Devil's Angel (10 page)

“No.”

Both women spoke simultaneous warnings, emerald and amethyst eyes flashing.

“Conor…”

“Olan…”

“Wait outside,” the blond man commanded, his eyes never leaving Conor’s. “No blood will be shed while you are gone.”

Gwynna turned toward Olan, her back spear-straight. “I did not pull you from death’s embrace just to send you back again. If you re-injure yourself, your healing will be a long, painful one.”

Conor thought it most amusing until Erika turned to him with equal vehemence. “Do not think to have my brother stand in my stead in our duel, or I will give you cause to regret it.”

They turned and left, their positions clear.

The atmosphere in the tiny chamber dropped several degrees as the blond man’s eyes turned upon him with cold intent. “I will champion my sister in this challenge of yours,” the pale warrior said with the deep rumble of a tree caving under the weight of ice. “I will enjoy returning to you that which you dealt to her.”

Conor felt the familiar bloodsurge grip him. “It will be my pleasure to give you leave to try.”

The Viking smiled, as if pleased by his answer. “Whether I kill you or merely injure you will depend on your answer to my question,” he said, his tone of voice and posture that of studied nonchalance.

“Indeed? And what question have you that decides my fate?”

“Just this: What do you intend with my sister?”

Liking the younger man’s bluntness despite himself, Conor assumed a bland expression. “Why do you believe I intend anything towards your sister?”

“Everyone intends something towards my sister. Can you tell me you do not?”

That steady blue gaze measured him like a spice merchant selling his precious wares. Conor found that he could not have been dishonest with the Viking if he wanted to. “No, I cannot. I do have intentions towards your sister, intentions I feel you would not be adverse to.”

“And they are?”

“To marry her and have an heir.”

The words surprised him, surprised him further with their rightness. The Devil of Dunlough having sons with the Angel of Death. His people would be protected long after he was gone.

A guffaw split the sudden, brittle silence. Olan’s shoulders shook with the force of his laughter, cutting to a hiss of pain.

Conor’s satisfaction became consternation. “This is no jest. I mean what I say.”

“I believe you do,” Olan replied, laughter rippling his voice. “Yet the fact that you still stand tells me that you have not made your intentions known to my sister.”

Surprised and unsettled by the Northman’s obvious mirth, Conor could only stare. “Think you that Erika will not be amenable to my offer?”

The response was wry. “Amenable is not an adequate description of the Angel of Death.”

“Why would she refuse me?”

That caused another pain-filled laugh. “Why indeed? Is it because she has refused grander offers than yours? Is it because she has bested all who have challenged her for her hand?” Cobalt eyes narrowed at him with murderous intent. “Perhaps she will refuse you until the bruises from the shackles you had her in are healed.”

There was nothing Conor could say to alleviate the other man’s anger, except, “How long before you are able to defend your sister’s honor?”

To his surprise, Olan shook his head. “It is not my place. Erika challenged you, or you goaded her into challenging you. She is the one you will have to meet, and the one you will have to defeat, may God bless you.”

“I found her to be a worthy opponent for the brief time our swords crossed. You believe she is that good, then?”

“She is.”

Conor digested that bit of information. “Then you have no objections to me wedding your sister?”

“Erika is a strong woman and a strong fighter. She vowed long ago to wed the man who can defeat her in a trial of combat. If you believe you are such a one, I give you leave to try. Tell my sister your intentions.”

A twinkle returned to his eyes. “But I do not wish to be around when you do.”

“Can you hear anything?”

The Valkyrie pressed her cheek against the smooth wooden door. Gwynna loomed behind her, straining to catch any sound emanating from the room beyond. There was nothing.

“That is a good portent, isn’t it?” she asked. “After all, we’d hear shouting if they were coming to blows.”

Erika paused, considering. “I have seen Olan give a great battle cry at the outset of a fight. But when he enters his berserker rage, he becomes extremely quiet.”

A nervous giggle bubbled from Gwynna’s lips. She should have been appalled to hear the Northwoman speak so calmly about her brother’s killing tendencies. She should have walked away and never looked behind her. She should have never given birth to the fragile dream in her heart.

She cleared her throat. “Your brother, is he…is he quick to anger?”

“No,” came the answer. “He is patient with the old and the young, but he does not suffer fools.”

Fools? What manner of fools? Those touched in the head, or those set in their ways? Gwynna gathered her courage to phrase another question. “Has Olan ever s-struck a woman?”

The warrior-woman lifted her shining head from the door to regard her, her expression curious. “I have never seen my brother strike a woman. But I have not seen a woman give him cause to.”

She must have blanched or made a distressing noise, for Erika was suddenly by her side, supporting her. “Are you unwell?” the Viking asked. “Who heals the healer when the healer falls ill?”

Gwynna managed to regain her footing, and a measure of her composure. “I am fine,” she assured the silver-haired woman. “I just took an improper breath.”

She smoothed her skirts and shook out her intricately styled hair. She knew enough, Gwynna thought. She would not pry further into Olan’s life. She did not want to know if there was someone waiting for him… “Was Olan betrothed when you left your homeland?”

Lavender eyes regarded her in a steady manner that seemed to see straight through her. “You ask strange questions, Gwynna.”

Feeling her cheeks flame, Gwynna made a great show of straightening her skirts yet again. “I am powerful curious about the life of the man I lo…saved,” she stammered. By the saints, what had she been about to say?

Erika stared at her, and Gwynna felt as if every tumultuous emotion was illuminated in her cheeks. There was more writ there than she knew, for the Valkyrie said, “You favor my brother, don’t you?”

As soon as she asked the question, Erika knew she had guessed correctly. The healer’s cheeks paled, then flared with color.

“No! He is a warrior and I am a healer. I abhor what he does!”

Erika chose not to argue that point, though she privately believed Gwynna protested far too vehemently for the circumstances. She knew that women found her brother pleasing, and told Gwynna so.

The healer lapsed into a fit of coughing. Erika pounded her back until Gwynna was able to decry her assistance. “Are you certain you have no need of a potion or herbal?” she asked worriedly. “I know a small amount of herbology. I would not wish you to fall ill, while I did nothing to assist you.”

“My thanks, but I need nothing.”

Erika stared at the other woman with unabashed curiosity. Her color was still high, and her eyes shining with surprising anger. Why was Gwynna irate? Erika had not thought of the healer as being odd, or simple. Was that why she was unmarried? Surely the workings of marriage for Irish nobility could be no different than they were in her homeland. Gwynna was, like herself, several years past marrying age. But perhaps things were done differently here than in Denmark. After all, Conor was a prince of Dunlough, leader of his people, and he was still unmarried.

A muffled coughing sound came through the door, quickly silenced. “Was that laughter?”

Gwynna looked as perplexed as she. “Why would there be laughter?”

“I do not know.” Even knowing how quickly Olan’s moods changed, Erika did not believe he would be sharing jests with their jailer.

“How long has it been?”

“Too long.” She made to push open the wooden door when it was suddenly pulled from her hands. She was propelled into the room, into Conor’s arms.

She glared at him before disentangling herself and moving to her brother’s side, examining him for signs of further injury. The casual rage he had displayed minutes before was replaced by amusement.

“What could have transpired here that amuses you so?” she asked.

Olan looked from her to Conor then back again, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “Did you know that the
jarl
of Dunlough is a weaver of tales? He told me a marvel of one just now.”

“He did?” Gwynna’s surprise was apparent, and Erika had to agree with her. The Devil of Dunlough did not seem the manner of man given to fancy. “What tale is this?”

“One that can be told at a later time,” Conor said.

Erika gave him what she hoped was a quelling glance. “You look as if you’ve sat on a knife. Is that how you intimidate your followers?”

Gwynna gasped, and Olan made a choking sound, but Conor simply gazed at her, gray eyes glinting with cold amusement. “I hardly intimidate you, do I Angel? Not that I do not try.”

“He always yells, as well,” Erika informed her brother. “I do not believe the man knows how to speak in a normal tone of voice.”

Conor leaned toward her. “Oh, I can whisper, my Angel, fair enough.” His voice was barely a breath on her ear. “Though I usually save it for the bedchamber.”

Erika flushed, and barely suppressed a shiver. She was suddenly uncomfortably conscious of the long length of him, standing indecently close behind her. Did he always give off this heat?

Olan must have noticed her shiver, for when he spoke to her it was in Norse. “Are you sure you mean to do battle with this man, whatever the consequences?”

Erika knelt beside her brother, giving him an affectionate kiss. “I am honor-bound to do this, Olan,” she whispered back. “It is I who challenged him, and I who will face him.”

She gave him an infectious grin. “You may have what remains of him when I am done.”

Her quip was rewarded. Olan erupted with booming laughter, which quickly converted to grunts of discomfort.

“Give over, Angel, and let Gwynna see to her patient,” Conor ordered, his tone biting.

Instantly she obeyed the tone of command in Conor’s voice, returning to his side before she could stop herself. She drew up sharply. Conor was no
jarl
. She folded her arms stubbornly, ignoring a twinge of pain.

He matched her frown, then visibly relaxed. “Come, Erika,” he said. “Perhaps you could use a meal. And something to divert your worry for your brother. I noticed pieces on the chess set were moved. Do you perhaps know how to play?”

“Almost as well as I handle my sword,” Erika replied, causing Conor to grin.

“I do enjoy it when you challenge me.”

She could not let even that remark go uncontested. “Be sure that I intend to win.”

He took her taunt with an unexpected calm. “So do I, Angel. So do I.”

Placing his hand at the small of her back, he turned her toward the door. Erika was reluctant to leave. Her time with Olan had been woefully short. She was not ready to leave him yet. With a frown, she dug in her heels.

Conor frowned back, placing his hands on his hips. He drew a breath, but before he could speak, Gwynna cut in. “I can tend to your brother much better with plenty of room,” she told Erika, her fingers lightly running over the golden-haired man’s bandages. “I swear to you, I will care for Olan as I do Conor.”

“I hope not,” Olan muttered in Norse, causing Erika to stifle a shocked laugh. Did her brother feel something for the dark-haired Gael? Did he know how Gwynna felt towards him?

Disconcerted, she acquiesced, following Conor out of the room. Perhaps, once their situation was not so dire, Olan would be able to return here as he truly was, a Viking nobleman with wealth enough to pay any bride-price.

Erika glanced at Conor as he led the way down the hall. After she won their duel, would he let her brother court Gwynna? Or would his anger at losing color his judgment?

A hard sigh escaped her. Blessed Freyja, but she was tired. The pounding in her head matched the throbbing in her leg. Did he have to make such long strides? She was having a difficult time keeping up with him. “Your sister is accustomed to having her way, is she not?”

Conor looked down at Erika. “In Dunlough, her word is second only to my own. And sometimes, not even that.”

“Why have you no wife?”

Erika only asked the question for conversation’s sake. She needed to keep him talking until she could catch her breath and match strides with him again. But the simple question had the opposite effect on him.

Conor jerked to a halt, causing Erika to crash into him. Only his hands gripping her arms kept her upright. It was excruciating pain, for he seemed unaware how tightly he gripped her wounded arm. She ground her teeth to keep from crying out.