Devil's Angel (6 page)

Freedom! Tears stung her eyes as the chains fell from her wrists and ankles. So intent was she on being rid of the iron fetters that she almost missed his words. “What do you mean, giving me a ‘measure’ of freedom?”

Instead of answering, he called for one of his guards. The soldier was shorter than Conor but just as bulky, with deep auburn hair contrasting his dark beard and unfriendly green eyes. She knew if Conor gave the order, the warrior would slay her without compunction. Or at least, he would attempt to.

Erika deliberately turned her back to him and faced Conor. “What do you mean by measure of freedom?”

She watched as he gathered the chains in his massive hands. “Freeing you from this pit is the only measure of freedom I can give you. I cannot have you disrupting the dun any more than you have. Padraig will guard you until I decide your blood-fine.”

“And why should I pay a blood-fine when you know I did not raid the village?”

Any trace of humor he may have retained vanished. “Perhaps you do not have a true understanding of your plight,” he replied, his eyes wintry. “At best, you are a hostage of war with no one to ransom you. At worst, you are one of the
fuidir
, with no rights save your life, which continues only by my goodwill. Your friends are few, your enemies as great. Your life is in my hands. You would do well to remember that.”

Transferring the leg and arm shackles to Padraig, Conor grabbed the remaining length of chain that hung from the neck collar, wrapped it around his ample fist, then led her towards the door. Erika balked, suddenly not wanting to leave. “Where are you taking me?”

He drew her inexorably to the door. “To the one place I can ensure your safety. My chamber.”

Chapter Six

Gwynna watched the silver-haired man sleep, unable to halt the strumming of her heart.

He was magnificent. Even battered and broken, his body awed her with its innate strength and beauty. She had refused to let him die, and it was a mixture of skill and will that brought him back from the brink time and time again.

How many hours had she sat beside him, urging him to live? How many hours had she listened to his disjointed ramblings, soothing him with words and touch? More than she had with the others, that was true. God help her, she had given more of her attention to him than the men of Dunlough, all the while believing he was their enemy!

It had been a burden on her soul, wanting the Viking to live, knowing that at any moment, Conor could order his death. She’d attempted to rationalize her want by hiding behind the healer’s desire to help all, enemy or no. But the relief she’d felt at discovering the truth proved her rationalization for the lie it was.

She should have been afraid of him. He was a large man, acclimated to the ways of killing. His body bore evidence of the brutal existence he led. A giant with pale curls that flowed past shoulders twice as wide as she was, there wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on him. His face would have been harsh had it not been for the thick lashes that rimmed his eyes and the hint of softness around his lips. Yes, she should have been afraid of him. She had good reason to fear men such as he. Yet she did not.

Perhaps it was because he was powerless, on the brink of death as he was. Perhaps it was because she was the one in power, with God’s blessing, holding his life in her hands.

Perhaps it was because of the dreams.

Delirious with fever, he had thrashed about on the pallet, calling out in a mixture of Norse, Gaelic and Latin. Gwynna hadn’t been able to catch more than a few phrases, but she knew his thoughts were of his sister and her safety. His concern touched Gwynna, for it reminded her of Conor and his concern for her.

Turning to check his forehead for fever, she was startled to find the object of her daydreams staring at her.

His eyes. Sweet Lord, she had forgotten about his eyes. Blue as late afternoon sky on a warm summer’s day, his eyes delved into her, uncovering her heart, her very soul, and claiming both for his own.

A smile split the close-cropped beard, lighting his expression. “Angel.”

Gwynna couldn’t hide the twinge of disappointment. Was he still under the spell of fever? His gaze was clear and steady, not glazed and pained. “I am Gwynna, my lord, not the Angel.”

“Lady Gwynna.” His voice was deep, rumbling from the depths of his chest, reminding her of waves crashing against the cliffs. He spoke her name again, slow, as though savoring each syllable. “I am Olan, and I am lord of nothing, save myself.” He looked down at his mending body. “And perhaps not even that.”

His gaze journeyed around the chamber, taking in everything before resting on her again. “Where am I?”

“You are in Dunlough, my home,” she informed him. “You are safe.”

Disbelief shadowed his eyes. “I traveled with others, a man and woman, Northmen as I am.”

Gwynna noticed how careful he was not to reveal their relationship to him. But she could see the pinched expression that had nothing to do with physical pain. She gathered his large hand between hers, noting the long, calloused fingers.

“Your friend, Larangar, is dead,” she said as gently as she could. “But Lady Erika is here, and well.”

She would not tell him that his sister was locked in Conor’s private chamber and had been for the past three days while Conor hunted down raiders to the north. She would not tell him that Erika slept in chains for two days prior to that. She would not tell him how close his sister came to being raped and killed. Gwynna remembered the anguish her brother had endured on her behalf. She would spare Olan that.

He blinked several times, and she wanted to weep for him, for causing him this pain.

His eyes found hers again. “I would see for myself how my sister fares.” His free hand gripped the covers, lifting them away.

“Please don’t!” Gwynna rose to her feet to stop him, knocking over her stool in her haste. Even if he could rise, he wore nothing save his bandages. Despite having seen that body injured and bleeding, it would be quite another to see it hale and hearty. Quite another.

Olan came to the same conclusion she had, for he fell back to the pallet, the cover tight to his body. “I feel as shaky as a new-birthed foal.”

“Your wounds were grievous, my l—Olan.” Gwynna hoped her face wasn’t as flushed as it felt. “Many a time was it that I almost lost you.”

The smile returned, illuminating his brilliant eyes. “Yes, I remember. I was on the path to heaven or Valhalla, I’m not sure which, and an angel blocked my way.”

“An angel?”

He nodded. “An angel. But unlike any heavenly being I’d ever heard of.”

Gwynna was drawn into the tale, mesmerized by cobalt blue eyes. “In what way?”

“The monks describe angels as golden-haired creatures of light, with wings upon their backs. This angel had hair as black as a raven’s wing, and eyes as green as this land in springtime. Her beauty outshone the sun.”

His quiet, compelling tone stole her breath. Could he be talking about her? True, she had dark hair and green eyes, but she was no beauty. “Go on.”

“She was also different in that, instead of wearing white robes, she wore a simple dress soaked with blood.”

He smiled at her startled gasp. “Yes, you were that angel. Each time I tried to continue on the path, you denied me passage.” He gazed at her, his expression apologetic. “I was very angry with you.”

Despite his warm gaze, Gwynna shivered. “I remember.”

Even more than his sister, this Northman had fought her. She looked down at his hands, remembering how they had wrapped around her wrists as he raged with fever, leaving her bruised.

“I hurt you, didn’t I?” he asked, his remorse clear. “Forgive me.”

Touched by his concern, she leaned towards him, laying a hand on his in an impulsive move. “There’s naught to forgive,” she said. “You were wracked with fever and pain. As long as you fought, you’d live. Neither I nor your sister were ready to let you go.”

His hand turned beneath hers, lightly clasping and leaving her breathless. His gaze was like a caress to her flushed skin. When was the last time a man had looked at her like that, she wondered. Had she ever been regarded in that way? She felt as if he wanted her to draw closer so that he could touch her, kiss her. Gwynna leaned towards him, closing her eyes…

A low rumbling sound rose between them. Startled, her eyes flew open. “What was that?”

Laughter, deep and strong, answered her. “My stomach,” Olan said with rueful good nature. “I believe I will survive after all, if my hunger is any indication.”

There were many kinds of hunger, she knew. At the moment, staring into the intense blue of his eyes, she was unsure if he was speaking of food.

She moved toward the door, of a sudden needing to put space—leagues—between them. “I will see to a meal for you.”

“I would like to see my sister.”

Gwynna froze, her back to him. She had dreaded this request, and now that it was upon her, she was struck by indecision. How would he react when he learned that he and his sister were little more than captives?

She didn’t have to wait. “I cannot see her, can I?”

Turning to face him was difficult; seeing the look on his face was worse. “Perhaps, when you have regained your strength—”

“My sister and I are prisoners, aren’t we?” he demanded. “We were captured.”

“Conor thought you were responsible for raiding our village.”

“Raiding the village?” he echoed. “We were protecting it!”

Gwynna remained by the door, poised to flee. “We know that now, Olan, but at the time, you were the only war band in the area, so of course Conor assumed—”

“We were not the only ones near the village,” he cut in, his eyes fierce. “There were others, all Irish, led by a large man dressed all in black, with a scar on one side of his face…”

She must have made some sound, for his gaze sharpened, piercing her. “Do you know him?”

“He is my brother, Conor, ruler of Dunlough.”

Olan stared at her. All the warmth they had shared earlier evaporated from his features, replaced by a coldness that permeated her heart.

“Your brother.” He spat the words out like bitter ale. “The monster who stabbed my sister in the gut is your brother?”

Gwynna felt the blood in her veins turn to ice. “H-how did you know that?”

“My sister and I shared the same womb. Our bond is strong.”

His gaze flicked hard over her, causing her to flinch. “Why have you saved us? Surely your brother does not mean us to live?”

Forcing herself away from the door, Gwynna drew herself to her full height. “Despite what you believe, my brother is not a monster.”

“Is he the one called Devil?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then he certainly is not an angel, is he?”

“Neither is your sister,” Gwynna burst out, and instantly regretted it.

Olan ignored her retort, though his eyes darkened in a potent mixture of anger and pain. “I would speak to your brother.”

Heat suffused her cheeks. How had they become enemies? “Conor is out searching for the true criminals now.”

“He knows that we did not plunder the village?”

“He knows that you helped the villagers fend off their attackers.”

The change in his mood was immediate. “Then we are not prisoners, and you can bring my sister to me.”

Gwynna twisted her hands into knots. “I can’t.”

The smile froze on his face. “Cannot or will not?”

“I cannot.”

“Then we are prisoners.”

“No,” she began, but the protest was a feeble one.

“It is out of place for a lady to comport with captives,” he said, his voice frigid. “We have nothing more to say to one another.” He turned away from her then, a sheaf of his golden hair falling forward over his shoulder and obscuring his face.

Gwynna left the room, feeling as if she had lost something precious without knowing what it really was.

Chapter Seven

Erika bit back an oath. For the past three days she had been making short trips about the room. She knew every nook and cranny, just as she knew Padraig and another guard stood outside the heavy door. The taciturn man was taking his duty as her guard all too seriously, not allowing her to leave or anyone to enter, not even Gwynna.

Had she been healthy and unchained, she probably could have subdued both guards before an alarm could be raised. Yet even if she gained the hallway, Erika had no way of knowing where her brother was being kept. She would not leave without him, a fact the Devil of Dunlough was surely aware of. So she prowled the room.

His room.

The chamber was sparse, more suited to a cleric than a king. The few articles present, however, were sumptuous. Near the hearth, two finely hewn seats with dark green cushions flanked a small table boasting a chess set carved of ivory and obsidian, with a match in progress. A large, finely decorated chest held unadorned, dark clothing startlingly different from the multihued raiment of most Irish nobility, and grooming implements.

Then there was the bed.

The ruler of Dunlough did not have a straw pallet on the floor or a rough stone ledge. Conor had a bedstead, a low-slung wooden frame with four stubby yew posts delicately carved with the intricate swirls and beasts that were the hallmark of the island’s artistry. The bed boasted an actual mattress stuffed with feathers, and blankets with exquisite embroidery along the edges. It was wide enough to sleep two adults comfortably.