Dream of Me/Believe in Me

by Josie Litton

  Cymbra folded her hands in her lap and smiled. With perfect pleasantness, she asked, “Tell me, my lord Kareem, do you carry any medicinals in your cargo?”

  “Medicinals?”

  “He's not sure what you—” Wolf began.

  “I heard what he said.” Cymbra smiled again, aware of all three men staring at her. For once, she was pleased to command male attention so effortlessly.

  “Plants such as … oh, belladonna, for example. Or hemlock, thorn apple, monkshood … or oleander, Star of Bethlehem, castor beans … And then there's purple cockle, dwarf bay, flax olive, copse laurel …”

  “Lady, those are all deadly poisons!” the Moor exclaimed, propriety forgotten.

  She smiled sweetly—at him, at her dear brother-in-law, and most particularly at her husband. Lord and master, indeed!

  “They are, aren't they, for all that most can also heal when used properly. And there are many more of them, all so easily mistaken for edible. A leaf here, a root there … why, the least carelessness on the part of a cook and …”

  She sighed deeply but brightened as the servants reentered the hall. The men's eyes widened at the sight of the heavily laden platters being carried to the table.

  “Oh, good,” Cymbra said, “the next course.” She looked around at the others innocently yet was there an unmistakable note of steel in her silken tones. “You are all still hungry, aren't you?”

  HOURS LATER, LYING BESIDE HER HUSBAND IN THEIR bed, Cymbra was still inclined to smile. She would long remember the responses that had followed her little joke. Kareem looked at her as though she were some manner of being he had never seen before and wasn't sure he ever wanted to encounter again. Dragon was so startled he knocked over his drinking cup.

  And Wolf… ah, yes, Wolf… her dear husband had stared at her for only a moment before breaking out in rich, hearty laughter. Yet she could not begrudge his amusement for with it came his obvious pride in having so clever a wife.

  “I remember now why we left,” he declared, “or at least why I did. Not a single woman there reminded me of Frigg.” His gaze, both tender and ardent, left no doubt that such deficiency had been remedied.

  So she reminded him of a goddess. That was rather sweet and certainly deserving of acknowledgment, such task as she set herself to perform very shortly after they retired to their lodge. If in the process she demonstrated that a man and a horse also had much in common, all the better.

  But now she needed to sleep and couldn't, her mind still awhirl with thoughts, images, questions….

  Nadia's baby was wonderful. Cymbra's hand drifted to her flat belly. She'd love to have a child of her own. A dark-haired baby with gray eyes … a son or daughter for Wolf to adore as she knew he would, and other children to follow … please God …

  The Moor with his dark, liquid eyes and ready smile, his talk of exotic, faraway places, of a different world where women were kept apart in silken bowers, secluded for the pleasure of a man … She could never bear that, never, yet there was a strange excitement in the thought.

  Women intended solely for pleasure … Wolf had known such when he lingered in the villa by the Byzantine sea. A very generous man, Dragon had called their host, the collector—no, connoisseur of women. Red-haired Circasians, agile Nubians, and who knew what else … She had a sudden, too-vivid image of her husband, lounging on a couch, his long legs stretched out before him, lazily eyeing the beauties displayed for his selection.

  Would he have chosen her had she been among them?

  Stupid thought! He had chosen her, indeed come all the way to Holyhood to claim her.

  For vengeance … for alliance … for whichever fate decreed when Hawk came.

  Since the day of her marriage, she had stalwartly kept her thoughts from the terrible promise her husband had made. She had gone so far as never even to glance toward the beach he had sworn would be stained with her brother's blood.

  She told herself she was merely being sensible. Wolf didn't really want to kill Hawk. He truly did want an alliance. All she had to do was convince her brother—when he came—that all was well and all would be.

  All she had to do … When he came …

  She made a small, involuntary sound of distress and turned over on her side. Huddled beneath the covers, her knees drawn up, she fought to restrain the tears that threatened to overtake her.

  Fought, that is, until she felt the brush of a hand on her bare shoulder, the sudden sensation of strength hovering over her, and heard Wolf's voice, sleep roughened but instantly alert.

  “Cymbra, what's wrong?”

  Only a tiny sound, a small movement, yet somehow he had known at once that she needed him. Without waiting for an answer, he turned her into his arms and held her close.

  “Did you have a bad dream?” he asked, stroking her back soothingly.

  Not trusting herself to speak, she shook her head against his massive chest. He tried to lift her chin so that he could look at her but she resisted, burrowing closer to him. With a sigh, he lay back.

  “Dragon didn't really upset you, did he? He was just teasing.”

  That surprised her enough to wring an answer. “No, of course not.”

  “Kareem then? He's a good soul, he wouldn't dream of offending you or—”

  “No, not him either.”

  Wolf was silent for a moment. Slowly, he said, “Well, that seems to leave me. What have I done, elskling?”

  “N-nothing!” Her tears broke suddenly, streaming down her cheeks and onto his chest. She sobbed convulsively, unable to stop, as her bewildered husband held her, alternately trying to calm her and demanding that she tell him what was wrong.

  Finally, she brushed the tears away and looked at him. “I—I'm sorry. I don't know what's the matter with me.” She paused a moment, sniffed, took a shuddery breath. “I'm fine, really.”

  He didn't answer, only looked at her before abruptly swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing. Naked, he strode to the table beneath the window, poured wine into a jeweled goblet, and brought it to her.

  “Drink this.”

  Obediently, she took a swallow, then another. He held the goblet for her until she indicated she'd had enough. Putting it aside, he sat down on the edge of the bed, took both her hands in his, and stared earnestly into her eyes.

  “Now, elskling, would you please tell me what's wrong?”

  He looked so … so rumbled, and concerned … and endearing with a lock of hair falling over his forehead and a night's growth of beard shadowing his jaw. He was a man others feared, a man of ruthless strength whose name was whispered with mingled awe and dread. Yet he sat there naked on the side of their bed in the middle of a night that had given him little rest and patiently pleaded with his wife to tell him what troubled her.

  No wonder she loved him so much.

  Cymbra gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth. She didn't merely desire Wolf or respect him or like him—although she certainly did all those things. She loved him— passionately, deeply completely. Love that transcended all else, even life itself. Love taking her unawares, announcing itself already fully rooted within her, like a flower exploding to the sun.

  “I love you,” she said. The words spilled out—song, prayer, joyful shout for all that they were whispered. Three small words that said everything of who she was, who she would always be, what would always exist for them.

  “I love you,” she repeated as her happiness welled up, surging free and triumphant. “I love you!”

  “I love you, too,” Wolf said matter-of-factly. “But, elskling, I don't see why that should make you cry.”

  But it did, all over again, as she tried to absorb the incredible, astounding fact that he loved her. Wolf withstood it as well as any befuddled male could be expected to do. He stroked her back again, told her how wonderful she was, tried in every way he knew to calm her. When all that had no effect whatsoever, he gave up and resorted to a different strategy that required no words and worked
far better.

  But later still, when she slept at last, the Norse Wolf lay awake, holding his beloved wife in his arms and accepting what could no longer be denied: The time had come to snare the Hawk.

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  AWEEK AFTER KAREEM BEN ABDUL RAISED ANCHOR and sailed out of the port of Sciringesheal, Cymbra was still trying to find places for everything he had left behind. It seemed as though the entire contents of the Moorish vessel's cargo hold had been transferred to the hill fort. She knew that wasn't true—at least not quite. The residents of the town had also made purchases, as had crews on other ships happy to acquire such exotic goods to trade along with their own.

  Yet there was no denying that an extraordinary quantity of fabrics, spices, foodstuffs, and the like were now hers to do with as she saw fit. Her husband, it seemed, was an even wealthier man than she had realized. Several of the chests in their quarters that were kept locked, and which she had never bothered to inquire about, turned out to be filled with gold coin, more than she had ever imagined existed, as well as jewels of every description.

  Nor was that the extent of it. Dragon possessed great wealth in his own right. Together, the Hakonson brothers maintained a trading empire that stretched from their northern stronghold to the shores of the Mediterranean and even beyond.

  When she expressed surprise at all this, Wolf merely shrugged. “A strong arm and a useful mind don't seem to go together all that often. When they do, a man finds more opportunity than he can take.”

  She knew he was being too modest. The strong arm of which he spoke was a fighting force feared throughout the world, and as for the useful mind, she already knew him to be keenly intelligent and perceptive.

  So now here she was, surrounded by bolts of the most exotically beautiful cloth she had ever seen, the vivid colors of silks, satins, linens, and brocades glowing in the sun filtering through the open windows of the lodge to mingle with the barbaric luxury already present there. The fabrics covered the bed, the table, the chairs, and spilled over onto the floor.

  Nor was that all. Set among them were intricate wooden chests banded with bronze and gold, containing within them drawer after drawer of fragrant spices. Cymbra opened one drawer and found sticks of precious cinnamon. In another were pungent mustard seeds. Still another held fragile threads of saffron in such quantity as to make her gasp, for this spice was the rarest and most costly by far. On and on the drawers went until she thought she must surely have enough spices to last her a lifetime.

  “We will need a large chest for the kitchens,” she said to Brita, who was helping her sort through everything. “Something sturdy and big enough to hold all these.”

  The Irish girl, who looked as dazed as Cymbra felt, nodded. “Something with a good lock on it, too, and bolted to the floor. The folk here are honest as the day is long but a stranger just passing through might be foolishly tempted.”

  This was good sense. A handful of spices, easily concealed, could buy a man more than he would see from a year of labor.

  “We'll have to find a place for all this fabric, too,” Cymbra said. “It can't stay in here.”

  Brita shook her head in wonder as she held up a length of deep blue brocade intricately stitched with silver swirls. The effect made Cymbra think of dancing stars weaving complex patterns across the night sky.

  “Have you ever seen the like?” the Irish girl asked. “Or even imagined it existed?”

  “I've seen some beautiful fabrics but never so many in one place at the same time. They are exquisite, but truly I don't know how we can possibly use all this. None of them are what could be called practical.”

  Brita giggled. She draped a link of apricot-hued gauze across the bed and said, “Oh, I don't know, my lady. That one looks very useful to me.”

  “Do you think women really wear such things?” Cymbra asked as she eyed the cloth. It was undeniably beautiful but even the thought of wearing it made her blush. Its purpose was so very evident.

  “Indeed! When I was in Hedeby, I heard many a tale about women in the East and the things they do. Why, do you know some of them shave their pubes and put perfume there?”

  “I wasn't aware of that.” Brita's frankness surprised her but she couldn't deny that she was curious. Dragon certainly had fond memories of the East and she had no doubt her husband's were just as pleasant.

  “And they rouge their nipples,” Brita went on. “Some of them even have little tattoos of flowers and such like on their privates. Oh, and they have all sorts of toys—”

  Cymbra coughed to cover her shock. “Toys?”

  Brita laughed. “You'd be amazed. There are sheaths to make a man bigger so he feels more potent, some with nubs on them that are supposed to excite women even more. There are little balls women can put up inside to excite themselves. And there are even bands men can wear at the base of their cocks to make them stay hard and prolong their pleasure.”

  Cymbra stared at her in amazement so great as to overcome her embarrassment. “People actually use such things?”

  “That and more, my lady. There are ointments to rub on various places with various effects, elixirs of every sort, incantations, magic incense, and on and on.” She laughed. “I know it all sounds unbelievable but it seems there are no limits to people's imagination, at least not when it comes to coupling.”

  “Apparently not.” And to think she had believed herself knowledgeable about such matters just on the basis of her few weeks of marriage. She eyed the apricot gauze again. It was lovely and it did suit her coloring. Perhaps she would just think about it.

  There was little enough time for that, though, for scarcely had she finished deciding what to do with all the items than one of the serving women knocked hurriedly on the lodge door and, at Cymbra's bidding, entered.

  “My lady, his lordship wants you.” She gestured toward the great hall.

  Wondering what it was that could not wait, Cymbra answered her husband's summons to find him in conversation with Dragon. Both men fell silent as she approached. They rose politely and Wolf held out a chair for her.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, glancing from one to the other.

  They both answered at once. “No.” “Of course not.”

  Dragon cast his brother a look she couldn't decipher and sat back to listen.

  “I've decided to invite the other lords of Vestfold to assemble in Sciringesheal,” Wolf said, “that we may meet together and talk over matters of mutual interest.”

  Cymbra swallowed her surprise and thought quickly For such guests, there would have to be a great feast lasting several days and including only the finest of everything. It was quite an undertaking. She prayed she was up to it. Scarcely had she thought of that than she looked at her husband cautiously.

  “When is all this to be?”

  “The summons has just gone out. They will begin to arrive within the week.”

  “A week?” Only a week to prepare. “How many?”

  Wolf shrugged. “There are the jarls themselves, their sons and retainers, the usual escorts and hangers-on … all in all, not more than a few hundred.”

  “A few hundred! In a week?” She stared at him in disbelief. She loved this man with all her heart. He was strong, protective, kind, utterly wonderful. Yet none of that stopped her from demanding, “Are you mad?”

  “I told you she wasn't going to be happy,” Dragon said. He looked pleased to be proven correct.

  Wolf shot him a hard look but directed his attention to his wife. “There's nothing to be concerned about, elskling. You'll have all the help you need.”

  She stared at him unmollified. Typical man to say such a thing. She doubted he had given it any thought whatsoever. “Where will they sleep? What will they eat? How do you plan to keep them entertained when you aren't talking over these great matters, whatever they may be? Several hundred men who have to be fed, amused, and kept comfortable, and you give me only a week?”

  “Easy, sweet sister,”
Dragon said with a laugh. “We begin today to build two temporary halls on the hillside that will shelter our guests. As for entertainment, there are few better than the hunt, which has the added advantage of providing food. But if you are still concerned, such word is already spreading that will bring ample … entertainment on the next tide. You need have no worry about that.”

  “Oh, good,” Cymbra said. “Hundreds of Viking lords and every whore who can hie herself here. Truly, something to look forward to.” She shook her head, then added, “It will take everyone in the town working together if this is to be as it should.” Yet, even as she spoke, she felt a spurt of excitement at the prospect. She did enjoy a challenge and this promised to be a huge one. Moreover, she could not have conceived of a better opportunity to prove herself to her husband.

  “You're the woman to organize it,” Wolf assured her. “Buy anything you need, arrange everything as you see fit.”

  His confidence in her made Cymbra forgive the short notice, but she didn't stop worrying even as she hurriedly summoned the women together and began describing what must needs be done. In the flurry of activity that followed, she had very little time to think about anything except the endless details of the preparations.

  And no time at all to be aware of the matter that concerned her husband far more than anything he would discuss with the other lords of Vestfold.

  WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO TELL HER? DRAGON asked several days later as he and Wolf rested beside the river after a cooling swim. Around them were scattered the remnants of the midday repast Cymbra had sent down—rounds of warm bread, ripe cheese, apples and berries in abundance, legs of chicken, partridge, and grouse, fallen upon eagerly by the hungry men who with Wolf and Dragon had labored long and hard to construct two very fine timbered halls that would house their guests. The finishing touches were still to be added but the major work was completed by dint of laboring through each day and far into the twilit night.