Twin Passions(11)

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, pointed 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."