Dream of Me/Believe in Me

to do so until she was tucked up safely for what remained of the night.
    With a last look at the stars, she went into the lodge. As always when she was alone, the bed looked very large and uninviting. She undressed quickly, folded her clothes and put them away, and on impulse took one of Wolf's tunics from the chest. She dropped it over her head, then giggled, for it came almost to her ankles and all but slipped right off her altogether.
    Clasping it around her, she got into the bed and pulled the furs up over herself. Slowly, she touched the finely woven cloth, brushing it lightly with her fingers, imagining beneath it not her own body but the hard, powerful body of her husband. She felt his strength reach out to her, wrapping her gently. She snuggled farther down and let dreams of him carry her away.
    S CANT HOURS LATER, ALMOST BEFORE THE FIRST hint of dawn, Cymbra was back at work. The baking had begun. There was endless dough to mix, knead, set to rise, knead again, and so on throughout what promised to be a very long day. Some of the dough was sprinkled with precious caraway and fennel seeds, and some had spices and herbs mixed right into it.
    Cymbra made one of her own favorites that had become one of Wolf's, small round loaves of flour flavored with sweet, tangy cardamom. The scent of them lingered pleasantly on the air. She had just finished when a sudden shout drew her to the door of the kitchens. Several of the guards on the berm were gesturing out toward the sea.
    Cymbra climbed up on the palisade wall, shaded her eyes, and looked in the direction they indicated. She could just make out a proud longship entering the harbor. From the emblem on its sail and the comments of the guards, she gathered the first of their guests would arrive within the hour.
    Before she could even begin to worry about receiving any of the Viking lords in Wolf's absence, another shout from the guards drew her notice to the horsemen rapidly approaching the fort. The wolf's-head emblem was clearly visible on the banner carried in front. Greatly relieved, Cymbra gave hurried orders for water to be heated so her husband could bathe, then she herself saw to the laying out of his clothes.
    As she was doing so, he strode into the lodge, a big, forceful presence seeming to bring with him the wild scents of forest and plain. She flew into his arms, embracing him with such strength that he laughed.
    “Easy, sweetheart, I'm not fit company until I've bathed.”
    She laughed, ignoring the various, inevitable stains on his tunic that spoke of the fury of the hunt. When the women had brought buckets of heated water and left,carefully concealing their smiles, she helped him off with his clothing.
    But when she took soap in hand to wash him, he shook his head. Very seriously, he said, “I've been without you for four days, Cymbra. Touch me now and Dragon will be left to explain to our guests why I'm not there to greet them.”
    With a smile that swept over her from head to toe, he added, “I wouldn't mind that but they would and I'd rather not have to undo the trouble it would cause.”
    Resigned to his good sense, yet flattered by his unconcealed desire, she took his hand and placed the soap in it. “All right, but promise me you will not be such a good host as to remain at table with them too long. Let them eat and drink and wench themselves into oblivion, but come to me this night.”
    His quick but ardent kiss assured her of his intent. She left him then and did not expect to see him again until the feasting, but he surprised her. On his way to greet their guests, he stopped in the great hall where she was supervising the placement of drinking cups and the ornate eating knives Wolf had ordered as a gift for each visiting lord.
    The women who surrounded her, receiving their final instructions, saw him and flitted away like clouds before a strong wind. Cymbra smiled, gazing at him with frank enjoyment. His thick, ebony hair was still slightly damp and drawn back from his brow with a golden band. So, too, his tunic of crimson wool was intricately embroidered with golden symbols of enduring strength. The same symbols were embossed on the golden bands fastened at his wrists. He wore the wolf's-head torque that was a larger version of the one he had given her, the bloodred eyes glinting in the afternoon light.
    Frustration pinched at her when she considered how many hours remained until they could steal time alone.
    With a sigh for what must be