Dream of Me/Believe in Me

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 beenuppermost 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.
    No, she was not a little