Dream of Me/Believe in Me Read Free Page B

brushed her like white-hot fire.
    She didn't want to think about that, mustn't think of it. Her body felt oddly heavy, especially between her legs, where a hot, moist sensation was building. She glanced down, surprised to see that her nipples were peaked, and flushed. Quickly she rose from the bath and seized the drying cloth Miriam had thoughtfully laid nearby. With that wrapped around her, she felt a little calmer.
    Seated by the fire, she murmured her thanks as Miriam began to brush out her hair. As always, the motion soothed her but she stopped it before very long. Miriam's hands were sore now more often than not, and the unguents Cymbra made for her didn't always take the pain away completely. Gently, she laid her hand over the old nurse's.
    “I'm sorry I worried you today.”
    Miriam sighed. She sat down beside the young woman who had been her charge since the tender age of three days, when Cymbra's own lady mother had passed beyond the veil of this world. She loved Cymbra dearly but she didn't pretend to understand her in the slightest.
    “You terrified me.” She shook her head in bewilderment, sparse strands of gray hair escaping from beneath her wimple. “How could you do such a thing? Much as I hate to say it, Sir Derward is right; Vikings are animals. They could have killed you without a second thought.”
    “What should we do then?” Cymbra asked softly. “Kill everything we fear? If we do that, others will fear usand seek to kill us in turn. It will never end. One cruelty begets the next endlessly.”
    The old nurse shrugged. “ 'Tis the way of this world. No man can change that, and certainly no woman can.”
    Cymbra sighed and rose, standing before the copper brazier that dispelled the evening's chill. Her shoulders and arms were bare, the cloth barely covering the swell of her breasts. She shivered slightly. “Perhaps not, but still I must try. There is too much pain.”
    Miriam cast her a quick look. “You never speak of that anymore.”
    Both women shared a memory of the very young Cymbra, screaming and screaming, unable to explain what was wrong. It happened many times … when a stable boy cut his foot on a scythe, when a kitchen maid was scalded with water, when a warrior died of a wound that would not heal.
    That had been the worst, going on for days until finally Hawk had drugged her with the juice of poppy brought from far lands and sat, holding her in his arms, through an endless day and night, his face grim as he decided what had to be done.
    Holyhood became her sanctuary. Safe within it, she learned how to control what was at once gift and curse. Miriam didn't know how, could only dimly imagine the struggle Cymbra had waged. She'd won in the end, though at great cost. Now she could care for the injured and ill, even for the dying, without making their pain her own. She felt it still, Miriam was sure of that, but she managed to keep it apart from herself. Usually.
    “There is nothing to speak of,” Cymbra assured her with a smile. She drew the cloth more closely around herself and stared into the flames, but instead of seeing them she seemed to see only midnight-black hair, burnished skin, and eyes the color of slate. She shook her head,impatient with herself, and dropped the cloth, reaching for her bed robe.
    “Go to your rest, Miriam,” she said as she wriggled the garment over her head: Emerging from the mass of gossamer linen, she tugged her hair free—no small task in itself—grinned, and gave the old nurse a kiss. “Heaven knows, you earn it putting up with me.”
    Clucking a denial Miriam did as she was bid. When the door had closed behind her, Cymbra stretched her arms far above her head, standing on tiptoe, and made a small sound of contentment as more of the tension eased. She needed to sleep yet felt oddly energized, as though the day had lasted minutes instead of hours.
    Tomorrow word would come from Hawk about the fate of the prisoners. She drew her brows together as she