Dream of Me/Believe in Me

left her and returned to the deck, where he stretched out beneath the stars. Shortly after that, the Wolf, too, slept.
    C YMBRA GAZ ED OUT OVER THE EXPANSE OF GRAY -blue water, tugged the ermine cloak more closely around herself, and sighed. Wind filled the sails, but the men were not relaxing. They strained at the oars until the dragon ship seemed to fly across the sea.
    During the night, the world had narrowed to the vessel alone amid the seemingly endless expanse of sea. From where she sat in the bow, the iron-riveted deck stretched at least fifty feet to the fearsome dragon prow. A single mast rose from the massive oak block fixed at the center of the keel, rigged with the square sail emblazoned with the emblem of the wolf.
    The men sat two to an oar on benches on either side of raised planking laid down the middle of the deck. Most had stripped off their shirts and rowed bare-chested beneath a pale sun wreathed in clouds. The only sounds were the creak of the rigging, the occasional grunts of the men, and the slap of water against the sides of the vessel where the shields were hung.
    How many miles were they from Holyhood? Certainly more than she had ever been before, for she had never even been out of sight of land. Amid the vastness of sea and sky, Cymbra felt lost and insignificant. The wound of worry for all those left behind throbbed incessantly.Again and again her thoughts returned to her brother and the survivors of the Viking attack. With every breath she drew, she felt their pain. After a lifetime of training herself to stand apart from her emotions, the conflagration within her was like staring into the sun.
    And yet, for all that, she could not deny a strange, unsettling sense of… what? Surely not excitement? Even less exhilaration? She could not possibly be taking pleasure in the sudden shattering of her well-ordered life, could she? Beneath the veil of her lashes, she glanced at the man responsible at once for her peril and for the only possible hope of ending it.
    Wolf had directed her to the bow when he brought her up on deck in midmorning. He sat nearby, one hand resting on the rudder, which he steadied occasionally. At first light, when she was still in the hold and just barely awake, he'd brought her food and water. That consideration emboldened her to ask for something to wear besides the ermine cloak, only to have him blandly tell her there was nothing. Not a tunic or a shirt, not a length of wool or linen, that she might put between her skin and the soft, sensual, seductive fur.
    She didn't believe him; there had to be
something.
But she sensed that he wanted her to argue and she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Nor would she talk to him. She'd had time during the night to think over her situation. As fear eased, resentment grew. Even if Hawk had sent that reply—which he absolutely had not but
even if
— that was no excuse to risk plunging into war. Surely there could have been some further diplomatic effort?
    Good King Alfred, bless his name, was always saying that war should be the last resort, not the first. Not that the scion of Wessex ever hesitated to wield a sword when needed, but at least he paused long enough to see if there might be an alternative.
    But not Wolf Hakonson. Oh, no; at the first hint ofinsult, the Wolf rose from his lair to see what havoc he could wreak.
    “Typical man.”
    “What's that?” Wolf asked. After hours of silence, he was delighted to hear a sound from her even if he couldn't make it out.
    Cymbra started. She hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud. “Nothing,” she said quickly and resolutely returned her gaze to the sea.
    He shrugged, as if indifferent. Then, seeing where her attention was directed—instead of to him—he said, “You might not have drowned right away. Sharks could have gotten you.”
    There, he had her attention. She stared at him dumbfounded. “I'm an excellent swimmer and we were still within easy reach of the beach.”
    She hadn't meant to take her own life. She'd actually thought she could get to shore. She was wrong, of course, but he was relieved all the same. He didn't like to think she preferred death to him. A man had his pride.
    “You'd never have made it in the dark.”
    “We'll never know, will we?”
    He sighed, not really wanting to irk her. She was a surprisingly bristly little thing, rather like a hedgehog he'd had as a boy. The thought made him laugh.
    Her eyebrows rose eloquently. “I amuse you?”
    “I