Dream of Me/Believe in Me

by Josie Litton

  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.

  Chapter SEVEN

  LET 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.

  “What sort of a friend would I be if I went by without a word?” his guest asked after a pretty redhead swept past, wiggling her hips fast enough to cause a draft. “Besides, I thought you might want news of your nephew.”

  Hawk looked at the man known from the ice fields of the north to the souks of Byzantium as Dragon and grinned. “And how is the little lion?”

  That his sister had married into a family with the same penchant for bestowing evocative names on their males no longer surprised him. He had come to accept that in the feared Norse Wolf, Cymbra had found her true mate. The birth of their son at Hawkforte just a few months before had brought great joy to all, not least because it dissuaded Wolf from dismantling the stronghold plank by plank and stone by stone, as he had threatened to do in revenge for Hawk's misguided rescue of his sister.

  Amazingly, they had put all that behind them as they forged the alliance of Saxon and Norse to stand against the Dane. Hawk's marriage to Krysta would doubly bind the alliance, which meant that only the man seated across from him would be left unwed, but not for long.

  “The little lion continues to shake the walls of Sciringesheal whenever he bellows. Fortunately, he's a happy sort and doesn't do it too often. Cymbra's a wonderful mother, of course, and an equally wonderful wife. Wolf is disgustingly content. It's hard to believe he used to be known as the Scourge of the Saxons.”

  Hawk shrugged. “You know what they say, reformed scourges make the best husbands. And speaking of which, has your brother found a bride for you yet?”

  Dragon flinched and took a long quaff of his ale. “I told him I wanted a meek little woman who would rub my feet and bear me sons. He said any such would bore me so much I'd be dead before the bridal flowers wilted. With that much difference between us, I'm counting on a long delay.” He nodded at Hawk. “Besides, he's got you to preoccupy him.” Dragon paused, took another swallow, and eyed his host. “What do you hear from Vestfold?”

  Innocently, Hawk replied, “I had a letter from Cymbra last month. She's hoping to persuade Wolf to pay Hawkforte another visit before too long, just not bring an invading army with him this time.”

  “That's nice but I was referring to your impending marriage.”

  “Oh, that. Your brother kindly rammed through— that is, negotiated—the bridal terms so I really haven't had much to do with it. I gather all is in order regarding … what's her name … Kwirka? Klonka?”

  “Krysta,” Dragon corrected. “Lady Krysta of Vestfold. It might help if you could remember your betrothed's name.”

  Hawk nodded solemnly. “I bow to your expertise in such matters. How long do you think you'll be staying? We can get in some hunting.”

  “Wonderful, but about the Lady Krysta …” Dragon's brow furrowed. He put his goblet down and sighed deeply. “There may be a slight problem.”

  “Problem? What sort of problem could there possibly be? I assume the dear girl is eminently acceptable and all will proceed on course.” He looked at Dragon. “That is true, isn't it? You're not suggesting otherwise?”

  “Oh, no, certainly not. Eminently acceptable … of course … absolutely. The only small complication might be that at the moment her half-brother Sven, who appears to be closely related to a slug, doesn't seem entirely certain of the dear girl's whereabouts.”

  Hawk gave himself a moment apparently to absorb this. He was enjoying himself hugely. Since his first encounter with the Hakonson brothers—Wolf and Dragon—he had felt caught in a maelstrom not of his making. While he agreed wholeheartedly with the objective of the alliance, he didn't mind getting a little of his own back, however briefly. Watching Dragon twist on the hook of diplomatic catastrophe was proving to be unexpectedly pleasant.

  “You aren't suggesting he's lost her?” Hawk asked with feigned alarm.

  “Of course not! The fellow's a dullard. Undoubtedly it's all a misunderstanding. I did have the idea that perhaps, just perhaps, she might have come this way but apparently not….”He trailed off as the look in Hawk's eyes struck him as suspicious. “You haven't seen her, have you?”

  “Well, now it's odd you should mention that. The strangest thing happened. Three of the Lady Klonka's ser
vants …”

  Dragon closed his eyes, searching for patience, and therefore missed Hawk's grin. “The Lady Krysta.”

  “Whatever, three of her servants showed up here. There's a strange, grubby fellow who looks like a troll, a woman named Raven, and one other … odd girl, very black hair that has a tendency to run when it gets wet.”

  Dragon shook his head in puzzlement. “Her hair runs?”

  “More specifically, the dye in it runs. Turns out it's actually blond. Turns out she isn't actually a servant. Turns out Klonka—”

  “Krysta!”

  “—had some outlandish notion of coming here in disguise in order to get to know me before we were wed.”

  Dragon, sensible man that he was, looked suitably appalled. “Tell me you're making this up.”

  “Couldn't possibly. Besides, you're supposed to be the one with imagination.”

  “She's here?”

  “Oh, yes, most definitely here.”

  “Praise whatever gods want to take credit for it,” Dragon said fervently. “I thought Wolf was going to dismember her half-brother limb by limb when the fool turned up at Sciringesheal and announced she was missing.”

  “Seems a reasonable thing to do but you might have some sympathy for the poor fellow. She's … unusual.”

  “Wolf said she was beautiful, soft-spoken, and had lovely eyes. He went so far as to claim that if she were Saxon instead of Norse, he'd be after me to wed her.”

  “Forget that,” Hawk snapped. He caught himself half-rising out of his seat and sat down again abruptly but not before Dragon noticed.

  The Viking grinned broadly. “Like that, is it? I'm glad to know the two of you are getting along.”

  “I didn't say we were getting along. She's just a woman and an unruly one at that.”

  Dragon was close to outright laughter but managed to contain it, if only barely. “Those are the best kind.”

  “It may be a joke to you but it isn't to me. I've already had one wife who couldn't be trusted and I don't want another. Not that I think she's dishonorable in any way, just that she may not have the best judgment in the world. Coming here as she did was a hell of a risk.”

  “So she has courage. That's bad?”

  “I'd prefer for her to have sense. She's … unpredictable.”

  The man who adored women nodded in understanding. “Ah, I see. You want order, no surprises, calm, boring—”

  “When you've lived with as much disorder as I have, boredom has a real attraction.” Hawk sighed and ran a hand through his hair, unaware that he'd already raked it into a hopelessly tangled mess. “She fell in the water today. I thought she was going to drown. I felt … I don't even know what I felt but it was awful.”

  “She's all right?” Dragon asked, concerned.

  “Of course she is. Turns out she swims like a fish … or something. She thought it was wonderful, came up laughing and wanted to stay in. Hinted she ought to be allowed to strip down to her shift. Now there was a good idea!”

  “She's that innocent?”

  “Apparently. She's had a rather odd upbringing.”

  Dragon gave up restraining himself and yielded to deep-throated laughter. When he caught his breath, he said, “Beautiful, soft-spoken, lovely eyes, unpredictable, and utterly innocent. I can see your problem, friend. I think I will stay awhile. This is too good to miss.”

  “Your sympathy overwhelms me,” Hawk muttered. “Just remember, your turn will come.”

  That sobered Dragon but he cheered a moment later when the redhead wiggled by again. Following her with appreciative eyes, he murmured, “The fates are female. They may spare me yet.”

  They just might do that, Hawk reflected, but he had no illusions that they would show him any mercy, not when they already had his insides knotted up over a fey girl who had damn well better never scare him like that again. He glanced idly at the redhead and signaled for more ale, even as he wondered how much longer it would be before the storm he felt gathering finally broke.

  One more heartbeat … one more breath … if that creature with a head like a scarlet woodpecker's didn't move on by then, Krysta wasn't sure exactly what she'd do but it wouldn't be pretty. The woman was strolling up and down in front of Hawk, who looked to be in real danger of getting walloped by her revolving hips, if she didn't poke him in the eye first with what she had just barely tucked into her low-cut chemise. Krysta's gaze narrowed. Was that a nipple she saw?

  Outrage won over discretion. Having meant only to creep down and get a look at the visitor, she found herself forgetting all her good intentions about staying out of sight. The relief she felt when Raven brought word that the longships belonged to neither attacking Danes nor her own half-brother had faded quickly when she learned it was the Wolf's own brother, the feared Lord Dragon of Landsende, who had come. No doubt her departure had been discovered and she was in deep trouble, but she could not think of that just now. Indeed, she could think of nothing save the anger boiling up inside her.

  It was a nipple. The unspeakable nerve!

  “My lord,” Krysta said loudly enough that both men swiveled around in their chairs to look at her. Clutching her courage, she emerged from the stairwell and threw the red-haired strumpet a look that should have turned her to dust on the spot. Incredibly, the girl merely grinned and shrugged her smooth shoulders so that her chemise dropped a notch lower.

  Hawk saw that she was angry—a blind man could have seen it—but had no idea why. He stood up quickly and offered her his hand.

  “Krysta, do you know Lord Dragon, jarl of Landsende?”

  Krysta spared that worthy no more than the barest glance. “I know of him. My lord, I … wished to thank you for the wonderful ride. I was wondering if we might do it again soon … very soon—” The redhead was lounging against the table, hiking up her skirt to display a well-turned ankle and smooth calf. “Now, perhaps.” In a belated attempt at courtesy to the man she had scarcely bothered to glance at, she added, “If Lord Dragon wouldn't mind.”

  “Not at all.” Dragon jumped to his feet, grinned at Hawk, put his arm around the redhead, and said, “No doubt I can find something to occupy me.” He smiled down at the woman snuggled against him. “I can, can't I, sweetheart?”

  “Oh, most definitely, my lord,” the delighted woman purred.

  “There you are, then,” Dragon said. “You two do whatever strikes your fancy. I'll be occupied for hours.” He looked at his companion again. “Or days, who knows? Don't give me a thought.”

  Belatedly and excruciatingly aware that she had misinterpreted the situation completely, Krysta said, “You are very gracious, my lord.”

  “Not at all, dear girl,” Dragon said. “Merely practical. You're here, Hawk is managing well enough, high summer comes, and I know not a single reason not to enjoy it.”

  She looked at him then, finally looked at the man most women could not help but stare at. He was pleasant enough, she thought, but no match for her Hawk. He seemed kind, which surprised her, given his fearsome reputation. And he was right about the season. It was that precious time for long hours of warmth, delights exploding on the tongue and languorous sighs beneath star-lit skies.

  She turned to the golden-haired man at her side and smiled into his perplexed eyes. “I know a place where the wild strawberries are ripe.”

  He went with her, how could any man not? Behind them, Dragon laughed, relieved and glad. A little envious, too, perhaps, but he would not think of that. Besides, he had the redhead to amply occupy him.

  DRAGON STAYED FOR A WEEK. BY DAY, HE HUNTED and sailed with Hawk or joined him with his men on the training field. The harvest began and almost all the residents of Hawkforte, even those who had other occupations, were busy in the fields. Their lord gave it to be understood that the celebration of his and the Lady Krysta's nuptials would await the completion of the harvest. As this was the custom, his people accepted it readily enough.

  Only the warriors continued their usual rout
ine. By night, everyone who could gathered to hear the stories Dragon spun. Wonderful, incredible, exhilarating stories that held his listeners spellbound. Even the tellers of tales among the Saxons themselves were content to sit back and listen to the man they recognized as a master. Fate had called him to be a warrior but he was a skald to the bone.

  He told of the creation of Asgard, the abode of the gods, linked with earth by the bridge Bifröst, which appeared to men as a rainbow. “After the gods defeated their enemy, the giants,” Dragon explained, “the great god Odin and his companions, Hoenir and Lodur, decided to make mortals from the trunks of trees. They called the first man Ash that he would be strong and mighty, and named his wife Vine, that she should cling to him, being loyal and faithful. It was fitting that they named the man Ash for the great ash tree Yggdrasil stands at the center of the earth. Its roots reach down into the netherworld and its branches ascend to the heavens. Odin's favorite steed, Sleipnir, browses in its leaves. Beneath Yggdrasil there is a holy place where the gods meet each day to mete out justice. You may hear their mediations in the rumble of distant thunder that sometimes disturbs the sky.”

  All this was known to Krysta for she had been reared on such tales despite her otherwise Christian upbringing. Yet she enjoyed hearing Dragon tell the familiar legends, for his accountings were clearer and more vivid than any she had heard before. Too vivid for Father Elbert and Daria, who spent the evenings scowling and putting their heads together to mutter of “heathen doings.” They were ignored by all, the Norse giving them no heed and the Saxons so inured to their sourness as to pay them no mind.

  The weather being warm, they dined outside, the long tables and benches surrounded by high torches that gave light and kept the insects away from the revelers. The nights were clear and star-filled. On the last night of Dragon's visit, the moon was full, prompting him to tell this story: