Dream of Me/Believe in Me

way.”
    Why
was he explaining his orders to her? Frustrated at his inability to control himself where she was concerned, Wolf yanked off the rest of his clothes and dived into the water.
    Cymbra gave a faint gasp and sank to the ground. The quicksilver glimpse she had of him before she averted her eyes burned into her memory. His shoulders were magnificent, sculpted of taut muscle; his back broad and sharply narrowing to his waist and hard buttocks; his legs long, corded with sinew, the whole of him formed so beautifully as to steal her breath away and overwhelm her with soul-shattering yearning.
    It wasn't fair. She hadn't meant to look at him. It had happened just by accident, as though her body had developed a will of its own. A will that was expressing itself in all sorts of shocking ways. Her nipples ached, and there was a dampness beneath the curls at her cleft that owed nothing to the bath. Her thighs felt unaccountably heavy and weak, as though they would fall open at the slightest urging.
    Sweet heaven, what was wrong with her? Was she so base that the mere sight of a man's naked form could fill her with such hot, urgent yearning?
    Well, not the
mere
sight. In all fairness, there was nothing
mere
about Wolf Hakonson.
    Shocked at the waywardness of her thoughts, Cymbra was horrified by a sudden, unexpected urge to giggle. Her well-ordered defenses, the fruit of desperate need and a lifetime of effort, were collapsing around her.
    She was helpless to contain her emotions or protect herself from them in any way. She should have been repelled and frightened, but instead she felt positively giddy, as though she stood on the top of a great precipice, about to launch herself into space.
    What a temptation it was to find out if she really could fly.
    But, of course, she couldn't. If she was so foolish as to forget that for a moment, she and her wayward emotions would be crushed on the unforgiving rocks of reality.
    Determined to remember that at all costs, she concentrated on looking anywhere and everywhere but at the pool. This part of the northlands—whatever part it was— had some aspects in common with Essex, but she noted there were far more fir trees with only a few birch and none of the oak and chestnut she knew.
    The difference gave the surrounding forests a darker and rather more ominous appearance in the fading light. Still, they were quite lovely in many respects, and if she could only concentrate on them entirely, she could ignore what was going on only a few yards from where she sat.
    Unfortunately, she couldn't shut off her hearing as easily as she averted her eyes. She was vividly aware of every splash of water, every sound of movement, imagining Wolf running the soap over himself, washing that magnificent body, rising from the pond, imagining—
    It was fortunate that the air was cooling so rapidly, otherwise she would have been unbearably hot in the ermine cloak.
    “Ready to go?” She looked up. He was standing right beside her, dressed again in his tunic and trousers.
    Droplets of water clung to his thick, ebony hair. He looked very aloof and stern, very watchful.
    Piqued by his ability to hide his emotions when hers felt rubbed raw, Cymbra took the hand he offered with a calm she did not feel. Lean, hard fingers closed around hers, evoking a deep shiver of pleasure. She ignored it stalwartly, stood, and, with a nod as regal as any queen's, tried to pull her hand free. Instinctively, his hold tightened. He looked surprised by his reaction and released her immediately. But he still wasn't above having the last word.
    “Don't get too far ahead,” he said pleasantly. “These woods are full of wolves.”
    Wolves, sharks, Vikings, what difference did it make? She was tempted to ask but thought better of it. Still, she didn't precisely go racing off without him. They returned to the beach together.
    The men were already asleep around the fire, or discreetly pretending to be. Wolf lay down and pointed to the place next to him. When Cymbra didn't spring to obey, he merely shrugged and rolled over. Soon he, too, appeared to sleep.
    She hesitated, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with fatigue and just slightly ridiculous. Her captor had made it absolutely clear how he felt about her. Whatever he intended, he was hardly likely to be overcome with lust at this late date.
    Telling herself that the sting she felt wasn't from her battered pride, Cymbra finally stretched out on the still-warm sand. Her last