Dream of Me/Believe in Me (19 page)

“He is not telling the truth about the pain,” the elderly wise man was saying. “It remains great.”

“But the wound has healed,” Wolf countered. His brows were drawn tightly together. “He has returned to
training and seems to be managing well. Or he did seem to until today.”

“He has concealed much and pushed himself very hard. This fever is the result. I am afraid that—” Ulfrich broke off and nodded to Cymbra with a smile. “My lady we were just—”

“This does not concern you,” Wolf interrupted.

“Does it not? Then I must have misunderstood when I thought you were talking about your brother's wound not healing properly and now bringing on a fever. How foolish of me to think that the sensible thing would be to bring in a healer.”

Ulfrich puffed out his cheeks in dismay and took a quick step forward, interposing himself between the jarl and his wife. “My lord, I'm sure she means well. A woman's heart overflows with compassion, after all, and—”

“Proudful,” Wolf said flatly. He ignored Ulfrich and continued to stare down his wife, or at least tried to.

“Sensible,” she shot back. More gently, she added, “Do not tell me it is pride to acknowledge my own skill and seek to use it where needed. You said that I was to ask your help. All well and good, I will do so. But now you need my help. Will you not take your own advice and do what you know is right?”

Ulfrich glanced nervously from one to the other but both ignored him. Cymbra was too preoccupied trying to remember her concern for Dragon while her attention kept focusing on how magnificent her husband looked even if he was scowling at her—
again.
She longed to run her hands over his massive chest, to tease a smile from his lips, to take him deep within her body and feel his life pour into her.

For his part, Wolf could not help but notice how glorious his wife appeared with her eyes lit for battle and her cheeks flushed. He knew he ought to be concentrating on
her defiance—
again
—and he did make a feeble attempt, but the cheerful stirring of his cock distracted him. This was really too much. He was a man and a leader, not a randy boy. He could not, would not, allow any woman to control him.

But he was also a brother and he could not forget that either.

“Dragon is a warrior,” he growled, “not a weakling. He will not tolerate being coddled.”

“That's good,” Cymbra replied as she brushed past him and opened the door to the lodge. “Because if what I think is wrong is indeed the case, the last thing I'm going to do is coddle him.”

Her face was set, her manner utterly determined, but she faltered slightly as she confronted the man sitting upright in the large bed. Dragon's glare was remarkably like her husband's.

“What is this?” he demanded, not of her but of Wolf, who had followed directly after her. Ulfrich came too, no doubt unwilling to miss anything.

“My wife,” Wolf said, “has the notion that she might be able to help you.”

“I need no help,” Dragon said emphatically.

Cymbra looked at him with open skepticism. She saw a man of vast strength, as big and heavily muscled as Wolf himself, and no doubt in peak condition under normal circumstances. But these were not normal, as the pallor beneath his tan and the lines of strain around his mouth testified.

“When were you wounded?” she asked, moving nearer to the bed.

Dragon spared her one swift glance and returned his attention to his brother. “You can't be serious about this.”

Wolf shrugged. “She has some skill. As yet I don't know how much, but perhaps she really can help.”

“I am not some mewling infant to be cosseted by a
woman!” He started to rise, remembered he was unclothed, and sank back into the bed with a curse that would have melted ice.

Cymbra ignored him. She laid a hand on his brow. Instantly, he yanked away. She moved as quickly, keeping her hand in place and firmly pushing his head back against the pillows.

“As I thought,” she said. “Too weak to fight off a woman.”

For just a moment, she feared she had gone too far. Wolf must have thought so too, for he took a step forward. After a tense moment, Dragon surprised them both by laughing, however faintly.

“Odin's breath, she's right,” he said. He glanced up at her assessingly. “Do you truly know what you're about?”

“You will answer that for yourself,” she replied. His skin beneath her hand was hot and dry. There was a too-bright light to his eyes that also bespoke high fever. But so far as she could tell standing near him, his breathing was clear. She intended for it to remain that way.

She turned to Ulfrich. “I will need hot water, lengths of cloth about this long and wide”—she indicated with her hands—“and my chest of medicines. Oh, and Brita to help me.”

“What are you going to do?” Dragon demanded suspiciously after the older man hurried off to do her bidding.

“Bring down the fever first, then find out what has gone wrong with your wound.”

“Nothing's gone wrong. It's healed.”

“Do I need to, I will drug you and find out for myself.”

“You wouldn't let her do that!” Dragon demanded of his brother.

Wolf sat in a carved chair, stretched his long legs out in front of him, and prepared to stay awhile. Doubtful though he remained about the rightness of all this, he could not help but hope that Cymbra might actually be able to help.

“Of course not,” he assured Dragon. “I'd just hold you down for her.”

Cymbra's Norse vocabulary expanded somewhat in the minutes that followed. She pretended not to notice. Ulfrich returned with Brita on his heels. After that, there was very little Dragon could do except scowl.

W
OLF WENT IN TO THE TOWN AFTER MIDDAY
. Dragon's fever was down and he was asleep, with Ulfrich keeping watch beside him. Cymbra, who so far as her husband could tell appeared to need no rest at all, had bustled off to see to matters in the kitchens. With Marta gone, she intended to assure there were no further problems.

It was just as well she was occupied for he had matters of his own to attend to. He went alone and on foot but with no expectation of being unnoticed. On the contrary, when he settled himself on a bench outside a tavern with a fine view of the harbor, it was with every intention of being seen and duly noted.

He didn't have long to wait. Barely had the buxom— and
very
friendly serving wench—brought him a horn of ale than a man approached. Wolf recognized him as the captain of a Breton galley that plied the waters as far west as Ireland and north to Sciringesheal itself.

“Sit,” he said, and gestured for another horn to be brought. When this was done, the man, Onfroi by name, nodded his thanks, took a long swallow, and said, “News travels on the wind.”

Wolf accepted this bit of wisdom with due solemnity. “News and rumor both, my friend.”

“Sometimes it is hard to tell the difference.”

“But not for one as experienced as yourself.”

Onfroi inclined his head in agreement. “Still, one hears strange things.”

“Indeed?”

“For example, I made port a fortnight ago in Essex. No one there talks of anything except the disappearance of the Lord Hawk's sister. You've heard of her, of course? Her beauty is said to rival the moon's and it is whispered that she possesses strange powers. Her brother kept her locked away, sensibly enough. But her sanctuary was invaded and the lady herself taken.”

Wolf raised his eyebrows with polite interest. “By whom?”

“Rumor says the Danes. The man who headed her garrison swore to the Lord Hawk before he died that they were invaded by an army of savage Danes, several hundred he claimed, who overran them despite their most valiant efforts.”

“The Hawk believes this?”

Onfroi spread his hands. “Who knows? There is a bit of a problem in that apparently no bodies were found, or for that matter any evidence of fighting. One doesn't think of Danes as such a tidy lot, cleaning up after themselves as it were.”

“True, one doesn't think of that.”

“And then there's the old nurse who babbles about a handful of Vikings who were taken captive the same day all this happened but who somehow escaped.”

Wolf finished his ale and sat back in the sun. Truly, it did a man good to rest a bit. Not too much though. “Does she say anything else of them?”

“Only that the Lady Cymbra had speech with them in their own tongue while they were being held.”

“Since all Norsemen whether Dane or not speak essentially the same language, that is of little use.”

“Apparently the Hawk thinks the same. It is said he has sent men up into the Danelaw to learn the truth of his sister's whereabouts. When he knows it, he intends to give battle and destroy the villain who dared to take her.”

“A predictable enough response.”

“Indeed. One might even think that whoever took her intends her brother to do precisely as he will.”

“Or at least intends for him to try,” Wolf said and smiled.

He tarried a little after Onfroi departed, drank a little more, spoke with several more men who happened, as it were, to come by. They told the same tale but added bits and pieces.

The Hawk was said to rage. He had sworn to flay alive the despoiler of his sister. Yet it was also claimed that he wanted her safe return at all cost, her life held even above honor. That was the hardest part to believe, and no sensible man would, for surely honor counted more than the life of any mere woman.

Yet, it was food for thought and Wolf did not mind chewing on it. Ordinarily, word of the mysterious Saxon beauty lately come to Sciringesheal would have been carried to the Hawk on the selfsame ships that brought news of his rage and its cause. But the captains who put into the rich port controlled by Wolf Hakonson were a wily lot. They had enough sense to hold the favor of the jarl who protected their profitable trade in high regard and not risk losing it. So it was likely they would say nothing, no matter how tempted they might be.

Soon, then, he would send word himself. He had delayed long as it was, telling himself that the stolen time with his bride was meant only to strengthen her conviction when she stood before her brother and swore to her happiness, thus sealing the alliance he had gone to such
extraordinary lengths to secure. Yet did he also know himself prey to a yearning to postpone the inevitable moment of confrontation, whatever that might bring.

Wolf shrugged inwardly. The Hawk would come, and when he did … What would be would be. They would make peace or Valhalla would welcome a new warrior to sup in Odin's hall. That the warrior would be Saxon he did not doubt for a moment. Every aspect of the battle, if there was to be one, favored his own victory.

He had plotted this much before sailing to Holyhood, but now, in the aftermath of all that had happened, he had no choice but to think further. What he perceived did not please him. Cymbra loved her brother. If he died, she would mourn him forever—and hate the man who had killed him.

It shouldn't have mattered. Life was harsh, duty and honor were all. Men lived or died as the Fates willed. Still, there was nothing to say a man's destiny had to be rushed. It wouldn't hurt the Hawk to rage awhile longer.

Wolf tossed a few coins on the table for the ale and began walking back through the town. On the way, he made one more stop and was well pleased with what he found.

C
YMBRA TURNED THE LUTE OVER IN HER
hands reverently. The graceful curves of polished wood seemed to glow with a life all their own. She looked up at her husband through tear-misted eyes. “I cannot believe you did this.”

Wolf shrugged. “I enjoyed hearing you play. It seemed a shame to miss that pleasure.”

His casual manner did not fool her for a moment. He had obviously gone to some trouble, seeking out and choosing a magnificent instrument better even than the one she had possessed, then leaving it on their bed for her to find when she came in to change for supper. That he had followed in time to see her reaction could not be coincidence.

She managed a wobbly smile as the tears threatened to spill down her cheeks. Never could she remember a gift meaning so much to her. “Thank you,” she said with simple sincerity.

It did not escape Wolf's notice that his wife cared more for the lute—the best of its kind to be had but still
only a lute—than she had for the ermine cloak fit for an empress. That, too, pleased him. “Perhaps you will play for me later.”

“Whenever you wish,” she said, and raised herself on tiptoe to brush her lips against his.

They arrived late in hall after that, but at least they got there. All things considered, Wolf counted that a victory. He forgot it quickly, though, when the sight of Dragon's empty seat reminded him of problems yet to be solved. Cymbra saw his concern and touched his hand gently.

“He woke this afternoon and had some broth before going back to sleep,” she said as Wolf pulled out her chair for her. “That is really best for him right now.”

She did not add that the broth contained a sprinkling of herbs from her medicine chest guaranteed to assure Dragon would sleep untroubled by pain. She saw no reason to bore her husband with such details. The grateful look he gave her as he took his own seat convinced her she was right.