Dream of Me/Believe in Me

it wasn't such a bad thing for a woman to be so caring. There might even be some benefit to it.
    “I suppose there would be no harm in your caring for the women and children.” He surprised himself, making such a concession so quickly, but it was a small thing really. They were weaker and not expected to have the same strength or stamina as warriors.
    Cymbra felt relieved but was far from satisfied. Silently, she vowed that before too long her arrogant brute of a husband would not only acknowledge her contribution to the welfare of his people—all his people, men included—but would thank her for it.
    “It's a beginning,” she said, and when he frowned she added quickly, “I will need an assistant.”
    Wolf rolled his eyes. Whatever else she was, his wife was not timid about getting what she wanted. He wondered suddenly what it would feel like to be the object of her desire and almost groaned when he instantly hardened in response.
    “An assistant?”
    “That's right. Someone to help me gather herbs, prepare medicine, care for patients.” Cymbra pretended to think. “It would be much easier, of course, if I could findsomeone who already knows something about healing. Let's see …” Her face lit. “Brita told me that her mother was a healer in Ireland. She would be perfect.” That was exaggerating what Brita had said, but under the circumstances Cymbra wasn't about to quibble.
    Wolf shrugged. He gave his slaves no thought and had virtually no contact with them. They might as well have been invisible to him. “You are mistress here, the directing of the household is your affair. Do as you like.”
    The glowing smile she bestowed on him made his heart lurch and his body harden even further. It occurred to him that they were alone, some distance from the town and the keep, and that the two days just past should have been ample time for her to heal. At least he hoped like hell that they had been because he wasn't going to be able to wait any longer.
    “You know, wife,” he said as he advanced on her, “it is much easier to wring concessions from a man when he is in a pleasant frame of mind. In the future, you might remember that.”
    His sudden change of manner, and the light that had sprung up in his silvery eyes, surprised Cymbra. She didn't know what to make of either.
    There was no escaping the fact that her husband was an extraordinarily handsome man. He possessed immense strength tempered by grace, and when he smiled, as he was doing now, he fair stole her breath away. She had an all but irresistible desire to touch him, to trace the hard, chiseled lines of his face, caress the thick strands of his ebony hair, measure the breadth of his shoulders and trail her fingers down his granite chest to—
    Cymbra flushed and reached down for the sack. She clutched it in front of her as though it might offer some scant protection, not from him but from the extraordinary waywardness of her thoughts.
    Wolf's smile deepened. He reached out a large, sinewyhand and took hold of the sack. Cymbra refused to let go of it. A tug-of-war ensued, one-sided to be sure and of foregone conclusion. Steadily, relentlessly, the Wolf pulled his wife toward him.
    “Perhaps you'd like me to show you what's in here,” she ventured nervously. “Each plant is unique. Their properties vary tremendously. Why, I could spend hours just explaining to you how—”
    “Be quiet.” Wolf closed his arms around her, not harshly but preventing any possibility of escape, tipped back her head, and claimed her mouth with ruthless thoroughness. He had thought to dominate her, to bend her to his will, but the moment his lips touched hers, his intent changed drastically. He wanted only to lose himself in her, to know again the incredible sense of completion she had given him on their wedding night, and to bring her to the same.
    Swiftly, allowing her no chance to protest, he drew her down to the moss-draped ground. Her sack was laid aside, her mantle swiftly following. He kissed her brow, the curves of her cheeks, the delicate line of her jaw, his hands wandering at will over her, tangling in the thick mass of her chestnut hair, stroking the high, firm curves of her breasts, sliding down to grasp her tunic and bare her long, slender limbs.
    Cymbra cried out softly. He meant to bed her right here and now, where there
was
no actual bed and where anyone might come along at any moment. Worse, she couldn't find it in her heart to object. On the