Twin Passions (27 page)

"Come out with
ye
, lass,
before I die of frostbite!" she shouted through chattering teeth. She was
breathing in great gasps of the frigid air, cursing all the while the steepness
of the path leading to the stable. "What are you laughing at?" she
snapped at the Viking guard, who was fighting to keep a grin off his bearded
face. He shook his head and looked away, chuckling to himself.

Gwendolyn and Anora could barely suppress their
laughter. The thought of Berta, as well padded as she was, suffering overmuch
from the cold was truly impossible!

"I must go, Anora, but I will try to return as
soon as I can," Gwendolyn murmured at last, rising to her feet. But Anora
caught her arm.

"Is it
true
what they
have been saying, Ansgar and the others, that you are to be the mistress of the
household?" she asked. She had taken her morning meal in the slave's
cooking house; the talk had been of nothing else.

"Aye, 'tis true. You can see how richly Lord Hakon
rewards those who please him," she replied bitterly, fingering the beaded
necklace around her throat. The sudden pain in her sister's eyes caused her to
regret her words, and she sought to reassure her. "Please, Anora, do not
fear for me. Hakon is a hard man . . . you and I have both felt his anger. But
he is not cruel." Gwendolyn suddenly recalled the tenderness she had seen
in his eyes the night before, and the gentleness of his touch, but she angrily
dismissed the thought. Nay, he was their enemy above all else . . . a cursed
Viking!

She walked quickly to the door, then turned and looked
back at Anora, a fierce light in her emerald eyes. "I will learn much as
mistress of this settlement, Anora. And the more I know of the Viking and his
ways, the better I can plan our escape." A faint smile crossed her lips. "Until
later, then, Garric." As soon as she stepped through the door, Berta
hastened to her side.

"I'm half frozen, lass! What kept you so long?"
Berta asked, hugging her cloak tightly about her wide bulk. She did not wait
for an answer, but grabbed Gwendolyn by the arm. "Come on with
ye
, now! There is much to be done!"

***

The rest of the day passed in a dizzying whirl.
Gwendolyn was led first to the brewing house, where male slaves were busy
making the strong mead and ale so favored by the Vikings. The heavy fragrance
of barley spiced with aromatic herbs hung in the air, making it difficult to
breathe, but Berta refused to leave until she had sampled a hearty mug of the
brew.

"'Tis nectar of the gods." She smacked her
lips, after a long draft of the foaming mead. "Here, have a try," she
offered kindly. But Gwendolyn shook her head. She wanted to keep her wits about
her this day.

Next was the weaving house, where Gwendolyn was
informed she would be spending much of her time. This news irked her greatly.
She had never been one for the womanly arts of weaving and needlework, and had
balked whenever her mother had subtly suggested she learn to use the loom. She
decided then and there that she would try to avoid the weaving house as much as
possible.

Berta did not bother to show Gwendolyn the cooking
house, for she thought she was familiar enough with it already. She did show
her the large building where they kept the dried and smoked meat, salted fish,
and the large vats of curdled milk that had been salted, soured, and stored to
last through the long winter. Dried berries, apples, and nuts were also stored
in abundance, as well as great quantities of onions, leeks, and field peas.

Gwendolyn felt her stomach rumble as she looked at all
the stored food, reminding herself that she had not yet eaten. It was way past
midday, and the sky had already begun to darken. Suddenly she was feeling
strangely tired. She tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a yawn.

"Come, lass, let us return to Lord Hakon's hall,"
Berta said kindly, noting the paleness of Gwendolyn's cheeks. There was so much
to learn yet, but perhaps she had been pushing her young mistress too hard. It
would not do for Lord Hakon to return to find Anora completely exhausted from
her new duties.

Gwendolyn nodded her head. It had indeed been a long
day. As they walked together to the hall, Berta chattered on and on about the
myriad duties that accompanied managing a chieftain's household, especially one
as large as this. She did not stop talking until they had reached the door of
Hakon's chamber.

"Go on in with
ye
, lass,"
Berta said, pushing open the carved door, "whilst I see to your meal."
She turned and bustled off.

Gwendolyn sighed in relief. She knew Berta meant well,
but her ceaseless chatter had given her a throbbing headache. Rubbing her
temples, she walked over to the wide bed and sat down. Everything was happening
so fast. One minute she was a slave. Then after one night of passion she had
become not only Hakon's concubine, but the mistress of his household! Her
forehead crinkled in thought. He had no reason to trust her. She had given him
last night only what he had taken, and no more. Perhaps he was testing her, but
for what purpose she could not imagine. Could it be that he felt more for her
than lust . . . perhaps something even closer to affection?

Nay, it was not possible. Gwendolyn shook her head
fiercely. From what she had heard of the Vikings —the gruesome tales of their
bloodthirsty brutality, their single-minded devotion to valor and heroic deeds,
their cold hearts thought to be as hard as the steel of the swords they wielded
—nay, Hakon could not possibly be capable of anything more than lust.

She sighed raggedly. Why was she being tormented by such
thoughts? She cared naught if the Viking had any affection for her! Glancing
furtively behind her at the sheets on the bed, she was relieved to see that the
stained ones were gone, replaced by fresh linen. She lay down, pulling her fur
cloak about her, and closed her eyes.

Berta entered the room a short while later, only to
find Gwendolyn fast asleep.
Ah, well, 'tis
probably best,
she thought.
At least
the lass will be well rested for the morrow.
She set the tray of food on
the table near the bed,
then
lit the bronze brazier in
the corner to lend some warmth to the room. With a last backward glance over
her shoulder, she shut the door quietly behind her.

Chapter 25

It was almost
dusk
several
days later when Hakon and his men finally returned to the settlement. The
flashing hooves of their horses thundered upon the hard, snow-covered ground as
they rode into the stable yard.

"Garric!" Hakon shouted. He threw his long
leg over the side of his saddle and dismounted. "Garric!"

Starting at the sound of his voice, Anora dropped the
chunk of bread she had been eating, the last remnant of her evening meal.
Several stray chickens immediately set upon it, but she had no time to kick
them away. She quickly pulled a woolen cap over her head, her fingers shaking nervously,
and hastened out the door of the stable. She almost could not swallow the bite
she still had in her
mouth,
her throat was so
constricted in fear.

"Ah, there you are, lad," Hakon said
good-naturedly. He handed her the reins to his stallion, his eyes flicking over
her. Garric seemed strangely ill at ease this day, almost cowering in his
presence. He shrugged. Perhaps the lad was still suffering from the lash, he
thought, though he surmised it was probably more a case of hurt pride than
anything else. "See that he is rubbed down well, and given an extra
measure of oats," he stated. Then he turned on his heel and began to walk
down the hill.

"Aye, my lord," Anora murmured softly, barely
loud enough for him to hear.

Startled, Hakon stopped in his tracks and wheeled
around. "What? No retorts for me this day, Garric?" But Anora seemed
not to hear him as she led the spirited stallion into the stable. Her mind was
on the instructions Gwendolyn had given her. She guided the horse into its
stall,
then
gently patted the velvety softness of its
nose. The horse snorted loudly,
then
crunched
contentedly on the dried apples she pulled from her pocket and held out to him.
This might not be so bad after all, she thought, relieved.

Hakon shrugged again. As he walked hurriedly down the
path to his hall, he chuckled to himself. Perhaps Garric's defiant spirit has
been tamed at last, though Hakon was not ready by any means to let down his
guard just yet. The lad might still be plotting a rebellion against him.

"Lord Hakon!" Berta cried out, her short legs
carrying her up the hill from the cooking house. She met him at the entrance to
his hall, her great breasts heaving with exertion beneath her woolen shawl. "Welcome
. . . back, my lord." She panted, trying to catch her breath. A pleased
grin lit her broad face.

"Thank you, Berta," Hakon replied warmly. "I
fear the council meeting kept me longer at my uncle's than I had intended. Has
all gone smoothly during my absence?"

"Oh, yea, my lord!" she answered happily. "Anora
has taken very well to her new duties, though at first I must say she seemed a
bit surprised at her good fortune. Already she has been seeing to the
preparations for the Yuletide feast—with my help, of course."

Hakon smiled. "I appreciate your efforts, Berta. But
now, my only wish is for a hot bath. We can talk of these things later."

"Very well, my lord. Shall I summon her to you?"

"She is not in my hall?" he asked, stepping
away from the door. "I had thought I would find her there, taking her
evening meal."

"Nay, she is still in the weaving house, my lord.
She has not taken kindly to the loom, though I have insisted that she spend
some time there each day." Berta frowned, shaking her head. Indeed, it had
been a struggle to get the wench to pick up a needle. "I have never seen
the like before, my lord. The lass is obviously well bred, but she doesn't even
know the difference between warp and filling threads!" she exclaimed with
obvious exasperation.

Hakon threw back his head and
laughed,
a hearty, rich sound. "Do not fret, Berta. Give her some time, she will
learn." He was striding up the hill before she had a chance to reply. "See
that a bath is prepared in the bathing house," he called out over his
broad shoulder, "and that there is a vessel of wine placed near the tub
with two goblets!"

Berta nodded,
then
smiled as
he walked away. Ah, would that she were a young wench again, when her blood ran
hot and she had her pick of lusty, young Viking warriors! She sighed wistfully,
then hurried away to do his bidding.

Hakon's heart was pounding in his chest as he reached
the weaving house and slowly pushed open the door. Thor, he felt more like a
green youth than a man full-grown! During the days at his uncle's settlement he
had been busy enough so that he was not tormented by thoughts of Anora, but
during the nights . . . yea, that had been different. She had come to him in
his dreams when he had finally been able to sleep, taunting him with her
slender, curved body, always almost in his grasp, but then suddenly disappearing
like a wisp of smoke.

He stepped inside the door, his eyes searching for her.
Many women were still working busily at their looms, both slaves and wives of
his men alike, their happy chatter echoing about the large room. But they fell
silent when they saw Hakon standing at the threshold—all save for one.

"God's blood!" Gwendolyn cried out, her
finger catching on a sharp hook holding the threads to the loom. She brought
her pierced finger to her mouth, her eyes suddenly meeting Hakon's as he gazed
heatedly at her from across the room. She gasped in surprise.

Hakon strode quickly to her side and took her hand in
his. He raised the injured finger to his lips and kissed it gently. "Come
with me," he murmured, his voice low.

Gwendolyn shivered, the touch of his hand sending
strange tremors of excitement through her body that, try as she might, she
could not suppress. She rose to her feet and followed closely behind him. The
envious stares of some of the women were burning into her, but for some odd
reason she did not seem to care.

"Where is your cloak?" he asked softly. She
pointed to where it hung near the door. He pulled it off the hook and wrapped
it about her shoulders, then held her against his side as they walked from the
weaving house. Once outside the door, Hakon gathered her into his arms and
crushed her to him. He seized her lips with his own, trying to slake the
desperate, aching thirst for her that had built up inside him.

Gwendolyn had rehearsed this moment so many times in
her mind over the past few days—how, when he returned, she would meet his gaze
with defiance, how she would hold herself rigidly in his arms, angering him by
her lack of response to his kiss —but now that he was there, holding her
against his powerful body, the male scent of him enveloping her senses, she
felt her firm resolve to defy him melt within her. With his lips, warm and
possessive, upon hers, she no longer understood her feelings. Everything was
jumbled in her mind. It was as if her will was no longer her own.

Releasing her at last, Hakon held her hand while he led
her along the path to the bathing house. He ignored all the curious glances
cast their way by his men, though he returned Olav's grin from across the way
where he was talking with Berta.

Gwendolyn blushed when she realized where Hakon was
taking her. What could he be thinking? Did he perhaps want her to bathe him?
Surprisingly, the thought gave her an undeniable rush of pleasure.