Dream of Me/Believe in Me

nine days. Sacrifice was still an accepted part of life but it was slowly dying out, replaced by a sense of—what? Other possibilities? Other hopes?
    “I don't mind the occasional goat getting its throat cut,” he said and emptied his drinking horn.
    Later still, still singing, Wolf entered his lodge. Determined not to wake his wife, he put a finger to his lips and said “Shuush” loudly. That made him laugh, which he was still doing when he lost his balance and thumped into a table.
    Righting himself, he stumbled in the general direction of the bed, but since it was moving—
Ought to talk to Cymbra about that, bed shouldn't be moving, least not unless I'm in it with her
—he missed and careened off back toward the door.
    Sitting up in the bed, watching these antics with a tolerant eye, Cymbra shook her head in amusement. She knew well enough that men drank, often to excess, but she hadn't expected her husband to overindulge. Mayhap it was just as well that he let his iron control slip once in a while.
    At least he was a cheerful drunk, singing again and still shushing himself. But if he kept on the way he was going, he was liable to break his neck. She left the bed, wrapped a blanket around herself, and retrieved Wolf from where he'd wandered off a short distance from the lodge. He blinked at her in surprise, then produced one of those devastating smiles that made her toes curl.
    “Shymbra,
elskling
, I was jus' lookin' for you.”
    He had called her “sweetheart.” How nice, even if hedid have to be drunk to do it. “I'm sure you were,” she murmured. “Come on now.”
    He went, holding her hand, docile as a lamb until they were back inside, at which point he grabbed her and tumbled them both onto the bed. “Have I tol' you how beaut'ful you are?” he asked.
    “Well, no, not in so many words, but you get the idea across.” Pushing against his shoulders, she tried to slip out from under him. “Let me get up and I'll take your boots off.”
    He stared at her. “You will, really?”
    “Absolutely.” One more good shove and she was free, but only because he had rolled over onto his back. Lying there staring up at the ceiling, he said, “You're sush a good wife.”
    “Thank you.” She went to the end of the bed, took hold of one boot, and began tugging. It gave but only slowly.
    “I really didn't think it'd work out that way,” her husband informed her.
    “Didn't you?” The dead weight of his leg was making her arms ache but she kept pulling until finally the boot came free. She tackled the second.
    “You bein' Saxon and all, thought there'd be problems. Then there's the way you look.” He nodded sagely. “Tha's a big problem right there.”
    “I thought you decided you like the way I look.”
    He gave a sharp laugh. “Me and every other man, tha's the problem. Can't think straight when you're around. Can't think 'bout anything 'cept spreadin' your luscious legs and—”
    The second boot came off, distracting him. She tossed it onto the floor and pulled the covers up over her husband. He tried to grab hold of her again but she deftly sidestepped him.
    Wolf shot her a sulky look, for all the world like a child deprived of a favorite toy, and fell back against the pillows. A moment later, he was snoring loudly
    Cymbra considered trying to get back to sleep but she didn't feel tired. It would be light soon and there was much to be done. Humming softly, she dressed, tied her keys to her belt, and gave Wolf a last, fond look.
    He lay with arms and legs akimbo, his big, lean body taking up most of the immense bed. A lock of ebony hair fell across his forehead. Thick lashes fanned out over his cheeks. In sleep, his features were relaxed, making him appear younger and much less formidable than the mighty Scourge of the Saxons.
    Cymbra supposed that was how he had looked before life hardened him. The thought made her heart tighten.
    She made sure he was well covered and dropped a light kiss on his brow before going to the door. Even then she couldn't resist a glance over her shoulder. Truly, she was the most fortunate of women, she couldn't have asked for a better husband.
    Their marriage was going to be a complete success.
    She was absolutely sure of it.

Chapter TWELVE

    T HEIR MARRIAGE WAS A DISASTER. HE WAS an arrogant, unfeeling, insensitive b rute of a Viking and she had been a fool ever to believe otherwise.
    In the grip of such dire thoughts, Cymbra stared up at her husband and blurted