Devil's Angel (7 page)

Erika did not go near the bed after her initial examination of it. She had taken one of the chairs to the window, impeded by the chain connecting her ankles and shortening her stride to a hop. With a blanket and one of Conor’s tunics to ward off the nighttime chill, the chair was a serviceable place to sleep. She would not sleep in Conor’s bed.

Sleeping in his bed would mean yielding to the Devil of Dunlough in a way that was unacceptable. She would not willingly capitulate her body, a conclusion Conor would surely reach if he discovered her beneath his bedclothes. She may be trapped in his chamber, but she would not go freely into his embrace.

Erika’s hands went to the heavy metal collar about her throat. Conor had promised her a measure of freedom. Surely that meant more than traversing his chamber?

Why his quarters? That was a question that had haunted her for the last three days. Did Conor have no wife? Surely if he did, the lady of Dunlough would be offended by her presence in this most private of places.

Erika’s gaze returned to the bed. Was that the price she would have to pay for her liberation? Was that why she was now imprisoned in his private chamber?

Although she had never experienced intimacy before, what she knew of it confused her. She had seen conquering armies foist themselves on the hapless and been witness to the pain and suffering they inflicted. But Erika had also met a fascinating woman who actually charged men for the right to come to her bed. That woman had told her that joining with a man could be pleasurable or interminable, depending upon the man.

Which would Conor be? She couldn’t help but wonder. Despite her inexperience, she knew firsthand the effect of desire on men. From her tenth year, many men had come to her father to offer for her. Erika’s father,
Jarl
Thorold, had been a powerful and well-liked lord. With close ties to the rulers of Denmark and Norway, Thorold had no need to forge alliances through marriage. Doting on his only daughter, the
jarl
had granted Erika the right to choose her future husband when she came of age.

With all the brashness a ten-year-old could muster, Erika had declared she would wed the man who defeated her in combat. Motherless since the age of four, she had been raised by
Jarl
Thorold as he raised her brothers, in the ways of war. Wanting to please her father in all things, Erika soon became proficient in every Viking weapon but excelled with blades. Her success ensured that she would never have to leave her father.

In the winter of her fourteenth year
Jarl
Thorold died, and the darkest years of her life began.

Fear had driven her then, and fear drove her now. The cloying, gut-wrenching sensation had been a constant companion for her the last five years. She was afraid of death, afraid of being powerless. Afraid of losing her brother. Afraid of being captured, imprisoned. Afraid of being subjected to another’s will.

Those fears had caused her to walk the warrior’s path, to live a life that was not living. Knowing—and fearing—that the end of her journey would come sooner rather than later.

Now, all of those fears were personified in the man called Devil.

The overwhelming fact of her fate caused tears to well. Without her sword, she was powerless. Bereft of weapons, she was not the Angel of Death, fearsome warrior, but simply Erika Silverhair, a woman without defenses.

Ruthlessly she stamped the tears down. Tears had no power. Tears had not brought her mother or her father back. Tears had not freed Olan from their elder brother’s cruelty. Tears had not kept her from killing to free her twin.

Tears had never helped. Erika had long ago learned the ability to cry silently and alone. Eventually she had learned how not to cry at all.

Commotion outside the window lifted her from her dire thoughts. Crossing to the aperture, she peered out.

What little she could see of Dunlough was impressive. A mixture of stone and wooden posts partitioned acres of neat, verdant fields. Some of the pastures held sheep, cattle or horses, and others were already sown with grains and vegetables. Conor’s people, she observed, knew their duties and went about them with brisk efficiency even without the presence of their lord.

But their lord had returned.

Conor rode at the forefront of a column of riders snaking its way up the rise to the dun. He held himself proudly and easily astride a large mount as darkly shaded as his garments, his sable hair dancing about his shoulders in the breeze. In his somber tunic, Conor stood out from his men. He would have stood out in any case.

Watching him, Erika was reminded of the lead male of a wolf pack, and how that proud animal held sway over his followers by virtue of being the smartest and strongest. The lord of Dunlough was undoubtedly strong—crossing blades with him had proved that.

Defending the border between Connacht and Ulster was unquestionably a precarious duty, not for one weak in mind, will or body. It was patently clear to her that Conor mac Ferghal was weak in none of these.

As if drawn by the force of her thoughts, Conor reined his horse, his head lifting to discover her at the window. When their gazes met, something inside her tangled, struggling to break free. She remembered how it felt to stand in the protective circle of his arms, to absorb his scent and his taste. Her insides quivered in anticipation of being near him again.

After an indeterminate time, Conor’s attention was snagged by one of his men. He looked away, breaking the enchantment that held her. With a flustered sigh, she sank onto the chair.

“Eye of Odin!” She covered her face with her hands.
What is wrong with me that I comport like a love-starved maiden in one of the
eddas
? Can I truly forget so easily that this man wishes me dead? That he has kept me in chains for five days?

Anger surged through her. She grasped it fiercely, welcoming it for the weapon it was. She would need every defense she could summon, for a new fear was threatening to claim her—the fear of wanting.

“Now, there’s an uncommon sight.”

Conor handed his stallion off and turned to Ardan. “What was?”

Ardan nodded towards his chamber. “Seeing a woman leaning out of your window, eager for your return.”

Wryness twisted his lips. “Eager to separate my head from my shoulders, no doubt.”

Ardan didn’t bother to smother his amusement. “Being trapped in your chamber for three nights is certain to make the Viking less than endeared to you.”

“I don’t need her to be endeared to me. Grateful will be enough.”

Chuckles escalated into full-gale laughter. “Grateful! She’ll be grateful, true enough. Grateful for the chance to put her hands to your throat!”

Conor had considered that. “As long as she doesn’t have a blade hidden elsewhere on her person, I should survive the confrontation.”

He moved toward the dun’s entrance. “Do not worry, my friend. Erika Silverhair will not end my days, though she may be tempted to try.”

Ardan shook his head, but tactfully changed the subject. “What do you plan for her then?”

What indeed? Truth be told, Conor had given little thought to the Angel’s future. His thoughts had been preoccupied with hunting down his enemy. Early into the second day they had been successful in flushing the raiders out of their mountain fast. Ronan of Ulster had not been among those slain or captured, a truth that weighed heavy on Conor’s soul. That guilt was balanced by the knowledge that none of his men had lost their lives. This time, at least, the demons that haunted him would leave him in peace.

Conor glanced at the window again. “I don’t know yet.”

They entered the dun. The main level was windowless, lighted by torches at short intervals along the walls. The smell of roasting meat wafted from the kitchens and out the door behind them. Servants waited for them with basins of water and towels to clean their faces, hands and feet, and cups of ale to soothe their parched throats.

The cool water did nothing to curb his reaction to the sight of Erika leaning out of his chamber window to watch his arrival. Her pale hair had glistened in the sunlight, floating on the breeze like a silver pennant. Her gaze had been so intent that it was a tangible thing on his skin.

Need slammed into him, hardening his flesh. Enemy or no, Conor wanted to sink his hands into Erika’s hair and taste her fully, to join her in his bed and never let her out.

Ardan’s soft curse brought him out of his musings. “What?”

“Careful, lad.”

Conor paused, one foot on the stairs leading to the upper level. “That is too cryptic even for you, Ardan.”

The eyes staring back at him were heavy with warning. “I don’t like the look you’re wearing. Remember who and what she is.”

“A woman.”

“A Viking woman who tried to kill you.”

“Do you believe I could ever forget?”

Without waiting for a reply, Conor mounted the stairs to his chamber. Padraig, who had command of the dun in Conor and Ardan’s absence, stood outside his door with another guard. Both hung their heads in abject misery. Gwynna was also there, with a servant carrying a basin of water and a stack of cloth. His sister was standing toe to toe with Padraig, haranguing him in that soft, quiet way she had that could reduce even the stoutest man to a quivering, useless mass.

Schooling his features into a bland expression, Conor approached them. “How fares our guest?”

“And how would I be knowing that, I ask you?” Gwyn wondered, her tone tart. “Your guards have not allowed me to enter. For all I know, she could be lying dead of a festering wound!”

Padraig turned helpless eyes to Conor. “
Tigerna
, I explained that your orders were to allow no one to enter. I did not think it safe to allow Lady Gwynna to go in.”

“’Tis apparent he believed that Lady Erika would put a bandage to my throat and hold me hostage until your return,” she retorted. She turned to Padraig, giving him a sweet smile that had little kindness to it. “I appreciate your concern for my safety.”

The sentry blushed the color of his hair. “All is quiet within now, but the first night it sounded as if a
bhean sidhe
were trapped in the room. The second and third nights were most quiet, save for her pacing and muttering. When I brought her meals in, she never spoke a word, just followed my every movement with those damnable eyes of hers.”

He shuddered, then made the sign to ward away evil. “Sure, if she needed a healer, she would have said,” he finished.

Gwyn’s answering snort made her opinion clear. For himself, Conor had to agree with her. Erika was proud to the point of stubbornness. She would not ask anything for herself, even to save her life.

“Thank you, Padraig. You may go.” Both men bowed and retreated. Conor turned to his sister. He could see the argument brewing in her emerald eyes, and diverted it by asking, “What of the Angel’s brother?”

Her ire softened. “He’s recovering remarkable well, enough to demand to see his sister. He does not believe we have treated her fairly. Although I have attempted to disabuse him of that notion, my voice must have lacked conviction. He is quite angry.”

Stillness gathered in Conor’s bones. “Has he threatened or hurt you?”

“No. Olan has been most kind, given the circumstances. You cannot begrudge him wanting to see his sister’s welfare for himself.”

No, he could not. Had the situation been reversed, Conor would have been beside himself wanting to know the fate of his last remaining sibling.

He took the bundle of clothing and the water from the startled servant. “See to the Northman’s needs,” he told Gwynna. “We will reunite brother and sister within the hour.”

Gwynna gave him a long look that he could not interpret before turning away. Conor waited until they were gone before opening his door, fully expecting to be attacked.

He wasn’t. But if eyes were daggers, he would have died a thousand deaths.

Erika stood beside the window, her arms folded across her chest. She still wore the thin shift but had added a
leine
over it. The dark tunic falling off her sparse frame and the heavy iron collar did nothing to diminish the imperious tilt of her chin or the furious flash of fire in her eyes.

Conor had never seen anything so lovely—or irate. “You are well this day, my lady?”

“How can your mouth even form the words?” she asked, caustic. “You have trapped me in this room for three days!”

Glancing about the room, he noted everything was almost as he had left it. One of his chairs now stood by the window, and someone had advanced pieces on the chess set. The bed was untouched.

“Keeping you here was necessary, for your own safety,” he replied, setting his burden on the table near the hearth. “Or would you rather I had kept you in that cell?”

“I would rather be free.” It was not a request.

Conor had to admire her unflinching, if single-minded, resolve. He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “This is the best chamber in the dun. Only one other has a true bed, and it belongs to Gwynna.”

He nodded toward the bed, knowing the answer before he asked the question. “Did you not enjoy sleeping in my bed?”

Amethyst eyes flashed with lightning. “You know well enough that I did not lie there.”