Dream of Me/Believe in Me (62 page)

Hawk turned his horse in a half-circle and looked back toward the town. When Krysta did the same, she gasped. They were on the other side of the bay with all of Hawkforte spread out before them, from the busy town clustered at the water's edge to the proud fortress on the hill above. She could see boats moving in and out of the harbor, and could even make out carts moving
along the docks. When she squinted, she thought she glimpsed the guards on patrol along the walls.

“It's beautiful,” she said softly, seeing the town for what it truly was, a place of hard-won peace and prosperity.

Hawk nodded. “It is that.”

She looked into his rugged features, the skin drawn tautly over bone and sinew, and had to fight the urge to reach out to him. “Edvard told me it used to be very different.”

“It was a charnel house,” Hawk said bluntly. “Burned fields, burned homes, and burned hopes.” He gestured toward the line of trees closest to the town. “Do you see there, how those trees are younger than the ones farther out? The Danes even burned the forest, at least that part of it they didn't cut down and haul away to their shipyards. When they realized they weren't going to be able to hold this place, they tried to lay waste to it. Even the wells were poisoned.”

“It must have taken great courage and determination to remain here and rebuild,” Krysta said softly.

“It took desperation. There was nowhere else for those left alive to go. So many people had fled farther west that the land there couldn't support them and they faced starvation.” He leaned forward in the saddle, his arms folded over the pommel, and looked out toward the town. “I vowed there would be peace here. At the time, I had no idea how I would fulfill that vow but I knew I would give my life to it.”

Krysta said what was in her heart. “Your people are fortunate to have you as their leader.”

He shook his head. “We are all fortunate to have Alfred of Wessex. Without him, we would have been a few lone men trying to hold off the Danes.” He raised his hand, the sun-burnished fingers splayed wide.

“Separately we could not have accomplished anything except more death.” He folded his hand into a mighty fist. “Together we were able to change everything.”

Hawk shook himself abruptly. “I did not mean to speak of such things. This is supposed to be a day for relaxation.”

“I would rather it be a day for getting to know each other,” Krysta said.

He laughed a little, as though that thought still made him uncomfortable. “It should also be a day for you to learn to ride. Come.”

She followed him down a path that led from the cliff-side by easy stages to the beach below. Even so, Krysta held her breath a time or two as the mare picked her way daintily in the stallion's wake. When they reached the sand, she let out a sigh of relief so heartfelt that it prompted a grin from Hawk.

“There, that wasn't so bad, was it?” he asked as he helped her from the saddle.

More aware of his strength and nearness than of her fast-fading fear, Krysta shook her head. “It was fine.”

She was lying and he knew it but her spirit pleased him so he let the small untruth go by. Besides, he was preoccupied with the way her slim waist fitted between his hands, hands he had only to raise slightly to caress the swell of her breasts. The temptation to do so was strong within him, as was the even greater temptation to lay her down on the sand and satisfy the passion that had been between them from the beginning.

But the business of
knowing
lingered, that and the stray thought that just perhaps what Cymbra and Wolf shared might not be unique to them. He had never considered love except to dismiss it as fantasy, but now he found himself wondering…. That he should wish for anything so foolish was impossible. He was merely surprised and a little puzzled, that was all.

Thinking she needed a rest from the saddle and remembering her pleasure on the beach below Hawkforte, he left the horses tethered to a bush and took her hand in his. Together, they strolled along the shore. Hawk could not remember ever walking along a beach with a woman. Indeed, he could not recall walking with one anywhere save into supper at Alfred's Winchester palace. He felt at a sudden loss as to what to say to her. It seemed doubtful she would want to hear about the new spear he had designed and which his men were learning to use. Nor did he think she would enjoy discussing the battles he sometimes worked out in his mind, designing strategies to repel their enemies. The women he knew at court excelled at intrigue and loved politics; never would he make the mistake of underestimating any of them. But Krysta seemed different. There was a softness to her, a quiet gentleness that roused memories of his mother. Yet, he reminded himself, she was no milksop; she had flown at him like a Fury. He smiled a little, remembering how she had looked dripping wet and dye-stained. The sons he got of her would not lack for spirit, nor, he suspected, would the daughters.

It was a mistake to think of that for immediately he felt himself growing hard. Surprised and a little ruefully pleased, he let go of her hand and reached down to pluck a pink-gray shell from the damp sand. The shell was intact and polished to an opalescent hue. He turned it over between his fingers, struck by the simple perfection of the shell and its ability to survive the tumult of the seas. He was about to toss the shell back into the waves when he reconsidered and handed it to Krysta instead. She took it with a shy smile. He stood for a moment, absorbed in that smile, before abruptly returning to himself.

“Sometimes there are dolphins by those rocks over there.”

She followed his gaze toward the blue-green water
lapping at boulders that looked as though they had been scattered along the beach by a playful giant. “I have never seen dolphins. They do not come so far north as Vestfold.”

“Let's see if they're about.”

They continued on to the rocks but as they approached, Hawk cautioned, “Be careful. They're wet and slick.”

Krysta nodded but she was preoccupied by the sea. As always, the sight and scent of it filled her with longing. The wind stung her eyes, and brought tears to her cheeks. She brushed them aside impatiently. A shape moved far out in the water, coming swiftly nearer. She peered more closely, wondering what she might see. The head rose suddenly and she laughed with sheer delight as she saw the wide smile of the dolphin.

“Oh, how wonderful!” she exclaimed and moved forward, unthinking, wanting only to see more. She was very near the edge, and Hawk was just reaching out his hand, when she stepped on a patch of seaweed clinging to the rock. Her balance faltered. She stretched out both arms, trying to steady herself, but the effort was futile. With a gasp, she fell into the frothing water.

Hawk froze. The man who had never hesitated in a hundred battles, whose reactions were lightning quick, stood for an instant staring down into the sea and felt only disbelief. His intended bride could not possibly have just disappeared beneath the waves. The day begun with such promise could not possibly have turned so suddenly, savagely dark.

Could and had. With a roar of rage at capricious fate, Hawk threw off his cloak and dived into the water. He surfaced moments later and looked around frantically. When still he did not see Krysta, he inhaled deeply and dived again. For long, agonizing moments, he searched for her but without success. Burning lungs forced him to rise again. He gasped in air and was about to dive once
more when a swift shape moving nearby caught his attention.

Krysta surfaced, laughing. Her hair dark and sleek around her head, her body moving with lithe ease despite the weight of her gown, she looked utterly delighted. “This is wonderful! Why did no one tell me the water is so warm?”

Before he could do more than gape, she dived from sight. He treaded water, looking around in all directions. Moments later, she surfaced again but easily fifty feet from where she had gone under.

“You can swim,” Hawk said, rather stupidly he thought for it was hardly necessary to comment on something so supremely evident.

Krysta grinned. “Raven and Thorgold claim I was born swimming. I suppose they're exaggerating but I've always loved the water.” She disappeared again and this time surfaced near him. Her face alight with happiness, she said, “I've swum in a few rock pools that were this warm but the sea near Vestfold is always colder even in high summer. This is incredible.”

Hawk, who was finding the water pleasant but cool, could only sigh. He was, of course, infinitely relieved that she had come to no harm. But the sheer terror he had felt when she vanished beneath the waves lingered within him. He could not remember ever feeling such fear, even on the battlefield where fright was the boon companion of the sensible man.

Fear made him sterner than he would elsewise have been. “The water is not so warm that you cannot take ill from it. Enough of this.”

She looked surprised and disappointed, but she did not argue. At least she was obedient, he told himself as they regained the beach. But as she bent over, wringing out her sodden gown, Krysta said, “I suppose it doesn't make much sense to swim in all these clothes.” She
glanced up at him hopefully. “At home, I swam in a shift.” She did not add, although some imp of mischief tempted her to, that there were times when she swam in nothing at all save the silken sheath of her hair.

He looked at her disbelievingly until he realized she was serious. With a scant ounce of encouragement, the Lady Krysta would be happy to return to the water … in her shift. And just what was he supposed to do? Sit on the beach and enjoy the spectacle? Or perhaps join her? Oh, yes, that would be an excellent idea. The lust he had battled all morning surged abruptly. He cursed under his breath and tossed her the cloak he had abandoned before leaping in to what he supposed was her rescue.

“Here, put this on.”

She caught the cloak but said, “Thank you but I'm not cold.”

She was also apparently oblivious to the way her wet gown clung to her, outlining the high curve of her breasts, etching even the shape of erect nipples, down along her willow-slim waist to the chalice of her hips and the long, slim legs beneath. Hawk had never considered himself a man of great imagination but he needed none at all to envision what she would look like bare to his gaze. She was his promised wife. Many couples lay together before marriage and many brides received the blessing of the Church after their first babe was planted in their womb. No one would gainsay him.
No one …
save just possibly the Lady Krysta herself, and judging by the kiss they had shared in the stable, overcoming her reluctance would be both easy and pleasurable.

But he was a man of discipline—
dammit—
and no woman, however tempting, was going to make him forget that. He would make her his wife in his own time and on his own terms.

“Put the cloak on,” he said again, and this time his tone alerted her to danger. Her head snapped up and
she looked straight at him. A flame of color blossomed over her cheeks. She glanced away hurriedly. When she mounted the mare, the cloak was wrapped snugly around her.

They returned as they had come but in silence. Despite the tumult of his thoughts, Hawk kept a close eye on her. She rode far better than she had scant hours before. She learned quickly and had a natural agility that served her well. He caught himself remembering how she danced and quickly steered his thoughts in other directions, only to encounter the image of her sleek and unfettered, moving through the water with what seemed like more than human grace. Such distraction as she was prone to be would be eased on the training field. He'd pluck half-a-dozen of his men who had imagined they were in for a soft day and work himself until fatigue blocked out all else.

But his plan was for naught. Three longships, their ominous dragon prows rising high above the water, had appeared suddenly around the point and were heading straight toward the docks. Hawk rose in the saddle, gazing out at their wind-filled sails and the proud emblem emblazoned on them. He cursed again and dug his heels into the stallion's side, urging his mount to a gallop.

L
ET ME GUESS, HAWK SAID. YOU HAPPENED
to be passing by and thought y ou'd drop in for a visit.” The man across from him grinned. He was as large and heavily muscled as Hawk himself, with brown hair shot through with gold brushing his massive shoulders and eyes like flame-lit topaz. He wore a plain tunic of finely spun black wool and polished leather boots, but no adornment to hint at his true rank and power save for a sword of finely crafted steel. Yet was there no mistaking the aura of nobility that clung to him, an aura in no way diminished by the trick of nature that had made him an unusually handsome man.

So far, no fewer than six serving girls had tripped past on one pretext or another. Hawk found himself wondering if more lustful looks had ever been directed toward any one man in less time but his guest seemed to think nothing of it. He didn't ignore the girls, on the contrary, he bestowed upon each a smile of true friendliness and regard. Hawk sighed, remembering that the Viking genuinely adored women, believing them the best gift the
gods could bestow upon mankind. They, in turn, seemed to sense that and returned his affection with what could only be described as unbridled enthusiasm.