Dream of Me/Believe in Me

Hawk's gaze lit on the table where the latest tray Aelfgyth had brought stood barely touched.
    “Your maid says you aren't eating.”
    Was that why he had come? Krysta wondered. Silently, she chided Aelfgyth for having said such a thing and for planting such worry in Hawk's mind.
    “I most certainly am eating. If it appears I'm not, it's because my maid insists on bringing me meals five and six times a day. If I ate even half of what she sets before me, I'd look like the Christmas goose in short order.”
    He started to laugh, caught himself and stopped, and continued to look at her sternly. “Be that as it may, you still aren't eating meat.”
    “I've never eaten meat,” Krysta corrected.
    “I would you do so. You cannot be healthy without it.”
    “Do you think me sickly and a weakling? I assure you I am not.”
    “Not now, but you will be if you do not eat properly. A good slab of beef, that's what you need, nice and rare, plenty of juice to strengthen your blood. I'll tell Aelfgyth to—”
    “Nay, do not! I swear I could not swallow such a thing. If you try to compel me, I will be ill.”
    “You exaggerate, but if you must be so finicky, I'll tell her to see it is cooked more, although that is a waste of good beef. Even so, you will eat it.”
    “Hawk, truly I cannot! Please believe me.”
    “Such a fuss over a little beef …” He paused, eyeing her. “I suppose I might be persuaded to relent.”
    She was aware suddenly of her heart beating very fast. “How … persuaded?”
    “I have been summoned to court. Come with me.”
    Her mind stumbled over that. Surely he did not mean … “To Alfred's court?”
    “It is the only one of consequence. You will enjoy it. There are more books, interesting people, all manner of diversions.”
    He was there before her, looking utterly solid and real, yet the words he spoke made no sense. Bewildered, she shook her head. “How can I possibly come with all that stands between us?”
    He ran a hand through his hair, unsettling it. She wished she could smooth it back and had to stop herself from doing so. “Nothing stands between us but what you have put there,” he declared. “There is naught but your own imaginings.” He looked at her closely. “Unless you merely seek some excuse to prevent this marriage.”
    “No! How can you accuse me of that? It is only yourown good I look to. You must marry a lady and one without any taint of … of anything.”
    “Of magick. Say it, Krysta, do not deny the word for it is of that you speak. Of magick and all the nonsense swirling around it, of pixies and elves and little people, of shape changers and changeling babies and even skelkies, that's what they're called, isn't it? Granted, you swim admirably well, but I have lain with you and you are as purely natural as I could ever hope a woman to be.”
    She straightened up on the bed, on her knees, heedless of how her movement drew the shift more tightly around her. Her hair tumbled in glistening disarray down her back. Green fire like that caught in emeralds burned in her eyes. “You need not remind me of what passed between us! I remember it all too well. Indeed, the memory taunts me, for now I know the full extent of what can never be, even if you will not accept it. How is it I have a greater care for your honor and well-being than you do yourself? Have you thought of that? In your wisdom, great Hawk of Essex, do you know the reason for that?”
    He shrugged broad shoulders and a flash of tenderness passed over his rugged features. “I suppose because you love me.”
    She choked, struggled to breathe, emerged from a moment of panic to stare at him aghast. “I do not!”
    “Krysta, delude yourself with tales of fantasy if you must, but do not lie.”
    “I'm not, I'm not!” Hot tears flowed down her cheeks, “Oh, God, I am! Curse you. I love you! I should not, cannot, but it does not matter. I lost my mother, my father, my home. I can lose you and survive.”
    He took a step nearer to the bed, even held out a hand to her, but he caught himself and let it fall. He was there to challenge, not to comfort. To win rather than console. “And beyond that, more than mere survival, can you do that, too?”
    “Damn you!”
    “As I damned you in the hall when you said we would not wed. But, sweet lady, it is not for you to decide. You will come with me to Winchester, to the king, and we will see what fate holds for both of us.”
    “And if I will not?”
    “Your