Devil's Angel (18 page)

Her brows dipped in confusion. “But I am the Angel of Death. I cannot change that.”

“And that is why, without reason or need, you vowed to protect this village?”

Her fingers tightened in his grasp, but he refused to let her go. “I am doing what is right.”

“It is not for you to do.”

“Then who is it for?” she demanded, turning to face him. “I made a vow—first to the villagers, then to Múireann. Her husband is dead. Not because he is an evil man, but because I mistook him for one.”

“Erika—”

“I told Múireann that she and her son could come live in the dun,” she blurted out. “She has no one now to claim her. I want—I need—to make sure that she is cared for. I cannot shirk that responsibility.”

“I do not expect you to.” Conor captured her other hand, bringing her full against him. Lifted by the breeze, her hair whipped about them, seeming to cocoon them from the world.

Erika opened her mouth then closed it. Confusion again darkened her lavender eyes. “What do you mean?”

“By your actions this day, Múireann will be given into your care, as she will care for you. It is fitting, as you are about to become mistress of Dunlough. My people will be your people, and your responsibility.”

Her lips pressed together, and Conor saw the old argument about to begin. “You have acquitted yourself well this day,” he murmured, drawing her closer. “I could not have chosen better for a wife.” Then he kissed her.

Any protest she might have made expired as her lips met his. She leaned into him, and when he released her hands, they found their way around his neck. Her sigh vibrated through him, causing his hand to tremble as it cupped the nape of her neck to deepen the kiss. He nibbled her bottom lip from the edge in before plundering inside, mating to her with his tongue.

Before sanity could be consumed by the passion raging through his veins, he pulled away from her. Her lips were still bowed for his kiss, her half-closed eyes soft as heather in a misty rain.

He reached up to smooth back a pale curl. “You have done what should be done.” He cupped her cheek. “You will make a fine mistress of Dunlough.”

The dreamy expression left her eyes. “Conor, I know nothing of running a household. I have done neither spinning nor weaving since I was a child. I cannot be a wife to you or mistress of Dunlough!”

At least she wasn’t prattling on about freedom. Did that not mean she grew accepting of the idea of being his wife? “You can be mistress of Dunlough. And you will be wife to me.”

She pulled away from him, protest in her eyes. “Why? Why do you want me so? Surely there are other women you want more, women who would joyfully become wife of the leader of Dunlough?”

Her questions seeped into the heat that had risen in his mind and his loins. Why did he want her as he did? “It is enough that I wish it,” he said in his most commanding tone, a tone that made many a man cower.

His intended did not even blink. “There must be more,” she insisted. “Is it because—because you have come to love me?”

The question pricked what little conscience he had left. He could not lie to her, yet he could not tell her the truth. What was the truth, at any rate? That having the most feared Viking woman in Ireland at his side would make him invincible? That he wanted her as he had never wanted another woman but would never admit it and thus give her power over him? Or that he was incapable of love, and if she needed that, she was doomed to an unhappy existence in Dunlough?

A sigh lifted from him, carried on the ocean breeze. “Erika, I would have no lies between us. I do this for my people.”

Erika stepped back. She didn’t know what she expected him to say, but that certainly wasn’t it. “Your people?”

Silver eyes regarded her somberly. “Not of my choosing am I the leader of my people. I am king of my
tuath
, chieftain of my tribe and adviser to the over-king of Connacht. My people expect me to protect them and their children. I do that of my own free will, but there will come a time when I will not be able to do so. I must see to the future. To do that, I need sons. Strong men unafraid to fight for what they believe in and wise enough to use words first.”

He stepped closer to her, his gaze unwavering. “I would have those sons of you, Angel of Death.”

You knew, she told herself.
You knew it was nothing more than that.
Yet the knowledge struck like a blow.

She lowered her head, the better to conceal her hurt. It was all she could do to speak. “The Devil and the Angel. An alliance between us would give many cause to fear.”

“And many cause to rejoice.” His hand cupped her cheek. “You will be a queen in Dunlough, a great lady. You will be accorded every respect. You will be welcomed and protected, and cared for. Our sons will rule this land.”

I will be without friend, for Olan will surely wed Gwynna and leave to find his way. I will be kept in the dun with no light, no sea spray. I will be protected only because of my ability to bear children.

A love match had never been her wish. Her only requirement for a husband had been for a man strong enough to defeat her in battle, strong enough to protect her from any threat. Her childhood heart had always assumed that the champion would be someone she could love and who would love her in return. Reality was beginning to prove different.

Her distress must have been obvious, for Conor pulled her back against him. “Erika. For all the books I have been blessed to read, the poetic words escape me. You and I are alike in many ways, but the greatest is in our desire to protect those unable to protect themselves. You will be able to do more with Dunlough behind you than you would on your own. Our marriage will benefit us both. Then there is this.”

He pulled her back against him and kissed her again, a rough, fiery plundering of her lips and mouth. This time a moan escaped her, and Conor himself groaned in dark satisfaction.

As soon as he was sure she was nearly senseless, he broke the kiss. His satisfaction grew as she whispered his name, her voice throbbing with want. She clung to him on that windswept overhang as if he was all that stood between her and being lost at sea. And perhaps he was.

“What is between us will be enough,” he said, his voice ragged. “We have fire aplenty, and the desire to keep our people safe. It will be enough.”

Would it? Erika wanted to believe him, wanted assurance that the rest of her life would not be a cold existence. What would become of them years from now, when passion died?

Desperate for assurance, she asked, “What if I cannot bear you sons? Will you set me free?”

For a long moment he gazed at her, his eyes shuttered and unreadable. Erika knew that she had gone too far. Before she could apologize, he stepped away from her, dropping his hold as if she’d burned him.

When he spoke his voice was wooden. “If it’s freedom you’re after, fine. Bear me a son. Then you will have your freedom.”

Chapter Sixteen

“Mac Ferghal, there is something I need to discuss with you.”

The solemnity in the younger man’s voice had Conor drawing his mount to a halt. At last, the reason for this aimless wandering about the northern rim of the
tuath
. “Does this have anything to do with my sister?”

Olan had the grace to flush, as he shifted his reins from one hand to the other. “It does, at that,” he admitted, then fell silent.

Conor let him have his peace. There was no need to rush the man into a statement that would alter his world. If there was any among the people of Dunlough who deserved love and happiness, it was his sister. He, who knew loneliness better than any, had felt his sister’s sadness like an axe blow. If this Viking was as capable of bringing light back to his sister’s eyes as he seemed to, Conor would give his consent of marriage without hesitation.

And if it meant that Erika would remain near to Dunlough no matter the outcome of their duel, so much the better.

It still chafed, her request for freedom. He’d offered her the place at his side and passion aplenty as they made their sons, and she’d rebuffed him. Would her blighted freedom keep her warm at night? Would it keep her safe? Why was it worth more to her than the security of Dunlough?

He followed Olan down a sloping hill toward a copse of trees. They were at the westernmost portion of Dunlough land, near the cavern-pocked shore. There seemed to be purpose to the Viking’s wandering, and since his men had startled several deer for the evening meal, Conor saw no need to pull back.

“I love the lady Gwynna and want to wed her.”

Conor halted his mount and fixed the younger man with a stare. “Do you, now?”

Blue eyes stared at him without flinching. “I do, and she feels the same.” His tone dared Conor to say different.

He didn’t accept the dare, not outright. “And what can you, a Viking without a home, offer a princess of Dunlough?”

Olan dismounted and Conor followed suit, waving his men to stay mounted with weapons at the ready against unwanted intruders. The Northman moved into the stand of trees, keeping his eyes to the ground as if he searched for lost treasure.

“I know you think me as unworthy of your sister’s affections as I know you are of mine. But while your reasons for the match with my sister are a mystery only you are privy to, my reasons for wanting your sister’s hand are as plain as the light of day.”

That much was true. Conor knew the way his sister looked at the blond giant whenever he was near, and Olan shared that intensity. “Did she tell you of mac Broin?”

“Yes.” The younger man’s features grew as harsh as the wind howling from the sea on a dark winter’s night. One hand curled into a massive fist. “It is good that this man is dead, though I feel a need to disturb his eternal rest.”

Conor shrugged. “Who said he was resting?”

Olan laughed, clapping him on the back with enough force to cause him to sway forward. “As you have taken care of your sister, so shall I. This I can promise you. And more.”

With a soft exclamation, the Viking picked up a dead stick of wood, and Conor could see runes lightly carved on one side. Olan then pushed aside dead leaves, and using the rune marker, began digging through the dirt. He soon replaced the twig with his hand and a disreputable dagger.

It was not long after that he uncovered a hinged casket, about the breadth of his massive hands and twice as high, and a well-worn leather pouch. Olan gathered his findings in his arms and rose to his feet.

“It is true that I have no place to offer your sister that I can claim, except my heart,” he said, his voice solemn. “But perhaps these can be a small token to you of the esteem in which I hold Lady Gwynna, and the initial portion of her bride-price.”

Conor took the proffered gifts. The casket was intricate, carved with symbols he recognized as eastern. Some of the carvings were chased with silver, some with precious gems. The box alone was fit for king or queen. Balancing the chest on one arm, he lifted the lid.

A tangle of gold and silver gleamed up at him, sitting upon a kingdom’s worth of stones, polished and not. Conor’s artificer would salivate upon catching sight of such a treasure, eager to coax them into intricate works of art.

Olan reached into the box, lifting a fistful of chain and coins from inside. With his other he rooted among the loose stones until he found two matched emeralds the size of a babe’s fist.

“All the rest of the box you may have, as a first payment on land to settle my wife,” he said with arrogance, polishing the twin gems on his tunic. “These I would gift to Gwynna, if you agree to have us wed.”

“Think you to buy my sister?”

The tips of Olan’s ears turned a fiery red. “You may think I jest when I say this, but I have loved your sister since the moment I awakened to find her real. I will protect her and our children yet to be born with blood and bone and flesh and muscle. I love your sister as I have never loved anyone. Can you say me the same about my sister?”

His reply was swift and brutally honest. “No.”

“And yet you would still wed Erika. Why?”

Why, indeed? It was a question that had haunted him since Erika had first asked it, a question that crept upon him unawares. Why was he so adamant in his intention to have the Angel of Death for his bride? Was it because she fired his blood as no woman had done? Was it because of the proud, regal way she carried herself? Was it because she was the one woman, save his sister, who did not quail when she looked at his ravaged face?

Or was it simply because, in the darkest reaches of his blighted soul, he recognized a kindred spirit in the Angel of Death?

If wishing weren’t so futile, he would wish that he had some of the younger man’s passion. Wish that his impending wedding had come about because of love, passion or even money. But those things were not a part of him. He had been hopeful and loving once, until guilt and betrayal carved it out of him.

“Your sister and I will be a good match,” he said after an indeterminable moment. “I will not be harsh with her.”

Olan snorted. “I can see why Erika is so eager to wed you.”

The sarcasm at any other time would have bounced harmlessly off him. Today, it rubbed him raw. “Your sister has no place and no people. Every tribal ruler and over-king from Dubh Linn to Sligeach wants the Angel of Death. I can change that. I can give her a home, a people, a name. A place she can be safe. A husband who is not weak.”