Magda.
Dread settled into his stomach and refused to let go. Why would Magda do this to Erika? Their strained relationship could not be so unbearable that his sister-by-law would resort to such harsh measures.
It mattered not. All that mattered was freeing his wife from the pit. Once he was reconciled with Erika he would deal with sister-by-law.
He flung open the chamber door and stepped out, near colliding with Aine, Ardan and Padraig. “So you’ve come to your senses then?” the old woman asked.
“Aye, that I have. I can pray that it is not too late.”
He strode into the hall, the trio following. “Ardan, find Magda and bring her to me.”
“Magda?”
“This is her doing, and I would have her tell me why—after I reclaim my wife.”
Grabbing a torch, he walked out into the night, his stride eating the distance between the dun and the pit. A soldier intercepted him. “My lord, Lady Erika has escaped!”
A skittering sensation crept up his back. No one had ever escaped from the pit. The wooden frame was buried deep in the soil then packed with earth then covered with rocks. Brute strength would not open the door. Someone had helped Erika to escape.
Or convinced her to.
Soldiers converged on them. “Her horse is gone as well, my lord.”
“Who guarded the gate?”
Padraig answered. “Crutchin and Renald.”
Magda’s soldiers. Too late, things became clear.
Conor turned for the gate, calling for his horse and sword. Dun Lief was closer than Glentane, but would she go there? Would she go instead to Olan and Gwynna? They would not make it easy for him to get Erika back, but no matter what it required he would do it.
A shout went up from the gate. A single rider rushed up the slope, a pale horse in full gallop. Conor recognized Erika’s horse seconds before he realized it was riderless.
And covered with blood.
He ran forward as the animal entered the gate, snatching its reins as it reared with fright. Its withers had been sliced open. A pouch slipped to the ground, and one of the soldiers retrieved it as Conor calmed the bleeding animal.
Hands shaking, Conor opened the pouch and reached inside. Finding silk beneath his fingers, he grasped it and pulled it out.
It wasn’t a scarf, or a rope. The strands beneath his fingers were spun moonlight, a braid as thick as his wrist.
Erika’s hair.
Knees weak, Conor gripped the severed plait in whitened knuckles. He knew what had happened, as sure as if he’d seen it. Magda had urged Erika to flee, and she had—into Ronan’s trap. Then the bastard had cut her hair.
Eyes closed against a fresh onslaught of pain, he brought the pale plait up and looped it about his neck. It lay heavily on him, like an iron collar, searing his skin. It would remind him, always, of what he now knew without doubt.
Erika hadn’t betrayed him. He’d betrayed her.
“Tigerna?”
Conor opened his eyes, vision blurred against the tears that flowed unchecked down his cheeks. The yard overflowed with the people of Dunlough. Their expressions were neither reproachful nor accusatory, just expectant.
Rising to his feet, he stared into the faces of each one and spoke. “I would beg your forgiveness, each and every one. Today, I made the gravest mistake of my life. Tonight I ride to correct that wrong. To return my wife and my child to their rightful place.
“This will not be a battle for bards to immortalize. This will be a slaughter. Ronan and his men will die this day. Nothing and no one will stand in my way. I will even defy heaven and hell to bring my lady home. I will order none to go with me. I only ask that you do not visit the sins of the father upon my son, and allow him to be the ruler I wanted to be.”
Ardan stood beside him. “She saved my life. I will go.”
Another stepped forward. “She healed my son. I shall go.”
“She taught my Bebhinn to swim. I shall go.”
“She sat with me when I was ill. I will go.”
“She delivered my bairn safe to me. I shall go.”
And so it continued until every man and several women volunteered to go. “You are our lord; where you go, we shall follow.”
Shouts shook the gates as the Devil swung astride Brimstone. Their approval touched him, strengthened him. He would not fail them. He would bring their angel back. Or die trying.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Angel bided her time by contemplating the slow manner in which she would kill Ronan of Ulster.
Almost lovingly she stoked the anger, keeping it simmering. As long as she was angry, she lived. As long as she was angry, she conquered pain and fear. As long as she was angry, she had the strength to kill as many of these men as she could before she died. And the one she would certainly take with her was their leader.
Ronan was a thin redheaded man with a permanent sneer. That he had taken his blade and shorn her braid at her shoulders enraged her. That he had taken her to induce Conor to follow to his death angered her. Besides, she knew what he did not: Conor would not follow.
For a moment, anguish roared through her with the force of a bonfire, sparked by the memory of Conor’s betrayal. Before the entire populace of the dun, her husband had denounced her, judged her guilty for that which she had not done.
Summoning the cold, deep part of her was difficult; it had been months since she had needed the Angel. But the warrior still lived within, heeding the call.
Ronan took that moment to stop before her and regard his prize. If he thought to see the Devil’s bride broken, if he thought to see her weeping, if he thought to see her crawling, he was disappointed.
For one thing, she was upright. Despite the fact that she bled from several wounds, despite the fact that her garments hung in shreds and one eye had swollen shut, the mistress of Dunlough held her head high as any queen out for a stroll with her subjects. She caught his stare and bestowed a smile that did nothing to warm his heart.
She wouldn’t smile long. The Devil’s bride would pay for what he did to Ronan’s Aislingh. Then Conor would pay.
Ronan gave the rope binding her hands a vicious tug. Angel stumbled but refused to fall. The look she gave him would have frozen flame.
For a long, yawning moment, he stared into the eyes of Death. Then he smiled. “Do not think to intimidate me, Viking wench. Not when your fate is in my hands. When I am done with you, I intend to sell you into slavery. A beautiful woman like you will fetch a high price, of that I am certain. And you will not have to worry about your husband finding you, for he will be dead.”
The Angel stared into the face of her enemy, not bothering to conceal her disgust and hatred. “You gain nothing this day but your own death.”
Ronan tossed his head back in a bark of laughter. “How bold you are, surrounded as you are by my men. Or does your confidence stem from the fact that your husband and his men will come for you?”
It was Angel’s turn to laugh, a sound completely devoid of mirth. “You are mistaken, dog of Ulster. The lord of Dunlough will not come for me.”
Ronan was incredulous. “The Devil not come for his Angel? Do you take me for a fool?”
“You are a fool.” Her voice cut the air, whiplike, and Ronan stepped back as from a lash. “Conor mac Ferghal set aside his wife. He cares naught for her, nor for the Angel. He will not come.”
The copper-haired man stared at his captive, searching for any sign of falsehood or pain. There was none. Instead, the shorn woman stared back at him with eyes resolved to her fate. She believed the Devil would not come for her. And now he believed it as well.
“You have just ensured your death, Angel.” His gaze swept her from boots to hair. “But first, my men and I will take some solace in your flesh before we return your body to Dunlough.”
The Angel laughed again, but this time there was mirth. Mirth made all the more chilling by her words. “Think you to frighten me, Irish dog? Me, the Ange
l of Death?”
On a night with no moon, she seemed to glow. She shook her shining head, her words still full of mocking laughter. “I do not fear Death. I welcome it. For then I will be truly free of this pain. ’Tis not I who will meet Death this night. If your men are blessed, their deaths will be quick. You, however, will die slow and painful. For the crimes you have committed, I will strip you of your manhood, then disembowel you with your own sword. Then when you can no longer scream from the pain, I will let you die. The last of this world your eyes will see will be me, taking your head from your shoulders with your own blade.”
Silence, save the rushing of waves to the rocky shore below. And over it what could only be the wind, bringing the promise of rain, blowing with a sound that was almost a moan rising to a strangled shriek. Several of Ronan’s men made the sign of the evil eye, and several more backed away from the Angel’s soulless gaze.
The Valkyrie smiled. “The bhean sidhe is with me one last time. Those of you who wish to live, leave. Now!”
More than a handful obeyed the otherworldly order, turning and disappearing into the night. Many screamed as they went, but the screams were abruptly cut off when they reached the shadows of the trees.
Ronan spun in the direction of the trees. “What madness is this?”
The pale-haired warrior smiled. “It is Death, come for them. And for you.”
IT TOOK EVERY OUNCE of willpower Conor possessed not to charge into the clearing. A brute of a man held his wife, her arms drawn up tight behind her. In the dawning of the gray day he could see the dried blood in her hair and about her mouth, the bruises marring her eyes and jaw, her ripped tunic exposing her skin from neck to navel. The desire to kill everyone who had looked upon her rose within him, a potent brew he could ill-afford to give free rein. Wits would win this day, not brute strength. When the day was won, then would he hack Ronan to pieces, and take his time in the doing of it.
“They die,” he whispered to Padraig. “Every man there will breathe his last for what has been done to my lady. You will save Ronan for me.”
“When?”
Conor’s reply was stopped by Erika’s voice, carried to them on the wind. “The lord of Dunlough will not come for me.”
“Do you take me for a fool?” Ronan sneered.
“Conor mac Ferghal has set aside his wife.” Erika’s voice was cold, lifeless. “He cares naught for her, nor the Angel. He will not come.”
The words slammed into Conor, shredding his heart. Erika believed what she said. She believed he would not come after her.
She was wrong! He wanted to scream it at the sky, reveal his presence and his love to her. Ronan was too close to her; they were too close to the cliff. He had to save her first. There would be time. If she forgave him, there would be all the time in the world.
“Nothing is more important than Erika’s life,” he breathed, knowing the men surrounding him heard and understood.
Men broke away from Ronan’s band, heading toward Conor and his men concealed in the copse of trees. He did not have to give an order. Dunlough warriors fell upon those in flight, silencing them forever.
Ronan spun toward the trees. “What manner of madness is this?” His voice shook with a new emotion, different from the haughtiness: fear.
The wind once again brought Conor Erika’s answer. “It is death, come for them. And for you.”
It was time. “Ronan!”
Conor strode from the concealing cover of trees, sword loose in his grip, staring at the man he would kill this day. Padraig and Ardan flanked him.
“So you have come for your tainted bride after all, Devil?” Ronan’s grip on Erika tightened. Whether she was surprised or glad to see him, Conor could see no sign. “Come no further, lest I slay your soiled angel where she stands.”
Conor felt his lips pull back from his teeth. “For laying your hands on her, you will die,” he said, his voice almost pleasant. “For cutting her hair, I will kill you slow.”
“Such brave words for a man come to meet his death,” Ronan laughed, a sound without bravado. “Do you not fear it?”
Conor shook his head. “I am wed to Death. I have no fear of it.” He kept his eyes away from Erika lest he lose the iron-hard grip on his anger and charge his enemy. “It is you who should fear.”
He took a step forward, then stopped as Ronan took one step closer to the cliff. “Leave the woman. I am the one you want to face. There is no sport in killing women.”
“You’d be knowing the truth of that, wouldn’t you? The Devil of Dunlough and his blighted honor.” Ronan spat on the ground. “Here’s what I think of it.”
“Blighted or no, I have it. What would you know of honor? You turned Aislingh against me, and now you think to claim Erika? Why settle for my leavings when you can have me?”
He beckoned with his free hand. “Come now, Ronan. I know you and honor are not acquainted, but I challenge you nonetheless. Just you and me, as it should be. To the death.”
“And leave your whore free to wreak havoc? I think not.” He turned to his men. “Attack!”
The remainder of Ronan’s men surged forward, believing themselves to be more than a match for three men out-matched seven to one. Angel knew just how wrong they were when the three stood their ground, calm, waiting, then began to move in a dance of death that made Ronan’s men seem oafish.
Rain swept in from the sea, drenching all and muffling sound. It was time to act. Without warning she jerked her head back, slamming her skull into the face of the man holding her from behind, shattering his nose. Even as her captor fell she spun, drawing free the dying man’s blade and completing her circle to face her enemy.
Ronan’s frozen astonishment thawed with a mad laugh. “Think you to defeat me with your hands tied?”
Angel crouched, heady with the red berserker rage coursing through her veins. “I can kill you with one hand tied behind me,” she said in a quiet, still voice. “Shall we see?”
“Your life ends now!”
Ronan raised his blade high overhead. Angel remained in a semi-crouch. With her hands tied, she wouldn’t be able to gather the force she needed to separate his head from his shoulders. But let the overweening bastard swing down; she would roll under his swing then gut the raider like the swine he was.
Ronan’s blade slashed down—
The shriek of metal on metal rang in her ears. Another blade had stopped Ronan’s downward arc.
“I believe this fight is mine.”
The Devil stared into the twisted features of his enemy, the coldness of his rage just held in check. He’d long waited for this revenge, Angel knew. She stepped out of reach of the blades but not before saying, “No. I want to kill him.”
“It matters not to me which of you I kill first,” Ronan declared, his jaw twitching with the strain of holding his sword to the Devil’s. A maniacal grin twisted his face. “You will both die this day.”
Never taking his eyes from his enemy, the Devil said, “Angel, take the dagger from my belt then give way. Mine is the greater claim.”
Of course. His honor demanded nothing less. Reluctant, she acquiesced. “Do not be quick about it.”
“I do not intend to.”
The Devil of Dunlough pushed the raider away. “Enough talk. This ends now.”
Their blades clashed together with the force of a lightning strike. “Wouldn’t you like to talk about your wives, mac Ferghal?” Ronan taunted. “I have had them both, you know. Shall I tell you which was better?”
For answer, Conor struck him a heavy blow, meant to quiet the fool and settle into the fight, but the red-haired man blocked it with a faltering parry. “I’ll not be as easy to dispatch as Aislingh was,” he boasted. “Though ’tis true she deserved to die, for failing to blind you as I ordered her to.”
The words did not surprise him but they cut nonetheless. Ronan must have seen something in his eyes for he laughed and said, “She begged me to release her, your precious Aislingh did.
How she longed to be free of the dishonored Devil with no courage. It was simple to finish what Magda began, making your sweet wife betray you.”
Cold slammed into Conor, stunning him. Even then, Magda had worked against him?
“Did you not know?” his adversary asked. “Magda’s hand was in this from the beginning. And like Aislingh before her, your white witch was turned against you.”
Ronan swung quick and wild, making himself vulnerable as he slipped in the wet grass. Swift and sure, the Devil brought his blade up, the tip sinking through Ronan’s tunic, his heart and out his shoulder.
The Ulster raider dropped his sword and sank to his knees. The Devil leaned forward, to fix the dying man’s eyes with his own. “The Angel is nothing like Aislingh.” A foot to the chest freed his blade. “Nothing.”
“You did not take your time.”
Erika stood several paces away from him. Her right hand held a blooded sword, and her left the tattered halves of her tunic. She didn’t look at him, but kept her gaze on the dead man.
“Dead is still dead.” He pulled free his cloak pin and secured her tunic before swinging off his cloak and draping it about her. Now that the rage had left him, he saw anew the hurt she’d suffered, the purpling bruises to her eyes and jaw. Saw the ragged shorn locks that just brushed her shoulders and the absolute emptiness of her eyes. “Did he, did he—”
“No. Never.”
He believed her. Near too late, he believed her. “Erika. Say that you’ll—”
Something hit him in the back. He looked at his wife, saw her bruised eyes widen with horror scant moments before pain blossomed in his shoulder. He looked down.
An arrow protruded through his chest, just above his heart. Grimacing against the pain, he reached with numb fingers to break the shaft and pull it out.
“Don’t!” Erika’s voice shook as her hands covered his. “You could bleed to death before I get you to safety. Just keep your hand over—ah!”
Her words broke with a scream of pain. Her sword clattered to the ground, torn from her grip by an arrow in the muscle of her upper arm.
A Promise Kept Page 29
