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 ex
quisite embroidery along the edges. It was wide enough to sleep two adults comfortably.
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 pal
e 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.”
A Promise Kept Page 5
