Twin Passions(33)

Anora could not believe her ears. Sweet Jesu! Gwendolyn has gone mad! she thought frantically, tears rushing to her eyes. It was more than she could bear. She fell to her knees, her shoulders shaking from the despair that wracked her body. Would that Svein had killed her rather than see her sister like this!

Gwendolyn dropped to her knees and shook Anora roughly. "Listen to me," she pleaded desperately, "for we have little time left! No doubt Olav will soon call for you." She held Anora's face in her hands. "I cannot bear the thought of you sacrificing yourself for me. You belong to Wulfgar . . . he is the only man who should ever touch you!"

Anora nodded numbly. Her eyes stared into the distance as she remembered those long days spent in the tent on Hakon's ship during the sea crossing. She had never told Gwendolyn that she had considered ending her life then, that she would rather have died knowing one night with Wulfgar than feel another man's hands upon her. It was only Gwendolyn's vow to her that had restored her will to live and given her hope.

Gwendolyn rushed on anxiously. "I had thought all was lost until you begged Hakon to allow you a few moments to care for me. It gave me the time I needed to think." She stood and pulled off her jerkin. "Here, quickly! Exchange your clothes with mine. Then I will have to cut your hair, Anora. 'Tis really the only thing that sets us apart. You must now play the part of Garric, while I will go to Lord Hakon in your place. He will never know the difference, for we look so much alike. If I have managed to deceive him this long as a boy, surely this plan cannot fail!" She hurriedly stripped off her shirt and bent down to pull off her leather boots. "Now, Anora! Give me your clothes!"

Anora stared dumbfounded, her mind racing. "You would do this for me?" she asked, searching Gwendolyn's face.

"Aye," Gwendolyn replied simply. She straightened up and embraced her sister tightly. "I would do aught to protect you, Anora."

Her eyes shining with grateful tears, Anora hesitated no longer. She quickly slipped her plain woolen mantle, then the linen shift, over her head. She had lost her fur cloak during the awful encounter along the shoreline, though she had scarcely noticed the cold until now. She stood shivering while Gwendolyn finished undressing. Then she quickly donned the clothes tossed over to her.

"You always wished you had the daring to wear men's clothing, Anora," Gwendolyn whispered, a faint smile on her lips as she pulled the shift down over her head, then the mantle. "Now is your chance." At any other time she would have laughed. But a strange fear was beginning to gnaw at her, chasing all thoughts from her mind and threatening to weaken her resolve. Nay, she could not change her mind now, she chided herself. There would be no turning back . . .

Anora's worried voice interrupted her dark thoughts. "But I know naught of horses and such, Gwendolyn. What shall I do—"

"I will teach you what I can whenever Lord Hakon is away from the settlement, though you will have to learn fast," she replied. "And if there is need, I can always become Garric again!" She winked reassuringly. "Now, kneel down, Anora, so I may cut your hair," she murmured, picking up the blade from the ground.

It did not take long before the stable floor around them was strewn with Anora's long, silver-blond tresses. Gwendolyn stepped back to survey her handiwork. Aye, it would have to do, she thought grimly, noting with satisfaction how her sister's newly shorn hair curled softly about her face much the same as her own.

"'Tis a small price to pay for such a cost," Anora murmured. She quickly gathered her hair in a pile and was about to hide it under the straw when Gwendolyn stopped her.

"Nay, Anora, I wish to take it with me to the Viking's hall," Gwendolyn whispered. She bent down and scooped up the silky mass.

Suddenly Olav's voice boomed out from the stable yard. "Enough, wench! If the lad needs further help, I will fetch the healer to minister to him. Come out from the stable!"

Gwendolyn wheeled around, her hand to her throat, the other clutching the long strands of silver-blond hair. Suddenly she did not feel so brave.

Anora threw her arms about her sister's neck, her face wet with tears. "I shall never forget what you have done for me this night, Gwendolyn," she said softly.

Gwendolyn nodded, though her eyes were distant. "Lie down on the pallet . . . quickly!" She covered her sister with the woolen blanket. "You are now Garric, slave and stable hand to Hakon Jarl!" she whispered vehemently. "We will play this out as long as we can, and hopefully find a way to escape before our guise is discovered!"

And if God wills it, she thought, crossing herself. She turned away abruptly, knowing that if she lingered any longer she might lose her courage. At that moment Olav pushed open the stable door.

"Come on, wench, before Lord Hakon returns himself to carry you back to his hall!" he blustered. He stepped back in surprise. What has the wench done to her hair? he wondered, his mouth gaping as he looked at the long strands dangling from her hand. Truly the short curls did little to lessen her beauty, but he could not help but think Lord Hakon would be extremely displeased. He shook his head, his eyes flickering over the huddled figure lying on the pallet. He bent down to pull back the woolen blanket, but Gwendolyn stopped him.

"Please, do not disturb him," she murmured quietly, her hand on his arm. "My brother is sleeping at last."

Olav stood up, shifting uncomfortably under her steady, emerald gaze. He was not immune to the charms of a beautiful woman, and this one was truly bewitching. He found himself nodding, then followed her from the stable as she stepped out into the cold night air. She shivered visibly. Olav took his heavy hooded cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around her.

"Come, lass, I will show you the way," he muttered, holding her arm gently. Two other guards walked before them, their blazing torches held high to light the path leading to Lord Hakon's hall.





Chapter 23





Gwendolyn entered the dimly lit hall, still wrapped in Olav's hooded cloak. Her heart was pounding madly, and try as she would, she could not still her trembling. She could see a glowing light from the central fireplace within the main room, but she did not see any sign of Hakon. For a moment she stood as if rooted to the floor, overwhelmed by fear of what was to come.

Hakon's deep voice suddenly called out to her from across the hall. "Come forward into the light, Anora," he commanded.

Gwendolyn raised her chin defiantly, the fear chased from her mind by the burning hate that flared within her at the sound of his voice. Aye, she hated him . . . for bringing them to this cursed land, for condemning them to a life of slavery, and, most of all, for what he was about to do to her. And it was this hate that gave her the strength she needed. She squared her delicate shoulders and began to walk slowly into the main room.

Her eyes widened in astonishment as she noted the richness of the furnishings and the fine woven tapestries gracing the timbered walls. She had never seen such luxury before! Everywhere she looked were new and strange sights: delicately glazed pottery; blue-tinted vessels that one could see through; silver goblets and bowls of every size and shape; a bronze urn resting on the floor from which scented smoke was wafting. All this and much more attested to the great wealth the Viking had acquired as a merchant trader. Ansgar had told her Lord Hakon was as wealthy as he was powerful, but such richness was beyond belief!

Why, he even has fine furs upon the wooden floor! Gwendolyn marveled. She had never heard of such a thing. She stepped gingerly around a thick black fur placed in the middle of the hall.

"The furs are laid on the floor to walk upon." Hakon laughed easily, rising from an ornately carved chair set near the fireplace. "There is no need to step around them."

Gwendolyn looked up, a sudden blush warming her skin. She was no stranger to men's bodies, having grown up surrounded by her father's thanes, but she had never seen a man built so powerfully as Hakon. She wondered why she had never thought so before, but then she decided it was probably because she had never seen him so scantily clothed.

He had changed from his black riding garb into a sleeveless tunic, open down the front, that only too well revealed his muscled arms and the bronzed expanse of his chest. The tunic was tucked loosely into snug-fitting trousers that were molded to his tapered hips and sinewy thighs, while soft leather boots came just to his knees. He had no belt, but only a silken drawstring tied at his waist. His white-blond hair, brushed back from his wide forehead, tumbled about his neck in soft waves.

Her wide-eyed perusal pleased Hakon, for he smiled, his teeth a flash of white against the bronzed planes of his face.

He crossed the remaining distance between them in only two strides, and gathered her into his arms.

"Anora . . . my Anora," he said huskily, crushing her to him. Gwendolyn stiffened in his arms. He was so tall that he seemed to tower over her, her head barely coming to his shoulder. Suddenly he bent his head and lifted her chin to him, capturing her soft lips with his own.

Gwendolyn started in surprise, her breath caught in her throat. She had never been kissed by a man before. Hakon's lips were warm upon hers, even tender, and she found herself thinking the new sensation was not altogether unpleasant. Unconsciously she leaned toward him, closing her eyes, an odd stirring awakening deep within her.