Dream of Me/Believe in Me

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

Chapter FOUR

    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 wereyou, 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