Dream of Me/Believe in Me

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.
    “Mortals,” Thorgold murmured just before he ambled off to find his sleeping place. He would toss some belongings in the men's hall to make it look as though hewere there, but the small bridge he'd noticed just before entering Hawkforte appealed to him far more.
    “You should rest,” Krysta suggested to her black-garbed friend when they were alone. The journey first by sea and then by horse had tired them all but Raven was the oldest of the trio by far, so old indeed that Krysta had no idea of her true age. Now that their destination was reached, it seemed only sensible that she take her ease.
    But Raven would have none of it. “Perched on a horse is a poor way indeed to see a land. I would know more of this Lord Hawk's wealth and what sway he holds over this place.”
    With that, she was gone. Krysta had no chance to remind her to be cautious before there was a faint, fast-fading flutter of wings beyond the hall.
    A short while later, having smoothed her gown and hair as best she could, Krysta also emerged, albeit in a somewhat more conventional manner. She stood for a few minutes, enjoying the touch of the sun on her skin, before surveying the busy scene.
    The manor of Hawkforte was hard by the sea on the southeastern coast of Britain in the place she knew was called Essex. It dominated a point of land that controlled sheltered bays on either side. Watchtowers were set at intervals all along the high timber walls, giving a commanding view of movements by land or sea. Higher still was the central tower that rose above the bailey yard, standing fully four stories tall. Accustomed as she was to the strongholds of the Norse, Krysta still could not help but be impressed.
    It being day, the wide wooden gates in the outer walls stood open. A steady stream of people, horses, and wagons moved through them. Krysta peered at the Saxons with unfettered interest, observing that contrary to the foolish rumors she had heard, they lacked both horns and cloven feet. A small smile tugged at her mouth as she sawher own good sense confirmed. They were people like anyone else. Soon they would be her people even as their master would be … well, no, not her master but her husband certainly, and she was determined that he would never have cause to rue that no matter what dour Daria had to say about it.
    She would be the best possible wife the Lord Hawk could ever hope for, an ornament to his hall, a comfort to his days, a partner in his endeavors to bring peace between their peoples. What more could he possibly ask for? Truly nothing, and that being the case, he would love her as she must be loved were she not to suffer her own mother's fate.
    A shadow moved behind her eyes. The dull echo of old pain rippled through her. Her mother … gone from her so long, who had risked her life for mortal love and lost. Her father had desired her mother, of that there was no question, but he had not loved her as she needed to be loved and so the tenuous connection between them stretched too thin to hold. With its snapping came the loss not only of the dream of love but also of a child, Krysta herself, left behind to the care of Thorgold and Raven. They had, as she grew, warned her that the same fate could befall herself. She had scarcely contemplated their warning, for that was when the thought of any man in her life seemed so