Twin Passions(19)

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, catching 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."

Gwendolyn suddenly lay still across his broad shoulder, except for her labored breathing. She had seen what the lash had done to Svein and Torvald, and would not put it past the Viking to do the same to her. And to be stripped to the waist, her slender back laid bare, would put a sudden end to her disguise as a boy. Nay, better to let the Viking think he has won this battle, she thought. Dropping her head against Hakon's back, she sighed in resignation.