Anora hugged her fur cloak tightly about her, grateful for its warmth and protection. Rubbing her cheek against the softness of the fur-lined hood, she smiled. Wulfgar had given her the luxurious cloak shortly after their first meeting. She remembered how he had wrapped it about her shoulders, gently, yet possessively. She had felt too shy to look up at him, so he had lifted her chin to meet his gaze. She would never forget the searing intensity of his blue eyes, and her whispered name upon his lips . . .
She leaned against a tree for a moment and closed her eyes. The memory was alive and vibrant, as if it had been only yesterday. Suddenly she heard her name shouted aloud, breaking rudely into her thoughts. Her eyes flew open to find Gwendolyn looking at her quizzically.
"I said, we are almost to the stream bed," Gwendolyn repeated impatiently, shaking her head. Not hearing Anora's footsteps behind her, she had turned around to find her sister resting against a tree, her eyes closed dreamily, a secretive smile upon her lips. God's blood! She thinks of him all the time! Men!
Giggling sheepishly, Anora ran toward Gwendolyn and took her hand. "Come on!" She laughed, a flash of apology in her eyes. They dashed together down a steep hill, their gay laughter echoing in the narrow ravine.
At the foot of the hill, a clear stream surged through the ravine on its way to the river. Gwendolyn once again took the lead as they walked along the stream's grassy banks. The grotto lay just ahead, hidden beneath a large outcropping of rock.
Gwendolyn finally spied their secret hideaway from the bend in the stream. She whooped with delight and stepped eagerly across a natural bridge of jagged rocks that stretched across the stream bed.
"Gwendolyn, please wait!" Anora had tried to follow her, only to find herself balanced precariously on a large rock in the middle of the stream. She looked dubiously at her sister. This was the only part of their adventure she disliked. The rushing waters of the stream never failed to make her feel nervous and unsure of herself. She did not move until Gwendolyn stepped back out onto the rocks and grabbed her outstretched hand, guiding her safely to the far bank.
Hollowed out years ago by an ancient river, the grotto was set into the side of the ravine a short distance from the stream. A pool of tranquil water, glistening with the first early rays of sunlight, rested at the mouth of the grotto. A soft haze hung over the pool, lending an almost ethereal air to the quiet scene.
Gwendolyn stretched out on one of the flat rocks that surrounded the pool, breathing a sigh of contentment. Anora unfastened her cloak and spread it across her favorite rock, then knelt down along the edge. Flushed and warm from the exertion of their walk, she cupped her hand and took a drink of icy-cold water, then delicately splashed some on her face. Refreshed, she settled comfortably onto the rock and gazed about her.
"I will miss this place," she murmured softly, a hint of sadness in her voice.
"Aye, it will not be the same without you," Gwendolyn agreed, sighing. Turning over onto her side, she propped her head on her hand. The early morning sun felt warm upon her face, and she squinted against its brightness. The sky was gradually lightening to a vivid blue as the sun inched higher above the horizon.
Trailing her hand in the water, Anora watched the gentle ripples float on the surface of the pool in ever-widening circles. The stillness of the grotto was like a calming herb, lulling her into a strange sense of detachment. Childhood memories came flooding back to her, and she recalled the many happy hours spent with Gwendolyn in this mystical place. Suddenly she laughed.
"Do you remember the time you tried to spear that huge fish with your hunting knife, and you fell headlong into the pool?" Anora asked, her eyes sparkling with mirth as she recalled the image of a very wet and bedraggled Gwendolyn sputtering indignantly in water up to her waist.
"Not without a helpful shove from you!" Gwendolyn countered, laughing. Stretching languidly on the rock, she leaned over the edge and gazed at her reflection in the pool. Hesitantly, she touched her lips, and the image staring at her from the water mirrored the movement. "Anora," she asked softly, "does a man's kiss burn like fire . . . or ice?"
Blushing, Anora looked incredulously at Gwendolyn.
"'Tis a strange question you ask, Gwendolyn! You have never been one to concern yourself with the ways of men . . . I mean, in other pursuits besides hunting or riding . . . with women, that is . . ." she stammered, her voice trailing off as she stared at her sister.
"Leah once told me that if a man's kiss burns like fire, his love will be true, but if his kiss burns like ice . . ." —she paused, a faraway look in her emerald eyes— ". . . his love will bring pain and ruin." She looked up and gazed searchingly at Anora. "Last night, was Wulfgar's kiss like fire?"
Anora shivered suddenly. She had never liked Leah's superstitious notions. "Aye," she answered softly, drawing her knees up to her chin.
"'Twas as I thought," Gwendolyn replied. She tugged absently at a tuft of dried grass sticking up between the rocks. Lost in their own thoughts, neither spoke for several moments.
Anora finally broke the melancholy silence, understanding in her voice. "One day, Gwendolyn, you will know such a kiss." She reached out and squeezed her sister's hand.
"Perhaps," Gwendolyn said faintly, looking away. Suddenly she whispered, "Look, over there!"
A young doe stepped silently from the cover of the trees and walked toward the far side of the pool. Stopping to sniff the air, the beautiful animal stood motionless for a moment, its soft, brown eyes watchful and alert.
Gwendolyn and Anora gazed at the doe in awed silence, scarcely breathing, as the graceful creature bent its head to drink. Its pink tongue scarcely disturbed the surface of the pool. Several times the doe lifted its head and looked about cautiously, then quickly took another drink.
Suddenly a loud, crackling sound, like the snapping of a tree branch, startled the animal. It froze momentarily, its nostrils flared and muscles twitching. Then, with a bound, the doe disappeared into the dense trees.
"Gwendolyn, what was that?" Anora asked fearfully, looking beyond the pool into the forest.
"Shh!" Gwendolyn whispered, holding her finger to her lips. She rose to her feet. Listening for any sounds, her hand went to the hilt of her hunting knife, strapped to her waist. "We must get back to the stronghold!" she hissed urgently.
Anora stood and hastily wrapped her cloak about her shoulders. She had no reason to doubt Gwendolyn's instincts, honed as they were by years of hunting and training with their father.
They left the shelter of the grotto and quickly ran to the stream. Gwendolyn stepped gingerly over the rocks to the other bank, then turned and beckoned to Anora. "Come on!" she urged, looking about them.
Lifting up her skirts with one hand, Anora held out her arm to balance herself. When she had crossed almost to the other side, she lost her footing and slid off the slippery rocks into the cold, surging water. "Gwendolyn!" she shrieked, her feet sinking into the thick mud, the heavy currents of the stream dragging at her skirts.
"Here, take my hand!" Gwendolyn yelled, stepping back onto the rocks. Pushing the wet hair out of her eyes, Anora lunged for her sister's hand and just barely caught it. She hung on desperately as Gwendolyn dragged her from the stream and helped her to her feet. "Are you all right?"
Nodding reassuredly as she fought to catch her breath, Anora managed a faint smile. "I will be fine, but I fear my tunic will never be the same." Holding up her muddy skirts, she followed close behind Gwendolyn as they quickly made their way along the steep hill.
Scanning the dense trees ahead, Gwendolyn's wary eyes spotted a flash of movement. She drew her hunting knife from its sheath and held it poised in front of her. "Anora?" she whispered, reaching behind her for her sister's hand. She felt only empty air.
Wheeling around, she was not prepared for the sight that greeted her. Anora, her eyes wide with fright, was wrapped within the huge, bronzed arm of a giant of a man, his massive hand covering her mouth. His other arm brandished a long, point
ed spear, which he had trained directly on Gwendolyn's throat. Towering over them both, the bearded giant was grinning from ear to ear, but his eyes glinted dangerously. He uttered some words in a foreign tongue, motioning for Gwendolyn to drop her knife.
Hesitating for a moment, Gwendolyn understood true fear for the first time in her life. Trained expertly by her father in all manner of weaponry, she knew none of her training could have prepared her for this encounter. Licking her dry lips, she shifted her feet to better her stance.
"I would na' try anything foolish, lad. Torvald has been known to skewer larger men wi'out blinking an eye!"
Startled by the guttural voice, Gwendolyn turned slowly around to face her new opponent. Her heart sank as another man, shorter than the blond giant but stockily built and well muscled, stepped out from behind a tree. He stood with his feet spread wide and arms folded across his broad chest, eyeing her shrewdly. A jagged scar, slashing down the left side of his face and ending at the corner of his thin lips, had marred what might have once been a handsome face.
Speaking again in his strangely accented English, the man took a menacing step toward Gwendolyn. "Drop the weapon, lad. 'Twould na' do for your fair sister to see your blood spilled out upon the ground."
Ignoring his words, Gwendolyn suddenly lunged at the man. She caught him off guard by her quick movement, and was on him before he could reach for the sword at his belt. Hitting him with the full force of her slender weight, she raised her arm to plunge her knife into his chest. A sharp, sickening blow to the side of her head stopped her, and she fell heavily to her knees. Through a maze of pain she could hear Anora screaming. Then all was blackness as she slumped to the ground.
Chapter 8
Anora's screams died to a whimper as she stared in disbelief at Gwendolyn's crumpled form lying on the cold ground. She longed to rush to her sister's side, but the bearded giant held her fast, his massive arms gripping her like bands of iron. She watched fearfully as the other man knelt down beside Gwendolyn.
"'Twould seem your brother has little fear of death," he muttered wryly, "or else his foolishness has made him bold." He shook his head grimly. He did not relish the thought that a beardless youth had almost sent him to Valhalla! He rolled Gwendolyn roughly over onto her back, then took a leather thong from his belt and bound her hands tightly.
A large, angry welt on the side of Gwendolyn's forehead and the ashen pallor of her skin caused Anora to wince painfully. Gwendolyn was lying so still that the shallow rise and fall of her chest could barely be seen through the thickness of her fur-lined jerkin. He thinks she is a boy, Anora thought dazedly, her mind reeling from the sudden twist of events.
Following only a few steps behind Gwendolyn, Anora had not even heard the huge man steal up behind her. He had grabbed her so suddenly that the breath was knocked from her body, her scream stifled by his hand clapped over her mouth. Unable to voice a warning, she had watched in horror as Gwendolyn attacked the scar-faced man, only to be felled by a glancing blow from the butt of the giant's spear. Biting into her captor's hand, Anora's agonized screams had torn from her throat, echoing through the sunlit woods until a filthy rag had been stuffed in her mouth.
"There, now, that should hold the lad for a while," the scar-faced man muttered, rising to his feet. Licking his lips, his pale, blue eyes moved lustfully over Anora. Her wet tunic and mantle clung to her shivering body, accentuating her delicate curves. "'Tis strange that a beautiful lass such as yourself would have a mere lad for her protector," he said thickly, walking toward her.
As he drew closer, Anora was assailed by the man's rank odor of sweat and grime. She longed to strike out at his leering face, but the grinning giant held her arms pinned cruelly behind her. Feeling as if she would retch, she cringed and turned her face away.
"You look to be a fine, highborn lady," he sneered, wrapping a strand of Anora's long, silky hair about his finger. The disgust reflected in her emerald eyes incensed him. "Na' good enough for the likes of you, eh, lass?" jerking her chin around sharply to face him, he pulled the rag from her mouth and brought his lips down upon hers in a crushing kiss. His tongue, hot and insistent, forced apart her bruised lips, while his hands brutally squeezed her breasts through her wet clothing. Sickened by his foul breath, Anora suddenly bit down hard on his tongue.
Jumping back in stunned surprise, the man stared furiously at Anora for a moment in disbelief. His scarred face was distorted in rage, and a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. "English slut!" he hissed, slapping her harshly across the face. The force of the blow numbed Anora's senses, and she felt her body go limp.
Laughing crudely at the sight of his wily companion momentarily bested by a slip of a girl, the bearded giant spoke gruffly in his own language. "By the blood of Thor, Svein, if you want the girl, take her!" Ripping the sodden cloak from Anora's shoulders, he threw it on the ground and pushed her down upon it. "Just be quick about it so I can have a turn. I've never sampled so fine a wench before, and from the looks of her she's probably never been ridden!"
Looking up at their leering faces, Anora felt a terrible dread wash over her. She did not have to know their language to read the lustful intent burning in their eyes. Looking desperately about her for any chance of escape, she knew it was futile. Gwendolyn was her only hope, but glancing at the unconscious form of her sister, she knew she could expect no help from her now. If they think she is a boy, at least she will be spared my fate, Anora thought fleetingly. Then suddenly Svein was upon her.
Shoved roughly onto her back, Anora felt his weight covering her body as one hand frantically lifted the skirt of her tunic and the other savagely squeezed her breast. Hot tears flowed silently down her ashen cheeks as all hope fled from her mind, the serenity of her world shattered forever. Wishing for death to save her, she stared blankly into the blue depths of the morning sky.
Suddenly Svein's thick body rolled off her and he jumped to his feet. Turning to his bearded companion, he spoke raggedly, his breathing labored. "Did you hear the signal, Torvald?"
Nodding, the huge man pointed in the direction of the river. Once again the long, drawn-out sound of a horn could be heard in the distance, carried high upon the wind.
"Damn!" Svein spat angrily, fumbling with the leather belt at his waist. Of all times to be signaled back to the ship! Groaning painfully at the heated ache in his groin, Svein narrowly eyed the trembling woman at his feet. Thor! His blood boiled just at the sight of her! Yet he knew now he would have to wait to taste her charms. The signal could mean only one thing—the longship was repaired and ready to sail. There was no time to spare, or they might be left behind. Muttering curses to himself, he bent to pick up his sword.
"'Tis a shame to leave such a comely wench," Torvald stated regretfully, looking at Anora lying huddled at their feet.
"Who said aught of leaving her?" Without hesitation, Svein bound Anora's wrists and wrapped her in his fur cloak. Swinging her up in his arms, he hoisted her over his broad shoulder like a sack of meal.
"Have you forgotten Hakon's orders, then?" Torvald queried, shifting his feet nervously. A hint of fear glinted in his eyes that seemed oddly out of place with his massive size. "A harmless tumble with a wench is one thing —out here, no one would ever know. But to bring her aboard the ship—"
"You fret more than a weaned babe!" Svein cut him off sharply. "Are you daft, man? The gods did na' put these two in our path for us to leave them here!"
"So you also plan to bring the lad?"
"Listen, man!" Svein spoke hurriedly. "We can hide them in the cargo well during the voyage. Then, when we land, we can get them off the ship under cover of night! Think of the silver, Torvald! 'Tis rich men we'll be once we sell these two!"
"But what of Hakon, Svein?" Torvald asked doubtfully. "'Twill not set well with him that we disobeyed his orders."
Svein peered at Torvald, his pale eyes reflecting the depth of his greed. "Look at them, man! They'll fetch the highest price fo
r slaves—of that you can be sure!" Pausing for a moment, his voice fell to an anxious whisper. "Torvald, we'll have enough silver to buy our own ship. Aye, think of it! We can sail home to Dublin on the first tides of spring!"
The big man's eyes widened, his reluctance quickly fading. Our own longship, he thought shrewdly, a slow grin spreading across his bearded face. In his mind's eye he could see himself at the helm of a mighty dragon of the sea with the northern wind catching the brightly colored sail. Grunting, he nodded his massive head in assent.
"Good!" Svein exclaimed, flashing a sly, toothy grin. "Throw your fur clock over the lad's head and let's be off. 'Tis my thought the ship is ready to sail!"
Torvald lumbered over to where Gwendolyn lay. He sat down on his haunches and wrapped her in his heavy fur cloak, then tossed her over his shoulder. As he rose to his feet, a low moan broke from her throat.
"Is the lad awake?" Svein asked nervously. Hurrying over to Torvald's side, he pulled Gwendolyn's head up by her close-cropped curls and peered at her bruised face. Her eyelids fluttered ever so slightly, but she had not regained consciousness. Relieved, Svein let her head drop. Then, in a low, threatening voice, he turned his head and muttered to Anora, "Any noise from you, lass, and your brother will not live to see the morrow!"
Chapter 9
"Sound the once born again, Bjorn, and Loki help them if they cannot hear it!" Hakon shouted. He turned back to the men at his side, conferring with them in low tones as they stood near the stern of the longship. "You have done fine work," he murmured appreciatively, running a large, tanned hand along the oaken planks of the ship. Truly, they have worked wonders, Hakon marveled, thanking the gods for the skill of his crew.
Twin Passions Page 6
