Dream of Me/Believe in Me

by Josie Litton

  This was the first time she had seemed willing to talk about her strange abilities and Wolf seized the opportunity. “How old were you when you realized that you were different?” he asked gently.

  She felt a moment's surprise that he had used that word—different—for people tended to steer away from it. The few who really knew the truth about her spoke of her “gift” and she supposed it could be seen that way. But what was blessing was also curse and weighing everything in the balance, she thought “different” was as close to the full sense of the truth as it was possible to come.

  “I don't know exactly,” she said quietly. “I cannot remember a time when it wasn't there so it must have started very young. I have only fragmented memories of the period Hawk remembers all too well, and I suppose that is to the good. For a while, it was so bad that he drugged me with opium in order simply that I might survive but he knew that couldn't continue.”

  “So he tried to seal you away from the world?”

  “Yes, as much as that is ever possible to do. He told me later that he hoped that if I could be kept safe behind strong walls, I might learn to build such walls within myself. In that he was very wise, for that is exactly what I finally managed to do.”

  “Does he have a touch of this gift himself?” Wolf asked, wondering about the man with whom he must shortly communicate.

  Cymbra hesitated. “He is a very wise and capable leader, and I think at least some of that must come from his understanding of people. I see the same ability in you. So, yes, I suppose it is the same in kind, but the degree is greatly different.”

  “Did you resent being sent away?”

  “Not resent precisely, only regretted. But Hawk came often to visit especially while I was still very young. When he saw that I was better, he allowed me to visit at Hawkforte.”

  “But he never took you to court?”

  “No, he seemed to think that would be borrowing trouble.” She raised herself on her elbow, smiling at him wryly. “In that, as well, the two of you seem to think alike.”

  She waited, hoping that he would respond to her mention of her brother, that they might even talk further about Wolf's delay in sending word to him. But instead her husband said, “I know this wasn't easy for you. It was a difficult decision for me to make. I'm still not sure if it was the right one.”

  She looked up at him, surprised. “You can say that after what happened?”

  He shrugged. “It worked out for the best. There won't be any further problems.”

  If he thought it strange to dismiss the savage execution of three men in such terms, he didn't show it. Instead, he looked down at her again and smiled. “Sleepy?”

  “I should be,” she said ruefully, “but somehow I'm not.”

  “Neither am I.” He let go of her, rose from the bed, and held out a hand. “There's something I want to show you.”

  STOP! CYMBRA CRIED, LAUGHING AS SHE KICKED AT the green-foamed spray, showering Wolf with fine droplets of water. He grinned and bent over, scooping up handfuls to toss at her. Still laughing, she ran down the beach, well aware that her husband followed.

  She had never before been on a beach at night, never imagined how beautiful it would look beneath the stars. When he told her where they were going, she was surprised yet curious. Her hand secure in his, bundled in the cloak he insisted she put on over her gown, she went eagerly.

  If the guards on the berm thought their lord's behavior unusual, they said nothing of it as they obediently opened the gates. So, too, they would have the good sense to keep silent about the sight of the mighty jarl of Sciringesheal playing in the surf by starlight with his beautiful Saxon wife.

  Her eyes took longer to adjust to the dark than did his. He found his way with the easy grace of his namesake. When he jumped down onto the sand and held out his arms to catch her, she laughed and leaped without hesitation.

  She was still laughing as they played at the water's edge and even as she ran down the beach. When he caught her, she turned breathlessly in his arms, tilted her face up to the star-draped sky, and said softly, “I could stay here forever.”

  He dropped a quick kiss on her lips and grinned. Her pleasure delighted him, yet did he take due note of how very much she needed freedom. Truly, she was as a caged bird suddenly released to soar.

  “What would you do if it rained?” he asked teasingly

  She arched a finely drawn eyebrow and gestured at her clothing damp from his splashing. “Get wet?”

  “Ah, but you'd need a place to shelter.” Seizing her hand, he ran up the beach. “Come on.”

  Beyond a curve of the shore, where grouse bushes grew against a proud cliff, he drew her toward a dark cleft in the rock. When she hung back a little, uncertain, he tossed a grin over his broad shoulder. “I found this place years ago. You'll like it.”

  Even as he spoke, he moved seemingly right through the rock and drew her with him. Cymbra found herself standing in a small cave the contours of which were just visible in the starlight filtering through the opening in the cliff. Near the entrance, the walls were covered with fragrant moss. Farther in, she caught streaks of light and shadow that glistened as though embedded with countless tiny stars.

  Wolf gestured toward the pool of darkness at the farthest edge of her sight. “It goes so far back I've never been able to find the end.”

  “You searched for it?” she asked, more than a little concerned. There were caves near Holyhood where it was said people had become lost, never to be seen again.

  “I used a torch. There are magnificent chambers back in there, some the match of anything I've seen in palaces.”

  Even so, she had no wish to see them for herself, or to even think of him venturing into them again. “What if the torch had gone out?”

  He laughed and caught her hand to his lips. “I also took tinder and a flint. Do you always worry so?”

  “No,” she admitted, puzzled by her uncharacteristic concern. Softly, she added, “I just can't bear to think of you being hurt.”

  He gazed down into her eyes for a long moment before gently gathering her to him. She worried for those she loved. Recognizing that confirmed Wolf in the decision he had made. Whenever she spoke of her brother, her love for him was clear. Moreover, it was evidently well deserved, for Hawk had acted toward her with great care and compassion. Loath though he was to do it, Wolf could not help but feel a spurt of gratitude for the enraged Saxon he must shortly face. Face, too, the wife he had kept unknowing lest she fear for them both any longer than absolutely necessary.

  “There were times,” he said quietly, “when I came to this place simply because I needed to be alone for a while. Never before did I want to bring anyone with me.”

  She touched his cheek in silent thanks and leaned her head against his broad shoulder. Suddenly, she was very tired. The events of the past few hours seemed to crash down on her. Despite her best efforts, she could not contain a delicate yawn.

  “I shouldn't have brought you out,” he said remorsefully.

  “Oh, no! I'm glad you did. It's so beautiful here.”

  “Still, you need to rest.” Swiftly, he removed his cloak and laid it on the floor of the cave. Gathering her into his arms, he drew her down beside him and pulled the edge of the garment up over them both, creating a warm cocoon of safety and comfort.

  Cymbra made a soft sound of contentment and nestled against him. There was so much she wanted to say— how much she loved him, how glad she was that they were together, her hopes for the future … so much. But thought fled as easily as dreams came.

  She woke to a warm, freshening breeze and light pouring in through the entrance to the cave. Her husband stood just outside, looking at the sea. When she went to join him, brushing sand from her cloak, he held out an arm and drew her close. He said nothing, merely gestured out over the blue-gray water in which small waves chopped and seals played.

  She followed the direction of his gaze and saw the vessel coming up rapidly over the
horizon. For a moment, she thought only that the oarsmen must be rowing unusually fast, so swiftly did the ship move over the water. Then a sudden gust of wind filled the sail and she saw there, against the dazzling sea, the sign she had both longed for and dreaded.

  The hawk, talons curved to seize its prey, flying fast and sure toward the lair of the wolf.

  Chapter TWENTY-ONE

  SUNLIGHT GLINTED OFF THE SHIELDS OF THE men of Wolf's personal guard, two dozen in all, who stood in ranks on the stone wharf. Their swords remained in their sheaths but they were close to hand if, as the grim looks on their faces indicated, the trouble they were expecting occurred.

  Behind them, the streets and lanes of the town were deserted. Word of who was arriving had spread on the wind and the good folk of Sciringesheal had made themselves scarce. Only a few well-fed dogs ambled about. In contrast to their happy ease, the guests were departing with speed, urged on by Dragon, who had remained at the hill fort to see to a task made easier by unanimous desire not to irk the Wolf.

  Cymbra's breath caught as she realized that the Saxon vessel was not slowing even as it entered the rock-strewn channel guarding the entrance to the port. Wolf, too, took note of that and smiled grimly.

  “Either your brother is an expert seaman or he'll never make it this far.”

  He was about to say a word to the captain of the guard regarding preparations for a rescue mission when Cymbra stopped him with a hand laid gently on his arm. Her eyes still on the approaching ship, she said, “I've been told that Hawk took a rudder for the first time when he was three years old. Supposedly, he was so delighted by the experience that he talked for days afterward about making the boat fly.”

  Watching the smooth tack of the vessel as it rounded a boulder-strewn islet, Wolf said grudgingly, “He sails well for someone who isn't Norse.”

  She smiled and squeezed his arm but did not take her gaze from the proud, hawk-emblazoned vessel now near enough for her to make out the men on board. Even this close to the wharf they were still rowing hard, until, at a single, shouted command, they upped oars at the same time as the sail was dropped. Smoothly, confidently, the ship settled beside the stone quay.

  Cymbra took a quick, tight breath. She was distantly aware of the metallic rasp of the anchor being dropped, the stiffening of the men behind her, the fluttering of birds overhead. But all that was as nothing compared to the sight of the man who strode across the deck and leaped gracefully onto the quay.

  The motion, and the freshening wind, ruffled the edges of the short, dark gray tunic he wore and sent a curl of thick, chestnut-hued hair tumbling across his brow. His eyes were the same vivid blue as Cymbra's, and his features were sharply chiseled, the bones strong beneath taut skin. His expression was achingly familiar for all that it was hard set with anger and resolve.

  Hawk. Her dearly loved brother, whom she had not seen in half a year since his last visit to Holyhood but who looked exactly as she remembered him. He was as tall as Wolf himself, with the same broad sweep of shoulders and chest, the same long, lithe torso and powerful legs. He wore the same air of command, exuded the same aura of relentless will.

  A will perfectly expressed in the taut set of his square jaw and his gaze lit by cold, deadly rage. Cymbra swallowed against the lump of fear in her throat and stepped forward quickly.

  “Hawk! How wonderful!” She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him fiercely as at the same time she tried to slow his remorseless advance. Her welcome diverted him only long enough to express his relief at finding her alive and whole.

  “Cymbra,” he said with husky gentleness and returned her embrace, sweeping her around in a wide circle as he gazed down lovingly into her face. Lovingly and ominously. Slowly, he set her on her feet and carefully touched the bruise beneath her right eye.

  She saw his conclusion and reached out frantically, but too late to stop him.

  “Hawk, no!”

  The solid thud of his fist connecting with Wolf's jaw seemed to echo off the surrounding hills with the force of a thunderclap. At once, the men of the guard drew their swords and advanced. So, too, did the men on board the Saxon vessel leap onto the quay with their weapons at the ready.

  A bloodbath was heartbeats away when Wolf shouted, “Hold!” His superbly trained men froze where they were, but Hawk's kept right on coming until he, too, raised a hand. “Wait.” His sword in hand, he advanced on Wolf, who had not drawn his. A blow that would have knocked most men unconscious had scarcely fazed him. Yet did he rub his jaw thoughtfully as he regarded the enraged Saxon.

  “You thieving bastard … you Norse scum …”

  Cymbra's stomach plummeted. Desperate to intervene, she threw herself between the two men, but before she could plead for them to stop they both made a grab for her, intending to pull her to safety. She found herself yanked in two directions at once as the two fierce—and fiercely protective—warlords vied with each other to get her out of harm's way.

  Wolf let go first and took a step back, though his eyes never left his wife. Hawk shoved her behind him but he was surprised and it showed.

  Moving quickly to take advantage of that, Wolf said, “Cymbra has suffered no injury at my hands, and the men who did seek to harm her are dead.”

  The enraged Saxon lord cast a quick glance over his shoulder to where his sister stood, pale but seemingly with no fear for herself. Though he could scarcely credit that, he had to ask, “Is this true?”

  She nodded quickly but before she could say more, he turned back to Wolf.

  “Who killed them?”

  Flickers of firelight seemed to dance in the eyes of the Wolf, carrying memories of blood and vengeance. “I did.”

  As Hawk considered this, Cymbra wasted no time. She stepped forward, commanding his attention. Her voice soft and husky, she said, “Sheathe your sword, brother. I am very happily wed. Truly, everything has happened for the best. If you will but give us a chance, my husband—” she held out a hand to Wolf and smiled at him, “my husband and I would welcome you properly.” With a bright if anxious glance at the hovering Saxons, she added, “And your men, too, of course.”

  Hawk looked at the couple standing together, his sister so seemingly delicate and fragile beside the mighty Viking, the selfsame man whose savage death had been uppermost in the Hawk's mind since the message arrived scant days before, revealing Cymbra's whereabouts.

  He noted how his sister's hand nestled in the far larger, scarred hand of the Norse Wolf. How she instinctively moved closer to him as she spoke. How even now she glanced quickly at her husband as though for reassurance and comfort.

  Her husband. It didn't seem possible. In his heart, he still thought of her as the little girl whose safety and welfare had been his first concern since he was hardly more than a boy himself and they were orphaned. Though he knew full well that she had grown into a woman—and a woman of stunning beauty at that—he had long ago decided that he would never compel her to marry. Since she had never brought it up herself, he simply hadn't thought of it.

  Until now. After all the weeks of dreading her fate— the agonizing visions of her abused and suffering, perhaps even dead—to find her seemingly safe and even happy required more of a change in his thinking than he could swiftly make.

  Yet he could take some time and consider at least the possibility that, as she had said, everything had happened for the best, unlikely though he still thought that was.

  “All right,” he said, his gaze on Wolf, who was also regarding him steadily. Slowly, he did as she had bidden, returning his sword to its scabbard. Yet did his hand linger on it. Raising his voice so that his men could hear, he added, “We will tarry here awhile.” He shifted his attention to Cymbra. “And see for ourselves this happiness of which you speak.”

  She heard the doubt—and the challenge. Rather than acknowledge either, she smiled and, linking one arm through her brother's and the other through her husband's, led the two mighty warriors back to the hill fort.

/>   Wolf's guard followed along with the Saxons. They made an odd procession—two war bands primed for battle following with seeming docility in the trail of a beautiful woman even as they exchanged glares with one another and fingered the hilts of their swords.

  “And the people here are really wonderful, Hawk,” Cymbra was saying as they passed through the gates at the top of the hill. “Some come from as far away as Russka. Nadia and Mikal, who live in the town, just had a baby son. I helped deliver him. And we had a visit from a Moor who lives in Constantinople, can you imagine that? He brought the most incredible spices and fabrics. Oh, and you must meet Wolf's brother, Dragon. He knows the most fascinating stories, he can hold you spellbound for hours. And—”

  Over her head, the two men exchanged glances.

  “She didn't used to talk this much,” Hawk observed grudgingly. Had he not been so struck by the change in her, he would not have been driven to mention it.

  Wolf raised an eyebrow. “Really? You mean she may quiet down eventually?”

  Cymbra stopped in midstep and looked at them both. When she saw the smiles tugging at their hard mouths and the teasing gleam in their eyes, she laughed with relief so great as to be scarcely contained. Yet did she inform her husband chidingly, “Don't count on that happening anytime soon. Everything is still so new here and so interesting, I'm bound to comment on it.”

  Wolf sighed but he didn't look displeased. On the contrary, he regarded her so lovingly that warmth flooded her cheeks. None of that escaped Hawk's notice. Yet did he remain unconvinced. He still wanted to hear much more about how that bruise had happened. It was all well and good for the Viking to kill the men who had sought to harm his wife, but what about keeping her safe in the first place? And why were her clothes wrinkled and water-stained with bits of sand sticking to them? Did she have no proper servants to see to her?

  So, too, he noted the shadows beneath her eyes, hinting at lack of adequate rest. At the thought of the demands the Viking, as her husband, was no doubt making on Cymbra, Hawk's anger surged anew with raw, primitive force, only to be counteracted by the glowing smile his sister was bestowing on that same Viking.