Feeling her cheeks flame, Gwynna made a great show of straightening her skirts yet again. “I am powerful curious about the life of the man I lo...saved,” she stammered. By the saints, what had she been about to say?
Erika stared at her, and Gwynna felt as if every tumultuous emotion was illuminated in her cheeks. There was more writ there than she knew, for the Valkyrie said, “You favor my brother, don’t you?”
As soon as she asked the question, Erika knew she had guessed correctly. The healer’s cheeks paled, then flared with color.
“No! He is a warrior and I am a healer. I abhor what he does!”
Erika chose not to argue that point, though she privately believed Gwynna protested far too vehemently for the circumstances. She knew that women found her brother pleasing, and told Gwynna so.
The healer lapsed into a fit of coughing. Erika pounded her back until Gwynna was able to decry her assistance. “Are you certain you have no need of a potion or herbal?” she asked worriedly. “I know a small amount of herbology. I would not wish you to fall ill, while I did nothing to assist you.”
“My thanks, but I need nothing.”
Erika stared at the other woman with unabashed curiosity. Her color was still high, and her eyes shining with surprising anger. Why was Gwynna irate? Erika had not thought of the healer as being odd, or simple. Was that why she was unmarried? Surely the workings of marriage for Irish nobility could be no different than they were in her homeland. Gwynna was, like herself, several years past marrying age. But perhaps things were done differently here than in Denmark. After all, Conor was a prince of Dunlough, leader of his people, and he was still unmarried.
A muffled coughing sound came through the door, quickly silenced. “Was that laughter?”
Gwynna looked as perplexed as she. “Why would there be laughter?”
“I do not know.” Even knowing how quickly Olan’s moods changed, Erika did not believe he would be sharing jests with their jailer.
“How long has it been?”
“Too long.” She made to push open the wooden door when it was suddenly pulled from her hands. She was propelled into the room, into Conor’s arms.
She glared at him before disentangling herself and moving to her brother’s side, examining him for signs of further injury. The casual rage he had displayed minutes before was replaced by amusement.
“What could have transpired here that amuses you so?” she asked.
Olan looked from her to Conor then back again, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “Did you know that the jarl of Dunlough is a weaver of tales? He told me a marvel of one just now.”
“He did?” Gwynna’s surprise was apparent, and Erika had to agree with her. The Devil of Dunlough did not seem the manner of man given to fancy. “What tale is this?”
“One that can be told at a later time,” Conor said.
Erika gave him what she hoped was a quelling glance. “You look as if you’ve sat on a knife. Is that how you intimidate your followers?”
Gwynna gasped, and Olan made a choking sound, but Conor simply gazed at her, gray eyes glinting with cold amusement. “I hardly intimidate you, do I Angel? Not that I do not try.”
“He always yells, as well,” Erika informed her brother. “I do not believe the man knows how to speak in a normal tone of voice.”
Conor leaned toward her. “Oh, I can whisper, my Angel, fair enough.” His voice was barely a breath on her ear. “Though I usually save it for the bedchamber.”
Erika flushed, and barely suppressed a shiver. She was suddenly uncomfortably conscious of the long length of him, standing indecently close behind her. Did he always give off this heat?
Olan must have noticed her shiver, for when he spoke to her it was in Norse. “Are you sure you mean to do battle with this man, whatever the consequences?”
Erika knelt beside her brother, giving him an affectionate kiss. “I am honor-bound to do this, Olan,” she whispered back. “It is I who challenged him, and I who will face him.”
She gave him an infectious grin. “You may have what remains of him when I am done.”
Her quip was rewarded. Olan erupted with booming laughter, which quickly converted to grunts of discomfort.
“Give over, Angel, and let Gwynna see to her patient,” Conor ordered, his tone biting.
Instantly she obeyed the tone of command in Conor’s voice, returning to his side before she could stop herself. She drew up sharply. Conor was no jarl. She folded her arms stubbornly, ignoring a twinge of pain.
He matched her frown, then visibly relaxed. “Come, Erika,” he said. “Perhaps you could use a meal. And something to divert your worry for your brother. I noticed pieces on the chess set were moved. Do you perhaps know how to play?”
“Almost as well as I handle my sword,” Erika replied, causing Conor to grin.
“I do enjoy it when you challenge me.”
She could not let even that remark go uncontested. “Be sure that I intend to win.”
He took her taunt with an unexpected calm. “So do I, Angel. So do I.”
Placing his hand at the small of her back, he turned her toward the door. Erika was reluctant to leave. Her time with Olan had been woefully short. She was not ready to leave him yet. With a frown, she dug in her heels.
Conor frowned back, placing his hands on his hips. He drew a breath, but before he could speak, Gwynna cut in. “I can tend to your brother much better with plenty of room,” she told Erika, her fingers lightly running over the golden-haired man’s bandages. “I swear to you, I will care for Olan as I do Conor.”
“I hope not,” Olan muttered in Norse, causing Erika to stifle a shocked laugh. Did her brother feel something for the dark-haired Gael? Did he know how Gwynna felt towards him?
Disconcerted, she acquiesced, following Conor out of the room. Perhaps, once their situation was not so dire, Olan would be able to return here as he truly was, a Viking nobleman with wealth enough to pay any bride-price.
Erika glanced at Conor as he led the way down the hall. After she won their duel, would he let her brother court Gwynna? Or would his anger at losing color his judgment?
A hard sigh escaped her. Blessed Freyja, but she was tired. The pounding in her head matched the throbbing in her leg. Did he have to make such long strides? She was having a difficult time keeping up with him. “Your sister is accustomed to having her way, is she not?”
Conor looked down at Erika. “In Dunlough, her word is second only to my own. And sometimes, not even that.”
“Why have you no wife?”
Erika only asked the question for conversation’s sake. She needed to keep him talking until she could catch her breath and match strides with him again. But the simple question had the opposite effect on him.
Conor jerked to a halt, causing Erika to crash into him. Only his hands gripping her arms kept her upright. It was excruciating pain, for he seemed unaware how tightly he gripped her wounded arm. She ground her teeth to keep from crying out.
“I was wed once, but she was no wife.”
The menace in his voice was palpable. His eyes were hazed over as if caught by memories. Obviously they were not pleasant, for Conor had the look of a man close to violence. What had his wife done to cause such fury?
Conor realized how tightly he gripped her arm, and quickly let go. He bit back an oath as she shuddered in relief. “Did I hurt you?” His voice was harsh as he loomed over her.
Weakened, she took a stumbling step back. “I...the stairs,” she murmured thinly. “No idea there would be that many. Does your hall always slant like this?”
Suddenly she was off her feet, her face pressed against his chest. The man was like a wall. Ineffectually, she struggled. “Free me! I am no simpering maid to be carried like a sack of grain!”
“If I put you down, you would fall on your face,” Conor growled, his strides eating up the length of the hall. “You were near to swooning!”
“I do not swoon!” Erika bellowed, a
nd instantly regretted it. A moan escaped her.
His face darkened like thunderclouds as he kicked open a door. “Why did you not tell me you felt ill?” he demanded, entering her chamber—his chamber.
“I did not, until after we had crossed the hall,” she answered, defensive. “Besides, I wanted to see my brother.”
He laid her on the bed, and she immediately became lost in the huge softness. She closed her eyes, taking in the sensation of floating. If only it could ease the hoof beats in her head.
A cool, damp cloth was pressed to her forehead, and she nearly cried out in relief. The bed creaked, and she knew that Conor sat beside her. She kept her eyes closed, humiliated at being weak in front of him.
“Have you ever been injured before, Valkyrie?” Conor demanded.
She started to shake her head, groaned, then whispered, “Not like this.”
He leaned over her. “I have seen men with gaping wounds continue to fight without feeling pain, then fall to the ground, dead. I have seen those thought dead come back to life. And I have seen those with minor wounds recover, only to sicken and die a few days later because they thought to return to their duties before they were true and ready. Your stubbornness could get you killed.”
She could not check the tears this time, though she tried behind eyes clenched tight. “I am a warrior. I will not be weak in front of you!”
“Why?” he asked, astounded. “You think I’ll belittle you for your pain?”
Her silence was answer enough. “Erika, you were wounded. You cannot expect to be hale and hearty in just a few days. A warrior should know when to admit to pain, so that it may be taken care of. A warrior not ready for battle but refuses to admit it can cost his side the fight.”
He reached out to capture a lone tear that had gathered beneath her eye, surprised to see his fingers shaking but not surprised at the cause. Desire had him in as sure a grip as spring’s hold upon the land. Huskiness limned his voice as he said, “I’d never belittle you.”
She opened her eyes and he could see confusion and wonderment in them.
“Conor...” Her voice was soft, halting over the Gaelic as it was wont to do. “Am I a guest or a prisoner? Your...kindness is appreciated, but surely you do not treat everyone in my position this way?”
Her position was lying beneath him on the feathered mattress. Instead of answering, he stroked her hair. A pale ringlet lay across her shoulder and he picked it up, wrapping it about his finger. “Your hair is like moonlight made substantial,” he whispered with wonder.
Again he touched her cheek. “I must know if there be a woman hidden within the warrior.”
He kissed her.
He could not help himself. The deep amethyst eyes drew him in, and those lips were so inviting, maddening. It was the barest of touches at first, as he waited for her to flinch away from his ravaged face.
She did not, and it warmed him anew. With a low growl he deepened the kiss, wrapping her hair about his fist to bring her closer.
Surprised, Erika opened her mouth to protest, and Conor’s tongue shot through.
Blessed Freyja, what was he doing to her? Fire coursed through her veins, pooling in her belly like molten fire. Her body clamored like bells warning of attack. The Devil was burning her alive. She moaned against his lips.
Abruptly, Conor pulled away from her. He surged to his feet, his breath coming in harsh gasps. “No, my sweet Angel, I do not treat everyone this way,” he finally answered, his eyes glittering dangerously. “But you would do better to ask me what I will claim as my prize for defeating you in our duel. Sure you’re wanting to know?”
Dread filled Erika’s stomach even as she still burned from his kisses. She most assuredly did not want to know, but knew he would tell her anyway.
She was not disappointed. “When you surrendered your weapon to me, it was symbolic of surrendering yourself,” he told her. “You gave your life over to me, to use as I see fit. You belong to me now, my Angel. If I decided to hang you, I could do so. But that is not what I choose.
“I choose to make the Angel of Death wife to the Devil of Dunlough.”
Shock coursed through her, rendering her momentarily mute. But only momentarily.
“Nei!” The word burst from her lungs with enough force to drag her upright. “I will never be wed to you. Never!”
Easily, far too easily, he captured her thrashing fists in his massive hands. “Never is something you cannot guarantee, even if your name is Angel.”
Furious, flailing, she fought against his merciless tone. “But the duel! You said you would let us go when I win.”
“’Tis certain I made that wager to satisfy your honor.”
“You will not defeat me,” she seethed. “Thor will guide my hand!”
Conor laughed, a sound that chilled her soul and dampened her fury. “Aislingh said much the same, when she tried to kill me. Perhaps, had she prayed to your gods, her blade would have found my heart instead of my face.”
He loomed over her, his face so truly fierce that Erika shrank against the pillows. “You and I, however, will have our battle of honor. Try to kill me then. But know this: I will be victorious. The Devil of Dunlough will have the Angel of Death for his bride!”
Chapter Eleven
“You cannot marry her!”
Conor sat upon the raised dais at the far end of Dunlough’s main hall. Before him were gathered the heads of the prominent families of the tuath, as well as Gwynna, Ardan, Old Aine and Brochadh, the tuath’s priest. They all stared at him with identical expressions of shock and revulsion.
Their reaction was tame compared to the lightning bolt that was his intended. Once the initial astonishment had receded, Erika hurled invectives at him, and when strong words in Gaelic and Norse failed to curtail her anger, she began to hurl objects. It was a measure of his wisdom that he’d chosen a strategic retreat.
Conor regarded the tribal elder who had made the vehement declaration. “Why can I not marry her?”
Again the gaping. “Because she is Viking!”
“I have noticed that,” he replied, assuming a relaxed position on the ornate carved chair. Inside he was strung tight. Courtesy dictated that he inform the tribal elders, these men who had elected him as their head, of his choice for a wife. He did not need their approval, but life would be smoother with it.
“The Northmen have been in Ireland for more than two hundred years, and in that time have married into some of the greatest royal families. Erika and her brother are from a notable family in their native land.”
He wasn’t positive about that, but Conor knew the imperious manner so intrinsic to Erika’s character did not belong to a scullery maid.
“But she is the Angel of Death!” another protested. “She attempted to kill you!”
“And I attempted to kill her. She will likely attempt to do so again, when we duel.”
“Duel?” Gwynna finally spoke. “Did you say duel?”
Focusing on him, the gathering waited, impatient, for his words. “On Beltaine, the Angel and I will duel. If she wins, she and her brother will go free, and I will consider their debt paid. If I win, Erika Silverhair and I will be wed ere the day is out.”
The uproar was immediate and intense. Conor let it run its course for scant moments before he spoke again. “Think on it: the Angel of Death and the Devil of Dunlough. Those names have been feared with good reason. They will be feared even more so, when they are joined.
“You have maintained me as your leader despite my late wife’s attempt otherwise.” He pushed his hair back from his forehead, noting those who still averted their eyes. “This token among others, I realize, has shriveled my attractiveness as a husband to your daughters. At least, that is what I have assumed, having seen no evidence to the contrary.”
Silence greeted that last remark, and Conor let it sink in. He knew the women of his clan found his countenance displeasing. Then there was the matter of his demons. No, no one wanted to mar
ry his daughter to the Devil of Dunlough, despite the ties such a marriage would give him.
Conor surveyed the guilty expressions of those gathered before him. He held them blameless, for he knew he had been less than civil, less than human, since Clontarf and his wife’s perfidy. Not marriage material by any measure.
Yet it was time. He knew it in the depths of his soul. He had to ensure that something more than killing and battle was his legacy to his people. An heir would do just that, a son with the strength and the intelligence to stand tall against the chaos and evil that abounded through the island. Erika Silverhair could give birth to such progeny. He would wed her, whether the elders approved or not.
Still, he had one final threat. “If you do not approve of my decision, you may vote another as chieftain of the tribe. Dunlough can stand alone if need be.”
Like a boom of thunder, incredulity raced through the gathering. It was not every day that a chieftain threatened to abnegate his duties. For the last seven generations Conor’s family had led the tribe, and their tuath was one of the largest of the clan. The implied threat was that Dunlough would break away and form its own clanship, taking its fighting men with it. Reluctant to rule or no, Conor knew he could acquit himself when the need arose.
“Do you love her so much, then, this Angel of Death?”
Old Aine asked the question. Conor had no idea why the wise woman would pose such a query before the elders. But he was an honest man and therefore did not flinch as he answered, “No, I do not love her. But together we will forge strong sons to defend this tuath and protect the tribe. Whether I am chieftain or no, I will have the Valkyrie for my bride.”
He rose to his feet then stepped off the dais. “Now, I must beg your pardon. You may avail yourselves of my table. I must see my betrothed.”
His “betrothed” was enraged.
Erika twirled her staff, her movements a deadly dance as she sweated in the practice yard. Faster and faster she whirled from stance to stance, a gleaming dervish of lethal intent. She pushed her body as far as it would go, then she pushed it more. Even then, when pain became her companion, she was unable to escape her seething thoughts.
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