Dream of Me/Believe in Me

was smiling.
    She amused him, that was all. There was something about her odd combination of shy awkwardness and innocent grace that pierced his reserve. It wasn't desire he felt, merely humor. Not that she wasn't lovely, she was that, but there were plenty of lovely women. He'd never hadany trouble taking or leaving them as he was wont. After all, a man had to be ruled by higher considerations. Only a fool was led by his cock.
    A shower of pebbles rolling from beneath his boots drew Hawk's attention to the fact that he was walking down the hilly slope to the beach. He hadn't meant to do that, but what of it? He'd come out for a bit of time to himself before the hurly-burly of the day. Who said he couldn't spend it strolling along his own shore. Indeed, she was the interloper, not he. She and those two other strange ones had come uninvited, unaccompanied by his tardy betrothed, and apparently now with nothing to occupy themselves save amusement. He was surprised Daria hadn't organized some work for them, but then he supposed she had no reason to allow them any usefulness that might reflect well on their mistress. Briefly, his mind drifted to Daria's likely reaction to being supplanted by the Lady Krysta. He'd have to deal with that, he supposed, and firmly, but he couldn't very well until the lady herself arrived and he had some sense of how assertive she was likely to be. From what he could see so far—or rather not see since she did not deign to present herself for his perusal—she was either extraordinarily bold in delaying her arrival or equally timid. Either way, he suspected he was going to be troubled.
    And that being the case, there was all the more reason to take a pleasant stroll down the beach.
    Krysta was bending to examine an opalescent stone gleaming in the little eddies of water near a rock pool when a shadow fell across her. She looked up, shading eyes that widened at the sight of the dark shape silhouetted against the rising sun. The Hawk. She knew him in an instant even though she could not make out his features. He was a very large man, easily standing head and shoulders above her, and she herself was tall compared to many of the Saxon women. Those shoulders were very broadindeed, so much so that they seemed to block out the sun. There was no softness about him, neither in his stance nor in the strength he radiated, save perhaps in the curls of his hair moving gently in the breeze. Krysta forced herself to focus on those curls where they clustered near the nape of his neck. Truly, they looked as fine and delicate as the silk on a baby's head. The thought made her smile.
    “Good morrow, woman.” His voice was deep, like water far in the earth. He held out a hand. She took it without thought and stood. His palm was large, hard, and callused. His skin was very warm. She snatched back her hand and squinted against the sun.
    “Good morrow, my lord.” She spoke clearly enough yet her voice sounded weak in her own ears, like the song of a reed cast upon urgent wind.
    “Where is your mistress?”
    The question was abrupt, the tone all the more so. Krysta stiffened. Without meaning to, she looked up, meeting his eyes. “My mistress … lord?”
    “The Lady Krysta. Do you not remember whom you serve?”
    Was he always so peremptory? So rude? This man whose love she must win? Her mouth thinned. “I remember well enough, lord. The Lady Krysta is coming here.”
    He ran a hand through those silken curls and frowned, his impatience manifest in the way he turned, half-away as though wishing to be done with her, yet turning back as though uncertain in his desires.
    “I know that, woman. What I am wondering is why she is not yet here.”
    She had not anticipated that he would ask her. Indeed, she had not expected to have speech directly with him while she was no more than the servant of his absent betrothed. She had thought merely to observe from a safe distance.
    There was very little distance between them now and she did not feel safe at all.
    “I cannot speak for the Lady Krysta, lord.”
    A small jolt of fear went through her as he scowled. Was he a violent man, her betrothed? Yes, of a certainty he must be for he was a mighty warlord, but was he violent to those weaker than himself? Would he strike a servant unable to provide him with the information he sought?
    Would he strike a wife who displeased him?
    He sighed and shook his head. “No, I suppose you can't. Mayhap I should not have