Dream of Me/Believe in Me

woman.
    Wolf rose in a single, lithe motion. He moved toward the bars, the better to see her. The sun revealed little, only a dark silhouette, but he could make out that she was tall for a woman, willow slim, and graceful.
    Her voice came floating through the doorway, low, soft, melodious, a voice to entice a man or soothe a child. It reverberated through him like a deep, inner caress. He was shocked to realize that he actually shivered.
    “What is this, Sir Derward? Why are these men being held?”
    The knight stiffened, hands dropping to his sides. His color paled, then returned in a rush. “They are Vikings, milady,” he said in a voice that was almost steady. “Their vessel ran aground and they were caught scarcely a mile from here.”
    “Did they offer you resistance?”
    “No, milady. They surrendered at once, afraid to fight us.”
    “I see. Then you don't actually know that they intended any harm?”
    Derward took a deep, shuddering breath, fighting for calm. Wolf heard it and felt an instant's wry sympathy for him. “They are Vikings, milady,” the knight repeated.
    “We welcome merchants from the northlands. Is there reason to believe these men are not like them?”
    “These are no merchants,” Derward protested. “You've only to look at them.” Again, that flicker in his eyes as though a thought stirred weakly.
    Wolf moved quickly, closer yet to the bars, distracting him. He needn't have bothered, for just then the Lady Cymbra came fully into the light and for the space of several heartbeats no man thought of anything at all.
    Distantly, Wolf heard the collective intake of breath from the others in the cell, but he was too riven by his own surprise. The world abounded with stories, few of them even remotely true. One held that the renowned Hawk of Essex had a sister, Cymbra by name, who was likely the most beautiful woman in all of Christendom, a woman of such loveliness that her own brother hid her away lest men fight to possess her.
    Wolf had long since dismissed that tale, assuming it most probably meant she was no more than middling pretty. Now confronted by the reality and the slow, stumbling recovery of his own reason, poor thing that it had become, he stared at her.
    Chestnut hair shot through with gold tumbled in thick waves almost to her knees. Her eyes, blue as the sea beneath summer sun and thickly fringed, were set in an oval face of damask perfection. Her nose was slender and tapering above full, rose-hued lips that were moist and slightly parted. Her body, full-breasted with a wand-slim waist and hips perfectly fashioned to a man's hands—to his hands—moved closer, as though drawn by his will alone.
    She was perfect—exquisitely, absolutely perfect. She looked like a statue come to life, scarcely a real woman. Areal woman would have some imperfection, however slight, something to indicate her humanness. Had a speck of dirt ever touched this ethereal creature? Had a hair ever fallen out of place, a spot appeared on that perfect skin? Did she ever sweat, curse, strive, yield? Was she as much a stranger to passion as she appeared?
    She needed messing. The thought sprung full-blown in his mind. He could think of a great many things he wanted to do to the Lady Cymbra, and he supposed some of them were rather messy, but he might have framed it differently.
    Not that it mattered. Grimly, he reminded himself, his course was set—as was hers. She had chosen it the moment she rejected the offer of marriage that would have sealed a pact that could bring peace to thousands. That she had done so in terms chosen to sting any Viking's pride merely confirmed her fate.
    He would possess her utterly—this proud, unfeeling woman who put selfishness and vanity above all else. He would strip away that pride, crush that will, and enslave her to the passion that was suddenly a raging torrent within him. And he would enjoy every vengeful moment of it.
    Cymbra felt the touch of the slate-gray eyes that studied her so boldly and could not repress a quiver of shock. She felt moved in some strange, predatory way she could scarcely credit. Worse, pleasure flicked at the edges of her mind. Astounding. She had never experienced anything like that. Under other circumstances, she might have explored the sensations and the man who evoked them, but he awakened an anxiety within her that made rational study impossible.
    Instinctively, she took refuge in the habit of a lifetime, repressing all emotion and