Dream of Me/Believe in Me

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 shouldersand 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