Dream of Me/Believe in Me (56 page)

“He wants you,” Edvard repeated with a hint of impatience. “Upstairs in the tower room.” When still she hesitated, he gave her a little push in the right direction. Worse yet, he stood right there, watching to make sure she went.

Krysta climbed the tower steps slowly. She was thinking desperately of what to say. If only she had a little more time, she might be able to come up with a plan of some sort or another. But time had run out and now there was nothing left to do save hope for the best. And pray, that might also help.

The door to the tower room was partly open. She took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and pushed through it.

The chamber took up the entire uppermost floor of the tower. It was dominated by the largest bed Krysta had ever seen, hung with richly embroidered curtains and covered with luxurious furs. She might have noticed nothing but that bed had it not been for a sight more arresting to the eyes. In a corner of the room, Hawk stepped into a tub of steaming water. She caught just a glimpse of his bare flanks before he lowered himself, preserving modesty but leaving plain for her befuddled sight the vast expanse of his heavily muscled chest and arms. That and his predator's smile.

“Don't just stand there,” Hawk said. “Make yourself useful. I need my back scrubbed.” Before she could get her mouth around a response, he ducked under the water, came up flinging drops in all directions, and began lathering his hair. She watched with unwilling fascination. His skin was bronzed and beneath it muscle and tendon moved with easy grace. His nipples were small and flat. Under his arms were tufts of hair that looked even silkier than that on his head. He ducked again to rinse and came up with water streaming down his face. Opening one eye, he glanced at her. “Mayhap you did not hear me.”

She had heard him all right, well enough to know what the edge in his voice meant. He was bound and determined on this, for some reason. Mayhap he regretted letting her go the previous day and meant to remedy that, a thought which set her heart to racing. Or mayhap he merely wanted to humiliate her before sending her on her way. Whatever his intent, angering him seemed a poor choice.

Not that there were any good ones to be seen. With utmost reluctance, palpable in every step she took, Krysta approached the tub. She did not take her eyes from him but, once convinced she meant to obey, he ignored her completely. She blushed red and looked away quickly as he matter-of-factly went about his ablutions, grateful though she was that the water afforded some protection to her innocence. Or what remained of it after the awakening of desires she had not known she possessed.

Just then she was discovering yet another of them, the desire not to let him have his way completely. He wanted his back scrubbed, did he? With docility that should have alerted him, she knelt beside the tub, picked up a cloth, and dunked it into the water. Applying it and all her strength, she set about to scrub the skin right off his back.

Hawk laughed. Damn him, he thought her amusing. She redoubled her efforts. “Sheathe your claws,” he said,
still chuckling. “I've slept on rock and never noticed. I doubt you can have any ill effect.”

“It won't be for want of trying,” she muttered. There was no give in him at all. She might as well have been scrubbing stone. Warm, smooth stone so firm beneath her touch … She jerked back as though burned and tried to rise, only to be stopped by his hand clamped on her wrist. “You haven't finished,” he said. His brows rose mockingly. “I thought the Norse prized cleanliness. Can't you even manage a simple bath?”

“If you took it properly, in a sauna like a person should rather than soak yourself like salted beef in a pail of water …”

“There is a sauna here and I enjoy it. But a man still wants a real bath from time to time.”

His fingers were rubbing soothingly where he held her, as though to ease away any small hurt he might have inflicted. Had there been any? She couldn't remember. A shiver of pleasure danced beneath his touch. His eyes were as blue as the sky at high summer, thickly fringed by sun-kissed lashes. A night's growth of beard softened the harshly beautiful lines of his face. She had a sudden, almost irresistible urge to touch him slowly and lingeringly, so that she might learn every inch of him.

“You have a sauna?” Anything to distract herself from thoughts becoming more wayward by the moment.

He nodded without taking his gaze from her. “The only good idea the Danes ever had.”

“Better than invading England?” The question was out before she could stop it. Foolish, foolish! She should have kept silent, concentrated only on getting away. What was she thinking to converse with a naked man holding her captive?

His gaze drifted to her mouth, watching her lips move as she formed the words. “I suppose it depends on your perspective,” Hawk said absently. “To the Danes,
that's an excellent idea. To us …” He shrugged, in that gesture accepting the great struggle that had dominated his life. The struggle he was bound and determined to win even to the extent of forging an alliance between English and Norse against their common enemy, and taking a Norse wife to cement that alliance.

A Norse wife …

“Enough talk of war,” he said. “I have other matters on my mind.” All night he had chewed over his suspicions, now convinced he had to be completely wrong, now not certain of anything at all. In the end, impulse had won out, which was unusual, for he always thought before he acted even in the heat of battle when the razor-sharp quickness of his mind had saved his life more times than he could recall. But such thought was lacking where she was concerned. She fogged his mind, sowing confusion with every smile. How fortunate she was not smiling at the moment. Indeed, she looked as though she might never do so again.

“You said you would not lie with me.”

Her eyes widened. He watched, fascinated, as color crept over her cheeks. “I spoke in haste…. I meant—”

“Oh, then you will lie with me?”

“No! I mean, we should not speak of such things. My mistress …”

“Your absent, tardy mistress.” His eyes narrowed. To be safe, he tightened his hold on her wrist but carefully, for he truly could not imagine hurting her. Provoking her was another matter altogether. “Forget her, she is of no account.”

“What?
She most certainly is of account! Did you yourself not say we both owed her a duty?” His precautions were well taken. She tugged hard, trying to free herself. He continued to hold her easily.

“Duty is a cold bedmate. I prefer mine warm and willing. Better yet, as hot and yielding as you were yesterday.
Come here.” He did not wait for her response but began drawing her closer until she was half bent over the tub, her eyes so wide with shock he thought he might fall into them.

“I will not! How can you even think such a thing? Let me go! Stop it.”

He tugged a little harder. Just enough. She lost her balance and toppled over into the water. Indeed, she would have landed right on Hawk had he not removed himself agilely from the tub just as she entered it. There was only so much temptation a man could take and he thought it prudent to limit his. He stood, heedless of his nudity, watching her thrash about. Watching, too, what happened to the water. When the first traces of black color began running off into it, his expression changed. Uncertainty had held his anger at bay. Certainty unleashed it.

He yanked a towel from the nearby stool and wound it around his loins as he awaited the emergence of the soaking, sputtering, dye-stained Lady Krysta. His bride.

H
ER EYES STUNG. KRYSTA RUBBED AT THEM
as she struggled t o her knees in the tub. She couldn't believe he had pulled her in. What was he thinking? What did he intend? What should she … ? Her thoughts skittered to a sudden halt as she stared down at herself. Black dye ran over her gown, flowing into the water and, she realized belatedly, stinging her eyes.

A cloth landed in her face, tossed by a heavy hand. She grabbed for it as a harsh voice said, “Clean yourself and get out of there. Try not to make a mess while you're doing it.”

The realization that she was undone roared through her.
He knew.
And he was clearly furious. One quick peek over the top of the towel was enough to confirm that. Confirm, also, that he was scarcely clad, barely enough for modesty's sake. He stood with his legs braced apart, his powerful arms crossed over his chest, looking at her as though she were a bit of unpleasant something washed up at his feet.

Not a good beginning.

Her sodden gown and hair weighed her down but Krysta managed to drag herself out of the tub. She was trying to wipe the rivulets of dye from her face when she froze suddenly. Hawk had closed the distance between them so swiftly she had no warning. He stood directly in front of her, affording her an impressive view of his bare chest, and took hold of a strand of her hair. Examining it with the enthusiasm he might have given to a lump of seaweed, he asked, “What color is it really?”

Krysta coughed. Some of the water had gotten down her throat but she scarcely noticed that added discomfort, so small was it in relation to all else. “B-blond …”He obviously didn't like that color, for his derision increased.

“You expected … what? That I would not recognize you when you finally did appear simply because your hair had been darker?”

The knowledge of her own foolishness struck her so forcibly as to render her unable to answer. He let her hair drop and turned away, as though the continued sight of her was more than he could tolerate. “Get out of those clothes.”

“W-what?” Her voice returned but weakly, thinned by shock.

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Get. Out. Of. Those. Clothes. Is that clear enough?”

His back to her, he plucked a tunic off the stool and dropped the towel from around his loins. As he shrugged into the garment, Krysta's eyes widened. His back was broad, sculpted by bands of muscle, his waist and hips narrow, and his buttocks … Krysta had never before given a moment's thought to any man's buttocks. Now she found herself riveted by what had to be the most perfectly shaped pair in creation. He turned to catch her staring at him. For a moment, he looked surprised but suppressed that and eyed her narrowly.

“Not long ago, I asked you, not knowing you were
you, if you were a lackwit. You assured me you were not. Were you lying about that, too?”

That stung enough to rouse Krysta from her daze. “There is
nothing
wrong with my wits, and if you would but let me explain you would see that.”

“Oh, you will explain,
my
lady.” He laughed harshly. “Be assured, you will explain most thoroughly. But first, get out of those clothes. If I have to tell you yet again, I will strip them off you myself.”

Before she could offer her opinion of that, he strode to the door, flung it open, and bellowed for the servants. They stumbled in, tripping in their haste, only to freeze at the sight of Krysta standing there, dripping and dye-stained.

“Empty the tub,” Hawk directed, “and bring water to refill it. A great deal of water.” For good measure, he added, “Don't bother heating it, just get it up here.”

They rushed to obey, no doubt in haste to be away from their infuriated lord but also unable to keep so juicy a bit of gossip to themselves for very long. Krysta longed for them to linger, or for more to come, or for herself to fly out the window, anything just so she was not left alone with the Hawk bent on vengeance.

“My clothes will dry better on me,” she ventured. “The servants needn't be bothered with water. I'll fetch a few bucketfuls for myself or just go down to the river.” As she spoke, she tried sidling past him only to stop when he laughed.

She was grappling with the notion that he found all this amusing when he said, “You flatter yourself.”

“I what?”

“Flatter yourself if you imagine I want you out of those clothes because I desire you. You're filthy. You look like something a self-respecting cat wouldn't drag in. It is to your advantage—
yours
—to at least look human before
we discuss the reasons for your outrageous behavior. Now get out of those clothes!”

He clamped down hard on his temper but not before Krysta realized that she stood on the edge of a precipice. She should have stepped back. Any sensible person would have. But she was beginning to suspect that despite what she'd always thought about herself, good sense might not be her strong point.

“I will if you leave.”

Under other circumstances, his expression would have been comical. Now it was chilling. “Leave? You are telling me to leave … my quarters … in my stronghold? Leave?”

“Not telling, asking. If you want me to undress and bathe, please leave. And I'll need fresh clothes. Obviously, I can't put these back on. If you would be so kind as to send someone to the women's quarters, my chests are there.”

“You have no instinct for survival at all, do you?” He said it almost pleasantly, as though that was an interesting discovery.

It was that pleasantness, the suggestion that her plight was entertaining to him, that pushed Krysta over the edge. Beneath the trails of black dye, her cheeks flamed. She gripped her ruined gown between her hands and began twisting it as though it were her intended lord and master's neck. He observed that, too, with some interest and just a hint of trepidation. It stirred his own instinct for survival, however belatedly.