Dream of Me/Believe in Me

How easily that could be cast aside. How readily they could be together without hindrance. It had been so very long …
    “Oh, no!” Hawk sat up with unconcealed alarm. He looked at her darkly. “I swear I will not last out a year before you drive me truly mad. What do you think to do here? Do you think I can lie like that, with you in my arms, breathing your scent and being touched by you without needing to make you mine? You who are so bruised and battered, yet by the grace of God still—” He shook his head as though to clear it.
    “Still what?” Krysta asked. She propped herself up on her elbows, the better to look at him as he got off the bedand stared at her … nervously? Was that it? How curious, but perhaps men got like that when they were in love.
    “Never mind. Go to sleep.”
    “I have slept a day and more. I cannot possibly sleep more now.”
    “I will tell Eahlswith to drug you again.”
    “Fie on you for such a thought! I will not drink it. Nay, do not go. I need amusement.”
    “Amusement?” He looked torn between anger and laughter. “You toy with me?”
    She sat up further, smiling. The shoulder of her gown slipped away, revealing the creamy swell of her breast. “Aye, I will if you will permit it.”
    He was tempted, so tempted. She watched the battle raging within him, saw the moment when his sterner self won, and sighed with disappointment. “Go then.” Mutinously, she flopped back against the pillows. “I will be fine.”
    “You will be,” he agreed as he strode to the door. Over his shoulder, he said, “But I will send you amusement, lady, as is fitting for a bride.”
    Such was Krysta's lingering innocence that she did not take that for the dire threat she shortly discovered it to be.
    K RYSTA WINCED, TRIED TO MOVE, WINCED AGAIN , and stared at the queen beseechingly. Eahlswith smiled. “You look absolutely lovely, my dear. It's coming along very well.”
    Mindful of the seamstress directly beside her, wielding what must be the sharpest pins in the world, Krysta chose her words with care. “Is it done?”
    “Almost,” Eahlswith replied. “What do you think, Martha, another hour or so?”
    “Hmmmpf.”
    Thus having signaled her agreement, perhaps, the seamstress continued with her devilish work. Krysta closed her eyes and prayed for patience. Three days had passed since the queen had judged her fit to leave her bed. Three days of endless toil in preparation for what was apparently intended to be the largest wedding held in Winchester since the marriage of the royal couple's daughter. Indeed, Athelflad and her husband were only two among the hundreds of guests invited for the occasion. They were streaming in from all over England, eager to do the renowned Hawk honor. And no doubt curious to get a look at his Norse bride.
    Already the celebrations had begun. Nightly in the great hall, mummers, jugglers, minstrels, acrobats, and the like performed their arts for the amusement of the ever growing assembly. Outside in the courtyards and spilling over into the town, common folks joined in the festivities. A wedding at the end of summer when the harvest was in, and in the aftermath of Udell's defeat, gave everyone the perfect excuse to cast ordinary life aside and celebrate. From highest to lowest, youngest to oldest, all the residents of Winchester went about smiling and carefree, save perhaps the seamstresses and the cooks who would have their own rest when the deed was finally done.
    If it ever was, as Krysta had truly begun to wonder for it seemed to her that day passed day and her gown came no nearer to being finished. Yet, within the hour, while still she avoided gazing into the vast mirror of polished bronze brought from the queen's own quarters, the redoubtable Martha straightened her back, rose laboriously to her feet, and proclaimed, “There.”
    The ladies clustered around, clasping their hands and exclaiming. Krysta gathered her courage and dared a peek such as she had avoided through all the long, laborious process. There was a goddess in the mirror, deep within the glowing sheen of the bronze. Adorned in rich silk andvelvet the hues of a summer forest bathed in shafts of sunlight, the cloth studded with pearls and costly gems, a cascade of golden hair spilling over her shoulders, she gazed back impassively at the mere mortal staring at her.
    Gaping, really, for Krysta could not contain her astonishment. That could not possibly be her. She was … freckled,