Conor’s lips twitched. “You seem disappointed, Ardan, to discover that the Angel fights fair.”
“A female warrior is unnatural.”
Gwynna’s back straightened with an audible crack. “It wasn’t so long ago that the women of Connacht fought alongside their men in battle. And ’tis certain the way of things that many have need to fight now.”
Ardan dipped his head. “My pardon, my lady.”
Conor joined them at the table. “Our Gwynna is more apt to trust than most.”
Conor swallowed deep of his ale, then turned to Ardan. “Anything else?”
“Just that she has made more enemies than allies during her time here. Her sense of justice had pricked the ire of many a boaire.”
So, the cattle lords may have put a price on her head. Interesting. “If we are to credit these tales, and I believe we should, that means that someone else attacked the village. Who?”
“Ronan of Ulster.”
The sound of his enemy’s name sent an icy rage through Conor. “This smells of his hand. It is sly and underhanded, and he craves the blood of innocents.”
Ardan stood. “When?” was all he asked.
“We will return, measure for measure, what Ronan has dealt to us,” Conor said, his voice cold. “That I promise you. But first, you will take yourself off to rest, Ardan. You deserve it.”
The warrior left. Gwynna turned to Conor. “What of Erika?”
“What indeed?” Conor had no intention of giving the Viking her freedom. He doubted she would leave anyway, especially without her brother.
“Let us go see the Valkyrie.”
They left the hall and went outside. Rains had swept through with their usual quickness, leaving a fresh crispness in their wake. The breeze that gamboled a continuous dance over the hills carried the warm promise of summer. The people of Dunlough went about their daily duties with laughter and song, and the younger children darted between the circular daub-and-wattle houses that hugged the outer boundary of the dun.
Pausing, Conor took a deep breath and closed his eyes, letting the spirit that was Dunlough infiltrate his senses. He loved this land, from the top of Slieve Torc to the depths of Lough Dun.
A bellow of pain shattered the pastoral peace. It came from the direction of the earthen cell. Conor and Gwynna broke into a run, several men following them.
Chapter Five
Angel crouched in the cool earth, a length of chain in her hands. She had rested fitfully since the healer had left, knowing the Devil, jarl or no, would come for her again. So she was prepared when the cell door opened and the young warrior entered.
She had not been prepared to see him drop his belt and lift his tunic to reveal his hardened member.
That moment of surprised hesitation had almost cost her. But the fool took a moment to gloat over his supposedly helpless victim, and that gave her time to palm her hidden weapon, a miniature dagger. When he reached for her, Angel plunged the sharp blade into the back of his hand.
“Demon-spawned bitch!” her would-be rapist screeched, stumbling back from her as she rolled into a crouch, chains hissing. With a grunt of pain he pulled her dagger free of flesh and bone and dropped it to the ground. He clutched his bleeding hand to his chest. “You’ll pay dear for that!”
The warrior drew his leg back to kick her. Angel felt the fierce storm of the berserker fit gathering within her. She prepared herself to take the blow even as she readied herself to lunge at him. Then hell erupted.
The Devil strode into the chamber, dominating the small space with his presence. Grabbing the younger man by the back of his tunic, the Devil effortlessly flung him against the earthen wall.
On a lower level of her mind, Angel registered the Devil’s intervention and marveled at it—and the obvious fury in his face. But the berserker fit had her deep in its clutches. Only blood would appease it. Snarling, she leapt to her feet, her hands curved into claws—
And was immediately engulfed in an implacable embrace, caught against an equally implacable chest. The Devil had caught her. Infuriated, she struggled against him. Moving one of the massive stone cromlechs would have been easier. Through the blood pounding in her ears, she heard her captor speak.
“Rhuaidri.” The Devil’s voice was a controlled blast of fury. “I will excuse you because your youth and your grief are great. Remember that you will not have a second chance to disobey my commands. Now get out before I let the Angel finish you.”
Her quarry was going free! Shrieking with outrage at being denied retribution, she struggled with all her might. Dimly she heard the Devil order everyone out, but the berserker in her demanded blood, drowning out rationality. She was turned, chains and all, and suddenly her opened mouth was pressed against the Devil’s throat.
Shock drove everything else from her mind. She had never been in a man’s embrace before, never had her senses assaulted in such a manner before. Never tasted a man before. Erika pressed her lips together against his throat, his flavor stinging her tongue. He tasted of salt and strength.
The sensations pierced through her berserker fit, leaving her aware of nothing but the man. Without conscious thought, she leaned into him, breathing deeply. His smell was that of grass and horse and ale and maleness.
How could a man smell of such goodness and be so evil? Perhaps he wasn’t reprehensible, after all. Could she have been so fundamentally wrong?
When the Valkyrie’s mouth fastened to his neck, Conor went stock-still. Having been denied the blood of her attacker, would she rip out his jugular in retribution?
Then her lips closed against the pulse at the base of his throat, scalding him. Conor would swear that it was a kiss. Her body relaxed against his as she inhaled deep. The harsh breath pushed her breasts against his chest, the flimsy fabric doing nothing to conceal the contour and feel of her body from him. Long and lean she was, with just a hint of softness to her sharp edges. A month of good food and kind living would round her out, making what was desirous now a torment later.
It was all he could do not to groan aloud. The Valkyrie nuzzled at him the way one of his wolfhounds asked for a pat on the head. Was this the same woman who had just screamed because she wasn’t able to kill a man? Why did that not seem to matter anymore?
Conor had been aware of the Angel as an adversary, a warrior and a prize. Now he was aware of her as a woman. And that made her even more dangerous.
Dangerous. Conor had to remind himself of that. This was not a meek maiden, despite the way she clung to him. She was a warrior in a woman’s flesh, a warrior as ruthless as he.
Erika shivered as the bloodlust left her veins. The Devil—Conor, she reminded herself—held her away. Staring into his eyes, she felt something unfathomable surge up from her toes and launch itself at him, charging the handbreadth of air between them.
He licked his lips. Erika watched in fascination as his tongue swept from one side of his mouth to the other. Did he taste the same things she had?
Belatedly she realized that he was speaking to her. “Erika? Did he hurt you?”
Blinking out of her stupor, she glanced up at him. The silver of his eyes was dark with genuine concern and another indefinable emotion. “I did not give him the opportunity,” she replied, and couldn’t resist adding, “Does that disappoint you?”
Light gleamed in his silvery eyes. “It does not. Does that disappoint you?”
Erika was amazed at his bantering tone. He couldn’t be evil. Not evil at all. Why was he called Devil? “Why did you stop him?”
Thunderclouds gathered in his features. “I have done many things, but condone rape is not one of them.”
“But you let him go!”
His jaw hardened. “Rhuaidri lost his brother in the slaughter at Dunlough village. Grief can drive a man to madness, and rash action.” Had that happened to him, Erika wondered. Still, she understood. She had only to look at the last seven years of her life to know how grief drove a person. “It is the same for a wo
man.”
“You need not fear crossing paths with him again.”
A rush of warmth swept through her, engulfing her senses yet again. He was protecting her! Only Olan and Lars had ever tried to protect her before. Tightness settled in her chest.
He cleared his throat. “And...you no longer need to fear for your life, Lady Erika. I know you tried to help my people, not harm them.”
That obviously was not an easy thing for him to admit.
Again she stared into his eyes, struggling for truth against the wariness. He still held her loosely in his arms and the awareness of it, of him, was sweeter than honeyed mead. “Are you truly lord of that village?”
His eyes were solemn. “I am.”
She sighed, the last of her rage sifting from her. It was difficult to release, especially against someone she had attempted to kill days earlier. “I am sorry,” she whispered, knowing it was inadequate but knowing no other way to convey how she felt about the loss of his people.
Conor believed her. Her expression, her luminous eyes, declared more than words the sorrow she felt. “How did you come to be near Dunlough?”
The startling lavender gaze shuttered. “We were on our way to Donegal, to find a ship to take Larangar to Anglia. When we saw the raiders attack, we stopped to help.”
Despite the fact that it put her life in danger, despite the fact that safety lay a few hours away, Erika had stopped to help people she did not know. “Why?”
She stared at him in surprise. “We could not ride by while innocent people were being hurt. Even the defenseless should have someone to defend them.”
Conor knew he had just been given insight into what drove the Valkyrie. Had there been a time when she was without defense, and no one was there to aid her? His thoughts returned to the moment he’d entered the chamber. Remembering how defenseless Erika had been filled him with unaccountable anger.
Except that she had not been defenseless. Releasing her, Conor turned to retrieve her dagger. Straightening, he hefted it in his hand, testing its weight and balance. The dagger was truly a work of art. It was a miniature of her broadsword down to the purple crystal set in the crosspiece.
Erika watched a humorless smile lift the right side of his face. “It would behoove me, I think, to remember never to invoke your fury, Lady Death,” he said, balancing the blade on the tip of a finger. “Do I want to know where you hid this?”
Her cheeks flamed. “It is a hair brooch.” She pulled the thick braid of hair over her shoulder, parting the strands to reveal a pale leather sheath woven within. “I would have used it to kill you, when the opportunity arose.”
He stepped away from her then. For the first time, Erika hated what she was. She waited for words of disgust or condemnation from him.
There were none. Instead, he held the dagger, hilt-first, out to her. “Do you still wish to kill me?”
Taking the dagger, Erika gave his question the weight it deserved. She could sense the beginning of a fundamental shift in her world, a shift she wasn’t sure she was prepared for.
But there was one thing she was sure of. She looked at Conor. His stance was relaxed, open, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. Despite the weight of the chains, Erika could have easily plunged the blade into his heart before he could raise his hands to defend himself. Looking into his eyes, she realized he knew it too.
Reversing the dagger, Erika handed it back to him. “Nay, I do not wish to kill you. Do you wish to kill me still?”
A laugh escaped him, brittle and dry. “Is everything a challenge to you, Angel?”
Her chin jerked up. “Life is a challenge, Devil. I must constantly battle it for what I want.”
“And what do you want?”
“Survival and freedom, for myself and my brother,” she replied without hesitation. She looked down at the chains encumbering her. “I would give anything to be free.”
“I can give you both, after a fashion.” He held a key aloft.
Hope warred with caution as Erika regarded the key. Nothing had been handed to her since her father’s death seven years ago. Besides Olan, there was no man left alive that she trusted. How could she trust a man she had first met over crossed blades?
Conor tucked her dagger into his belt and moved toward her. “Trust is not a simple thing for me, Angel, but I do hold high to honor. You would seem to have some of that. Therefore, a measure of freedom will be yours.”
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 safe
ty. 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.
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