Dream of Me/Believe in Me (3 page)

C
YMBRA LEANED BACK, RESTING HER HEAD
against the rim of the leather tub, and sighed deeply. Warm water lapped at her limbs. The scent of herbs sprinkled in the bath teased gently at her nostrils. The soft crackle of the fire and Miriam's quiet movements were the only sounds in the chamber. For the first time in far too many hours she could relax and, just perhaps, gather her thoughts.

What thoughts they were! She knew very little of Vikings except that they seemed to be of two types—merchants and raiders. Despite her claim to Sir Derward, she didn't really suppose that the difference was questionable. The prisoners didn't look like the sort who would want to sell her a few lengths of cloth. Yet neither had they behaved as the brutal killers and despoilers that Derward had branded them.

Authority was very weak in parts of England, with the result that the Danes had seized control over broad swaths of land. They were poised to seize even more, and might if men like her brother didn't succeed in stopping them.

Which made these Vikings … what? Even as she told herself it wasn't her problem to solve, her mind could not resist turning over the puzzle. Nor could it keep from drifting irresistibly to the leader, the tall, heavily muscled man with the midnight-black hair and the icy gray eyes.

No, that wasn't quite true. His eyes weren't always icy. There had been times when they brushed her like white-hot fire.

She didn't want to think about that, mustn't think of it. Her body felt oddly heavy, especially between her legs, where a hot, moist sensation was building. She glanced down, surprised to see that her nipples were peaked, and flushed. Quickly she rose from the bath and seized the drying cloth Miriam had thoughtfully laid nearby. With that wrapped around her, she felt a little calmer.

Seated by the fire, she murmured her thanks as Miriam began to brush out her hair. As always, the motion soothed her but she stopped it before very long. Miriam's hands were sore now more often than not, and the unguents Cymbra made for her didn't always take the pain away completely. Gently, she laid her hand over the old nurse's.

“I'm sorry I worried you today.”

Miriam sighed. She sat down beside the young woman who had been her charge since the tender age of three days, when Cymbra's own lady mother had passed beyond the veil of this world. She loved Cymbra dearly but she didn't pretend to understand her in the slightest.

“You terrified me.” She shook her head in bewilderment, sparse strands of gray hair escaping from beneath her wimple. “How could you do such a thing? Much as I hate to say it, Sir Derward is right; Vikings are animals. They could have killed you without a second thought.”

“What should we do then?” Cymbra asked softly. “Kill everything we fear? If we do that, others will fear us
and seek to kill us in turn. It will never end. One cruelty begets the next endlessly.”

The old nurse shrugged. “ 'Tis the way of this world. No man can change that, and certainly no woman can.”

Cymbra sighed and rose, standing before the copper brazier that dispelled the evening's chill. Her shoulders and arms were bare, the cloth barely covering the swell of her breasts. She shivered slightly. “Perhaps not, but still I must try. There is too much pain.”

Miriam cast her a quick look. “You never speak of that anymore.”

Both women shared a memory of the very young Cymbra, screaming and screaming, unable to explain what was wrong. It happened many times … when a stable boy cut his foot on a scythe, when a kitchen maid was scalded with water, when a warrior died of a wound that would not heal.

That had been the worst, going on for days until finally Hawk had drugged her with the juice of poppy brought from far lands and sat, holding her in his arms, through an endless day and night, his face grim as he decided what had to be done.

Holyhood became her sanctuary. Safe within it, she learned how to control what was at once gift and curse. Miriam didn't know how, could only dimly imagine the struggle Cymbra had waged. She'd won in the end, though at great cost. Now she could care for the injured and ill, even for the dying, without making their pain her own. She felt it still, Miriam was sure of that, but she managed to keep it apart from herself. Usually.

“There is nothing to speak of,” Cymbra assured her with a smile. She drew the cloth more closely around herself and stared into the flames, but instead of seeing them she seemed to see only midnight-black hair, burnished skin, and eyes the color of slate. She shook her head,
impatient with herself, and dropped the cloth, reaching for her bed robe.

“Go to your rest, Miriam,” she said as she wriggled the garment over her head: Emerging from the mass of gossamer linen, she tugged her hair free—no small task in itself—grinned, and gave the old nurse a kiss. “Heaven knows, you earn it putting up with me.”

Clucking a denial Miriam did as she was bid. When the door had closed behind her, Cymbra stretched her arms far above her head, standing on tiptoe, and made a small sound of contentment as more of the tension eased. She needed to sleep yet felt oddly energized, as though the day had lasted minutes instead of hours.

Tomorrow word would come from Hawk about the fate of the prisoners. She drew her brows together as she wondered what her brother would decide. Likely he would have them brought to him at Hawkforte to judge them for himself. She would never see the gray-eyed man again. Not that it mattered, couldn't, shouldn't matter. Why then did she ache?

Thought of sleep fled. She glanced around the chamber that had been hers most of her life. There near the brazier was her needlework, awaiting her hand. There, too, was the chest holding her medicines and precious manuscripts. Her lute was on a table next to the wooden coffer that held her paper, pens, and inks. All manner of distractions beckoned but she could not settle on any of them. Instead, she opened the door that led out onto the tower walkway just beyond her room. The night was cool but she felt unaccountably warm. The perimeter wall of the tower came almost to her shoulders. Her modesty was well protected as she stepped out, clad only in her night robe.

Protected surely from anyone on the ground. But not protected from the man who stood in the shadows of the walkway, watching her every movement. Wolf gazed at
the play of light and shadow over her exquisite form and fought for the self-control that always before had been as natural as his next breath. No more.

Having scaled the tower, a simple feat, only to find the old woman in the room, he had waited, unable to tear his eyes away as Cymbra bathed, rose from the tub, draped herself in that ridiculously thin cloth. Then, as if to finish him off, discarded it in favor of a bed robe that couldn't have protected her from a balmy breeze, much less from his eyes.

In the northlands, people dressed sensibly—or not at all. She would have to adjust to that.

And rather more than that.

The men he had sent into Holyhood the preceding day disguised as merchants had done their job with expected precision. The guards outside the cell lay unconscious, bound and gagged. So, too, the guards on the palisade wall. His men kept vigil by the great hall just in case Derward or any of the others arose, but there was slim likelihood of that. They were all snoring deeply.

That left the Lady Cymbra—completely unprotected.

She was close enough for him to touch, a vision of pale beauty caressed by starlight. He smelled the fragrance of her skin, felt the brush of a strand of her hair lifted by the night wind. He heard her sigh, saw the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed deeply.

It was more than any man could be expected to bear and he had no intention of doing so. Still, he was oddly loath to disturb her peace. She would know little enough of that in the days—and nights—to come.

Cymbra looked out over Holyhood, her sanctuary and prison both. An uncharacteristic impatience filled her, a longing for something she could neither define nor deny. Such foolishness. She was the Lady Cymbra, sister of the Hawk, and a healer. She had a place where she
belonged and work that was her life. In all that, she was blessed.

Why then did she yearn for more? She was like a child wishing for the moon, rather than a grown woman who should know better.

She had to be sensible. It was late, she would go inside, lie down, and in time she would sleep. Morning would come, the prisoners would leave, life would go on. Yet she lingered a moment longer, gazing out at the walls of her home. Holyhood's walls, where Sir Derward's guards pretended to watch, nodding over their spears, their dark, drowsing shapes so well familiar to her that she scarcely noticed them—save when they were gone.

Gone. Cymbra stiffened suddenly. She leaned forward, staring. There was no mistake. She scanned every part of the palisade that she could see, and not a guard was in sight. Holyhood's security was more gesture than reality, but never before had there been no guards at all. Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

Vikings.

Hawk would have been taking the cell apart with his bare hands.

The gray-eyed man was so calm.

So unconcerned.

From the wrath of the Norsemen preserve us, oh, Lord.

She turned, already running, meaning to call the alarm.

Running … straight into steely arms and a merciless hand that slammed down over her mouth. Hot, piercing terror tore through her. She struggled with desperate strength but uselessly. In an instant, she was lifted high against a rock-hard chest and felt herself being carried through her room, down the winding steps of the tower, out into the night.

“Be silent,” Wolf said implacably. “If you scream,
anyone who comes will die.” He looked down into her eyes to see if she understood. She did. He released her mouth so she could breathe more easily but he did not lessen his hold on her or slow his stride. She was dimly aware of other men moving alongside them, more in number than the prisoners had been, swords gleaming. She caught a glimpse of the gates of Holyhood standing open. Then the fortress was behind her and there was only night and wind. And fear so great it threatened to swallow her.

W
OLF GLANCED DOWN AT THE WOM AN IN HIS AR MS
. Her pallor worried him, as did her silence. She hadn't fainted as he'd thought she might but she was unnaturally still. Her eyes were very wide and he felt her heart beating like the wings of a frantic bird against his chest. Yet she had conquered her fear when he warned her it would mean death for others.

He understood nothing about her—not her kindness to captive Vikings, not what he had heard her say to Miriam about the cruelty of the world. She was utterly beyond his experience.

It wasn't supposed to be that way, he reminded himself again. She was supposed to be a captive woman taken for vengeance. She was supposed to suffer for the insult done him and the willingness to condemn innocents to continued war. He'd had her fate all planned. And now …

She was probably cold. He'd have to do something about that. Ahead, he saw the gleam of starlight on water and the dark shape of the dragon prow. The rest of his men—those hidden from Derward, who was too blessedly stupid even to wonder how six men could have managed so large a vessel—were already at the oars.

Wolf waded out into the water, hardly noticing as it lapped around his legs. Young Magnus was right beside
him. Wolf directed a single, warning glance at him and handed Cymbra into his arms.

Magnus had the great sense not to speak or move, to give absolutely no indication that he was capable of any feelings whatsoever. He might have been holding a sack of wheat.

In an instant, Wolf was on the deck and had retrieved her. Magnus let out a relieved breath, dunked all the way under the water, and came up grinning. Wolf shot him a wry look as he turned toward the hold.

He took the ladder down and straightened, his head just clearing the deck. The hold ran the length of the vessel but was separated into several compartments. Aft was the space used for storing supplies including weapons. Adjacent to it were the men's quarters, although they used them only in the worst weather, generally preferring to sleep on deck.

Toward the bow was an area most often used for booty or trade goods. It was empty now save for a single thin pallet. Wolf frowned when he saw it. He had intended that the Lady Cymbra's conditions be deliberately harsh at first, the swifter to break her will and make evident her dire circumstance.

Now he was reluctant to leave her there even for the short time needed to get clear of Holyhood. Still, he had little choice. Until their escape was made good, his first duty was to his men.

Laying her on the pallet, he grasped her chin and forced her to look directly at him. “Don't move,” he ordered, then released her and deliberately pushed her down farther. She said nothing, merely stared up at him from the silken fall of her hair and the soft, floating cloud of the bed robe, making him think she was either too afraid to say or do anything or was merely being sensible. Either way, he was satisfied—for the moment.

He went back on deck, thinking this had turned out to be even easier than he'd hoped—save, of course, for the complication of the woman herself and her refusal to be what he expected.

C
YMBRA LAY STILL FOR SEVERAL MOMENTS, UNMOV
-ing but for the rapid rise and fall of her shallow breathing. The molten heat of terror had fled, replaced by paralyzing cold that owed only a little to the cool night air and her thin garment. She had never been so frightened in her life. Or so angry.

Gratefully, she concentrated on the anger. As she sat up, her hair caught beneath her and tugged her scalp sharply. The small pain was welcome, further focusing her thoughts.

How dare they? How
dare
they? To penetrate Holyhood by trickery, take her from her very own chamber, and depart with contemptuous ease. What manner of men did such a thing?

No, not men. Man. She did not doubt for a moment that the leader was responsible, the very same man who had told her she would not be harmed.