Dream of Me/Believe in Me

by Josie Litton

  Before such fury, Krysta could only stare dumbstruck. She had no idea what to say to Daria, much less how to calm her. Yet that such calming was necessary could not be questioned. The woman appeared about to burst out of her own skin.

  “And not only that,” Daria shrieked. “That is only the smaller part of it. Before this is done, you will see what it means to defy me, to—”

  “My lady.” It was Father Elbert, appearing suddenly from around a corner and hurrying to Daria's side, his black robes swirling around his legs. “My lady,” he said again, “you are troubled. Come with me. We will pray over this and you will be easier in your mind.”

  She started and stared at him, unseeing. He laid a hand on her arm as though to both coax and control her. “Do not distress yourself, my lady. All will be as you wish. But come, let us unburden our hearts before the Lord. He knows the righteous and the just. He will never forsake you.”

  “Yes …” Daria said slowly. She blinked once, twice, as though awakening from slumber. “Unburden … I do carry so very many burdens.”

  “But you need not carry them alone. Trust me, my lady. The Almighty knows of your endeavors. He sanctifies your faithfulness. He will never fail you.”

  “So many have,” Daria murmured, her voice high and weak. “So very many have failed me. There have been so many disappointments.”

  “I know,” Father Elbert said. He spared a quick, knife-sharp glance at Krysta before leading Daria away.

  Shock faded, leaving Krysta wearier than ever. She had known Daria was unpleasant and difficult but she had not expected the depths of the woman's rage or insanity. Krysta couldn't concentrate on that now. It was all she could do to resume her climb up the stairs carrying the buckets of water.

  Once in her tower room, she stripped off her filthy clothes, wondering vaguely if it would be possible to get them really clean again. For the moment, all that mattered was washing away the dirt and sweat still clinging to herself. Never had she enjoyed a bath more, for all that it had to be taken standing up. She even managed to wash her hair and was toweling it dry when she looked out the window.

  Heeding the Hawk's warning, the ship captains who had vessels in port had sailed them into the bay to ride out the approaching storm. Already, the wind was blowing a thick mist off the water, making the dark hulls barely visible. They appeared and disappeared like ghost ships. The sturdy houses of the town were closed up tight, every shutter fastened, everything movable brought inside. Guards still manned their posts on the walls but she hoped they would seek shelter soon.

  Krysta's hair was still damp but her arms ached too much to continue drying it. She let the towel drop to the floor, something she would normally never have done, and glanced longingly at the huge bed. Slowly, it came to her that she knew no reason why she should not lie down. A low groan of relief broke from her as she eased her weary body beneath the covers. Between one breath and the next, sleep snatched her.

  ASSURED THAT ALL HAD BEEN DEALT WITH PROPERLY, Hawk joined his lieutenants in the sauna. Though he would perish before admitting it, he hurt more than he could ever remember doing after a battle. Working in the fields had been a revelation to him, one he didn't expect to soon forget. He suspected the other men felt the same though none was any more inclined to speak of it than was Hawk himself. They contented themselves with a few grunts and groans as they scraped away the dirt of their labors.

  Before they could fall asleep where they sat, they dragged themselves back outside and emptied buckets of cold water over their heads. That helped but not all that much. Telling his men to seek their rest, Hawk dropped a clean tunic over his head and went to speak with the guards still on duty. He instructed them to withdraw to the safety of the watchtowers before the wind grew stronger. That the watch would be maintained even in the throes of a savage storm struck no one as odd. There were always curious eyes about to take note of such things, and wagging tongues to report them later.

  Edvard had managed to get all the oats stored without resort to stacking them in the great hall but he could have done so without it being in anyone's way. At an hour when several hundred would have been gathering there for the evening meal, the hall was deserted. Everyone was simply too exhausted to eat. As was Hawk himself. His body cried out for rest but before he could consider it, there was one more thing he had to do. Aching in every bone, he climbed the stairs to Krysta's tower.

  She was asleep. He saw that the moment he stepped into the room. Although it was far from sunset, the light had faded to an eerie yellow-gray. Rain had begun to slash through the windows, which, he noted, she had left uncovered. With a shake of his head, he pulled the heavy wooden shutters secure. Immediately, the wail of the rising wind lessened. The storm was building rapidly but the worst was not yet upon them. He judged that it would be soon, though, and hoped Krysta would not be frightened.

  Cautiously, so as not to disturb her, he approached the bed. She lay on her side, the covers pulled up over her shoulders and her glorious hair spread out all around her. Her riot of curls brought a smile to his face. Hardly aware that he did so, he reached down and plucked a golden strand, letting it drift silken smooth through his fingers.

  She smelled of lavender soap, he realized, mingling with the salt tang of the air from the sea, reminding him of summer days spent racing off shore, close enough to catch the scents of wildflowers. How many times had he actually done that? Once, just recently, but before then? How many moments had he taken just for himself?

  He couldn't remember and he had no idea why he was wondering. Indeed, he was so tired that some time passed before he realized that he was just standing there staring at her without a thought in his head. He ought to go. He should get some rest in case anything went wrong and he was needed …

  Rest … right now, right there … with her.

  He was so close he could touch the bed. That wonderful, huge, welcoming bed. So very tired … After battles, he had never needed more than a quick nap to feel revived. It would be the same now, he would only stay a little while. In so large a bed, he wouldn't even touch her. That being the case, he might as well be comfortable. Without further thought, he kicked off his sandals, pulled his tunic over his head, and slid beneath the covers. The sheer pleasure of lying down after so long wrung a groan from him. He must have been this exhausted some other time in his life but before he could remember when, he was snoring.

  The wind rattled Krysta's dreams. She murmured in her sleep and turned over, flinging out a slender arm. It hit what she thought was a rock, and she grumbled to herself but did not come near to waking. Some time later she heard a monstrous shriek. She ran through a field of wild-flowers that were being slammed to the ground by some unseen force. Up ahead, a mighty oak loomed. As she watched in frozen horror, a huge beast ripped a limb from it and sent it hurtling at her. Stunned, almost paralyzed, she could do nothing but moan.

  She was snatched away just in time, gathered into warmth and strength. Safe, she murmured a little sigh of relief and knew nothing else.

  The storm struck in all its fury yet did Hawkforte hold fast. A few tiles flew off some of the roofs and went careening down the lanes but the stone walls Hawk had insisted on for every cottage, shop, and workman's hut in order to prevent fire proved their worth against this cataclysm of nature as well. Snug within them, men and women listened to the fury of the wind and gave thanks for the foresight of their lord. Close by them, the children slept undisturbed.

  Not so Krysta, who woke suddenly to darkness and the piercing knowledge that she had forgotten something vital. She sat up, struggling to throw off the fog of sleep, and stumbled from the bed. Outside, she could hear the wind howling and with it the tearing fingers of fiercely driven rain smashing against the …

  … Shutters. The shutters were closed. She had no memory of doing so yet she must have been so tired that she saw to them without thought. Greatly relieved, she returned to the bed and was about to get back into it when a soft, rumbling sou
nd froze her. It was very dark in the room for no braziers had been lit. She found one of the tall iron basins set on a tripod almost by touch and struck flint to tinder to raise a faint glow of flame. Even so, it was difficult to see. She peered through the dimness, her eyes widening in disbelief as she beheld the outline of another's form smack in the middle of the huge bed. Her hand pressed to her mouth to keep from crying out, Krysta just then remembered that she was unclothed. After bathing, she had not bothered with a night robe. Trembling in her haste, she snatched up a fur cover pushed to the foot of the bed and wrapped it around herself. Creeping a little closer, she tried to see who the intruder was. Raven, perhaps, upset by the storm … or even Aelfgyth, similarly affrighted? But no, the form was far too large to be either of them. Indeed, there was only one person she could think of who possessed such height and, now that she looked more closely, such span of shoulders and chest visible above the covers pushed down to his narrow waist.

  Hawk. In her bed. Without a word to her, much less a by-your-leave. Did he assume then that since they were betrothed, he had such right? If that, why had he not exercised it before now? Or did he simply think that it was no matter to her as she was not a proper lady? Any one of whom would probably be shrieking her dainty little head off by now.

  Krysta did not make a sound. She edged a little nearer, peering down at him. He really was a magnificent man, perfectly formed and so very different from herself. Those differences were fascinating … tantalizing, really. It was all she could do to remember that he shouldn't be there.

  The wind intensified, hammering against the shutters. Krysta shivered. In the ebbs between blasts of wind, she could hear the roar of breakers pounding against the beach. Never had she known such a storm. Not even the wild, wind-driven blizzards that descended on Vestfold in the winter were a match for this. She lingered a moment longer beside the bed, trying to decide what to do. She was still very tired. It was, after all, her bed.

  Cautiously, she eased back the covers, then stopped when she realized she was still wrapped in the fur throw. That would be much too hot to sleep in. She should find a shift. On the other hand, if she didn't and if Hawk awoke … She blushed at the thought but maidenly modesty proved poor competition for the passions he aroused in her. She told herself she was merely being practical, when was she not? They were betrothed and supposedly getting to know each other. Didn't that knowing involve this, too, this so-tempting intimacy of bed and body? This haven of safety that seemed to beckon to her? Ever sensible, yet trembling slightly, Krysta dropped the fur and got back into bed.

  HAWK WOKE WHEN THE WIND DIED, THE SUDDEN SIlence jarring him from sleep so deep as to seem dreamless. He sat up, instantly alert, and listened closely. No wind. The rain continued but the fury of the storm seemed spent. Remembering the storm he had experienced five years before near Winchester, he was not fooled and he hoped his people would not be either for he had spread word of what this meant. Soon the wind would shriek again, pounding against their walls. Only when it fell silent for a second time would the danger truly be over.

  He was about to lie down again when memory thundered back. Sitting up abruptly, he stared at the woman asleep beside him. Disbelief gave way to astonishment. What imp of mischief had possessed him to climb into bed with Krysta? Had exhaustion truly so clouded his mind as to banish any shred of reason? Or had he merely yielded to temptation and done as he secretly wished? As though in answer to that question, his body stirred. He cursed under his breath, and began to rise from the bed, only to stop when Krysta cried out softly.

  The stillness was gone, the wind was pounding once again, and the sound of it must have frightened her. He hesitated, truly torn, but the low whimper she made decided him. Glancing up in the general direction of heaven, in the hope some help might be forthcoming, he got back into bed. Carefully, so as not to wake her, he drew her to him. Only then did he discover that his betrothed slept unclothed. A deep, shuddering breath escaped Hawk. Her skin was warm and so soft it seemed at odds with the strength he had seen in her. Her limbs were slender, perfectly formed, and her breasts … She moved slightly and fire darted through him. Thinking to set her aside and make a prudent escape, he stopped when he realized she had relaxed, her fear gone. Hawk closed his eyes, praying for patience, willing restraint, and stayed where he was, propped up against the pillows, holding his Norse bride-to-be in his arms through the remainder of that very long, acutely chaste night.

  At first light, he finally slipped away. The storm was over, he was certain Krysta would awaken soon, and he did not wish her to be frightened or upset by his presence. Nor did he care to test his self-control a moment longer. She had slept so deeply as he held her that he was confident she had no idea he had been there. It was his wish that she remain in ignorance, and not only out of thought-fulness for her feelings. That he had spent the night in the bed of a beautiful woman and not possessed her was something he preferred to keep entirely to himself.

  Descending the tower steps, he was relieved to find the great hall empty. It was still very early and few were stirring. Outside, he went first to the watchtowers where the guards manning them reported that the night had been quiet. That wrung a grin from Hawk but he took their meaning. By the standards of those who had fought the Danes, even so fierce a tempest was no more than mild inconvenience. Leaving the stronghold behind, Hawk descended into the town and was relieved to find few signs of damage. The streets were muddy and everywhere heaps of sand blown in by the wind could be seen, but there was little debris. When he returned to the great hall, shutters were being flung open and men and women were emerging. As expected, Edvard awaited him. The steward looked rumpled and still sleepy but also well pleased.

  “But for your prudent warning, lord, fully half our crops would have been lost. As it is, damage is minor. One of the docks was ripped loose but that will be easily repaired. What looks to be the trunk of a tree is lodged in the wheel of the mill, but I have men on that right now and it should be removed forthwith.”

  “Were there any injuries?”

  “Only one, lord. Alwin, the fellow who helps the tanner, needed to relieve himself in the night and for unknown reasons thought a pot wasn't good enough. He went outside instead, was knocked over and blown a fair distance, but he landed up against the baker's door and Wilhelm took him in. He's all right except for a bump on the head and some bruises.”

  “And I suppose by this time tomorrow, he'll be gifted with at least half-a-dozen pots to remind him not to repeat the experience,” Hawk said with a smile.

  “No doubt, lord. At any rate, we must count ourselves very fortunate.”

  “We are that,” Hawk agreed.

  In Edvard's company, Hawk rode out to survey the fields. The damage to them was as great as he had anticipated. Anything left in them would have been flattened. Dismounting, he handed his reins to Edvard and went down on one knee. The soil was very wet, as was to be expected after such a rain. He touched his fingers to it, then raised them to his nose and inhaled.

  As he remounted, he said, “It will be a day or more before the ground is dry enough to stack the oat. In the meantime, send out men to remove the top few inches. Tell them to dump it into the sea.”

  Edvard's brow furrowed. “I will, lord, of course, but may I ask why?”

  “It smells of salt. The rain was not pure but was mixed with spray from the sea. If it is not removed, next year's crops will be stunted.”

  “Your pardon, lord, but if I may say, you think like a farmer.”

  Hawk laughed and remembered suddenly what Krysta had said about him being startled by the sound of his own laughter. He was finding it impossible not to think of her at the oddest moments. “Am I supposed to be insulted by that, Edvard?”

  “No, lord! Such was not my meaning, I assure you. It is only that I find it surprising a warrior would know so much about the land.”

  “I fought for this land,” Hawk said quietly. “That would have been a damn foolish thing t
o do if I didn't know how to take proper care of it once I had it.”

  The young steward nodded thoughtfully. They continued back to Hawkforte.

  WHERE KRYSTA WAITED, HAVING AWAKENED SUD-denly not long after the Hawk flew from her bed. She opened her eyes surprised to find it a fair morning and stunned to find him gone. Gone without word or touch. Gone as though he had never been.

  Had she imagined him? Had her exhausted mind somehow conjured his presence from no more than wisps of longing? Barely had such a tentative notion sprung up within her than Krysta quashed it firmly. No, by heaven, she had not. He had shared her bed and the lingering warmth on the sheets proved it. Not to mention the depression of a head on the pillow next to hers.

  She stared at that pillow as she dressed and made some scant order of her unruly hair. Far in the back of her mind, a memory stirred of safety and warmth, of being held against hard, smooth skin, in arms at once gentle and strong.

  A light flush stained her cheeks. She nibbled at her lower lip and wondered how she was to face him.

  He had not wanted her. That much was evident, for all too clearly she recalled her audacity at slipping back between the covers naked. He had been kind to her, true enough, but it was not kindness she sought. Or at least not entirely. Humiliation stung her. Her one and only effort to tempt a man had failed spectacularly. She could not think how she was to go on.

  But go on she must and as though naught had occurred, for her pride would allow nothing else. Yet was she tormented by the growing fear that Daria was right: Hawk wanted a different bride, the “lady of true worth” who so held his heart he could lie naked in bed beside another woman, even hold her for the sake of kindness, and remain immune to passion's lure.