Dream of Me/Believe in Me

not equal.
    They teased and laughed, stared at each other for long moments, and laughed suddenly once more. Gulls swooped to catch the bread they tossed and sandpipers raced among them, claiming their share of the bounty. Coming out of the water, they spied a clump of blackberries and ate them greedily until their kisses tasted of sweet, summer-poignant juice.
    “I have never known such a day,” Krysta said at last. She lay above Hawk, her body draped over his, her head resting on his broad chest, soft whorls of hair pillowing her cheek. Her heart ached with the beauty of it all. “I wish for a golden rope to catch the sun and hold it fast in the sky so that it may never descend.”
    “But night has its own gifts,” he said softly, and thought of her in his big bed with all the long hours of darkness to savor her.
    They sailed back to Hawkforte on the late afternoon tide. The wind was high but they tacked slowly, drawing out the time that was theirs alone. When they finally came within sight of the piers stretching out into the water, torches were already lit and the first faint stars could be seen.
    So, too, could they see the vessel in dock, a Viking ship by the look of the curved prow but much battered, its sail hanging tattered and torn from a mast that appeared not quite steady.
    “Someone ran into trouble,” Hawk said. “Likely the storm that blew through here did damage farther north.”
    “Perhaps …” Krysta hardly knew she spoke. All her attention was on the vessel. As they drew nearer, the ominous sense grew within her that she had seen it before. Something in the carving of the dragon's head on the prow, looking too large and top-heavy, jogged her memory. “I'm not sure but …”
    She never finished what she was about to say for just then they drew up alongside the pier and she saw the manstanding there. He was of middle height with thin, stooped shoulders, lank hair of a nondescript hue, and a pale face. With one hand he clutched a cloak tightly around himself as with the other he gestured wildly to Edvard, who appeared to be trying to soothe him.
    As Hawk jumped out to secure the mooring rope, the man caught sight of him. He brushed off the steward and hurried forward, armored in self-importance, oblivious to the scornful stares from everyone else on the dock including his own crew.
    “There you are!,” he exclaimed. “And about time, too. I dare the worst storm in a century, I almost drown getting here, and then I have to listen to your man tell me he has no idea where you've gone off to.”
    Hawk looked the interloper over and raised an eyebrow. “You have a name, I assume?”
    The fellow stared at him blankly. Before he could speak, Krysta stepped out of the boat and stood beside Hawk. Quietly, she said, “My lord, this is my half-brother, Sven.”
    Scarcely had she spoken than Sven flushed darkly. His eyes lit on her with stark hatred. He took a step toward her, the cloak tangling around his legs. Stumbling, he yelled, “You bitch! Humiliating our family, threatening everything! I'll teach you—”
    In a single motion, Hawk stepped in front of Krysta and lifted Sven off the ground. He held him, feet kicking in midair, his face turning a mottled red as the neck of his tunic tightened, slowly strangling him. “Do you realize who you are addressing, cretin?”
    Sven stared at Hawk with a mixture of terror and righteous indignation. His feet beat all the harder. In a frantic squeak, he said, “I know exactly who she is! It's you who don't!”

Chapter ELEVEN

    H E'S A FOOL, HAWK SAID HE WAS STRETCHED out on the bed in Krysta's tower, having absolutely refused to leave her after the scene on the dock. His hands were folded behind his head and he looked at his ease, save for the murderous glint in his eyes. Krysta was behind a screen, changing for supper after giving up the battle to get him to leave. To be truthful, she hadn't tried all that hard, and that worried him. She seemed deflated somehow, her usually resilient spirit dampened. All thanks to that cursed half-brother of hers. For a few moments, Hawk entertained himself with thoughts of various ways the idiot could die. It solved nothing but did make him feel slightly better.
    “Dragon called him a slug and a dullard, and he was right,” Hawk added. “His own men have been busy telling anyone who will listen that it was the smallest of squalls they hit, not some great storm, and that it was only the stupidity of Lord Slug