Dream of Me/Believe in Me

curtains that fluttered lightly in the soft breeze admitted through the windows that stood open to the night sky. Sprinklings of petals adorned the bed linens and pillows. Into that feminine bower he stumbled, a thoroughly masculine and befuddled presence.
    He had been that way since first catching sight of her as she came to him on the white mare, the horse garlanded in ribbons held by laughing children. For just a moment, she had looked like a glorious idol adorned with jewels and gold, a distant creature beyond the touch of any man. But then she had seen him, and the look in her eyes … Ah, that look. He would carry the memory of it into the world beyond.
    Now she was here, adorned in little more than her satiny skin. His hand looked very large and dark against the slender curve of her shoulder. Slowly, he drew her to him. The bruises were faded but he thought of how recently she had been hurt, and hesitated.
    “Oh, dear,” she murmured.
    He yanked his hand away as though burned. “What?”
    She looked up at him through the thick fringe of her lashes and he saw the laughter dancing in her eyes. “Marriage hasn't turned you bashful, has it, my lord?”
    Bashful? There were men who would fall over holding their sides, rolling around on the floor at the thought of the Hawk of Essex being bashful. There were women, not all that many but a fair enough number, who would be equally amused.
    Yet even as he thought that he felt a dull flush creeping up over his face and realized she wasn't entirely wrong.
    “I wouldn't say bashful … exactly. But you've been through a lot and I wouldn't want to hurt you.”
    “Oh, Hawk.” So tenderly did she speak his name that it lingered like a caress. He was still savoring it when she sat down on the bed, took his hand in hers, and drew him to her. “Never could you hurt me. Only your absence can do that.”
    That clinched it. There was only so much a man could stand and he had reached his limit. Teetered right over it, really, for he could do naught but join her on the bed, gathering her to him, running his hands over her as though he could not quite believe she was really there with him.
His wife.
    Hesitation vanished as easily as did their garments. They came together hungrily, rejoicing in each other. Yet for all that Hawk went very slowly, drawing out her pleasure until she was mindless with need for him. Even then he lingered over her, passion pierced by tenderness and lit by wonder that her exquisite body held within it such mystery. When his mouth drifted over her hips and soft belly where their child slept, he knew joy so fierce as to eclipse all else. With the greatest care, he entered her but kept the rhythm of their lovemaking gentle. Her release when it came so enthralled him that his own struckwithout warning. It went on and on, seeming without end, until with a vast groan he slumped against her. With the last of his strength, he rolled over to protect her from his weight. She curled close, her head on his chest, panting softly. Long moments passed before her eyes drifted open.
    And when they did, she laughed.
    Hawk just managed to lift his head and look down at her, then at himself. He would have chuckled too, but it required too much effort. It was enough to fall back against the pillow and give fervent thanks that none of his enemies could see him as he was just then, bedewed with the labor of love and covered with clinging flower petals.
    THEY LINGERED A WEEK IN WINCHESTER. FOR THE first three days, they did not stir from the bower. Food, wine, water, every conceivable need was brought to them. They slept, fed each other delicacies, made love, took playful baths together, and slept again. Time passed too swiftly.
    On the fourth day, Hawk emerged to take part in the games held in honor of the marriage. He received the usual good-natured ribbing about his absence along with the predictable suggestions that with his strength so sapped, he would be a less than formidable adversary. This he took in mellow humor before going out onto the field to defeat the half-dozen opponents foolish enough to face off against him. These worthies departed limping and wiser.
    He enjoyed himself tremendously. Seated beside Eahlswith in the reviewing stand, Krysta endeavored to do the same. Through the first of his matches, she scarcely breathed and held so tightly to the arms of her chair that her nails left marks in the wood. By the third match, her hands were folded in her lap