the very tip before drawing him deep once more. Her mouth took his. She found his tongue, sucked it, bit his lower lip ever so lightly.

  “I like this,” she murmured, clasping his head between her hands, clasping him within, kissing him again.

  Her breasts rubbed against his chest, her hips rose and fell faster, her tongue thrust deeper. She felt the big, smooth tip of him begin to pulse, felt him try to hold back, and deliberately contracted her muscles, compelling him to yield.

  Her name on his lips was half blessing, half curse. He exploded within her, convulsing over and over, his powerful body slamming into the bench. Her own response came hard and fast. Their cries of pleasure drifted on the hot, perfumed air of the firelit chamber cupped in the palm of the earth.

  Chapter FIFTEEN

  WHEN CYMBRA WAS NEXT AWARE OF anything at all, it was of staring at her husband in bewilderment. He had spoken, she thought she had heard him, but what he had said made no sense at all.

  He was lying stretched out on one of the benches. She lay draped over him. From her position, she was just able to raise her head and look down at him, trying to see if he could possibly be serious. “The river? The river out there?”

  He nodded, although it seemed to cost him. “That's how a sauna works. First you heat up with the steam, then you run outside and jump in the river to cool off. It's very invigorating.”

  Since he sounded rather hesitant himself, Cymbra couldn't help but laugh. “Oh, I'm sure it is. Go right ahead. Just leave me out of it.”

  “Truly, if you're going to have a real sauna experience, that's the way you should do it.”

  She raised her head higher and grinned at him. “I did just have a real sauna experience. It might not be the usual kind but believe me, it counts.”

  On a sudden thought, she added, “And please, don't make me describe what would happen to you if you gave even the teeniest little thought to carrying me out of here and tossing me in that river.”

  He propped an arm behind his head, gazed up at her, and smiled. “Something terrible?”

  “Something excruciatingly terrible.”

  “Too horrible even to speak of?”

  “Much too horrible.”

  He flopped back down on the bench and ran his hands along her sleek flanks. “Well, terrible woman, since you have drained me of all strength, I suppose you're safe enough. For the moment.”

  They lay awhile longer, gathering themselves, before Cymbra murmured, “Besides, I have a much better idea.”

  She rose gracefully, stretched so that her fingers brushed the curving roof of the sauna, and lowered them to find her husband studying her appreciatively. With a flush, she searched among the items he had brought until she found one of her bars of scented soap.

  Delighted, she appropriated one of the buckets of water beside the firebox and dipped in a finger to test the temperature. “Perfect.” Lathering her hands, she began to wash herself.

  Before very long, Wolf was on his feet, showing surprising resiliency for a man who claimed to have had all the strength drained out of him. “You shouldn't have to do that all by yourself.” Ever helpful, he took the soap from her and ran it through his hands.

  Slowly, gently—and very, very thoroughly—he washed her. With equal care and attentiveness, she did the same for him. They rinsed off by throwing ladlefuls of water at each other, laughing, until the laughter faded suddenly. Wolf caught her to him, lowered her carefully to the smooth plank floor, and loved her with his hands, his mouth, his body, until nothing remained save rapturous bliss.

  Later still, after the embers in the firebox had burned low and steam had long since ceased to rise from the stones, the Norse Wolf carried his sleeping wife back to their lodge. He nestled her beneath smooth linen and soft fur, gathering her close beside him. In the final moments before sleep took him, he felt an irresistible need to give thanks for this woman who touched his very heart and soul.

  He had little experience with p
rayer other than before battle when he offered sacrifices to Odin and afterward when he offered up thanks for victory. This was different. It didn't seem to have anything to do with Odin or any of the others, not even Frigg, despite his undeniable affection for her.

  Still, thanks were owed. His eyes were closing when he thought suddenly of the Christian God, the strange one without sword or thunderbolt. With only the cross and the empty tomb. Strange God, dying and undying. God not of endless battles but of one everlasting victory.

  It seemed to fit somehow. He said his thanks and fell asleep, his last thought that somewhere, somehow, someone had heard.

  BRITA FINGERED THE CLOAK, LOOKED AT IT CLOSELY, and glanced at Cymbra. Mildly, the young Irish girl asked, “Would you happen to know what this stain is from, my lady?”

  From her perch in the bed, where she was eating the breakfast Brita had thoughtfully brought—and trying not to gobble it down, for she was very hungry—Cymbra did her utmost not to blush. As casually as she could, she said, “Whey, I believe.”

  “Ah, of course, whey. And this would be—?”

  “Milk. That one would be milk.”

  “That's fine then.” Struggling not to smile, and not entirely succeeding, Brita put the garment aside. “We won't have any difficulty getting those out. Now, as for his lordship's tunic—”

  “Honey,” Cymbra blurted. “And cheese, possibly, and eggs. I really am sorry about the mess.” She hoped it was understood she wasn't speaking only of the messy clothes that needed to be washed but of the much larger mess that had been made in the kitchens.

  “Oh, no, my lady! There's no need for you to apologize. We're all just … Well, there's just no need, that's all.”

  Brita bundled the clothes away quickly, mercifully saying nothing about Cymbra's torn gown, and picked up a comb from the table beside the bed.

  “Would you like me to tend to your hair while you breakfast, my lady?”

  Cymbra plucked at a tangled strand ruefully. “The condition it's in, it might take through breakfast, midday meal, and supper. I really shouldn't sleep with it un-braided.”