Hakon did not answer. Had he been bewitched? Yea, it seemed so. He had known many women in the past, and had even loved a few of them. Or so he had thought at the time. But he had never felt stranger than when he had looked into the emerald depths of this woman's eyes.
""So 'tis true, then." Einar threw back his shaggy head and laughed out loud, the hearty sound carrying over the roar of the waves. "I never thought I would live to see you taken by any one woman!"
"Her name is Anora. She and her brother, Garric, the scrawny lad in the hall"—Hakon chuckled— "were taken captive by two of my men . . . against my orders." He sobered quickly at the thought of Svein and Torvald's deceit. He continued, relating the entire story to Einar, who listened with great interest.
"Those are the men chained to their benches this night?"
"Yea. They have been more trouble than their lives are worth, but I cannot help thinking I would not have the girl now if it had not been for them," Hakon replied, recalling how it had felt to hold her in his arms when he carried her ashore. She had trembled against his broad chest, reminding him of a frightened doe.
"It sounds like the mischief of Loki is afoot, my boy, or perhaps the goddess Freyja has seen fit to turn your head with a sea nymph instead of a woman!"
"Nay, Einar, she is a woman of flesh and blood . . . and she is mine."
"Then, my boy, perhaps you would like to seek out this woman?" Einar queried slyly, glancing sideways at Hakon. "I believe you will find her in the bathing house beyond that hall over there." He pointed, a lewd grin on his bearded face. "I myself feel a call to return to where the women no doubt are more willing!" With a crude laugh, he slapped Hakon on the back. Then he turned around and was gone.
"You old bear," Hakon muttered fondly, watching Einar's huge form lumber off along the shore. Why should he feel strange that Einar knew him so well? he wondered. The man had practically raised him along with his brother Eirik. Laughing to himself, he began to walk slowly toward the bathing house.
Hakon had barely reached the small stone building when the door opened suddenly. Greta, in a great hurry and with her head down, ran right into him as he stood along the path.
"Oh . . . my lord Hakon, forgive me," she blurted apologetically, wringing her hands. "I was just coming to speak with you." Her face was flushed from the steam in the bathing house, and her massive breasts heaved from obvious frustration. "The wench refuses to bathe, my lord. She would barely eat—like a bird she picked at her meal. And now she will not let me near her to remove her clothing. She does not understand that I mean her no harm—"
"'Tis all right, Greta," Hakon cut her off gently. "My thanks for your trouble, but I will see to the wench now."
"Very well, my lord." She smiled broadly, her eyes following Hakon's tall form as he disappeared into the bathing house. What she would give to be in that wench's place! she thought wistfully. Lord Hakon was by far the finest-looking man she had ever seen, and he no doubt knew how to please a woman!
Closing the wooden door softly behind him, Hakon stood silent for a moment. Anora was facing away from the door, her slender back proud and straight.
"For the last time, woman, I do not wish to bathe," she said clearly, yet firmly, caring naught if the woman could understand her words.
"But it is my wish that you do so," Hakon murmured in a deep, husky voice.
Startled, Anora whirled around, her hands clutching her mantle tightly to her body. Her eyes widened at the sight of the Viking looming in the doorway. He looked so much taller and broader than she remembered from the ship. Suddenly the bathing house seemed suffocatingly small to her as she stared at him across the room.
By the blood of Odin, Hakon thought, his blood hammering in his veins, only the gods could have created a woman as beautiful as this. His piercing blue eyes took in every inch of her. The steam, rising from the surface of the warm water in the large wooden tub, had flushed her fair cheeks with a rosy hue, and tendrils of her long, silver-blond hair curled damply about her delicate features. The curves of her slender body, accentuated by the clinging lines of her clothing, seemed to cry out to him for his touch.
Taking a step toward her, Hakon felt an inner sense of dismay as Anora edged away from him until she could go no farther, her back against the rough stone wall. He could see the pulse point at her slender throat beating rapidly, her fear of him an almost palpable presence in the small room. "Why do you fear me so, Anora?" he questioned softly, his eyes not leaving her face.
"'Tis not you I fear, m-my lord," she murmured shakily, "only what you will do with me." Her emerald eyes met his, an unmistakable plea for mercy reflected in their depths.
But Hakon could no longer deny the powerful attraction drawing him to her. He had known from the moment he saw her on the deck of his ship that this moment would come. His arms ached to hold her, his mouth longed to taste the sweetness of her lips.
"Do you not understand that you belong to me now? I have the right to do with you as I wish." Moving slowly toward her, he stopped by the side of the tub. His voice was low, commanding. "You will do as I ask, Anora. Take off your clothes, or I shall have to do it for you."
She stared at him in horror, unable to reconcile herself to the inevitable. "Nay . . . please," she whispered desperately, her eyes looking past him to the door. Suddenly she darted across the room past the other side of the tub.
But Hakon was quicker than she had expected. Catching her about the waist, he crushed her against the hard length of his body and brought his lips fiercely down upon hers. Anora frantically pommeled his broad chest with her small fists as she tried to twist free of his arms, but to no avail. Her slender arms were no match for Hakon's well-muscled strength. Catching both of her wrists behind her back with one hand, he entwined his other hand in her long, silky hair and deepened his kiss.
Sweet Mother Mary, protect me! Anora thought wildly. She could scarcely breathe. A stifled cry broke from her throat, shattering the stillness of the room.
The wrenching, agonized sound suddenly pierced the cloud of lust and raging desire in Hakon's mind. He pulled back from her lips, his passion subsiding at the paleness of her tear-stained cheeks and the stark fear reflected in her eyes. She stood limply against his chest, her heartrending sobs tearing through her slender body.
Stunned, Hakon angrily cursed his crude callousness. Thor, what had come over him? He had never before forced himself on any woman, preferring instead the pleasures of a willing partner in his bed. Yet, blinded by his desire, he had chosen to treat Anora like the lowliest of whores . . . and even they were well paid for their favors! Gathering her in his arms, he strode to the door and kicked it open violently.
"Greta!" he roared into the night. "Greta!" After a few moments the stout woman appeared from a longhouse nearby, clutching a woolen cloak about her shoulders and carrying a small oil lamp.
"My lord?" she asked, surprised at Hakon's obvious ill temper. He had been in such a fine mood only a short time ago.
"Show me to my sleeping room," he said curtly, a dark scowl on his handsome face.
He must truly be in a hurry to bed the wench, she thought somewhat jealously. Holding up her lamp, she hastily led the way along a dirt path until she reached Einar's hall at the far end of the settlement. As an honored guest, it was only befitting that Hakon have a room in the chieftain's longhouse.
Entering the hall with Hakon close behind her, Greta turned into an adjoining room and placed the oil lamp on a wooden table beside the large bed. "On the morrow, shall I bring a morning meal for you and the lady?" she asked, crossing the room to stand by the entrance.
"Nay, only for the lady," Hakon replied. "I sleep in the hall with my men tonight."
Greta started in surprise. "Very well, my lord," she muttered. Shrugging, she quickly left the room.
Hakon lay Anora gently on the bed and covered her with one of the warm furs. The sight of her long lashes, glistening with tears in the dim lamplight, caused him to curs
e himself again for his rough treatment of her. He tenderly traced the trail of a tear with his finger, marveling at the silky softness of her skin. Thor, he had only to touch her to feel the rekindling of his desire! He knew he could tarry no longer.
"Greta will prepare a meal for you on the morrow, then bring you to the ship. We will sail at first light," he murmured. "Sleep well, little one."
Anora watched in disbelief as he turned and abruptly left the room. Her thoughts whirled in dizzying confusion. Had she seen a flicker of tenderness in the Viking's eyes, where moments before there had been only a burning lust? Sighing raggedly, she only knew that for the moment she had been spared. Rolling over on her side, she clutched the soft fur to her chin and fell into a deep sleep.
Once outside the hall, Hakon leaned against the turf wall and looked up at the clear night sky. The sparkling stars, winking brightly in the heavens as if they were the eyes of the gods, seemed to be laughing at him. A trial of fire would have been no worse than what he had experienced this night.
Never before had he felt such overwhelming desire for a woman. Every fiber in his body had cried out for him to take her in the bathing house, to plunge himself into her, to feel her writhe in passionate abandon beneath him. Hakon knew it was his right—she belonged to him as his slave. But for some inexplicable reason, he would not—could not — take her by force.
Why am I being so sorely tempted? he raged silently, throwing his arms up to the glittering heavens. Yet even as the question tormented him, he knew the answer. It was the memory of her eyes, full of fear, that haunted him. Perhaps, with time, he thought, there would be longing and desire reflected in those emerald pools instead of fear. Perhaps, one day, she would come to him willingly.
Walking back to the main hall, Hakon breathed a fervent prayer to his gods that he would not have to wait for long.
Chapter 14
Gwendolyn drew her legs up to her chin, watching wide-eyed as the lusty festivities going on about her heightened to a fever pitch. From where she was sitting she could look down the length of the low-ceilinged room, crowded as it was by Hakon's men and a dozen scantily clad serving-women. The hall was a long, wide one, its massive walls a mixture of turf and stone, with a central hearth at one end that blazed with a roaring fire. A hole was cut in the roof above the hearth to let the smoke escape, but much of it still hung in the air. She coughed, her eyes smarting.
She had thought herself no stranger to the ways of men . . . until this night. Aye, 'twas true she had practically been raised by her father, and had always been surrounded by his thanes while hunting or training in weaponry. And she had heard plenty of bawdy tales from Edythe, her mother's lady-in-waiting. Why, once when she had gone to the stable to saddle her mare, she had seen a stable hand groping wildly at the bare breasts of a serving wench, their bodies melded into one as they writhed in a dark corner. The sight had strangely excited her, yet she had run from the stable, flushed and embarrassed.
But all that could not have prepared her for what was going on only a few feet away from where she sat. Now Gwendolyn realized she really knew nothing of men. Everywhere she looked, Hakon's men were falling upon the servant women, who screamed with wild delight. On the floor, on the tables, backed up against the wall—it did not seem to matter where the men took them. Holding her head in her hands, she closed her eyes to the lurid sight. God's blood, if this was the way Vikings were with their women . . .
Suddenly Gwendolyn's emerald eyes flew open. Sweet Jesu! Anora! A cold sense of foreboding settled over her as she recalled what the Viking had said before he left the hall. "If I do not return . . ." Aye, those had been his parting words. Angrily she tried to dispel from her mind the vision of her sister struggling desperately beneath the bronzed weight of the Viking, but she could not.
Gwendolyn looked frantically about her for a way to escape. She could see that Egil was enjoying himself with a buxom woman on a nearby bench, his broad back to her. He obviously had forgotten his orders from Hakon, for he was deeply involved in his own pleasure.
Seizing her chance, she jumped up from the ground and made a dash for the entrance of the hall. Nimbly dodging flailing limbs and sweating bodies, she was almost to the door when a glint of silver caught her eye.
On a table against a nearby wall, a small cutting knife lay beside a half-eaten portion of roasted meat. Gwendolyn quickly snatched the knife from the table and slid it into her leather belt. Looking furtively about her, she breathed a sigh of relief that she had not been seen. The drunken orgy showed no signs of abating, and Egil was still preoccupied with the blond serving girl. She slipped stealthily through the main door, then ran to a nearby building and crouched down low in the shadows.
Even though the hour was late, Gwendolyn could see by the dim light of the quarter moon that several people were still walking about the settlement. Hugging the turf-and-stone wall to keep from being seen, she began to inch slowly around the corner of the building.
Suddenly a huge man ambled by her in the dark, so close that the edge of his fur cloak brushed against her leg. Holding her breath, Gwendolyn's eyes widened as she recognized Einar. God's blood, he was alone! She watched in grim silence as he stopped before the door of the main hall and leaned upon it for a moment, swaying unsteadily. The sound of coarse, raucous laughter from within the hall caused him to chuckle at first. Then with a great laugh he pushed open the door and staggered inside.
Gwendolyn swore softly under her breath. Einar and Hakon had left the hall together, but only one had returned. Where, then, was Hakon? Forcing herself to remain calm, she scanned the surrounding buildings. There were so many. How could she ever find Anora?
Hugging her jerkin tightly to her chest, Gwendolyn rubbed her arms for warmth. There was no wind, but even so, the air was cold and tinged with the sharp scent of the sea. Nay, you will not find Anora standing here, she chided herself. Taking the small knife from her belt, she held it poised in front of her as she ran along the side of the building.
The figure of a woman hurrying along a path not far from her caught her eye. With a start Gwendolyn realized it was the same red-haired woman who had led Anora away earlier that evening. Looking down the path beyond the woman, she saw that it led to a very large longhouse near the edge of the settlement. Perhaps . . .
Daring to hope, yet fearing what she might find, Gwendolyn crouched behind a pile of wood as the woman passed by her, mumbling to herself. She waited until the sound of the woman's footsteps had died away, then ran swiftly up the path until she reached the ornately carved entrance.
Gwendolyn hesitated. Nay, 'twould be sheer folly to walk inside the longhouse, she thought, her mind racing. Keeping her head low, she crept along the curved sides of the wall until she came to a small window. It was covered by a fur pelt to keep out the cold, but a thin shaft of light shone between the edge of the pelt and the sod ledge. With her heart beating wildly against her chest, she pushed aside the lower corner of the pelt and peered inside the room.
"Out for a breath of fresh air, lad?" Rudely jerked back by the collar of her woolen shirt and grabbed by the shoulders, Gwendolyn's feet dangled off the ground as she was spun around to meet Hakon's narrowed gaze. As he lifted her up to within several inches of his face, his eyes glinted dangerously in the pale moonlight. "It appears to me you have seen fit to disobey my orders," he snarled, his strong hands gripping her shoulders like a vise.
Wincing painfully, Gwendolyn's first thought was to plunge her small knife into Hakon's side and twist it cruelly. But her hand lost its hold on the knife and it dropped to the ground with a thud.
"So, I see you have come well armed, Garric," Hakon said tersely.
He set her down so abruptly that she staggered back against the turf-and-stone wall, almost losing her balance. Then he bent and picked up the knife. A grim smile crossed his lips as he studied the meager weapon. Aye, Garric, you would have wasted no time in using it, if given half a chance, he thought. He glanced at her, catch
ing the look of pure hatred flashing at him from her emerald eyes.
Strange, Hakon thought. In the moonlight he could have sworn he was looking at Anora's face. Shrugging, his voice was stem. "I see I shall have to watch you more closely in the future, Garric."
"Do what you must, Viking, it matters naught to me!" Gwendolyn said defiantly. "What have you done with Anora?"
Hakon stepped back to get a better look at the brazen lad. Yea, what the boy lacked in size, he more than made up for in courage. Garric was dressed simply, yet his proud bearing bespoke a high birth. That will only make it harder for him to accept his fate, Hakon noted. He did not want to break the lad's spirit, but the sooner he accepted his status as a slave, the better.
"Your sister is no longer your concern, Garric. She belongs to me, just as you do," Hakon stated evenly. He paused, not missing her clenched fists, then went on ruthlessly. "Your efforts to protect your sister are in vain. If —or I should say when? —I choose to take her, it will no doubt be without your consent. Do not forget you are now slaves, Garric. There is naught you can do."
"Nay!" Gwendolyn screamed, the rage and frustration of the last several days finally overwhelming her. Lunging at Hakon, she threw her slender weight against him, striking him with her clenched fists.
Hakon had expected this outburst, but was taken by surprise at the ferocity of the lad's attack. Not a man who relished the idea of striking a mere boy, he quickly thought of another plan. Catching Gwendolyn by the wrists with one hand, he threw her kicking and struggling over his shoulder. A well-placed kick hit him in the stomach, and he grunted painfully.
"My patience is wearing thin, Garric," he said with a grimace, thinking maybe a sharp jab to the lad's chin would not have been a bad idea. "Perhaps a taste of the lash would serve to persuade you that I mean what I say."
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