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ending it.
    Wolf had directed her to the bow when he brought her up on deck in midmorning. He sat nearby, one hand resting on the rudder, which he steadied occasionally. At first light, when she was still in the hold and just barely awake, he'd brought her food and water. That consideration emboldened her to ask for something to wear besides the ermine cloak, only to have him blandly tell her there was nothing. Not a tunic or a shirt, not a length of wool or linen, that she might put between her skin and the soft, sensual, seductive fur.
    She didn't believe him; there had to be
something.
But she sensed that he wanted her to argue and she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Nor would she talk to him. She'd had time during the night to think over her situation. As fear eased, resentment grew. Even if Hawk had sent that reply—which he absolutely had not but
even if
— that was no excuse to risk plunging into war. Surely there could have been some further diplomatic effort?
    Good King Alfred, bless his name, was always saying that war should be the last resort, not the first. Not that the scion of Wessex ever hesitated to wield a sword when needed, but at least he paused long enough to see if there might be an alternative.
    But not Wolf Hakonson. Oh, no; at the first hint ofinsult, the Wolf rose from his lair to see what havoc he could wreak.
    “Typical man.”
    “What's that?” Wolf asked. After hours of silence, he was delighted to hear a sound from her even if he couldn't make it out.
    Cymbra started. She hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud. “Nothing,” she said quickly and resolutely returned her gaze to the sea.
    He shrugged, as if indifferent. Then, seeing where her attention was directed—instead of to him—he said, “You might not have drowned right away. Sharks could have gotten you.”
    There, he had her attention. She stared at him dumbfounded. “I'm an excellent swimmer and we were still within easy reach of the beach.”
    She hadn't meant to take her own life. She'd actually thought she could get to shore. She was wrong, of course, but he was relieved all the same. He didn't like to think she preferred death to him. A man had his pride.
    “You'd never have made it in the dark.”
    “We'll never know, will we?”
    He sighed, not really wanting to irk her. She was a surprisingly bristly little thing, rather like a hedgehog he'd had as a boy. The thought made him laugh.
    Her eyebrows rose eloquently. “I amuse you?”
    “I was comparing you to a hedgehog I used to have.”
    He was joking. He had to be. She'd never been compared to a hedgehog or anything remotely like it in her life. Truth be told, she was most commonly said to resemble a swan. That was nonsense, of course, but still … “You think I look like a hedgehog?”
    “I think you act like one.” She was talking to him. A victory. He leaned back at his leisure and surveyed her. “But I suppose you could be said to look like some furry animal. You have a great deal of hair.” She had the longest,softest, most enticing hair of any woman he had ever seen. He yearned to feel those silken tendrils over his body to twine his hands in them and ease her ever closer until—
    “On my head,” she pointed out. “Not all over.” Too late she realized the trap he had led her into and flushed. If he said one word about having seen her naked … And for that matter, just what
had
he seen while he was lingering outside her tower chamber, waiting to commit his nefarious deed?
    “Hmmm,” Wolf murmured and smiled. He gave his attention back to the rudder. The morning wore on.
    The sun was high in the sky when Olaf brought them food. He handed it to Wolf, not so much as glancing at Cymbra.
    “She's got your cloak,” he observed.
    “I gave it to her.”
    “I suppose you'll have a new one from those pelts I owe you.”
    “I might.”
    Olaf grimaced. “I shouldn't gamble against you. You always win.”
    “It was a decent enough bet. We might not have