Dream of Me/Believe in Me

swiftly by slender shoulders and then all the rest of her as she moved, almost flowed really, across the deck toward the railing.
    Shock roared through him. He had realized her panic but never had he thought she would be driven to take her own life. Horror filled him as he surged across the deck, seizing Cymbra just as she was about to go into the inky water.
    She fought, far more earnestly than she had on the tower when he'd had the advantage of complete surprise. She lashed out with hands and feet, trying both to kick him where it would do the most good and to scratch at his face. All the while, she twisted, struggling to loosen his hold.
    He tightened it instead, cursing under his breath, and hauled the clawing, biting termagant back down the ladder. Flinging her onto the pallet at his feet, he stood with his legs braced apart, hands fisted on his hips, and glared at her in righteous male outrage.
    “What in bloody hell were you thinking of? Do you value your life so little that you'd throw it away?” He was furious at her, actually shaking at the thought of her dying, wanting alternately to strangle and to caress her.
    Incredibly, she seemed heedless of her peril. Tossing hair out of her eyes, she glared at him. “What do you care for my life, Viking?” On her exquisitely lovely lips, the word was a curse. “You invade my home, kidnap me, and expect me to just accept my fate? No!”
    He should have seen it coming, should have at least anticipated it, but he was still so stunned by her words that he wasn't prepared when she leaped up and tried to run past him, seeking again to gain the deck and the water beyond. She almost made it.
    At the last moment, Wolf's hand lashed out, closing on a length of gossamer linen. It tore with a rending sound that reverberated against the walls. He tightened his grip implacably, tearing the cloth farther, dragging her toward him, no thought in his mind but controlling this woman, forcing her to his will. The ruined garment fell from her body, leaving her naked to his gaze.
    They both froze. Neither moved through the space of several heartbeats until finally Cymbra made a low sound of despair and wrapped her arms around herself, turning away from him. She lost her balance and began to fall toward the rough inner wall of the hold. Wolf didn't hesitate. He caught her and lowered her back onto the pallet. She curled on her side, drawing her legs up, the veil of her hair her only concealment.
    He stared at his hands on her—dark and rough against the pale smoothness of her skin, hard, callusedhands more accustomed to holding a sword or an oar— and had to force himself to pull away. His breathing was ragged, his heart hammering against his ribs, as he stood. He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. When he looked at her again, he had regained some small measure of control.
    “I understand now why your brother kept you locked up,” he snarled. “You'd drive the sanest man mad.”
    She didn't move, didn't speak, but he saw her stiffen. With a curse that would have scorched the ears of the most hardened warrior, Wolf turned away. He climbed back up to the deck, slammed down the hatch, and slipped his sword through the braces to lock it in place. “Damn woman,” he muttered.
    Pulling hard at the oars, his men grinned.
    C YMBRA LAY TREMBLING ON THE PALLET. SHE KNEW she had to get up, had to do something to save herself, but her legs felt too weak to hold her. The comfort she might have taken in the knowledge that at least she had tried to escape was scant indeed.
    All she'd done was worsen her situation. She was naked, trapped, held prisoner by a Viking warlord—she wasn't going to lie to herself anymore about what he really was—and utterly helpless.
    Her stomach clenched at the thought of her likely fate. She moaned and pulled herself into a small, defensive ball, an utterly futile gesture if there ever was one. She had heard the tales about women taken by Vikings. No wonder he presumed she'd been trying to kill herself. It was the more merciful death.
    Nausea swept over her. She was not so innocent that she didn't realize the horror that might await her.
Might?
What tiny fragment of hope remained to make her think there was even a chance of something better?
    He hasn't hurt me.
    Oh, that was absurd. How could she even think such a thing? He was a Viking, a marauder, a savage straight out of a nightmare. She should have listened to Derward, should have had more