Gone. Cymbra stiffened suddenly. She leaned forward, staring. There was no mistake. She scanned every part of the palisade that she could see, and not a guard was in sight. Holyhood's security was more gesture than reality, but never before had there been no guards at all. Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Vikings.
Hawk would have been taking the cell apart with his bare hands.
The gray-eyed man was so calm.
So unconcerned.
From the wrath of the Norsemen preserve us, oh, Lord.
She turned, already running, meaning to call the alarm.
Running… straight into steely arms and a merciless hand that slammed down over her mouth. Hot, piercing terror tore through her. She struggled with desperate strength but uselessly. In an instant, she was lifted high against a rock-hard chest and felt herself being carried through her room, down the winding steps of the tower, out into the night.
"Be silent," Wolf said implacably. "If you scream, anyone who comes will die." He looked down into her eyes to see if she understood. She did. He released her mouth so she could breathe more easily but he did not lessen his hold on her or slow his stride. She was dimly aware of other men moving alongside them, more in number than the prisoners had been, swords gleaming. She caught a glimpse of the gates of Holyhood standing open. Then the fortress was behind her and there was only night and wind. And fear so great it threatened to swallow her.
Read on for a preview of
BELIEVE
IN ME
the second passionate book in Josie Litton's dual volume
DREAM OF ME and
BELIEVE IN ME
KRYSTA DID NOT APPEAR IN THE HALL THAT evening. She stayed out of sight, wrestling with what to do. All night she tossed and turned, trying to decide on some course that might yet bring a fair wind. She could confess all and throw herself on his mercy, but the mere thought filled her with dread. She could sneak off on her own before he sent her away, then return somehow as though just newly arrived. If Thorgold and Raven went with her, perhaps they could claim to have encountered their mistress on the way. But what chance was there that would work? Hawk had seen her too often and too clearly. She should have thought of that before embarking on what had seemed so sensible a plan, the selfsame plan now lying in tatters about her.
She rose at first light, dazed by sleeplessness, still trying to decide what to do. To her relief, she saw no sign of preparations for her departure. But that meant nothing. No doubt the Hawk's men were ready to ride in an instant. Her stomach churned with hunger but she could not bear the thought of eating. She heard Daria's shrill voice coming from the kitchens and turned instinctively in the opposite direction. Scarcely had she done so, and before she could take more than a step, she ran right into the steward, who must have come up directly behind her.
"Your pardon," Krysta said quickly and tried to move away, but the young man moved as well, blocking her.
"His lordship wants you."
"W-what do you… ?" she stammered.
"He wants you," Edvard repeated with a hint of impatience. "Upstairs in the tower room." When still she hesitated, he gave her a little push in the right direction. Worse yet, he stood right there, watching to make sure she went.
Krysta climbed the tower steps slowly. She was thinking desperately of what to say. If only she had a little more time, she might be able to come up with a plan of some sort or another. But time had run out and now there was nothing left to do save hope for the best. And pray, that might also help.
The door to the tower room was partly open. She took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and pushed through it.
The chamber took up the entire uppermost floor of the tower. It was dominated by the largest bed Krysta had ever seen, hung with richly embroidered curtains and covered with luxurious furs. She might have noticed nothing but that bed had it not been for a sight more arresting to the eyes. In a corner of the room, Hawk stepped into a tub of steaming water. She caught just a glimpse of his bare flanks before he lowered himself, preserving modesty but leaving plain for her befuddled sight the vast expanse of his heavily muscled chest and arms. That and his predator's smile.
"Don't just stand there," Hawk said. "Make yourself useful. I need my back scrubbed." Before she could get her mouth around a response, he ducked under the water, came up flinging drops in all directions, and began lathering his hair. She watched with unwilling fascination. His skin was bronzed and beneath it muscle and tendon moved with easy grace. His nipples were small and flat. Under his arms were tufts of hair that looked even silkier than that on his head. He ducked again to rinse and came up with water streaming down his face. Opening one eye, he glanced at her. "Mayhap you did not hear me."
She had heard him all right, well enough to know what the edge in his voice meant. He was bound and determined on this, for some reason. Mayhap he regretted letting her go the previous day and meant to remedy that, a thought which set her heart to racing. Or mayhap he merely wanted to humiliate her before sending her on her way. Whatever his intent, angering him seemed a poor choice.
Not that there were any good ones to be seen. With utmost reluctance, palpable in every step she took, Krysta approached the tub. She did not take her eyes from him but, once convinced she meant to obey, he ignored her completely. She blushed red and looked away quickly as he matter-of-factly went about his ablutions, grateful though she was that the water afforded some protection to her innocence. Or what remained of it after the awakening of desires she had not known she possessed.
Just then she was discovering yet another of them, the desire not to let him have his way completely. He wanted his back scrubbed, did he? With docility that should have alerted him, she knelt beside the tub, picked up a cloth, and dunked it into the water. Applying it and all her strength, she set about to scrub the skin right off his back.
Hawk laughed. Damn him, he thought her amusing. She redoubled her efforts. "Sheathe your claws," he said, still chuckling. "I've slept on rock and never noticed. I doubt you can have any ill effect."
"It won't be for want of trying," she muttered. There was no give in him at all. She might as well have been scrubbing stone. Warm, smooth stone so firm beneath her touch… She jerked back as though burned and tried to rise, only to be stopped by his hand clamped on her wrist. "You haven't finished," he said. His brows rose mockingly. "I thought the Norse prized cleanliness. Can't you even manage a simple bath?"
"If you took it properly, in a sauna like a person should rather than soak yourself like salted beef in a pail of water…"
"There is a sauna here and I enjoy it. But a man still wants a real bath from time to time."
His fingers were rubbing soothingly where he held her, as though to ease away any small hurt he might have inflicted. Had there been any? She couldn't remember. A shiver of pleasure danced beneath his touch. His eyes were as blue as the sky at high summer, thickly fringed by sun-kissed lashes. A night's growth of beard softened the harshly beautiful lines of his face. She had a sudden, almost irresistible urge to touch him slowly and lingeringly, so that she might learn every inch of him.
"You have a sauna?" Anything to distract herself from thoughts becoming more wayward by the moment.
He nodded without taking his gaze from her. "The only good idea the Danes ever had."
"Better than invading England?" The question was out before she could stop it. Foolish, foolish! She should have kept silent, concentrated only on getting away. What was she thinking to converse with a naked man holding her captive?
His gaze drifted to her mouth, watching her lips move as she formed the words. "I suppose it depends on your perspective," Hawk said absently. "To the Danes, that's an excellent idea. To us…" He shrugged, in that gesture accepting the great struggle that had dominated his life. The struggle he was bound and determined to win even to the extent of forging an alliance between English and Norse against their common enemy, and taking a Norse wife to cement that alliance.
A Norse wife…
"Enough talk of war," he said. "I have other matters on my mind." All night he had chewed over his suspicions, now convinced he had to be completely wrong, now not certain of anything at all. In the end, impulse had won out, which was unusual, for he always thought before he acted even in the heat of battle when the razor-sharp quickness of his mind had saved his life more times than he could recall. But such thought was lacking where she was concerned. She fogged his mind, sowing confusion with every smile. How fortunate she was not smiling at the moment. Indeed, she looked as though she might never do so again.
"You said you would not lie with me."
Her eyes widened. He watched, fascinated, as color crept over her cheeks. "I spoke in haste… I meant—"
"Oh, then you will lie with me?"
"No! I mean, we should not speak of such things. My mistress…"
"Your absent, tardy mistress." His eyes narrowed. To be safe, he tightened his hold on her wrist but carefully, for he truly could not imagine hurting her. Provoking her was another matter altogether. "Forget her, she is of no account."
"
What
? She most certainly is of account! Did you yourself not say we both owed her a duty?" His precautions were well taken. She tugged hard, trying to free herself. He continued to hold her easily.
"Duty is a cold bedmate. I prefer mine warm and willing. Better yet, as hot and yielding as you were yesterday. Come here." He did not wait for her response but began drawing her closer until she was half bent over the tub, her eyes so wide with shock he thought he might fall into them.
"I will not! How can you even think such a thing? Let me go! Stop it."
He tugged a little harder. Just enough. She lost her balance and toppled over into the water. Indeed, she would have landed right on Hawk had he not removed himself agilely from the tub just as she entered it. There was only so much temptation a man could take and he thought it prudent to limit his. He stood, heedless of his nudity, watching her thrash about. Watching, too, what happened to the water. When the first traces of black color began running off into it, his expression changed. Uncertainty had held his anger at bay. Certainty unleashed it.
He yanked a towel from the nearby stool and wound it around his loins as he awaited the emergence of the soaking, sputtering, dye-stained Lady Krysta. His bride.