Devil's Angel (17 page)

She didn’t have long. An old woman in a drab ankle-length smock and girdle scuttled forward. She gave Erika a stern, assessing gaze, then broke into a grin.

“You came back!” she cried, reaching her hands out. She stopped, as if unsure of her action.

Erika took the bony hands in hers and returned the woman’s wide smile. “I returned as I have promised, Good-mother, though not as I wanted.”

The old woman gave a dry, delighted laugh. “But you did return.” She turned towards the others. “Come see! Our Angel has returned!”

Curious and emboldened, the villagers came up to them until Erika was quite surrounded. She ignored the frisson of trepidation between her shoulder blades and stared into the faces of each and every villager. Most were children who stared at her in unabashed curiosity, some were women, and a few, far too few, were men.

“I made a promise to you when last I was here,” she said, pitching her voice to carry even to the mounted guards. “I vowed that I would return, bearing the head of the man who had wronged you.”

She held out her hands, palms up. “I have not been able to fulfill that
geas
, but I have returned. To ask your forgiveness.”

A ripple of surprise ran through those gathered. “Why would herself be asking us for forgiveness?” someone muttered.

Erika lifted her chin. “Because I would have you know that I do not easily make a pledge, and I have never forsworn a vow once made. I will protect your village, and I will find the man responsible for raiding you.”

“Of course you will,” the old woman beamed, patting Erika’s hand. “You are an angel, sent to protect us.”

“And how will she be doing that, after she weds the
tigerna
?” one wizened fellow demanded.

Piqued, Erika’s chin lifted even higher. “My marriage to your lord is not a given,” she said as evenly as she could. How long was she obliged to point that out before people accepted it? “The
tigerna
will have my hand only if he defeats me in a duel. And I will not make it easy for him.”

Laughter rang out, strong and true. She let it run its course, then added, “But if I do become the mistress of Dunlough, my duty to you is even more certain. A vow has been made. A vow will be kept.”

The air vibrated with the solemn truth of her words. Then in an act that both startled and moved her, each villager bowed over her hands and kissed them.

“What are they doing?” one of the guards hissed to Padraig.

The red-haired giant took a moment to answer. “They’re swearing fealty. To the Angel of Death!”

Once she realized their intent, Erika attempted to halt the villagers. They would not be dissuaded. Mortified beyond measure, she suffered through their undeserving attention.

When the last little one threw his arms around her neck, she was finally able to ask, “Is there a Múireann here? She that has a young son?”

“She is here,” the old woman—Eithne—told her. “Caught in the grieving, she is. With her man gone, she’s left to raise her son alone. We do what we can, sure, and the
tigerna
will not be having his people starve. But she’s having a hard time of it, and that’s the truth.”

Eithne pointed her toward another forlorn-looking hut. With Tempest trailing behind her, Erika went to the hut and called out, “Múireann?”

A young woman came to the entrance of the hut. Likely no more of an age than Erika, she looked far older. Her flare of crimson hair had banked to the color of dull embers. Grief still clouded her gray eyes just as the clouds had chased away the sunlight overhead. They brightened in recognition.

“The Angel of Death,” she whispered. One bone thin hand clutched the neck of her smock. “I spoke for you, before the tigerna.”

Someone in Dunlough had spoken for her? She eyed the Irishwoman with renewed interest. “I thank you, for doing what so many others would not have done. My name is Erika Silverhair and it would please me to have you call me thus.”

“Have-have you come for me?”

“Yes.” Seeing the woman pale instantly, Erika reached out a hand to steady her. “Nay, not for that. I come because I know that your husband fell in battle.”

Múireann nodded. “The day of the raid, my poor Owain—” She broke off, her hands gathering handfuls of her skirts. “Did you kill him?”

The blunt question, though expected, pained. “I do not know.”

The grieving woman sniffed. “He was all I had, save for young Gil. I had brothers, but they and my father died in that horrible battle two years ago. Most of Owain’s family went the same way, else the sea took them. Save for Gil, I have no one, and nowhere to go.” She covered her face with her hands.

Her grief brought Erika’s to the surface, and she found herself embracing Múireann in an attempt to comfort her. It was a foreign sensation, utterly discomfiting. Why would she feel such unease from a simple embrace? When the answer came to her, it was a revelation.

Until she came to Dunlough, Erika had never held or been held by anyone. Truth be told, no one had held her since her mother died, and she could barely remember her. The life of a mercenary left little time for comfort or comforting.

“I’m sorry, Múireann,” she said, her words stiff with a nameless emotion. “But it is a credit to your husband that he died gloriously, in battle.”

The Irishwoman gazed at her with red-rimmed eyes. “How can you say such a thing? There is nothing glorious about battle.”

“In my country, it is a warrior’s greatest hope, that when he dies it is with his sword in his hand and his enemy at his feet. For then the Valkyries come for him, to take him to Valhalla.”

“What is Val-Valhalla?”

“It is a place of much celebration and feasting. All warriors who fell in battle are gathered there.”

The woman’s smile was wistful. “Owain would like that. But ’tis a small comfort to me now.”

Erika touched the woman’s shoulder. “I will do what I can for you.”

With a shake of her head, the grieving woman stepped back. “What can you do for me?”

“Take you to the dun.”

“What?”

The more Erika thought about it, the more she liked it. “You will return with me to the dun. You and your son will have a place there.”

Múireann’s eyes glimmered as hope revitalized her. “But the
tigerna
…”

Erika dismissed her objections with a wave. “I will deal with the mac Ferghal. Gather your belongings.”

“Thank you, my lady, thank you!” After an impulsive hug of gratitude, Múireann rushed back inside. Erika turned, feeling very satisfied.

Then she noticed that all the villagers were gone. In the middle of the mud track stood Tempest, her four guards—

And the Devil himself, astride a sulfur-and-brimstone horse.

“Are you ready to deal with me now, Silverhair?”

Chapter Fifteen

Curiosity.

At least, that was what Conor told himself as he followed Erika and her guards. He was curious to see where she would go, what she would do, on her first day outside the walls of the dun since their moonlit ride.

He did not expect the journey to the village.

She rode at her ease in the center of his men, her back straight and chin high. Her demeanor was one of complete assurance. She would need that, he knew, to approach the village.

The people of Dunlough were most curious about the woman he had chosen for his new bride. While many accepted it as they accepted everything he did, some were still angry with the Angel of Death. He did not think any of his people would harm her or would be given the opportunity, yet until everyone, including Erika herself, accepted her role as mistress of Dunlough, she would be followed and protected.

It was apparent, however, that the Angel was becoming more acclimated by the moment. It had amazed him how the villagers welcomed her, how she coaxed laughter from people sore in need of it.

Seeing how she comforted the grieving widow made his heart swell with a proprietary pride. The Angel would make a more than suitable mate for him.

As soon as she realized he was the one who made judgments, not her.

When she caught sight of him and began walking to him, he forced his features into their usual state of menace. Difficult to do when he was fair bursting with admiration. Even though she knew she faced certain trouble, he saw determination stamped on her features.

Brimstone snorted as she approached. Erika quieted the horse with a hand to its shoulder. She fired his blood with a hand to his knee. “May I have a moment in private?”

She could have anything she wanted, if only her hand moved higher… “Tell me why I should not be angry with you.”

Her hand gripped his knee tighter as she stared at him, a silent plea in her eyes. “Will you walk with me?”

He could not ignore her request. He slid off his horse and held out his hand.

She stared at him a moment, as if certain he would trick her but not sure how. Then she slipped her hand in his, and he began a sedate stroll, heading toward the copse of trees near the cliffs above the sea.

The breeze grew stronger as they neared the drop, catching their cloaks and unraveling Erika’s braids. She lifted her hands to repair the intricate design, but Conor stopped her. “Leave it. It pleases me this way.”

He expected an argument and was surprised when he did not receive one. Instead, she folded her arms across her chest and turned into the breeze, closing her eyes as the salty mist bathed her face.

Conor watched her expression soften to one of peace and felt blessed that he had brought her here, had brought this gift to her. He too loved the sea and often walked along this edge, letting the soft rumble of the tide soothe his soul.

“You belong to a beautiful land, Conor mac Ferghal.”

Her voice flowed soft, reverent. If not for the sword on her back, Conor would have thought her an ordinary maiden swayed by the sight of beauty. The Angel, however, hailed far from ordinary.

“A beautiful land, true, but also bloody. We fight for what is ours, to keep what is ours—and what we believe should be ours.”

She smiled, seeing the humor he hadn’t intended to interject. No one thought him humorous, least of all Conor himself.

“How much of this is your land?”

Being near her without touching was difficult. He took her hand again, pleased when she gripped his. “Our land,” he began with subtle emphasis, “begins at the sea and stops at Slieve Torc, where the lands of the mac Murrough clan begin. I fostered at Dun Lief, and if there be someone not of my clan that I trust, it is Niall mac Laighin. All to the north is ours, until the plain before the kingdom of Ulster.”

“And they are your enemies?”

“Yes.” The word rang harsh. He would not say it aloud, but he believed deep in his soul that Ronan of Ulster had felled his brother. The enmity between them had run deep, birthed during a summer festival near fifteen years ago.

He changed the subject. “What is your homeland like?”

She remained silent for a time, and Conor let her have it, for she leaned into him as she gathered her thoughts. “Like this one, in a way,” she said at last. “Most of it lies between two seas, but there are many islands that make my homeland. Large tracts of forests filled with deer and wolves. Mostly moors, rivers, and marshes. I think there are more fjords than people, which is why we always traveled by boat. Olan and I learned to swim before we learned to walk. In summer, everything was green and wet. In winter, the north was all covered in snow and ice. Even the lakes froze over, and we would skate on them.”

“What is ‘skate’?”

“Blades made out of bone that we would strap to our feet to cross frozen lakes. And in deep snow we used ice-legs, made of leg bones from horses, to go overland.”

Conor stared at her, wondering if she was telling a tale for his amusement. “You speak true?”

“I always speak true. If there is snow here this winter, I would show you how to skate.” Her lips lifted in a smile. “I would challenge you to a race on ice-legs. It would be…rousing.”

Her words warmed him, for Erika had just promised a portion of her future to him. She would not have if she were so set against their union.

“You do not have to challenge me to rouse me, my lady,” he whispered, hearing the hunger in his voice and doing nothing to temper it. Using their intertwined hands, he drew her close to his side. “I am well-roused by the scent of your hair alone.”

Blush-pink stole into her cheeks, highlighting the color of her eyes. “You mistook my words, mac Ferghal,” she managed to say.

“Have I?” he drawled. “Perhaps then, rousing me is not your intent. Perhaps rousing yourself is what you’re after.”

The blush caught her ears now, turning them a sunset rose. “C-Conor—”

“Ah, ’tis not easy for you, is it now? Perhaps you need a bit of help becoming roused.”

“Conor.” Pink had risen to her forehead, into the veil of her hair. “Why do you tease me so?”

Conor didn’t believe himself capable of teasing, yet here he was. How she provoked him! “Because the blush on your cheeks makes you more than comely and less the dreaded Angel of Death.”