by Josie Litton
To her regret, he gave off caressing her and sat up. The tender, playful lover yielded to the outraged lord. “You will tell me what happened.”
Because she always tried to obey him—surely no one thought it her fault that it seldom worked out—Krysta did as she was told. She kept the telling very short. When she finished, she hoped they would get back to the business at hand. Hawk had other ideas. He rose from the bed and reached for his tunic.
“I'm going to kill him now.”
“Wait! What? You aren't!”
“I'll be back in no time. Don't go anywhere.”
“No!” Krysta hurled herself at him, grabbing the tunic he had half on and ripping it from his hands. “What are you talking about? Killing Udell? Are you mad? If he dies, Mercia will rebel.”
“You have it the wrong way around. If he lives, Mercia will rebel.”
He knew. What she had merely feared and wanted to believe was deluded bragging was real. Horror clawed at her but with it came swift hope. Grace of God, Hawk knew, which meant Alfred must know as well.
“Why do you think I was summoned to Winchester?”
She stared at him in shock. “Because of Udell?”
“Do you think Alfred has united a splintered kingdom, ignited the light of learning where there was only darkness, and become the hope of his people for generations to come without having a keen eye for everything that goes on around him?”
“But then … something must be done.”
“Yes, which is why—”
He was going to kill Udell. If not right then, sometime very soon. He had known that when he stood amidst the Mercians and offered him twice his wergild, money to buy an army and march against a throne, knowing Udell would never live to collect it. When he had been willing to be flogged, knowing the hand that wielded the whip would soon be in the grave.
“Not now.” Krysta spoke emphatically but she didn't count on words alone. She hurled his tunic into a far corner of the room and promptly discarded her torn gown, shimmying it right up over her hips and breasts, freeing the glorious mass of her hair and tossing the garment somewhere over her head. As naked as he, she faced him proudly. “You aren't upset about Thorgold?”
He ran his eyes over her with frank pleasure. “No, it's Udell I'm going to kill.”
“I understand that. But if you wanted to shed blood in the house of the king, he would be dead already.”
The corners of his mouth were twitching. “You're infuriating to be sure but you have a good head on your shoulders.”
Very clearly, because she had to do this while she had the courage, she said, “I am part of your world and part of something more. All my life I have fought against it. When I came here, I feared only sorrow lay ahead. Was I wrong to do so?”
Her heart was beating so hard she thought it must surely burst. She was terrified to speak so frankly, terrified of how he would respond, terrified of being terrified as though she would never be anything but if he should turn from her and leave her bereft in the cold.
And she did feel cold, so much so that she began to tremble. She wanted to wrap her arms around herself but could not lift them. Indeed, she could do nothing but stare at him with all her longing in her eyes.
“You are a foolish woman.” He spoke with gruff tenderness and yanked her to him, engulfing her in his arms, warming her with his strength. They tumbled back across the bed, limbs entwining, mouths seeking.
Hawk tried, he truly did, but four days without her had left him ravenous. Even as he struggled to go slowly, to assure her readiness and draw out her pleasure, his need mounted unbearably. Groaning, he cupped her breasts, squeezing them together, his mouth moving from one to the other. Beneath his tongue, her nipples were hard and full. He suckled her urgently as he thrust a steel-hard leg between hers, opening her to him. Her arms closed around him in fierce embrace as though never to let him go. The soft, curly apex of her thighs brushed his engorged manhood as her hips arched.
“Please,” she whispered tautly, less entreaty than demand.
He took her mouth, his tongue plunging deep, and felt her guide him just a little within her. He went slowly, beads of sweat showing on his forehead, as he struggled to give her all the time she needed to adjust to him. Even then, he held himself very still, not moving except at the very tip, stroking the hot, silken sheath that held him so snugly. Darkness swirled behind his eyes as a wall of sensation struck him with such force that he was robbed of breath. Gasping, he raised his head and watched in fascination her own surprise at the swiftness of her climax. In the distant regions of his mind still capable of thought, he realized he was not the only one who had found four solitary days to be exquisite torment. When pleasure ebbed a little, she lay beneath him, panting softly, her hands moving over his back with tender strength.
Hawk rose above her, taking his weight on his knees and arms. He gave her a moment to recover, no more, before driving into her hard and deep. The exquisite milking sensation of his own release seized him and he erupted in surging bliss that seemed to go on forever.
From the crest of pleasure to which he had so swiftly taken her, Krysta soared yet higher. Wave after wave of ecstasy rushed through her seemingly without end. She sobbed, crying out his name, and clung to Hawk as the world flew apart and she with it.
THEY WOKE SOME HOURS LATER TO THE DISTANT sounds of revelry in the king's hall, where their absence no doubt sparked amusement. It did not matter. They came together again more slowly, drawing out their pleasure and slipped seamlessly from it back into gentle sleep, only to be awakened again a short time later by the tantalizing aroma of fresh baked bread. It drew them to the tray left in Krysta's room, no doubt by her thoughtful maid. With childlike glee, they carried the repast back to bed and fed each other choice morsels until such intimacy had its inevitable result. They finally slept deeply and without dreams, not stirring again until the full light of dawn flowed through the high windows and over their entwined forms.
“I must see the king,” Hawk murmured, scarcely awake as he kissed the sweet curve of Krysta's breast. He moved his hand over her belly and between her thighs, stroking her, and was rewarded by a soft whimper of pleasure. His lean cheeks roughened by a night's growth of whiskers teased her skin primed to exquisite sensitivity. She arched against him, tangling her fingers in his hair, and traced the hard curve of his mouth with the tip of her tongue. “Later.” Whatever reply he might have made was lost in the quicksilver flare of his own response. The king would have to wait.
As he did until well into midmorning when Hawk finally slipped from the bed. He stood beside it, gazing down at the woman turned on her side facing him, her hands tucked under her chin and an expression of utter innocence upon her lovely face. A deep, contented sigh escaped him. The world felt completely right and Hawk himself so utterly at peace that if he ran into Udell right then, he decided he would kill him quickly instead of drawing it out as he had thought to do when learning that the Mercian traitor had dared to put his hands on Krysta. Moved to mercy in his present mood, he would be content merely to lop off his head. Such was the astounding effect of a good woman, he mused, as he looked around for whatever it was he had thought to find.
Clothes, that was it, and some water to wash with. He could shave later. Alfred had seen him in far scruffier condition when they sloughed through days and weeks of chasing the Danes from battlefield to battlefield. He was buckling on his sword as he left the chamber, spied a serving girl, and learned the king's whereabouts. Alfred was in the stables visiting with a colt born just that morning to his favorite mare. The king looked up as Hawk entered, assayed his disheveled condition, and shook his head ruefully.
“A restless night, Lord of Essex?”
Hawk grinned. “Actually quite a refreshing one, sire.” He bent down to admire the colt. “May he be as steady as his dam and as fast as his sire.”
Alfred nodded. “They make a good combination.” He got to his feet and dusted off his hands. “Udel
l left in the night.”
“Good. I assume Athelred awaits him at the border.”
“He does, although he had some difficulty convincing my daughter to remain behind.” The king could not suppress a proud smile. “Athelflad thought to ride with him.”
“A true daughter of your house, my lord.” Wise enough to have sniffed out Udell's perfidy and sent her royal father swift warning of it. “Udell should have ample time by now to grow careless. I ride within the hour. Between us, Athelred and I will squeeze the life from his traitor's bones.”
“Ordinarily, I'd suggest bringing him back to stand trial but—”
Alfred did not have to go further for Hawk understood full well. The king focused his attention where it belonged, on the Danes. It was only by so doing that he had forged and kept the peace. Udell would not be allowed to distract him from it.
Hawk took his leave a short while later. He went around to the barracks where his men were housed. His lieutenants awaited him. Keen-eyed men long skilled in intrigue, they had known full well what the outcome with Udell would be. Their horses were saddled and waiting. Behind them, drawn up rank upon rank, Hawk's personal guard, the most feared army in all of England, was mounted and ready. Sooner even than Hawk had promised, the force rode out through the gates of the royal residence and down the long road heading north out of Winchester. Hawk turned once in the saddle, eyeing the room where Krysta slept as it faded into the distance.
He supposed she would be concerned when she found him gone. Perhaps she would think he should have awakened her. But there had been too many farewells in his life; he had a keen dislike of them. Besides, he would be back within scant days and all would be well between them. Reassured that he had taken the proper course, Hawk continued on his way, his mind clear and untroubled, filled with pleasant thoughts of killing Udell.
HES GONE WHERE? KRYSTA ASKED. SHE STARED AT Eahlswith in bewilderment. What was this the queen had just told her? Hawk gone after Udell and without a word to her? That could not be.
“He left at midday,” Eahlswith repeated. She looked at Krysta sympathetically. “I know you are surprised but this is how men are. I cannot count the number of times Alfred marched to battle without saying a word to me.”
She must still be asleep and dreaming, Krysta thought. That had to be it. Whatever the king had done, Hawk would not leave her like this. He would at least tell her he was going, reassure her all would be well, kiss away her fears and—
Oh, lord, no wonder the man preferred to sneak off. How could he possibly want to be saddled with her worry when he needed to turn his mind to the task at hand?
Yet she was still shocked by his sudden absence, and vaguely hurt. Her resentment faded as the day wore on and she was left with only worry. She was well aware of Eahlswith doing her best to draw her into the circle of ladies and so distract her that she would not think overmuch of Hawk. Not more than with every other heartbeat, rather than with each and every one. A hundred or more times she told herself he was the most feared warrior in all of England, leader of the most renowned army, his skills long honed in battle and fortified by keen intelligence. Beside him, Udell was no more than vermin. But even vermin could get lucky. Victory came as much by chance as by strength.
When she could no longer contain herself, she murmured apologies and slipped away to the little church near the scriptorium. There she went on her knees to pray long and earnestly that God in His mercy would shine His light on Hawk and cast his enemies into darkness. She prayed heedless of the young priests who moved about quietly, lighting the tall candles and singing the offices of the day. Only when she realized that they were singing complines did she return to any sense of passing time. She had come at nones when the sun was high above the tops of the trees, and it was now the hour before sleep. In between, the soaring peace of vespers had slipped past without her notice. Slowly, she rose on legs that seemed scarcely able to hold her. Her body was stiff and sore from her vigil but the balm of peace had flowed over her heart. For that, she was deeply grateful.
Outside in the cool night air, Krysta paused for a few moments to look at the stars. Was it merely a fancy of her mind to wonder if Hawk might be looking at them, too? How desperately she wished that she might reach out and touch one of the sparkling lights against the deep velvet black sky and in the doing, touch him as well.
She was sighing, wondering how she would ever sleep alone, when a shadow moved around the corner of the church. She had only a moment to wonder who it might be before a hand slammed down hard over her mouth and a powerful arm closed around her waist, yanking her off her feet.
“Bitch,” the voice hissed in her ear. “Did you truly think you could challenge me and not pay?”
Terror roared through Krysta. She kicked out frantically and tried to sink her teeth into the hand over her mouth. For her trouble, she was hurled to the ground so hard that the air was knocked from her. Her arms were pulled behind her and roughly tied. As she tried to regain her feet, she was flung down again and her ankles roped together.
“Quickly,” Udell ordered, his voice thick and harsh. Hard hands lifted her. She was carried away into darkness.
Chapter SEVENTEEN
HAWK TURNED HIS MOUNT IN A TIGHT circle, carefully examining the marks on the moist ground and the signs told by broken branches. A large group on horses had passed that way just hours before and done so in great haste. Not far away, near where the road forked, a bundle lay dropped as though fallen from a saddle. One of his lieutenants opened it and with a laugh, drew out a lady's mantle. He shook it free and held it up for all to see. The back was elaborately embroidered with a garishly large butterfly done almost entirely in gold.
“I never thought I'd say this,” Hawk declared, “but I'm glad of the Lady Esa's unique taste in garments.”
Thus assured, they continued on the right track, the force moved quickly. Within the hour, Hawk was certain they were closing in on the Mercians. The droppings left by their horses were that fresh. He nodded grimly as he saw they were heading directly into the trap set by Alfred. Just as they crossed the border into Mercia, when they imagined themselves to be safe, they would be caught in a pincer between Athelred and Hawk himself. The women would likely survive for no one would seek their deaths, although Athelflad might have something to say later about Esa's fate.
Yet as the prints left by the horses became clearer, Hawk's easy mood began to darken. He had taken the measure of the Mercians at court and knew their numbers. It seemed to him there were fewer mounted than he would have expected. Concerned, he called a halt and got down to look at a clear stretch of the prints more closely.
“Is there a problem, lord?” one of his lieutenants asked. He waited nearby, astride his mount and holding the reins of Hawk's stallion.
Slowly, Hawk straightened. He continued to stare at the prints as he said, “I make this a dozen or so short.”
Hearing him, the men closest by glanced at one another in surprise.
“The ground is very soft, lord,” the lieutenant ventured. “Some of it looks rode twice over.”
“Possibly,” Hawk agreed, yet he was unconvinced. The thought began to form in the back of his mind that perhaps the Mercians had not all stayed together. In their panic to get away, some might have struck off on their own. That was possible, yet it was also possible that there was something more at work. Something vastly more threatening.
Udell was a vain, treacherous, venal bastard. But he wasn't stupid. No man actually could be stupid and survive any length of years in the cauldron that was English politics.
Hawk was mulling that over, on his haunches beside the hoof prints, when he looked up suddenly and noticed the ravens clustered in the trees overhead. They had not been there minutes before, of that he was quite sure. But then he had learned the hard way to pay much more attention to such matters than ever he had before.
“Ravens,” he muttered and his lieutenant frowned, struggling to discover what concerned h
is lord.
“They are only birds,” he said.
“Absolutely, only birds. You did not hear me say otherwise. Birds, that's all.”
One of them, the largest of the bunch, with a shrewd glint in her eyes, cawed loudly. At once, Hawk heard a rustling in the nearby brush. He was on his feet, hand on the hilt of his sword, when a dog bounded forward. The animal ran right at him, jumped up on its hind legs, laid its paws against Hawk's broad chest, and dragged a wet tongue over his bemused face.
“He likes ye,” Thorgold chuckled. The little man stepped out onto the road and whistled for the dog, who gave off licking Hawk and loped over to Thorgold's side, where he sat on his haunches, panting happily.
“He's a good dog, he is,” Thorgold said, gently petting the animal, who waved his tail even more vigorously.
Looking more closely, Hawk saw the signs of a beating he suspected was recent but that seemed to be healing with unusual—he wasn't going to think “unnatural”—speed.
“Is that—?”
Thorgold nodded. “That's him.”
“I'm glad he landed on his feet,” Hawk said with a grin. “All four of them.”
“Aye, he did an' ye can be gladder of it than ye know. He has the scent of Udell an' can follow that bastard over stone.”
“That's why he's here, because you're trailing Udell?”
“Nay, because ye aren't. Yer fetchin' up a dry gulch, lad.”
Hawk stared at the old troll as the confirmation of what he had seen in the hoofprints settled over him. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, the knuckles glowing white. The curse that broke from him sent the ravens into the air.
Thorgold waited until the leaves stopped shaking before he spoke the words he knew would plunge the Hawk into white-hot fury. Then he prudently stood back as with lightning speed the Lord of Essex divided his force. He chose with unerring precision the deadliest killers among his men. At his orders, they handed over to the others all weight that might conceivably slow them down. What was left was a war band honed to single purpose and lethal will.
