Devil's Angel (8 page)

“Whyever not?”

She stared at him as if he had taken complete leave of his senses. “Because it is yours.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “So is the
leine
you wear.”

Cheeks flaming, Erika snatched the wool garment over her head and tossed it to the rug-covered floor between them. “There.”

She stood there in pure Viking defiance, her hands on her hips, color high on her cheeks. She did not avoid looking at his ravaged face, staring at him full-on instead, firing his blood. She was magnificent.

He wanted her. Total and complete and sure. Wanted her pale fire warming him, her passionate nature fueling him. Wanted the purity of her emotions writ clear on her features to be for him and him alone. Wanted to be the one to claim and tame the legendary Angel of Death. What a fine match she was for the Devil of Dunlough.

He gave her a long, deliberate look. “If you refuse my
leine
and my bed because they belong to me, then you must refuse the shift as well, if you think on it.”

A sharp gasp preceded a short word in Norse. “How dare—”

“Your reasoning is flawed,” he interrupted. “If you refuse one aspect of my hospitality, you must refuse all.”

“Hospitality?” Her voice rose as she gestured to her hobbled ankles. “This serves as hospitality in Dunlough? I am overcome by the way you honor me.”

“Erika.” His voice was low with warning.

She gave him a withering glance. “Three nights. I have been trapped here for three nights. And that heaping lump of clay you call a guard has not allowed anyone to enter, not even Gwynna with news of my brother!”

“Had you but asked him, Padraig would have told you how your brother fares.”

She sniffed. “Had I but asked him, Padraig would have spat on me.”

Conor’s eyes narrowed. “You have a low opinion of the people of Dunlough, Angel.”

“I have not seen enough of your people to form an opinion,” she retorted. “Of the women, I know only Lady Gwynna. Of the three men I have met, one tried to kill me and another tried to rape me. The third, who guards your door, would have slain me without hesitation if you had but half-formed the request on your tongue.”

Her hands fluttered against the collar about her neck. “You promised me a measure of freedom, Conor mac Ferghal,” she said, her voice low with intensity. “I would have you keep your word.”

Conor would keep his word. He would give her the freedom she craved. But the desire he felt upon seeing her again became an implacable thing, holding him more fiercely than the fetters held her. The Valkyrie was his prisoner, yet he was chained by his overwhelming desire for her. As long as it held him, he would never let her go.

Chapter Eight

He would keep her, but how?

An idea came to him. “You are right, my lady,” he finally said. “I did promise you a measure of freedom, and I am a man of my word. I will free you from your chains, and I will take you to see your brother.”

Joy burst like sunrise over her features, blinding him. That joy was followed by wariness. “Why would you do this?”

Never trusting. He could not blame her for that. “To prove to you that the people of Dunlough are not the ogres you believe us to be. Besides, I would not want to be kept from my sister, were our positions reversed.”

She considered that, her eyes never halting their frank appraisal of him. “I will not lie with you.”

Had he been in the process of drinking ale, Conor would have splattered it over both of them. As it was, it took him a few moments to collect his thoughts. Blessed Danu, the wench was plainspoken!

Recovering, Conor managed what he hoped was a formidable frown. “Have I asked you to lie with me?”

“No.”

“And what makes you think that I will?”

It was
her
turn to sputter. “Most men want that.”

His frown almost slipped into a smile. “I am not most men.”

Her brows drew together in consternation for a moment. “Ah, you prefer other men.”

“What?”

His roar caused her to wince. “Do not worry. It is a common enough practice in some places I have been, but it is passing strange.”

Conor forced evenness into his tone. “No. I do not prefer men.”

“Boys, then?”

He threw his arms wide. “Just because I did not ask to lie with you doesn’t mean I would not.”

That stopped her. “But you will not force me to your bed?”

Laughter welled inside him, rueful and biting, but he didn’t let it out. “Despite my frightening countenance, I have never had to force a woman to lie with me. Your virtue, if you have it, is safe from me. You will come to me willing.”

“Never!”

“Life is too uncertain for absolutes, lady warrior. Now, if you wish to see your brother, I need to remove your chains. Then you may refresh yourself.”

His no-nonsense tone and seeming disinterest reassured Erika, and she forced herself to relax. At the same time, she felt a curious disappointment. Conor wasn’t interested in her. She didn’t know why, but that rankled.

Pulling a key from his tunic, he moved towards her. She shrank back, and he stopped. “I cannot unlock your shackles from across the room, Erika.”

“I know that,” she retorted, more angry with herself for her momentary fright than with him.

“Then let me do the deed and be done with it.”

Instead of answering, Erika folded her arms across her chest and slowly, deliberately, turned her back to him. Even though she could not see him, she could feel the air stir as he moved behind her to unlock the heavy iron collar. She was instantly on the defensive, but not from the threat of physical harm.

His presence flowed around her, raising the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. She forgot how to breathe as his fingers lifted her braid over her shoulder to allow him better access to the lock.

Instead of releasing the braid, he began to run the silken length between his fingers. When he spoke, his breath caressed her nape, sending a fire coursing through her.

“I admire your spirit, my Valkyrie. Had those raiders possessed even a third as much, it would have been a fair fight.”

Still reeling from the feel of her hair in his hands, it took a moment for her to answer. “You went after the raiders who attacked your village?”

Dark satisfaction swept through him. “Yes, and let one live to take the tale back over the border.”

“I should have been there!” she cried, spinning to face him.

Her outburst stunned him. Hands settled on slim hips as she glared lavender daggers at him. “And what good could you have done?” he retorted. “You can walk but little.”

“I would not need to walk,” she answered tightly, as if he had insulted her. “I would have been on a horse. I would have used a short bow or sword just as easily astride as afoot.”

She glanced at Conor, and he was surprised to see tears glittering behind her lashes. “I promised your people vengeance. Why have you denied me?”

What a strange, fascinating female! Disappointed because she wasn’t able to go off and kill.

“The outlaws we attacked were hidden in the mountains,” Conor explained. “To exact your revenge, you would have to be well healed. Some of those passes are dangerous, even for men who have ridden them all their lives. You would not have been able to fight if you were not able to keep up.”

Erika’s belligerent stance relaxed, though her eyes were still reproachful. “I am Viking. We take revenge very seriously.”

“I believe you.”

“I want to know what happened. You will tell me every detail. Now.”

The command in her voice amused him, and he saw no reason to rebuke her for it. “May I remove the collar first?”

She acquiesced, and he stepped behind her again. After he removed the heavy iron collar she stepped away from him, her hands clasping her bruised neck as she sighed in relief. He set the ugly circlet on the nearby table, disgusted with himself for leaving her shackled, causing her further injury. There would be no way to hide the unsightly gouges from her brother. If the Northman possessed even a portion of his sister’s temper, Conor would be hard-pressed to quench it.

He began giving her an edited version of the battle until she demanded a blow-by-blow accounting. Every bashing and thrust and kill she wanted to know. He gave in, telling the tale as he would with his men ’round a campfire, leaving nothing out. She enjoyed every bit of it, causing him to enjoy it as well.

Satisfied, she sat in the chair, her movements slow. “It is just as well that I did not accompany you. You are correct in saying that I am not quite ready for combat.” It seemed to rankle her to make that admission.

Conor knelt before her to remove the leg shackles, attempting with little success to avoid staring at the slender columns of her legs. She was near to fleeing his touch, like a nervous colt. He could not blame her for that—had she been privy to his thoughts, she would be bolting for the door.

The largeness of her frame extended to her feet, but they were thin and shapely, and seemed fragile inside the cumbersome metal. She gasped when he lifted her foot, grasping her knees together with linked hands. He respected her privacy, but it was a near thing. How simple it would’ve been to allow his hand to glide upward, to seek out the mystery she hid behind her knees. And perhaps he would reach it before she attempted to wring his neck.

He made quick work of the leg irons then sat back on his haunches, staring at the woman too desirable for her own good—or his. “I am glad to hear you admit you are not ready for combat. It means you are human after all.” He placed amusement in his tone, knowing she would be offended.

The ploy worked. The silver head rose as she once again fixed him with a glare. “Are you mocking me, Devil?” Her voice was dangerously soft as her hand unconsciously strayed to her hip where the pommel of her sword would lie.

A lesser man would have taken her inquiry for the warning it was and retreated. Conor was not that man. “By the beard of St. Patrick, I would never mock someone with such an eagerness to fight.”

His lips curved in a goading caricature of a smile. “Unless of course, I could defeat his good self. Or her self, as the case may be.”

It was a challenge and Erika knew it. Her smile was like sunshine and her eyes flashed as she purred, “And do you think you can best me?”

Conor allowed his gaze to travel the length of her, noting the defiant tilt to her chin, and the still-sharp planes of her face and arms. “Now, of a certain. After you heal, more than possible.”

Erika rose to her feet, her grin just as feral as his. “I accept your challenge—if you swear to free us when I am victorious.”

So that was her game. Conor admired her cunning as he gained his feet. “I will accept your winning as Danegeld payment, and I will give you the freedom of the dun while you heal.”

Erika gripped his hand. If she worried about how it engulfed hers, she gave no sign. “Not that I intend to lose, but what will you set the Danegeld for if I do?”

Your surrender
. “I have not decided. I will think on it. But perhaps now you would like to see your brother?”

Her face lit up like dawn breaking across a lough. “He will live?” she asked, her eyes aglow.

Conor blinked at her. When she wasn’t talking so calm about killing, she looked most female. “Yes. Despite our efforts to the contrary, you Northmen are resilient. If you wish it, refresh yourself, and I will escort you to him.”

Erika hurried through as complete an ablution as she could manage with Conor present. How she longed for a bath. Quick dips in frigid loughs had been a staple of her life for the past few years. Most of the
bruidheans
, places of rest and hospitality for travelers, had been ransacked by the lawless or feuding clans.

As if reading her thoughts, Conor said, “A bath will be waiting for you, when you return.” He handed her a robe of blue so deep it was nearly violet. “Let us go,” he said brusquely, and opened the chamber door.

Following Conor into the hall, Erika looked about her with interest. There were four other rooms on this level that she could see, two each flanking his room. The hall was wide, with solid, stone walls and planked floors, and lit every few feet with torches. Conor placed her to his right then led her down a curving stair that opened into a massive hall. There were two hearths large enough to roast an ox flanking four long trestle tables. The packed dirt floor was strewn with fresh rushes and the double entrance doors were open to allow the smoke from the hearths to escape.

A handful of people dotted the great hall, servants cleaning the tables or serving a few latecomers. All activity jerked to a halt as Conor and his charge walked past. The stares ranged from curiosity to outright hostility. Erika lifted her chin high, determined to ignore them.

She didn’t speak until they reached the second stairway. “Your people do not seem taken with me,” she remarked, as if commenting on the weather.

“They have no love for outlaws or any who help them,” he replied, his tone devoid of inflection.

“They must know by now that I did not raid the village,” she protested. “I only wanted to help.”