She glanced up, as far as his thighs, then dropped her gaze. She had seen far too much of the man to be proper, even for a widow. And even for a widow, the memories made her blush.
“Can it wait a time?” Time to put on another dress, scrub the dirt from my face, dip my fingers in ruam...
“You have avoided me long enough,” the blond giant said. He reached down a hand to pull her up. Instinct had her flinching, raising her arm in a defensive gesture.
The large hand withdrew as he stepped back. “Do you think I would hurt you?”
Horrified at her involuntary movement, Gwynna scrambled to her feet. “Olan, I am sorry!”
“So am I.” His face became closed. His voice seemed so wounded it caused her to wince. “You fled the dinner table that night as if for your very life. You have avoided me for nearly a week. I have frightened and offended you, yet I shall do so no longer.” He turned away.
“No!” Desperate, Gwynna reached for him, catching her hand on his elbow. “Please, wait!”
The huge man stopped, his eyes cast to the ground. “I am sorry, Gwynna. It is wrong of me to attempt to offer you what I cannot give.”
Her heart leapt into her throat, then dropped to her abdomen. “What?”
She watched him shove his hands through his thick blond mane, hands that had never risen against her with deliberate intent. He had never hurt her, except in his delirium. She fixed upon that thought, resisting the urge to run away.
Every move measured, Olan guided her to the bench. “When I was wounded, I thought the Valkyries were coming for me. But you stood between life and death, and brought me back.”
He sat beside her, not touching, not encroaching on her space. “It was the happiest day of my life, to awaken and discover that you were real. For the first time in years the days seemed brighter, and it was because I had seen your smile. I vowed to give you cause to smile every time I saw you, so that I could store away the memory like treasure.”
Smiling, he turned to her, hoping she could see the sincerity in his eyes. “You have made me the richest man on earth.”
She was weeping openly, her tears making tracks in the smudges on her face. Olan didn’t mind. “You saved me, Gwynna. My life belongs to you now. And so does my heart.”
Surprise lifted her eyes to his.
“Do not ask me to explain the how and the why. Know only that I speak the truth. I know it does not seem possible, but surely you recognize that there is something between us?”
Her dark green eyes filled with hope and trepidation, her voice catching as she asked, “What is this thing between us?”
“Whatever you wish it to be.”
She shot to her feet, wringing her hands together. “It cannot be. We are too different, you and I. You are Viking, I am Gaelic. I am a healer, and you are...”
“Say it. Speak the words you mean, that I may hear them.”
“Y-you are a warrior.” She sounded as if she had to force the words out. “I heal people and you-you kill them. And you enjoy it.”
“There is no joy in killing.”
“But you are a berserker. Everyone knows a berserker enjoys killing.”
Olan closed his eyes. It caused an ache deep inside, that she would think this of him. How could she think otherwise? She knew only that he was a warrior, had tried to kill her brother, and had bruised her in his struggle to survive. He could not hope that she held him high in her regard.
“Though it damns me, and causes me to lose your favor, I cannot be untrue,” he admitted, opening himself to more hurt at her hands. “When those I love are threatened, the red rage consumes me. I do not cease until that threat is done.”
Focusing on her, he rose slowly to his feet, still keeping apart from her. “There is naught I can do to change who I am. I am a warrior. I will always protect what is mine, what I love, with my sword and my life. Always.”
“I-I understand, Olan.” Miserable to the core, Gwynna kept her eyes to the earth. She knew she had hurt him with her words just as she knew she would give anything to take that pain from him.
He reached out to brush the tears from her cheeks. She saw his hand approach, knew it was his and not another’s. By God, she tried not to flinch away from him, away from this man her heart yearned to yield to, but her body betrayed her.
His hand fell to his side, clenching into a fist. He was angry, she could feel it spilling into the space between them. Trembling took hold of her, so violent her teeth clicked. “Please,” she whispered, “please don’t.”
“You cannot even suffer me to touch you,” he whispered, his voice raw. He stepped well away from her. “I have exceeded my place. Forgive me. I’ll trouble you no more.”
“He nearly beat me to death!”
The confession tore from her, born of a desperate need to make him understand. If he were to hate her, she wanted him to have good reason.
She sank to the ground, her dignity in tatters. But what good would it do to have her dignity and lose this man?
“I was wed once,” she said, as Olan turned to her. “He was a stern man, very disciplined with his men and his people. But what was not known, what I didn’t discover until after the wedding was the exact measure of his cruelty.
“He-he lived to inflict pain. It was as necessary for him as eating and drinking. The servants shielded me from his temper as best as they could. He was not home often, but when he did return...I did everything he asked of me, but I was his property and he could do as he wished.
“One day he came home unexpected. I was here, for visiting my family was my greatest pleasure. He followed me here, so drunk he could scarce walk. But he wasn’t too drunk to beat me. He struck me so fierce I lost my senses. When I came to, I was in my old bedchamber. I was told that Conor had discovered my husband kicking me as I lay unconscious, and beat him till he died.”
“I must remember to thank your brother.”
Olan’s voice throbbed with ill-concealed rage. Closing her eyes, Gwynna lowered her head, unable to see the disgust she knew she would find in his features.
“Gwynna.”
So couched in misery was she that she couldn’t answer, couldn’t look at him.
She felt rather than saw him kneel before her. “Gwynna, I’m going to touch you now.”
Panic welled in her chest, but she fought it down. If he didn’t grab her too tight, it wouldn’t leave a bruise, or she could cover it with her sleeves, or she could plead an illness—
His hand cupped her cheek. Her eyes flew open. How could a warrior’s touch be so comforting?
Gentle, his fingers slid down her cheek to her chin, tilting it up. His eyes were bright with a promise she didn’t dare interpret. “Gwynna, you know what my sister endured. If you think I could ever do to you as was done to her, you’re mistaken. You are mo aingeal, mo leannán.”
Tears spilled unbidden from her eyes. My angel, my sweetheart. “Olan—”
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he whispered, his breath warm against her cheek. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since I awoke to find you real. Do not deny me.”
She could deny him nothing. Indeed, she offered him her lips, yielding to the inevitability of the moment. And what a wondrous, healing moment it was.
“Marry me, Gwynna,” Olan urged, his voice rough. “I have little to offer you—a few gems, some gold, my name. And my love, my body, and my soul. I give all those to you free.”
“You have more to offer me than I to you,” she told him. “I live in my brother’s house in shame. He cares naught, but many do.”
“I am not one of the many.” He shifted on the bench then got to his feet. “I am a Northman in a land with little love for my kind. Their regard means little to me. Only yours matters. Tell me what I can do to raise your regard for me, and I will do it.”
She stretched a hand to him. “I was afraid to hope. I didn’t dare believe...”
He captured her hand, engulfing it as he knelt before her. “I will
ask you again, heart of my heart. I want to offer for your hand. I am Viking, a warrior, with no land to claim as mine. But I will claim you and your daughter as mine. If you will but say yes, if you believe you can love me—”
She was off the bench and in his arms, pressing rapid kisses to his cheeks and mouth. He caught her against him as he rose to his feet, taking her with him.
“I do love you, Olan,” she whispered, resting her forehead against his chest. How could she have ever doubted that she would feel anything but safe and protected in his arms? “I have loved you forever.”
“Gwynna,” Olan began, “you must know that I vowed that I would find Erika a place where she could be safe and happy. I do not know if that place will be here, but if it isn’t...”
She touched his cheek, tracing the moisture she saw there. “I know,” she said softly. “You must see your responsibility to your sister through. ’Tis one of the reasons I fell in love with you, Olan. I’ll be your wife, and I will wait for you.”
She smiled. “Now take me in your arms and kiss me.”
Chapter Fourteen
Erika turned away from the tender scene. She had not meant to intrude, but she had been rooted to the spot, mesmerized.
She was selfish, too absorbed in her own misery and quest for freedom to realize the hardship her stance had inflicted on those she loved. Larangar had loved her enough to sacrifice his inheritance, and it had earned him a grave on foreign soil without a legacy.
Now Olan had a chance for the kind of happiness they had not experienced since their father’s passing. She could not begrudge him that. Her brother deserved joy more than she needed her petty dream of freedom.
Olan had found a place for himself, a place she wished she had. She could not deny him that place.
It was time to make a deal with the Devil.
Her footsteps took her along the back of the wall, where several thatched roof huts hugged the wood and stone perimeter. It was then that she noticed the shadow following her own. Erika spun to face the man behind her, recognizing Padraig. “Why do you follow me?”
Padraig’s stony expression never wavered. “The mac Ferghal wills it.”
Just the mention of Conor had her narrowing her eyes. “Why?”
“The tigerna needs no reason, and you’d do well not to question him.”
Erika glared at the man, but the huge warrior was as inflexible as the limestone wall behind him. He may not know why Conor ordered her followed, but she could hazard a guess: to make sure she did not attempt escape, and to make sure she was not attacked.
While she could appreciate the need, the choice of guards was unpalatable. “What must I do to have you cease following me?”
Cold, flat eyes flicked over her. “Return to your chambers.”
As an answer and a choice, it was unthinkable. Padraig obviously knew it as well, for he folded his arms across his chest and gave her a look that was half smirk, half dare.
Erika lifted her chin. Apparently, this man had no idea who he was daring.
She turned on her heel, heading toward the lios. “Where are you going?” he demanded.
“For a ride,” she shot back over her shoulder, not even breaking her stride. Her braes had been returned to her, clean and mended, allowing her to exercise more freely. The sun-bleached leather tunic and the linen skyrta she had worn beneath had been ruined by her injuries. Gwynna had supplied a leine but had added her own feminine embellishments, much to Erika’s consternation.
Rhory must have seen her coming, for he already had the gray stallion ready as she entered. Padraig caught up with her as she accepted the reins from the horse-boy. “You canna do that,” he warned.
Settling her baldric so that the pommel of her sword rested between her shoulder blades, Erika swung astride her horse. “Thank you, Rhory.” She gave the soldier a beatific smile. “Watch.”
Tempest needed no urging to burst out of the wooden enclosure. Once outside, Erika brought the stallion to heel, waiting.
She didn’t have long. Cursing rattled the timbered walls of the lios as Padraig galloped out. Erika smiled and waved as he barreled by, then urged Tempest forward at a sedate walk.
More curses fouled the air as the large warrior curbed his protesting mount. He said nothing to her, but if his glare were a dagger, she would be bleeding.
Erika’s smile was guileless. “Conor said that I might exercise freely. We’re not after going against the mac Ferghal’s wishes, are we?”
For answer, he turned his mount towards the beaten path that led away from the dun. Before they had gone far, three more guards were accompanying them. At her questioning glare, Padraig said, “The mac Ferghal would not send his betrothed out without a proper escort.”
Tempest laid back his ears as Erika drew short. “I am not Conor’s betrothed.”
Padraig and the other soldiers exchanged smiles. “You would not be after going against the tigerna’s wishes, would you?”
Rankled to have her words thrown back at her, Erika clucked at her mount, sending him trotting down the rocky incline. Once they were on the flat, grass-covered plain she gave Tempest his head, letting him gallop flat-out.
Free! Laughter ripped from her as her cloak flapped about her on the mist-laden wind. How wonderful it felt to be free! She tilted her head upward, closing her eyes to savor the salty breeze that caressed her cheeks. It was a liberating experience, one she and Tempest had engaged in many times before.
The illusion was quickly dashed by the arrival of her escort. Tempest jerked to a halt, his ears flattening to his skull, as the warriors surrounded them.
“Where would you like to go, my lady?”
“To the village.”
The journey to Dunlough village was too long, and not long enough to her. The village was nestled against low hills that sported at least six shades of green on its northeastern side. To the west, just beyond a stand of trees, lay the sea.
For a moment she closed her eyes, savoring the pungent salt scent. How the sea called to her, pounded through her veins. Would she ever ride the waves again? Only the Norns knew for sure.
She guided Tempest onto the muddy track that led into the village. That was too strong a term, for Dunlough village was little more than a grouping of rotund thatch-topped huts, liberally daubed and wattled to protect against the ferocity of the sea-wind in winter. Several still bore scorch marks in mute testimony of the raid weeks past.
People stepped out of their homes as they recognized Conor’s men and her silver hair. Erika dismounted and, before she could change her mind, removed her sword. Leaving Tempest with an admonition to behave, she strode to the center of the muddy track and waited.
She didn’t have long. An old woman in a drab ankle-length smock and girdle scuttled forward. She gave Erika a stern, assessing gaze, then broke into a grin.
“You came back!” she cried, reaching her hands out. She stopped, as if unsure of her action.
Erika took the bony hands in hers and returned the woman’s wide smile. “I returned as I have promised, Good-mother, though not as I wanted.”
The old woman gave a dry, delighted laugh. “But you did return.” She turned towards the others. “Come see! Our Angel has returned!”
Curious and emboldened, the villagers came up to them until Erika was quite surrounded. She ignored the frisson of trepidation between her shoulder blades and stared into the faces of each and every villager. Most were children who stared at her in unabashed curiosity, some were women, and a few, far too few, were men.
“I made a promise to you when last I was here,” she said, pitching her voice to carry even to the mounted guards. “I vowed that I would return, bearing the head of the man who had wronged you.”
She held out her hands, palms up. “I have not been able to fulfill that geas, but I have returned. To ask your forgiveness.”
A ripple of surprise ran through those gathered. “Why would herself be asking us for forgiveness?” someone mut
tered.
Erika lifted her chin. “Because I would have you know that I do not easily make a pledge, and I have never forsworn a vow once made. I will protect your village, and I will find the man responsible for raiding you.”
“Of course you will,” the old woman beamed, patting Erika’s hand. “You are an angel, sent to protect us.”
“And how will she be doing that, after she weds the tigerna?” one wizened fellow demanded.
Piqued, Erika’s chin lifted even higher. “My marriage to your lord is not a given,” she said as evenly as she could. How long was she obliged to point that out before people accepted it? “The tigerna will have my hand only if he defeats me in a duel. And I will not make it easy for him.”
Laughter rang out, strong and true. She let it run its course, then added, “But if I do become the mistress of Dunlough, my duty to you is even more certain. A vow has been made. A vow will be kept.”
The air vibrated with the solemn truth of her words. Then in an act that both startled and moved her, each villager bowed over her hands and kissed them.
“What are they doing?” one of the guards hissed to Padraig.
The red-haired giant took a moment to answer. “They’re swearing fealty. To the Angel of Death!”
Once she realized their intent, Erika attempted to halt the villagers. They would not be dissuaded. Mortified beyond measure, she suffered through their undeserving attention.
When the last little one threw his arms around her neck, she was finally able to ask, “Is there a Múireann here? She that has a young son?”
“She is here,” the old woman—Eithne—told her. “Caught in the grieving, she is. With her man gone, she’s left to raise her son alone. We do what we can, sure, and the tigerna will not be having his people starve. But she’s having a hard time of it, and that’s the truth.”
Eithne pointed her toward another forlorn-looking hut. With Tempest trailing behind her, Erika went to the hut and called out, “Múireann?”
A young woman came to the entrance of the hut. Likely no more of an age than Erika, she looked far older. Her flare of crimson hair had banked to the color of dull embers. Grief still clouded her gray eyes just as the clouds had chased away the sunlight overhead. They brightened in recognition.
A Promise Kept Page 12
