Twin Passions (8 page)

Scrambling to keep up with Gwendolyn, Anora held her
tunic and mantle above her knees to keep them from snagging in the brambles
that choked the path.

Fallen leaves and broken twigs crackled under their
feet as they made their way in companionable silence through the woods. An owl,
hooting its final night cry in the distance, was echoed by the melodies of
mourning doves and tiny sparrows. A light layer of frost had fallen during the
night, blanketing the forest in a pearly sheen of white.

Anora hugged her fur cloak tightly about her, grateful
for its warmth and protection. Rubbing her cheek against the softness of the fur-lined
hood, she smiled. Wulfgar had given her the luxurious cloak shortly after their
first meeting. She remembered how he had wrapped it about her shoulders,
gently, yet possessively. She had felt too shy to look up at him, so he had
lifted her chin to meet his gaze. She would never forget the searing intensity
of his blue eyes, and her whispered name upon his lips . . .

She leaned against a tree for a moment and closed her
eyes. The memory was alive and vibrant, as if it had been only yesterday.
Suddenly she heard her name shouted aloud, breaking rudely into her thoughts.
Her eyes flew open to find Gwendolyn looking at her quizzically.

"I said, we are almost to the stream bed,"
Gwendolyn repeated impatiently, shaking her head. Not hearing Anora's footsteps
behind her, she had turned around to find her sister resting against a
tree,
her eyes closed dreamily, a secretive smile upon her
lips.
God's blood! She thinks of him all
the time! Men!

Giggling sheepishly, Anora ran toward Gwendolyn and
took her hand. "Come on!" She
laughed,
a
flash of apology in her eyes. They dashed together down a steep hill, their gay
laughter echoing in the narrow ravine.

At the foot of the hill, a clear stream surged through
the ravine on its way to the river. Gwendolyn once again took the lead as they
walked along the stream's grassy banks. The grotto lay just ahead, hidden
beneath a large outcropping of rock.

Gwendolyn finally spied their secret hideaway from the
bend in the stream. She whooped with delight and stepped eagerly across a
natural bridge of jagged rocks that stretched across the stream bed.

"Gwendolyn, please wait!" Anora had tried to
follow her, only to find herself balanced precariously on a large rock in the
middle of the stream. She looked dubiously at her sister. This was the only
part of their adventure she disliked. The rushing waters of the stream never
failed to make her feel nervous and unsure of herself. She did not move until
Gwendolyn stepped back out onto the rocks and grabbed her outstretched hand, guiding
her safely to the far bank.

Hollowed out years ago by an ancient river, the grotto
was set into the side of the ravine a short distance from the stream. A pool of
tranquil water, glistening with the first early rays of sunlight, rested at the
mouth of the grotto. A soft haze hung over the pool, lending an almost ethereal
air to the quiet scene.

Gwendolyn stretched out on one of the flat rocks that
surrounded the pool, breathing a sigh of contentment. Anora unfastened her
cloak and spread it across her favorite rock, then knelt down along the edge.
Flushed and warm from the exertion of their walk, she cupped her hand and took
a drink of icy-cold water, then delicately splashed some on her face.
Refreshed, she settled comfortably onto the rock and gazed about her.

"I will miss this place," she murmured
softly, a hint of sadness in her voice.

"Aye, it will not be the same without you,"
Gwendolyn agreed, sighing. Turning over onto her side, she propped her head on
her hand. The early morning sun felt warm upon her face, and she squinted
against its brightness. The sky was gradually lightening to a vivid blue as the
sun inched higher above the horizon.

Trailing her hand in the water, Anora watched the
gentle ripples float on the surface of the pool in ever-widening circles. The
stillness of the grotto was like a calming herb, lulling her into a strange
sense of detachment. Childhood memories came flooding back to her, and she
recalled the many happy hours spent with Gwendolyn in this mystical place.
Suddenly she laughed.

"Do you remember the time you tried to spear that
huge fish with your hunting knife, and you fell headlong into the pool?"
Anora asked, her eyes sparkling with mirth as she recalled the image of a very
wet and bedraggled Gwendolyn sputtering indignantly in water up to her waist.

"Not without a helpful shove from you!"
Gwendolyn countered, laughing. Stretching languidly on the rock, she leaned
over the edge and gazed at her reflection in the pool. Hesitantly, she touched
her lips, and the image staring at her from the water mirrored the movement. "Anora,"
she asked softly, "does a man's kiss burn like fire . . . or ice?"

Blushing, Anora looked incredulously at Gwendolyn.

"'Tis a strange question you ask, Gwendolyn! You
have never been one to concern yourself with the ways of men . . . I mean, in
other pursuits besides hunting or riding . . . with women, that is . . ."
she stammered, her voice trailing off as she stared at her sister.

"Leah once told me that if a man's kiss burns like
fire, his love will be true, but if his kiss burns like ice . . ." —she
paused, a faraway look in her emerald eyes— ". . . his love will bring
pain and ruin." She looked up and gazed searchingly at Anora. "Last
night, was Wulfgar's kiss like fire?"

Anora shivered suddenly. She had never liked Leah's superstitious
notions. "Aye," she answered softly, drawing her knees up to her
chin.

"'Twas as I thought," Gwendolyn replied. She
tugged absently at a tuft of dried grass sticking up between the rocks. Lost in
their own thoughts, neither spoke for several moments.

Anora finally broke the melancholy silence,
understanding in her voice. "One day, Gwendolyn, you will know such a
kiss." She reached out and squeezed her sister's hand.

"Perhaps," Gwendolyn said faintly, looking
away. Suddenly she whispered, "Look, over there!"

A young doe stepped silently from the cover of the
trees and walked toward the far side of the pool. Stopping to sniff the air,
the beautiful animal stood motionless for a moment, its soft, brown eyes
watchful and alert.

Gwendolyn and Anora gazed at the doe in awed silence,
scarcely breathing, as the graceful creature bent its head to drink. Its pink
tongue scarcely disturbed the surface of the pool. Several times the doe lifted
its head and looked about cautiously, then quickly took another drink.

Suddenly a loud, crackling sound, like the snapping of
a tree branch, startled the animal. It froze momentarily, its nostrils flared
and muscles twitching. Then, with a bound, the doe disappeared into the dense
trees.

"Gwendolyn, what was that?" Anora asked
fearfully, looking beyond the pool into the forest.

"Shh!" Gwendolyn whispered, holding her
finger to her lips. She rose to her feet. Listening for any sounds, her hand
went to the hilt of her hunting knife, strapped to her waist. "We must get
back to the stronghold!" she hissed urgently.

Anora stood and hastily wrapped her cloak about her
shoulders. She had no reason to doubt Gwendolyn's instincts, honed as they were
by years of hunting and training with their father.

They left the shelter of the grotto and quickly ran to
the stream. Gwendolyn stepped gingerly over the rocks to the other bank, then
turned and beckoned to Anora. "Come on!" she urged, looking about
them.

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.