Dream of Me/Believe in Me

half-brother gave you to me as servant, slave, whatever I desire. You
will
come, Krysta. As I stand before you, so shall it be.”
    Never, Hawk of Essex!
    The words remained unspoken. He could compel her, as she knew full well. He could take her to Winchester as he had sent Sven to Vestfold, in irons if necessary. Her pride rebelled and her curiosity was caught, a potent combination made more potent still by her simple longing to be with him.
    To Winchester and the king. The scholar-king of books and learning. The valiant warrior against the Danes and all the ravages they represented. The hope of peace … and love.
    To Winchester then and fate be damned.

Chapter TWELVE

    W IND FILLED THE SAILS OF THE LONGSHIPS passing through the strait to the south of the port of Hamtun. There where the rivers Test and Itchen joined, just opposite the diamond-shaped island with the ridge of chalk running like a backbone along its breadth, the water took on a hard chop. For once, Krysta had no wish to be at the rudder, glad simply to watch Hawk as he expertly maneuvered their vessel between the pebbly shore of the mainland and the chalky cliffs of the nearby island. Sunlight glinted off the thick mane of his hair. When he smiled, his teeth flashed brightly against his burnished skin. He was shirtless, wearing only breeches for even out on the water the late summer afternoon was pleasantly warm.
    For three days they had sailed on fair winds, anchoring only at night. For three days she had watched the passing countryside with its verdant valleys, plentiful rivers, and rolling chalk downs. For three days she had done her utmost not to think of the man who was never far from her side. Not once had he mentioned her confession of loving him, nor had he spoken again of her belief thatthey could not wed. He seemed intent on ignoring both, yet she wondered if what seemed to be lack of concern or interest wasn't instead the workings of a master strategist.
    He touched her, never carnally or romantically, but lightly and even seeming impersonally, the strength of his hand on her arm to steady her when the boat rocked, the quick stroke of his finger along her cheek to brush away spray, the pressure of his leg against hers as they sat together, on and on through each day in myriad tiny contacts that kept her constantly on edge and aware of him. And then there were the nights … Hawk insisted on sleeping beside her, pointing out that there was very little sleeping space on the vessel and what there was, everyone had to share. He made her concern sound silly, as though there could be no conceivable reason why she would object. To be fair, he did not touch her at night, but each morning she woke mortified to find herself curled against him, saved from humiliation only because he slept deeply and seemed unaware of her weakness.
    And weakness it was, of that she had no doubt, like sweet wine flowing through her veins and fogging her mind. A hundred times, nay a thousand, she caught herself staring at him. The beauty of land and sea, great as it was, could not hold her, but the beauty of the man proved a compulsion she could not resist. He was so perfectly formed, so ideally male, so innately graceful. It was all so easy to remember how he felt in her arms and in her body….
    Krysta groaned and turned her head away but not before Hawk heard her. “Something wrong?” he asked pleasantly. She murmured in the negative but that did not satisfy him. “Are you sure? The water's gotten rough. You're not feeling nauseated, are you?”
    His cheerful solicitude made her frown. “I don't get seasick.”
    “Anyone can, you know. I did myself one time whenwe hit a squall somewhere way the hell off the coast of Gaul. There wasn't a man on board who wasn't emptying up his guts. Why, the deck was slippery with it, and the smell— Oh, I'm sorry, that's probably not the best story to tell right now when you aren't feeling well.”
    “I'm feeling perfectly fine! Or I was until you chose to share your charming reminiscences.”
    He adopted an expression of such blatantly false repentance that it would not have gulled a newborn lamb. “Forgive me, I'm not used to having a woman on board ship. It's too easy to forget.”
    “You
forgot
I am a woman?” If she gave him a really hard shove, was there a chance she could knock him overboard?
    “Not forgot exactly. It's just that you fit in so well. You don't talk a lot or complain about the food. You do not need