Dream of Me/Believe in Me

was comparing you to a hedgehog I used to have.”
    He was joking. He had to be. She'd never been compared to a hedgehog or anything remotely like it in her life. Truth be told, she was most commonly said to resemble a swan. That was nonsense, of course, but still … “You think I look like a hedgehog?”
    “I think you act like one.” She was talking to him. A victory. He leaned back at his leisure and surveyed her. “But I suppose you could be said to look like some furry animal. You have a great deal of hair.” She had the longest,softest, most enticing hair of any woman he had ever seen. He yearned to feel those silken tendrils over his body to twine his hands in them and ease her ever closer until—
    “On my head,” she pointed out. “Not all over.” Too late she realized the trap he had led her into and flushed. If he said one word about having seen her naked … And for that matter, just what
had
he seen while he was lingering outside her tower chamber, waiting to commit his nefarious deed?
    “Hmmm,” Wolf murmured and smiled. He gave his attention back to the rudder. The morning wore on.
    The sun was high in the sky when Olaf brought them food. He handed it to Wolf, not so much as glancing at Cymbra.
    “She's got your cloak,” he observed.
    “I gave it to her.”
    “I suppose you'll have a new one from those pelts I owe you.”
    “I might.”
    Olaf grimaced. “I shouldn't gamble against you. You always win.”
    “It was a decent enough bet. We might not have gotten in so easily.”
    Cymbra couldn't resist. She waited until Olaf had gone, then asked, “What bet?”
    Wolf shrugged. “Olaf bet me ten pelts that I couldn't just walk into Holyhood and take you out. He thought we'd have to fight.”
    They'd gambled on the success of his trickery. No doubt they'd also gloated over it. She remembered her thoughts the previous night and could not conceal her bitterness.
    “You don't consider killing all those guards fighting? No, I suppose it wasn't. With so little chance to defend themselves, it was just murder.”
    He looked at her as though she were daft. “Littlechance? They were warriors who were supposed to be able to defend
you
, much less themselves.”
    “They also had families, wives and children! What do you suppose will happen to those poor souls now?”
    He stared at her flushed cheeks and the angry glitter in her eyes. She really was magnificent. Still much too perfect, though. He really would have to do something about that. “I suppose that depends on how merciful your brother decides to be.”
    Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
    “I mean—” He realized that his teeth were clenched and forced himself to relax. The damn woman wasn't going to irk him like this. “We left the guards bound and gagged. Aside from sore heads, they should be fine.”
    Cymbra wondered if she'd misunderstood him. She hadn't spoken Norse much since learning it from an elderly monk who lived at Holyhood for several years before passing on. Brother Chilton had devoted several decades of his life to bringing the word of God to the pagans of the northlands. He'd told her a great many stories about them. She shivered at the grim memories.
    “I'm surprised you would hesitate to kill anyone.”
    A muscle worked in his jaw. “A filthy Viking savage wouldn't have any such qualms?”
    “I didn't say that!”
    He clearly didn't believe her. Being thought of as a liar was a new experience for Cymbra; people tended to take her at her word. She stared at him, wishing she could convince him and at the same time wondering why she should care.
    T HE NEXT SEVERAL DAYS REPEATED THE PATTERN OF the first. Each morning, Wolf brought her food as well as water for drinking and washing. She suspected shegot more than her fair share of the latter but couldn't bring herself to refuse it.
    When she was ready, he escorted her up on deck. The weather stayed fair and she was glad to be out of the hold, but the silence and utter boredom grated on her nerves. The men, including Wolf, spent hours at the oars. They seemed inured to physical hardship and spared themselves nothing. Not one of them was without an array of scars that made Cymbra wince to see. Undoubtedly they had all been marked in battle, but she suspected that at least some of the scars came from the ordinary occurrences of a harsh life.
    Having never before been exclusively in the company of men, Cymbra couldn't help but be curious about them. Men were