Dream of Me/Believe in Me

close to him, feeling her soft lips on his chest, he said, “I have not sent word to Hawk, not yet.”
    Silence and then, shivering softly through it, “Why not?”
    Why, indeed? He had never hesitated in battle, or on those occasions when he had to render judgment, or in any other arena of his life save this. What could he say to her? That he was as yet uncertain, that she was more than he had ever even dared to long for, that he was at some level deeply afraid?
    He was man and jarl, husband and leader. He could not admit to his fears.
    “I thought it best to wait. It may sound cruel now, but your brother will be more likely to accept our marriage if he has had some time to worry over you.”
    “He will be worried,” Cymbra said softly, “very worried and very unhappy.”
    “I am sorry for that.” He meant it. What was happening to him that he should be concerned over the tender feelings of a Saxon warlord who would joyfully dispatch him to Valhalla? Had he truly become so craven?
    Her breath was warm and tempting as she relaxed against him, her slender form molding to his. The confession of his regret had carried the day, or at least the night. He said a silent prayer of thanks to Frigg, for he had no doubt the credit was hers.
    Thus reassured, Cymbra fell into sleep as though off the edge of the world. He dozed again, the light sleep of a battle lull, and woke toward dawn feeling oddly energized. After a cautious look to be sure Cymbra did not stir, he pulled on a pair of trousers and took himself outside where he stood stretching in the pearl gray morn.
    He felt good,
damn
good. Better, indeed, than he could ever remember feeling. What was it Dragon had said—a meek little woman to bear him sons and rub his feet? Wolf laughed. Better a temptress to alternately infuriate and dazzle him. A woman of strength and will to match his own, a true partner in his life as well as his bed.
    The cool air, heavy with sea mist, caressed his bare chest. He brushed droplets away idly, chasing thoughts like stags over the hills. What else was it Dragon had said? That he would have to give Cymbra his trust before he could expect her loyalty? That sounded like an alliance between jarls, not a marriage, or at least not how he had always thought of marriage.
    Mayhap he needed to think again.
    Mayhap he needed to thank the Norns for gifting him with a woman of pride and courage, a fitting mate for a true Viking.
    Mayhap he needed to go back inside, shuck his trousers, and make love to his temptress until she cried his name and clung to him in victorious surrender.
    He was pushing the door open, already bending his head to enter, when he heard hoofbeats like muted thunder shattering the morning stillness. He turned and saw the rider racing up the hill toward the berm.
    His hand fell away, his back straightened. He clenched his fists slowly, grasping air, feeling steel. Bare-chested, mantled in the aura of his rank, he paused just long enough to shut the door gently on his sleeping wife before he walked toward the gates and whatever summoned him from beyond them.

Chapter THIRTEEN

    S HELTERED BENEATH THE OVERHANG OF THE weaving shed, Cymbra pulled an edge of her cloak up over her head and watched the water drip from the thatched eaves of the great hall. It was raining. Again. She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment, drawing on the memory of sun. It seemed to have done nothing but rain ever since Wolf's departure a week ago. People were becoming concerned. If it didn't stop soon, the crops would be at risk.
    She saw old Ulfrich slogging his way toward the hall and waved. Running out between the drops, she joined him. He smiled in welcome, pleased to see her.
    “How is your chest?” Cymbra asked as they made for the hall together.
    “Much better, thank you. That infusion of yours truly is a wonder.”
    She nodded, pleased yet still uneasy about him. But then she seemed uneasy about almost everything these days, dogged by worry over her brother, dread of what was to come, and a strange feeling of vulnerability shecould neither understand nor deny. “You really shouldn't be out in this. Dampness isn't good for you.”
    He smiled again, patiently and didn't reply. He didn't need to. She knew he had been in the fields and the woods beyond, reciting the prayers, making the sacrifices, doing what he could.
    Brother Joseph had been doing the same but in the relative comfort of the small building Wolf had allowed him to make into