Dream of Me/Believe in Me

effort. Were she braver, she might have asked him if he believed in love. But the thought of his likely answer terrified her. Best to remain in blissful ignorance where hope at least had a chance to grow.
    “I have been thinking about your reason for coming here as you did.”
    She swallowed against the tightness of her throat and waited.
    “This matter of wanting to get to know me better—is that really why you did it?”
    Krysta nodded. She took a breath, steadying herself. “It seemed a good idea at the time.”
    If he meant to mock her, he would do so now. She waited … hoping yet scarcely daring to hope….
    “The notion may have merit.”
    Krysta opened her eyes, belatedly aware that she had closed them as though in prayer, and stared at him. “Do you mean that?”
    He frowned. “Do not read overmuch into my words. I merely meant it would not necessarily be a bad thing for us to know each other before we wed.” Swiftly, he added, “That does not mean I approve of what you did. It was a harebrained scheme.”
    She was silent for a moment before she smiled. “We have hares in Vestfold. They are large animals with very powerful back legs, capable of leaping great distances.
    They survive the worst winters snug in burrows they dig deep beneath the ground and they seem able to thwart the wiliest predator.” Her eyes met his. “Even the hawk.”
    The sound of his laughter surprised them both and so startled a serving lad carrying bowls into the hall that he backed out hastily, juggling his burden in an effort not to drop it.
    “You don't look anything at all like a rabbit,” Hawk observed. As compliments went he supposed it wasn't much, but he had little experience in such matters. Moreover, he was suddenly preoccupied with the thought of
legs
, long, smooth, silken legs wrapped around him.
    “I need a bath,” he said and stood up. He wasn't retreating, precisely. He just needed a little time to himself to adjust to the discovery that his intended bride had a sense of humor. He valued honor above all else, and he prized intelligence. He was no more immune to beauty in a woman than was any other man. But secretly he thought a sense of humor among God's greatest gifts.
    Krysta resisted the impulse to ask if he wanted his back scrubbed again, but only just. At the mere thought of saying such a thing, much less the real difficulty she had not saying it, she pressed her lips firmly together, but she couldn't keep them there, so strong was the smile that demanded to be let loose.
    “Edvard didn't show me the sauna.”
    “I'll have to do that … sometime. I'll see you at supper.” He waited, needing to see the little nod she gave.
    Later, lying in the tub in his own quarters, he leaned his head back against the rim and searched the ceiling for answers. How did one get to know a woman? And what did such knowing mean? Men said they knew a woman when they had possessed her but Hawk dismissed that as an empty claim. He had risen from enough beds more aware than ever of the essential mystery of women to believe that fucking was the route to knowing any of them.
    Not that it didn't have its uses, it surely did. But this notion Krysta had that they should know each other before they wed—how could that be done?
    He had never spent any time with women, not really. The only woman he cared for was Cymbra, and he had deliberately sent her away to her own residence to keep her safe from the strange gift that made her both a great healer and vulnerable to the pain of anyone near her. Even after she'd learned to control that gift, he had still kept her secluded, realizing full well how men would fight for her once they glimpsed her beauty. Wolf had settled that problem, for which Hawk was duly grateful, but now he was with the problem of how to get to know Krysta.
    Men learned to know each other on the training field and in battle. Bonds forged in armed camps lasted a lifetime, whether that be measured in hours or decades. Yet he could hardly invite Krysta to join him in swordplay, at least not the sort that involved a blade. His contrary mind, ever irksome, suggested another sort of play in which they might indulge but he repressed that firmly. Taking her to his bed would make her his wife in his own eyes and those of his people. The blessing of the Church would be mere formality.
    Not that he wasn't tempted. The cooling water did nothing to discourage his desire for her and, indeed, nothing concealed it. The mere