by Josie Litton
She gasped and laughed, all at once, trying to catch them as they fell over her breasts and belly, over the sleek smoothness of her thighs, into her hair, and all around her. She fell back against the blanket, gazing up at him, a look in her eyes as though he had given her the world. Just then, he felt he could.
They lingered on the beach, enjoying the repast Aelfgyth had packed, then swam again. Heartbeat to heartbeat, they surrendered to their need for constant, small touches, the brush of lips, the stroke of fingertips, skin touching skin, a language words could not equal.
They teased and laughed, stared at each other for long moments, and laughed suddenly once more. Gulls swooped to catch the bread they tossed and sandpipers raced among them, claiming their share of the bounty. Coming out of the water, they spied a clump of blackberries and ate them greedily until their kisses tasted of sweet, summer-poignant juice.
“I have never known such a day,” Krysta said at last. She lay above Hawk, her body draped over his, her head resting on his broad chest, soft whorls of hair pillowing her cheek. Her heart ached with the beauty of it all. “I wish for a golden rope to catch the sun and hold it fast in the sky so that it may never descend.”
“But night has its own gifts,” he said softly, and thought of her in his big bed with all the long hours of darkness to savor her.
They sailed back to Hawkforte on the late afternoon tide. The wind was high but they tacked slowly, drawing out the time that was theirs alone. When they finally came within sight of the piers stretching out into the water, torches were already lit and the first faint stars could be seen.
So, too, could they see the vessel in dock, a Viking ship by the look of the curved prow but much battered, its sail hanging tattered and torn from a mast that appeared not quite steady.
“Someone ran into trouble,” Hawk said. “Likely the storm that blew through here did damage farther north.”
“Perhaps …” Krysta hardly knew she spoke. All her attention was on the vessel. As they drew nearer, the ominous sense grew within her that she had seen it before. Something in the carving of the dragon's head on the prow, looking too large and top-heavy, jogged her memory. “I'm not sure but …”
She never finished what she was about to say for just then they drew up alongside the pier and she saw the man standing there. He was of middle height with thin, stooped shoulders, lank hair of a nondescript hue, and a pale face. With one hand he clutched a cloak tightly around himself as with the other he gestured wildly to Edvard, who appeared to be trying to soothe him.
As Hawk jumped out to secure the mooring rope, the man caught sight of him. He brushed off the steward and hurried forward, armored in self-importance, oblivious to the scornful stares from everyone else on the dock including his own crew.
“There you are!,” he exclaimed. “And about time, too. I dare the worst storm in a century, I almost drown getting here, and then I have to listen to your man tell me he has no idea where you've gone off to.”
Hawk looked the interloper over and raised an eyebrow. “You have a name, I assume?”
The fellow stared at him blankly. Before he could speak, Krysta stepped out of the boat and stood beside Hawk. Quietly, she said, “My lord, this is my half-brother, Sven.”
Scarcely had she spoken than Sven flushed darkly. His eyes lit on her with stark hatred. He took a step toward her, the cloak tangling around his legs. Stumbling, he yelled, “You bitch! Humiliating our family, threatening everything! I'll teach you—”
In a single motion, Hawk stepped in front of Krysta and lifted Sven off the ground. He held him, feet kicking in midair, his face turning a mottled red as the neck of his tunic tightened, slowly strangling him. “Do you realize who you are addressing, cretin?”
Sven stared at Hawk with a mixture of terror and righteous indignation. His feet beat all the harder. In a frantic squeak, he said, “I know exactly who she is! It's you who don't!”
Chapter ELEVEN
HE'S A FOOL, HAWK SAID HE WAS STRETCHED out on the bed in Krysta's tower, having absolutely refused to leave her after the scene on the dock. His hands were folded behind his head and he looked at his ease, save for the murderous glint in his eyes. Krysta was behind a screen, changing for supper after giving up the battle to get him to leave. To be truthful, she hadn't tried all that hard, and that worried him. She seemed deflated somehow, her usually resilient spirit dampened. All thanks to that cursed half-brother of hers. For a few moments, Hawk entertained himself with thoughts of various ways the idiot could die. It solved nothing but did make him feel slightly better.
“Dragon called him a slug and a dullard, and he was right,” Hawk added. “His own men have been busy telling anyone who will listen that it was the smallest of squalls they hit, not some great storm, and that it was only the stupidity of Lord Slug that led them into harm.” This he knew from Aelfgyth, who had whispered it as she left, after bringing hot water, honey cakes, and a fierce hug for her mistress. Edvard was going to marry that girl and soon, Hawk had decided, for she deserved nothing less.
Krysta emerged from behind the screen. She had changed into a simple gown in a dull shade of brown, far plainer than the elegant garb she usually wore in the evenings. Her hair was dragged into two tight braids that hung over her shoulders. He winced to see it so confined. She appeared tense, downcast, and clearly filled with dread. Hawk cursed inwardly but took pains to appear unconcerned. “Look, sweetheart, it's not your fault he's family. I've got Daria to cope with. I'm the last person to cast stones because someone else has an unpleasant relative.”
“It's not that,” she said softly yet offered nothing more.
He got off the bed and went to her, putting his hands on her shoulders to stop her when she tried to turn away. “Then for pity's sake, what is it? Do you not want him here when we wed? Fine, he'll be gone on the next tide. He simply isn't important, Krysta. I don't understand why he has you worried so.”
“Did you not hear what he said, that he knew who I was and you did not?”
“I heard it … it means nothing. Unless you are to tell me you are not the Lady Krysta of Vestfold.” A sudden thought flooded his mind. “Mercy of heaven, you aren't really her servant, are you?” He was scrabbling to think how he would smooth over the inevitable problems that would occur with his insistence on wedding the maid rather than her mistress, when she put that to rest.
“No, of course not. I am Krysta of Vestfold. But I don't think you can simply discount what brings Sven here. He never bestirs himself if he can possibly avoid it, yet he came all this way. For what purpose?”
“Did he give evidence of having half a brain, I would say to wish us well. However …”
“Exactly. After our father's death, Sven summoned me to his manor.” She shuddered at the memory. “He left no doubt that he loathed our father for marrying again and that he despised me. Truly, I have no idea what he would have done eventually had the jarl of Sciringesheal not chosen me as your bride. Not even Sven is stupid enough to go against the Wolf but I fear he has some other plan in mind now. For all that he lacks intelligence, he can still do great harm.”
“You are mistaken. He can do naught to hurt you.”
He saw her eyes glisten with unshed tears and cursed again but inwardly. Gently, with great care, he took hold of one of her braids where it fell across her breast. She offered no resistance. Slowly, meticulously, he unwound first one braid, then the other, and ran his fingers through the curls of gold. When her hair tumbled free, he found the most heavily bejeweled ribbons and handed them to her.
“If you would, wear these to please me.”
She did and, understanding his intent, returned behind the screen to change the drab gown for the one of spun sunlight and sea foam she had worn first on the night she assumed her true identity. The impulse to dress herself so plainly had faded almost as quickly as it had come. Her mother's gown gave her strength, and the look in Hawk's eyes when she emerged again offered her even more.
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br /> Thus garbed, Krysta steeled herself for what she suspected was to come. She walked beside Hawk into the great hall with her head high and the sorrow of her heart well hidden. The rustling of all those gathered there died away, replaced by an expectant silence.
Scarcely had Hawk and Krysta taken their seats than Sven appeared from the guest quarters. Daria was at his side, her thin face unusually avid with excitement. With them was Father Elbert, who strove without success to maintain his usual guise of aloof piety. The effort was too much for him and he sported twin spots of color on his pallid cheeks.
In violation of all the canons of hospitality, Hawk did not rise to greet his “guest.” Neither did Edvard spring forward to offer the usual seat at the high table or summon the servants to attend the lordling. Rather, the steward remained standing just behind Hawk's high-backed chair, arms folded across his chest, his expression grim.
“You have recovered yourself?” Hawk asked coldly.
His tone brought Sven up short. He stopped where he was, several yards in front of the high table, and set his features in an expression of long-suffering. His high-pitched voice grated. “Well enough, I suppose, given the ordeal I have endured. First called to account to the jarl for this one's disappearance, then finding out she had come here disguised as a servant. I see you made fast work of that, my lord, and I salute you, but I fail to understand why she sits in the place of honor at your side.”
“Because she is my betrothed?” Hawk spoke as though to a dullard child. Around the hall, people sniggered at this blunt assessment of the lordling's intelligence.
For his part, Sven remained undeterred. “Was, Hawk of Essex, only was. The shame she has brought upon our family renders her unfit to be any man's bride.”
“You left behind whatever passes for your brain when you departed for these shores.”
There were men in Winchester, powerful men around the king, who quaked when they heard the Hawk speak in that tone. They were wise enough to sense his anger rising and know the savage danger it represented. Sven was unburdened by any such awareness. He merely shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Insult me all you like, it makes no difference. Mind you, you should be thanking me for what I have saved you from but I don't expect you realize it yet.” He paused, then with a dramatic wave of his arm toward Krysta announced, “She is a changeling.” As one, those assembled in the hall gasped and quickly positioned themselves for a better view of the violence they were certain was about to follow.
Belatedly, and still only dimly aware that he had transgressed the bounds of courtesy, Sven added, “Before you think to deny what I say, hear the rest. Her mother was a witch who seduced my poor benighted father and bore him a changeling child. He near died from the shame, hiding her away as best he could. Out of respect for him, we kept the secret. Never did I imagine she would come to the notice of one such as the Wolf and that he would intend her to be the honored bride of so great a noble as yourself. But he had heard rumors that I had a half-sister and insisted on meeting her. Scarcely did he do so than he decided she was the one for you. I tried to tell him otherwise but all he would talk of was the dowry. The great dowry he insists is your due…. But never mind, it is not an issue now. None of our father's property is rightly hers, she deserves nothing, and her behavior of late cannot leave doubt of that in the mind of any man. But do not fret, lord, another will be found for you. Although not,” the miserly fool hastened to add, “any of my true sisters. They are … indisposed to wed.”
He glanced at Daria. “A lady of true worth is needed to honor your bed and name.” He turned his gaze to Krysta. “And bear you children of a human ilk, not changeling creatures of the sea.”
“God's blood!” Hawk roared and rose from his seat.
Finally alarmed, Sven scampered back behind Daria and Father Elbert. “Oh, yes, you may curse me now but time will prove me right. Look at her. She is no lady nor will she ever be. I disown her and deny she is any part of my family! There will be no dowry for her. She deserves to be just what she cast herself, a servant … nay, a slave!”
“Hold your tongue! Are you so lackwit as to give no thought even to your own life? I swear—” Hawk's hand went to his sword.
“No,” Krysta cried. She put her hand over his. “Kill him and kill the hope of peace! If a Norse noble dies in your hall, what chance any other will give you his sister or daughter?”
“I want no other woman! This buffoon thinks to save himself the coin of your dowry, nothing more. He concocts a tale to be told to credulous children and expects me to believe it!”
“It is no tale,” Sven said with stiff affront. “Not even one such as she will deny the truth of it.” To Krysta, he said, “Give no thought to returning with me. Never again will you set foot in the lands of my father. Nay, keep her, lord, or dispose of her as you will. I give her to you and gladly. Knowing what you know now, no doubt you will want to punish her for her effrontery, and that is as it should be. You should lose no time chastising her.”
“The only person I have any interest in chastising is you, you insufferable prig. As you value your skin, get you from my sight!”
Finally Sven realized that he had gone too far. Or perhaps it was Daria and the priest tugging at his sleeves that alerted him to danger. They swept him from the hall, still with an expression of incredulous affront because the Hawk of Essex had not received his news with humble gratitude.
To Edvard, Hawk directed, “Get that crawling excuse for a man from my shores.”
“The tide turns at dawn, lord. He will be gone.” The steward paused delicately. “Leastways, he will be if a crew can be found to man his ship. It seems few who came with him are eager to continue in his service.”
“Give them coin enough to make it worth their while and chains to clap him into if he causes them any trouble, but get him gone from here!”
Edvard smiled then and hastened to do Hawk's bidding. That done, the master of all he surveyed slumped back in his chair for a moment and looked at the woman beside him. Krysta was pale and drawn, her mouth trembled, and she plucked at the arm of her chair with nervous fingers.
He signaled to the servants to bring forth supper and turned to her. Leaning close, his voice for her ears only, he said, “Forget him, he is nothing. We will be wed on the morrow.”
She turned startled eyes to him. “We cannot. You heard what he said, I have no dowry.”
“I care not. Your dowry is the peace our marriage will help to bring. Naught else matters.”
“How can you say that? You told me yourself that a lady is a woman of property and position. I have neither and you cannot marry other than a lady, peace or not.”
“I can marry anyone I please,” Hawk declared. He bit the words out and glared at her as though daring her to disagree.
“You say that now but how will you feel later?”
“Vindicated. Have you given a moment's thought to what will happen to your father's weak-minded whelp when Wolf gets wind of this? He will have the news by fast ship to Sciringesheal, I promise you, and when he does there will be no more talk of mere dowry. Fully half and more of what your father left will pour out to you in recompense for this insult.”
“You assume the jarl will still think this marriage desirable. Why would he do that when he hears what Sven has to say?”
“What he has to say? You mean that changeling tale? You can't think Wolf foolish enough to believe it.”
“What if it is true? Have you thought what that would mean for you … and for the children I bear you?”
Though they spoke in low murmurs, her words resounded through him with the force of a thunderclap. He looked at her narrowly. “You're not serious? Perhaps your ears were filled with some tale as a child, but you are a woman now and you must know it to be false.”
“You weren't certain the tale Dragon told was false. You thought it a strange story, true enough, but you did not dismiss it.”
“It was an amusement told around the f
ire, nothing more! Dragon is an entertaining fellow, leastways unless you're trying to best him on the training field. But he makes no claim that his stories are fact.”
She turned her head, looking off to the side. Raven was there, dark and shining, gazing at her with unblinking eyes. Thorgold would be somewhere nearby, unless he had crept off beneath his favorite bridge to nurse his ale and his worry.
“You have seen my servants.”
“A loyal pair. What of them?”
“Don't you find them … unusual?”
“There have been times when the sun coming up of a morning strikes me as unusual, mainly because I didn't expect to live to see it. Living without fighting is unusual, waking in the morn with nothing more to do than see to my lands and people is still unusual though I have been doing it for years now.” He leaned yet nearer and his voice was a caress. “Lying with a woman who makes me believe all things are possible is unusual, to say the least. So what care have I for your servants, whoever they may be?”
Krysta's throat was so tight she doubted she could speak, yet she tried. He was so far beyond her dreams, so much more than she could ever have hoped for. She loved him with all her heart and soul, and with that love she could do naught else but set him free.
“I will not marry you.”
He paled, he who had faced screaming hordes of Danes without flinching, and slammed his goblet against the table. Silence fell in the hall yet he did not notice it, so swept was he by … what? Anger, disappointment … fear. Not fear! He was a man and a warrior, no woman could make him afraid. But he had touched something with her, glimpsed it in those hours on the beach, and now it was being snatched away. And he was afraid.
“Damn you.”
