Dream of Me/Believe in Me (49 page)

“What is it, Edvard?” he asked, making an effort at cordiality. Already, the brief escape offered by the hunt was fading, returning him to the workaday world of decisions, judgments, compromises, and wise leadership he was expected to provide by the several thousand people who clustered in and around the fortress of Hawkforte and the thousands more spread out over his lands. He never questioned his duty, in fact he embraced it, but there were times when it weighed heavy all the same. Such a mellow day might have been spent in more amiable pursuits, perhaps dangling a line beside a brook in the hope
that no fish would come along to require attention. He thought, too, that it would be pleasant to share such an interlude with someone who would ask nothing of him save his company. But that notion had scarcely stirred before the realities of his duty, which was to say his life, overrode it.

The steward, reassured that his lord was more approachable than of late, relaxed as much as his meticulous nature ever permitted. He was young for his position, which he had on merit rather than rank, and he meant to hold on to it. “Three servants of the Lady Krysta have arrived, my lord.” He gestured toward a trio standing some little distance away near the smithy's shed, one of many such small buildings that framed the inner walls of the fortress. The slight motion of his hand, the faint pinching of his nostrils, and the shadowed look in his eyes expressed a range of emotion scarcely seen in the redoubtable Edvard. Surprise, concern, puzzlement, a veritable cacophony of feeling flowed from one who was normally the most imperturbable of men.

Hawk surveyed the little group for himself. There was a man—short and stocky, bent shouldered, with long black hair and beard, and coal-bright eyes. Beside him stood an aged woman dressed all in black, hair like a raven's wing, sharp nosed. Partly concealed by them both but still visible was a much younger woman, also black-haired, delicately made with pixyish features and eyes …

Dancing, anticipation-filled eyes that even from a distance appeared to him to be the selfsame shade as a forest glen in high summer. He could almost feel the cool moss, hear the crystalline patter of water on stone, smell the fragrance of shy wood violets twined in the hair of a woman with skin like cream and …

Hawk returned to himself with a start. He was too far from the girl to see such detail yet had been so absorbed in his imaginings that he had forgotten all else.

That was absurd. She was only a servant, a rather small and disheveled one at that. There was no conceivable reason why she should be of any particular interest to him. Yet there he was again falling into those eyes and that sweetly entrancing smile that managed to remind him somehow of … of what, exactly? He'd seen it there in his mind for just an instant but it was gone too swiftly, leaving only a fleeting impression of sun-dappled water and the sleek, gleaming forms that leaped between air and sea in the wake of his fast-skimming boat.

Ridiculous. He looked away, looked back, caught himself doing so, and scowled. She saw his confusion and seemed to fold herself up, all but vanishing behind her two companions.

He was tired, that was it. He'd been at court until a fortnight ago and that was always wearying. Since returning home, the business of Hawkforte had occupied him without surcease. And then there was the matter of his damnable marriage hanging over him like the proverbial sword.

One no less sharp than the tongue of his half-sister who he saw too late was bearing down on him with all the grace and subtlety of an ill-tempered she goat. Hawk spared a thought for the rapacious Danes, whom he would have greatly preferred to face, and steeled himself for her usual tirade.

“This is beyond all bounds!” Daria proclaimed. “It is not enough that we are left to wonder when the Lady Krysta may find it convenient to appear, now we are expected to welcome her servants in her stead.” She cast a dire look over her shoulder before returning her attention full force to her brother, who closed his eyes for a moment, summoning that most elusive of all virtues—patience.

Daria was his elder by a decade. By all rights, she should have been in her own manor and so she would have
been had not her husband had the poor judgment to go against Alfred of Wessex just as the scholar-warrior was setting out to unite Britons against the Danes. Promptly widowed, Daria made no secret of her resentment against all those who had denied her what she thought of as her proper place, including the brother who had given her a home. Yet she managed Hawk's household well enough and generally had the sense to keep her endless complaints from his ears.

Not today though. Today, she so brimmed over with afflictions as to banish caution.

“What could she be thinking of to send these three with no warning?” she demanded, standing with her hands on her thin hips, glaring at him. “Did she consider the inconvenience to us? And why are they here? Does she think to find Hawkforte wanting? Does she imagine it poorer than what she has known in the barbaric northlands?”

With each question, Daria's shrill voice rose a notch until at the end she was fairly shouting. Hawk was a forbearing man but there were limits to what he would permit. His authority, and the simple prudence of any male, demanded he put a stop to such distemper.

“Curb your tongue, Daria, it pleases me not. See to quarters for them and be swift about it.”

His sister sputtered in anger but the icy coldness of his gaze and the hard set of his features reminded her belatedly of the steely will he never hesitated to wield.

She was still glaring at Hawk when he gestured to the short, stocky man. As he approached, Hawk surveyed him more closely. The fellow was troll-like, thick through the shoulders, slightly stooped, with bandy legs as though he lurked under bridges waiting to surprise the unwary traveler. His bright stare beneath furry brows suggested he wasn't averse to such mischief.

“I be Thorgold, lord,” he said. “Servant to the Lady Krysta.”

“Do I take it your arrival means the lady will grace us soon with her presence?”

The biting edge to Hawk's words would have prompted most men to take a step back. Thorgold merely shrugged his broad shoulders and spread his gnarled hands.

“She comes when she comes, lord.”

And that, it seemed, was that. Short of airing his irritation to the odd little man, Hawk had scant choice but to let it pass. He turned the trio over to Daria and returned his attention to Edvard, but not without a final glance at the girl. She was trailing after the other two as they proceeded across the bailey. Startled to be discovered watching him over her shoulder, she stumbled, caught herself, and flashed a look of pure chagrin that for some reason amused him mightily.

Several moments passed before he realized that Edvard's surprised expression came from the unaccustomed sound of his master chuckling.

T
HAT SELFSAME SOUND WARMED KRYSTA ALL THE
way through, sending little tingles down her back as she followed Thorgold and Raven, and the dour-faced woman, toward the servants' hall. She didn't dare another look over her shoulder but that was not for lack of temptation. Her common sense—in which she took great pride—managed to assert itself just barely enough to stop her.

He was so big.
Easily the biggest man she had ever seen save for the brief glimpse she'd had a few months before of the mighty jarl of Sciringesheal, Wolf Hakonson, when he came to speak with her half-brother. Then was she summoned for a rare visit to her family's manor, never imagining why until she was told weeks later that she was
to be given in marriage to the Wolf's own brother-in-law, the feared Saxon lord called Hawk.

He had the eyes of a bird of prey, she thought, yet when he laughed … A smile curved her full mouth set beneath a slightly upturned nose. When he laughed, Lord Hawk almost made her believe that her precautions were not even necessary. Being a woman of prudence, she set aside that notion, carefully to be sure, for it created a little bubble of happiness within her that she wished most fervently would grow.

If it were to do so, it would have to be protected from the sharp-eyed gaze and equally sharp-tongued speech of the Lady Daria, who, she gathered, had the running of the household. Indeed, everything about the lady appeared barbed, like an irksome nettle best avoided.

Daria led the way across the bailey toward a low, wooden building. Built of split logs notched and mortared together, and sheltered beneath a high-peaked thatch roof, the hall was plain in comparison to the vivid woodcarvings and paintings that ornamented Norse structures.

Entering, Krysta needed a moment or two for her eyes to adjust from the glare of day. Although ample in size, the building seemed eerily silent for all the servants were about their chores. She heard the faint buzz of a bee, smelled the aroma of dry rushes on the dirt floor, and slowly looked around.

At the center of the hall was a large hearth framed in stones and set beneath a smoke hole surrounded by soot-stained rafters. To either side of the hearth, running down both the long sides of the hall, were curtained alcoves for sleeping. It being day, the curtains hung open, revealing sparsely furnished sleeping quarters.

“You two may lay your pallets in here,” Daria told the women, pointing to an empty alcove. “As for you—” She
regarded Thorgold. “The men's hall is on the other side of the bailey. You may sleep there. I expect each of you to keep your quarters tidy at all times, appear for meals promptly, and do whatever tasks are assigned to you. Do you understand?”

Black-garbed Raven opened her mouth to reply but Thorgold forestalled her. “Perfectly, lady. We will give you no trouble.”

“See to it that you don't. Your mistress has already created quite enough of a bad impression by not arriving here in a timely fashion. Frankly, if my brother were inclined to listen to my counsel, he would not embark on so ill-conceived a venture as this marriage is sure to be. He will rue the day.”

Having rendered her judgment on the matter, Daria departed. Not a moment too soon. Thorgold had to put a restraining hand on Raven.

“Easy, she is of no account. Forget her.”

“Fine for you to say,” Raven muttered. Her thin neck arched, her head bobbing angrily. She took a breath, swelling her chest, then let it out and shook herself with a soft rustle. “I would suggest pecking out her liver but it is likely filled with bile and unappetizing.”

Krysta laughed. She put an arm around each of her friends and gave them a reassuring squeeze. It had not been easy for them to come here. She knew their willingness to do so was testament to the love and devotion each had given her from the very moment of her birth. She returned it in full measure.

Much as she wanted to think only of her startling impressions of Lord Hawk, she knew duty came first. With a glance around the alcove, she wrinkled her nose. “I suggest we see what we can do to make ourselves comfortable.”

Thorgold nodded, gave her a smile, and vanished out
the door. Shortly he returned with the first load of their belongings. As he shuttled back and forth, Krysta and Raven hastened to clean and straighten the humble chamber. Or at least Krysta tried. When it came to preparing a pleasant, safe place to nest, Raven had no equal. She bustled about, seemingly everywhere at once, and in no time the alcove was transformed.

Every trace of dust was swept away, simple wooden beds set up, and stools and a small table put in place. Bringing in the last load, Thorgold glanced about and nodded. “Best leave it at this. Much more and questions will be asked.”

About to unpack a lush weaving of a forest glen in which small animals and various other creatures gamboled about, Krysta nodded regretfully. From what she had seen so far, Hawkforte's servants were housed snugly enough but allowed no luxuries.

“We'll leave the rest for later,” she said, reluctantly setting the weaving aside.

With the chamber made suitable, she had her first chance to think about what she had so far accomplished. She was actually inside Hawkforte, had even seen its master, and no one seemed any the wiser. The little bubble inside her grew a notch. What had seemed a somewhat risky scheme requiring great caution was working out even better than she could have hoped.

Observing her smile, Raven and Thorgold exchanged looks. It fell to the old woman to speak. “It isn't too late.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You could say you were too eager to wait for an escort but feared discovery on the roads if you traveled as yourself.” Her thin shoulders rose and fell. “Who knows, he might even believe you.”

“Only if you tell him now,” Thorgold said. “Wait much longer and the man will know himself played for a
fool. They don't like that.” He smiled as though at amusing memories. “No, indeed, they don't.”

Krysta jumped up from the bed where she had been sitting and stared at her friends in amazement. “I have absolutely no intention of telling him. That would put everything wrong. However will I learn what I must if I fail to persevere now?”

“What is there to learn?” Raven countered. “All men are alike … prideful, stubborn, ignorant …”

“Presumptuous, unseeing, clumsy …” Thorgold continued.

“They must have some redeeming qualities,” Krysta protested. “When he looked at me, I felt—” She broke off, trying to recapture exactly what it was she had felt when those startlingly blue eyes met hers. She had sensed great strength, intelligence, and something more … something powerful and entrancing, drawing her into it…. Passion?

Was the master of Hawkforte a man of passion?

She shied away from the thought even as it tantalized her. As her husband, he would have the right to possess her as no one ever had. She knew the basics of what his ownership would mean but sensed there was a great deal more simmering just below the surface in the shadowed, roiling world of the unseen from which both terror and beauty could emerge so suddenly.

Passion aside, he'd had the wit to help forge an alliance that meant peace for his people and her own. That spoke of intelligence and self-discipline. She valued both, yet it was the lingering thought of a husband's rights and her own wifely duty that brought a flush to her delicate cheeks and caused her loyal servants to exchange knowing looks.