Dream of Me/Believe in Me (58 page)

Tempted though he was to dismiss her warning, Hawk could not. At the very least, his people would be surprised and puzzled. As loyal to him as they were, it was likely they would condemn Krysta for her deceit. He frowned at the thought. Much as she deserved punishment, she was
his wife-to-be and she needs must have the respect of his people. They would take their lead from him, which left him with few options for dealing with her. Yet another problem she presented, and they not even wed yet. It did not bode well for their future.

Leaving Daria behind, he strode on to the fortress. The bailey yard was busy as usual and all looked as it should but Hawk wasn't fooled. He caught the quick, apprehensive glances from all directions and knew that word had spread. No doubt his people were brimming over with curiosity but they had the sense to hold their tongues in his presence.

Briefly, he considered seeking out his errant betrothed but decided to postpone so dubious a pleasure at least a short time. He never had finished his bath that morning and since then he'd been sprayed with enough salt water to leave his tunic stiff and scratchy. Glad of the refuge, he withdrew to the sauna after sending a servant for fresh clothes.

The chamber half-submerged in the earth and roofed with stone would have been cool were it not for the fire kept burning in a metal box topped by heaps of polished rocks. Hawk added fresh wood and poured a ladle of water over the rocks before stripping off his garments. He washed himself down, then stretched out on a bench and let the heat take him. With it came memories. It was in this very sauna that his brother-in-law, the aptly named Wolf, had put forward the idea that Hawk should also make a marriage to strengthen the alliance between Norse and Saxon. Wolf had come to Hawkforte as an invader backed by a mighty Viking army to reclaim his bride, Hawk's own sister, the Lady Cymbra. Hawk still felt a twinge of guilt for having taken her from Wolf's stronghold at Sciringesheal, to which she had been brought a captive but where she had become a beloved wife. Not understanding that, Hawk had taken her by stealth …
some might even say by trickery. That thought made his brow crease. His situation wasn't the same at all. He'd had every good reason to believe he should bring his sister home. What possible reason could Krysta have for what she had done?

No doubt she had some excuse prepared by now, perhaps a whole host of excuses, but he wanted her actual reason even though he suspected he had little hope of getting it. He was still mulling that over when his stomach growled, reminding him that he had eaten nothing since morning. Reminding him, too, that the day was aging and he could not remain in the sauna forever. Steeling himself, he plucked up the fresh clothes left for him, walked down the short track to a deep pond, and plunged into its refreshing waters. When he emerged, he felt invigorated and ready to face whatever might come … or so he hoped.

Entering his hall, Hawk took a cautious look around. The servants were at work preparing for the evening meal. They glanced his way before returning to their duties with great diligence. Daria was making herself scarce, for which he was grateful. He hesitated, half hoping Edvard would appear with some matter that required Hawk's immediate attention. When there was no sign of the steward, Hawk mounted the stairs to his tower. He went rather more slowly than usual, mindful of the servants' eyes on him and not as eager as he might have been to discover what awaited him above.

He found his door ajar and eased it open with the same care he might have used to gain entry to a Danish stronghold. It swung soundlessly on well-oiled hinges. The room was as he had left it but tidier, the tub and all traces of it gone. The bare wooden table, the one where he sat going over the endless tallies of his estates, the correspondence from Winchester, and the tide of petitions that came to him from all directions, the table where he
occasionally snatched a few precious hours to read his beloved books … There was a book open on that table now and it was being read but not by himself. His bedraggled, dye-stained betrothed had been snatched away and in her place sat a creature spun of sunlight and sea foam, surely not human and yet seemingly so, if the blush that overcame her when she glimpsed him was any indication.

Slowly, she set aside the book—with care, he noted. She rose as though preferring to face him on her feet. She tried to smile, but the effort wobbled. “My lord …”

She sounded the same, her voice soft and faintly husky. Looking more closely, he saw that she appeared much the same. Her eyes were still a hue of green he had never seen before. And her nose was still splattered with freckles. For all that, he was most grateful, elsewise he truly doubted he would have recognized her.

She was not, even now, precisely beautiful if judged by the standard of his sister, who was said to be the most beautiful woman in all Christendom. But what she lacked in classical perfection, she made up for in her uniqueness. He caught himself staring at her and tried to look away but had no success. She was, after all, his almost-wife and he supposed he could be pardoned for being curious about her.

“What are you doing?”

His voice sounded gruff to Krysta and he looked gruffer yet, frowning down at her from his considerable height. He seemed to have brought the outside in with him, filling the chamber with the power of wind, sea, and earth. She wasn't afraid … precisely … but she did take a step back before catching herself. It was absurd to retreat when there was nowhere to go. She gestured to the book now lying closed on the table. “I was very careful.”

He followed the direction of her gaze, his frown deepening. “You read?”

It was not a foolish question for there were many who
were pleased enough merely to gaze upon the intricate designs that decorated the vellum pages without any understanding of the words written upon them.

She nodded and searched his gaze anxiously for censure but to her great relief there was none. He merely looked surprised. “A rare accomplishment,” Hawk said. Later, he would deal with the notion of having a wife who read and who might therefore share his love of books. Just then it was enough to wonder what other skills she might conceal.

“What do you think of it?” he asked, indicating the book.

“It is beautiful but disturbing. Who is this man … Boethius?”

“A Roman who lived several centuries ago. He loved music and mathematics but, as the book says, he found his greatest consolation in philosophy.” Hawk stared at the book a moment longer. “He wrote it in prison shortly before he was executed for something he had not done. If the doing of this truly consoled him, all to the good.”

It was Krysta's turn to frown. “This book is not so old. The vellum is still fresh. Moreover, there is commentary within it from the present day. How comes all that to be?”

“The commentary is Alfred's, as is the translation. The king is a great admirer of Boethius even if he does not agree with him completely. It is thanks to Alfred that copies of this and other books are made so that they may become known to those with skill to read or wit at least to listen.”

“Then your king is a scholar as well as a warrior.” Krysta nodded thoughtfully. “I understand better now why you serve him.”

“It is my duty to serve him.”

“Only duty makes you loyal?” She spoke softly, knowing she might be trespassing upon his private
thoughts yet driven all the same to take the measure of this man who would determine her fate, did he but know it or not. “Does nothing else inspire it?”

He did not answer her at once but considered his reply before he spoke. “Trust comes before loyalty and is necessary to it.”

She paled, understanding too well how low she stood in such regard. “I can explain—”

“Can you?” He leaned against the wall beside the window, his arms crossed over his broad chest, looking as though he was no more than mildly curious. She was not fooled. Already she knew him to be a man of deep currents. The surface of him could look unrippled, but below anything might be happening, anything at all.

“Let me guess,” he said. “You disguised yourself because you feared capture by the Danes. Once you arrived, the natural shyness and modesty of a maid hindered you from announcing yourself.”

It was perfect, an excuse with which no one could argue and which reflected well on her. Even as she wondered why he was offering her so easy an escape, Krysta almost succumbed to the temptation to take it. All that prevented her was the barrier of truth.

“An interesting idea,” she said wistfully, “but not one that had occurred to me. I came as I did because I thought if I could learn to know you a little from those in your household before we wed, I would be a better wife.”

She had a glimpse of his surprise before it was hidden behind the mask his eyes so easily became. Sardonically, he said, “I suppose I cannot dispute such selfless intent. You did it for my own good, is that it?”

Short of revealing to him the entire truth, including her desperate need to be loved by him, Krysta could say little more. Still, she tried. “No, not entirely. We will both benefit if this marriage is a success, as will both our peoples.”

They had come full circle to the subject of duty, Hawk noted. He stepped closer to her, pleased that she did not try again to withdraw from him. Slowly, he raised a hand and touched the glittering disarray of her hair. He had never seen hair quite like this before. It was thick and riotously curled as though a dancing wind had swept over it. Yet when he touched it, it felt like silk clinging to his fingers. An unwilling smile tugged at his mouth as he saw she had tried to take the wildness from it with a hair ribbon, which had itself become entangled. She was so close that he could smell the perfume of her skin like the roses that bloomed only by the sea and lent their fragrance to the freshening air. A pulse beat in the golden column of her throat. He stared at it for a long moment before a sigh escaped him. He plucked the ribbon free and set it to order with a gentle touch. She turned her head toward him in surprise.

“Where has your anger gone?”

He wondered the same but wasn't about to admit that. “To wait until I decide whether I have need of it.”

Deep currents, she thought again, and nodded. The little bubble of hope that earlier that day had seemed pierced and gone suddenly reappeared. It seemed a tiny, opalescent pearl glowing within her, filled with rare and beautiful light.

“Come,” Hawk said and held out his hand.

On the beach, she had drawn back from his touch as though scorched. Now, she laid her hand in his and left it there.

W
ITH A CRY OF ALARM, KRYSTA ROSE
out of the depths of s leep struggling against the thick weight pressing in all around her. Desperately she fought to free herself, flailing her arms and legs against the hideous villain bent on smothering her.
“Aichoo!”

Feathers knocked loose from the mattress she was pummeling tickled her nose, the sneezing they provoked clearing her head sufficiently for her to remember where she was. She threw off the lush fur cover and sat up, feeling the perfect fool and glad there was no one to observe her silliness.

She was lying in an immense bed the same size as the one in Hawk's tower. It was, so she had been told, the bed King Alfred himself used when he came to Hawkforte. The chamber kept prepared for royalty was hers … for the moment. Still sleep dazed and bemused, she glanced around. Last night, the room had been visible only by firelight, lit by the torches the servants carried to escort
her to her rest and by the copper braziers filled with glowing coals that made corners of the room gleam like living fire while filling the rest of it with dancing shadows.

Today, by the sunlight streaming through the windows, she saw the luxurious appointments, the carved wooden furnishings, tapestries, and mats of woven rushes to cushion the floor. The bed itself was draped with embroidered hangings and piled with the furs she had thought crushing her.

Never in her life had Krysta occupied such lavish quarters nor had she ever been so entirely alone. Always before, she knew either Raven or Thorgold was nearby, but now she had no idea of their whereabouts. She had not seen them since the preceding evening in the hall, and then they had not been able to exchange even a word. Tugging up the bed gown that had slipped over her shoulder, she recalled the moment when she entered Hawkforte's hall on the arm of its master. So thick was the curiosity that greeted them she thought Hawk would need his sword to slash their way through it. But he had merely continued on as though his people were not staring at them in stunned amazement, their gazes guarded, their manner poised to condemn her did he give the merest sign. At the high table, he paused for a moment, looked about him, and then, as though it were the most ordinary of matters, raised her hand in his and announced to all and sundry:

“The Lady Krysta of Vestfold.”

And that, it seemed, was that. He said not another word about her transformation and offered no explanation for her masquerade. But he did summon a second chair almost the size of his own for her to sit beside him. Seeing their lord's honored welcome of his bride-to-be, his lieutenants inclined their heads to her but not a one spoke to Krysta directly. They did, however, glance at her from time to time cautiously as though taking the measure
of a creature previously unknown. Someone who had challenged the Lord of Hawkforte and emerged unscathed … apparently.