Dream of Me/Believe in Me

words written upon them.
    She nodded and searched his gaze anxiously for censure but to her great relief there was none. He merely looked surprised. “A rare accomplishment,” Hawk said. Later, he would deal with the notion of having a wife who read and who might therefore share his love of books. Just then it was enough to wonder what other skills she might conceal.
    “What do you think of it?” he asked, indicating the book.
    “It is beautiful but disturbing. Who is this man … Boethius?”
    “A Roman who lived several centuries ago. He loved music and mathematics but, as the book says, he found his greatest consolation in philosophy.” Hawk stared at the book a moment longer. “He wrote it in prison shortly before he was executed for something he had not done. If the doing of this truly consoled him, all to the good.”
    It was Krysta's turn to frown. “This book is not so old. The vellum is still fresh. Moreover, there is commentary within it from the present day. How comes all that to be?”
    “The commentary is Alfred's, as is the translation. The king is a great admirer of Boethius even if he does not agree with him completely. It is thanks to Alfred that copies of this and other books are made so that they may become known to those with skill to read or wit at least to listen.”
    “Then your king is a scholar as well as a warrior.” Krysta nodded thoughtfully. “I understand better now why you serve him.”
    “It is my duty to serve him.”
    “Only duty makes you loyal?” She spoke softly, knowing she might be trespassing upon his privatethoughts yet driven all the same to take the measure of this man who would determine her fate, did he but know it or not. “Does nothing else inspire it?”
    He did not answer her at once but considered his reply before he spoke. “Trust comes before loyalty and is necessary to it.”
    She paled, understanding too well how low she stood in such regard. “I can explain—”
    “Can you?” He leaned against the wall beside the window, his arms crossed over his broad chest, looking as though he was no more than mildly curious. She was not fooled. Already she knew him to be a man of deep currents. The surface of him could look unrippled, but below anything might be happening, anything at all.
    “Let me guess,” he said. “You disguised yourself because you feared capture by the Danes. Once you arrived, the natural shyness and modesty of a maid hindered you from announcing yourself.”
    It was perfect, an excuse with which no one could argue and which reflected well on her. Even as she wondered why he was offering her so easy an escape, Krysta almost succumbed to the temptation to take it. All that prevented her was the barrier of truth.
    “An interesting idea,” she said wistfully, “but not one that had occurred to me. I came as I did because I thought if I could learn to know you a little from those in your household before we wed, I would be a better wife.”
    She had a glimpse of his surprise before it was hidden behind the mask his eyes so easily became. Sardonically, he said, “I suppose I cannot dispute such selfless intent. You did it for my own good, is that it?”
    Short of revealing to him the entire truth, including her desperate need to be loved by him, Krysta could say little more. Still, she tried. “No, not entirely. We will both benefit if this marriage is a success, as will both our peoples.”
    They had come full circle to the subject of duty, Hawk noted. He stepped closer to her, pleased that she did not try again to withdraw from him. Slowly, he raised a hand and touched the glittering disarray of her hair. He had never seen hair quite like this before. It was thick and riotously curled as though a dancing wind had swept over it. Yet when he touched it, it felt like silk clinging to his fingers. An unwilling smile tugged at his mouth as he saw she had tried to take the wildness from it with a hair ribbon, which had itself become entangled. She was so close that he could smell the perfume of her skin like the roses that bloomed only by the sea and lent their fragrance to the freshening air. A pulse beat in the golden column of her throat. He stared at it for a long moment before a sigh escaped him. He plucked the ribbon free and set it to order with a gentle touch. She turned her head toward him in surprise.
    “Where has your anger gone?”
    He wondered the same but wasn't about to admit that. “To wait until I decide whether I