Devil's Angel

by Mallery Malone

  He tossed his hair back from his eyes and discovered Erika watching him, her cloak clutched about her as a shield for her nudity. “Did I…” Her voice ground to a halt. She took a deep breath and began again. “Did I disappoint you?”

  “How can you ask such a thing?”

  Unable to look at him, she gestured toward the pond. “You were so quick to cleanse yourself, to rid yourself of my touch.”

  Her bluntness would be the death of him. “Erika, look at me. Do I seem disappointed?”

  She lifted her head, her mouth rounding as she regarded his awakened arousal. “It was a failed attempt to curb my hunger for you,” he told her, as blunt as she. “I would take you again, if you were ready.”

  For answer, she dropped her cloak. “I am ready. I want to touch you as you touched me, kiss you as you kissed me—”

  “Take me as I took you?”

  He meant it for a jest, but Erika cocked her head, seriously considering his question. “I suppose it is near to being astride a horse. Do you not think?”

  Think? Thinking was impossible when all his blood coalesced in his turgid flesh. “There will be time enough for that,” he said as he reached for her again, buried himself within her again. “Our wedded life has just begun.”

  Yet time, he knew, was not on his side. The day his seed took root in her womb was the day that time would start to count against him.

  He could not afford to become attached to his wife. Enjoy the passion, yes. Secure an heir. But if there was anything he knew about Erika, it was that she would never relinquish her desire for freedom. And when she completed their bargain and walked away, he had to ensure she would not take his soul with her.

  Chapter Twenty

  Erika froze, her blade at the ready. Her enemy was almost in her grasp. Just a few heartbeats more…

  Someone sneezed, shattering the tense silence. The hen squawked and flutter-hopped out of her reach. A decidedly unladylike curse escaped Erika as she chased after her quarry in the kitchen yard. Several of the dun’s children, attracted by the clamor, laughed with delight as their mistress chased the terrified bird about.

  Erika blew her bangs from her sweating forehead after the hen eluded her yet again. “Do you think you can do better?” she challenged her young spectators.

  The children nodded enthusiastically. She couldn’t resist a smile. “Very well. The first to capture yon bird receives a ride on Tempest.”

  The idea of riding the Angel’s warhorse proved irresistible, and soon the yard was filled with shrieking laughter as the children joined the merry chase.

  Damnable minutes later, Erika pounced on the hysterical fowl. Grasping the fattened bird securely beneath her elbow, she prepared to sever the head with her dagger.

  “Milady, no!”

  Múireann’s warning came too late. Erika quickly realized that hens took great offense to being decapitated. The dismembered bird fought her more viciously after she killed it than before. By the time it ceased its death throes, she and a goodly portion of the yard were drenched in blood.

  “By Odin’s one eye, ’tis easier beheading a man than this foul-tempered fowl,” she exclaimed, wiping her forehead with her sleeve. “How do you do this several times a day?”

  Múireann released her laughter with an explosion of sound. “First, ’tis simpler to twist their necks, or put them in a bag before beheading them.”

  “Twist their necks?” Erika felt her stomach churn at the thought. “Well thank goodness I do not have to entertain such a deed again.”

  She thunked the bird down on the worktable. “I have dispatched the enemy. Now what must I do?”

  She watched Múireann attempt—and fail—to school her features into a semblance of seriousness. “Now you must pluck it.”

  “Pluck it? You mean I must pull the feathers out?” Her stomach rebelled anew. “Can I not just skin it with my blade?”

  “No my lady, we will use the feathers, with fresh herbs and straw, to stuff the mattresses. Your mattress.”

  “Oh.” Erika felt heat flame her cheeks. Last night in their eagerness she and Conor had ripped their bedding, sending feathers throughout the room. Attempts to gather the airy bits resulted in a wrestling contest that in turn became another interlude to pleasure.

  Heat increased in her cheeks, and in the sensitive place between her thighs that Conor knew so well. What was happening to her? From the moment of the consummation of her marriage, she had become a wanton. No it was before that, on the moonlight ride when she discovered caring beneath the Devil’s stern exterior.

  Now she could not even look at her husband without remembering and wanting. Damn his hide if he didn’t exacerbate matters with the sensual twist of his lips that twisted her insides into knots, and knowing the exact moment she was alone.

  Oh, he ambushed her several times a day. ’Twas obvious pleasure was not only to be had at night. Before she could open her eyes from sleep he was inside her, waking her more thoroughly than the sun could. Then after a long ride he would corner her in the lios, and she’d spend hours picking straw from her hair. In the exercise yard. At the pond. In the hall before their chamber.

  Yes, being wed was certainly no hardship. And much more pleasurable than a sword thrust after all.

  Shaking her head to clear it of such distracting thoughts, she bent to the task at hand. With a deep breath she grasped a handful of feathers and gave them a tug. The lifeless body quivered beneath her hold but would not relinquish its natural covering.

  Her stomach tumbled again. Air pulled into her lungs to press upon her trembling insides, and she strengthened her hold. Pulled. Felt the feathers give way reluctantly, strength in such fragile matter.

  It was too much. Dropping the bird on the worktable, Erika ran to the far corner of the yard, leaned over and vomited her breakfast into the grass.

  Múireann was beside her, holding her hair, offering a damp cloth. She took it gratefully, wiping her sweat-drenched face and hands before taking the proffered cup of water and rinsing her mouth.

  “How is it,” the older woman wondered, “that the Angel of Death can strangle a man with her hair as rope yet come undone at plucking a chicken?”

  Drained, Erika straightened with a sigh. “I’ve never been in a kitchen. While we traveled, ’twas Olan or Larangar who dressed our catch. Any birds we had were taken by arrow and skinned by knife. We had no use for feathers while we roamed.”

  She eyed the bird and suppressed a shudder. “I do know that I will never attempt this again. Such a feat is clearly beyond me. You will have to find another way for me to contribute to my household.”

  Múireann gave her a knowing smile. “Perhaps there is another reason for your weakened stomach? As much as you’ve been about with the tigerna, you should be with child.”

  “I know.” Unfortunately, Erika had to disappoint them both. “My courses began yester morn.”

  She failed to keep the desperation from her voice. It had been ever on her mind, the need to contribute, since Olan and Gwynna had left for their new holding of Glentane the day after their wedding, a month gone. While passing strange to be apart from her brother after so many years, Erika found herself missing her new sister and her fount of knowledge. With her wedding to Conor however, it rightfully fell to Erika to oversee the managing of Dunlough’s daily activities.

  While it was all well and good that the dun’s servants feared the Angel’s wrath should they relax their standards, Erika yearned to make a contribution to her home. She wanted to belong, to be needed.

  She wanted Conor to need her.

  The admittance didn’t shake her as it once would have done. Rather, it filled her with an odd, quiet desperation. While she lived for the joy she found in Conor’s embrace, she knew they needed more between them. Given their proclivity, it would not be long before she was with child. And once she was with child, her final days in Dunlough would begin.

  Neither of them mentioned the bargain they had str
uck before they were wed. It was a bargain made from fear, mistrust and need. Despite the passion they shared, the vow hung between them, dormant, needing only the sign of her pregnancy to give it life.

  “You do not need to prepare the food for the dun, my lady,” Múireann assured her. “Sine rules the kitchen and would have it no other way. Besides, the herb-lore you are learning from Old Aine is a task given to every mistress of Dunlough.”

  Erika had surprised herself with her grasp of Aine’s knowledge. She was proving to be an apt pupil, combining the aged healer’s knowledge with her own recollections of wonders she had witnessed during her travels. The healer did have a steady stream of visitors to her hut near the lough, wanting everything from love potions to cures for fainting spells. If she performed even a portion of Aine’s duties, it would secure her place in Dunlough.

  She wasn’t sure when her thoughts of freedom had transformed into thoughts of making her life in Dunlough permanent. Perhaps during the magic of Beltaine. Perhaps during the nights since, when Conor gave her pleasure so potent she could barely breathe from the memory of it. All she knew was that she wanted this to be her home, but she didn’t know how to tell Conor that. Didn’t know if he would be amenable to her staying. Yes, he’d made her his wife but that ensured the legitimacy of their children. All knew that he wanted heirs more than he wanted a wife. What if he sent her away despite her wanting to stay?

  She buried the remnants of her morning meal beneath dirt and grass. “You are right, Múireann. And ’tis certain I would enjoy memorizing tonics and poultices more than plucking and puking.”

  “Milady.”

  Gil, Múireann’s son, stepped forward, prodded by his fellows. “You promised us a ride, milady.”

  “So I did.” She put her hands to her hips, surveying the ragged line of children. They retreated several paces. “A promise has been made, a promise should be kept. Is that what you believe?”

  “Aye, milady.”

  “Then I am well-pleased. A promise is sacred, and should not be taken lightly whether it’s to your friends or people in need. Since you all believe the same, you all may have a ride.”

  The children accepted this with boisterous approval, all except young Gil. “The girls can’t ride!”

  “Whyever not?” Erika asked.

  “Because they’re girls!”

  Several other boys nodded their agreement to this logical pronouncement. The girls of their number looked mutinous, but most were close to tears at being denied.

  Erika faced young Gil. “So you say that the girls may not ride, because they are girls?”

  “Aye milady.”

  “But I also happen to be a girl.”

  His eyebrows shot into his scalp. “No you’re not. You’re the Angel of Death.”

  Smothering a smile, she replied, “That I am, but I was a girl first. And if I can ride a horse, so can they. Do you not agree?”

  Gil had no choice but to agree. With children holding to her gown, her arms and her braids, and Múireann following, Erika headed around the yard to the front of the dun—

  And stopped short at the sight of Conor with another woman in his arms.

  Conor had known the day would come, and still he was unprepared.

  He had been exercising in the faitche behind the dun, getting pummeled by his men. Difficult it was, keeping his mind on bashing a man’s head in when all he wanted was to tumble his wife.

  Madness, that’s what it was. Married little more than a month, and still he thought with his nether regions. He could not get enough of his Valkyrie. In the morn, his cock would stir before the real cock could crow. After the noon meal he eased his digestion by easing into her gossamer heat. And at night—ah, the glorious pleasure to be had by candlelight.

  It would have been easy to escape the madness had his wife not been so willing. Yet his bride matched him hunger for hunger, fever for fever. Her touch on his skin caused a fire to roar inside him that had yet to be quenched. The way her eyes darkened just before she achieved her pleasure near undid him each time. He was nigh to believing his bride a faerie queen come to drain him of his very life-force.

  At the rate they progressed, it would not be long before she ripened with his child. The image of Erika round with his bairn caused something to seize in his chest, something not unpleasant. It was sobered by the knowledge that when she began to increase, her time in Dunlough would commence to decrease.

  He wanted her to stay, damn the fates. But she’d gone on so about her freedom up until their wedding that his pride wouldn’t allow him to ask her to remain in Dunlough. He’d not beg a woman to stay at his side. And if Erika could give birth to his son and still want to leave, she wasn’t someone he’d want to keep for a wife at all, was she?

  “Someone comes!”

  Grateful for the interruption, Conor tossed his sword to a guard and moved to the gate, Ardan beside him. He wondered why no outriders had announced the caravan’s presence, and made a note to restore discipline with a good pummeling.

  Four men on horseback escorted a cart made handsome with gilded appointments. Two occupants stood at the fore: a guard to drive the team of horses and a slight figure wrapped in a cloak of many colors.

  Something about the multihued garment brought to mind the sounds of battle, the moans of death, the screams of denial. Clouds skittered across the sun, casting shadows that settled upon him like an iron weight, unshakeable.

  The cart stopped at the gate, and the figure descended. Heart thudding, Conor stepped forward to greet his late brother’s widow. “Magda. Dunlough welcomes you.”

  Murrough’s widow was a small woman with flawless cream skin and hair that still burned bright although the edges were dimmed with gray. The emerald eyes stared at him without mirth, though the remainder of her expression made the attempt.

  Memories assaulted him. Blood soaking everything, so much blood the earth could not hold it, like a waterlogged field after a heavy rain. Staggering about, a quiver’s worth of arrows protruding from his bratt. Ardan coming to him, gray-faced, telling him what he already knew: Dunlough’s ruler and heirs were gone and the survivors waited for his word. His word, for he was now king.

  Head shaking in denial even as the bodies were laid before him: Phelan, Teigue, young Murrough. Then Conor’s brother, brought to him in pieces, felled by two men with axes before they were dismembered in kind.

  Magda put her tiny hands on his forearms. “Conor. Welcome me as your sister, for ’tis true I shall always be.”

  Wooden, he encircled the slight woman with his arms, noting the careful way she avoided looking at his ravaged face. He felt her fragility and the strength that had borne three sons and the loss of her husband.

  He remembered the day, that horrid day he had returned to Dunlough. Magda and Aislingh both waiting at the gate. Aislingh’s joy at seeing him, the last time he would see delight for him on her face. Magda’s pale face becoming paler, for she knew before he could tell her. Knowing she knew but having to tell her anyway that her king and the three princes she had birthed him had come home for the last time.

  Remembered always, the look she had given him before asking the question that continued to burn him: why didn’t you save them?

  Accusations did not color her features now, just the resigned look of sadness of every woman whose men are warriors. “It has been long since we have seen you,” he said for want of anything else to say.

  “Too long,” she agreed, giving him a smile, a smile he was greedy for. “My heart will always be here, ’tis true, but it was time for me to go. Yet I had to return to wish you well, when I heard your good fortune.”

  Erika. Erika would have to be told that Magda had come, that a place would need to be prepared for the former mistress of Dunlough. Then he remembered her words on the bluffs overlooking the sea, when she’d told him she knew nothing of running a household.

  But Magda did.

  Erika would need her counsel in managing the du
n. Even if his brother’s widow would be a constant reminder of his failure, he would have her here as long as she wished to stay. For if Erika learned to manage the dun, one of her reasons for leaving him would be allayed. And he wanted her to stay, without doubt.

  “Conor?”

  The sight of another woman in her husband’s arms caused a curious sensation deep inside Erika, a painful thump she’d never felt before. It made her yearn to reach for her sword, to defend herself.

  The woman was beyond beautiful. She was tiny, not quite hitting Conor at the center of his chest. Creamy skin never abused by sun and wind, brilliant red hair that dimmed everything around her, and eyes the color of prized emeralds. The smile she gave Conor was too private, the way he held her too personal.

  Erika remained frozen in place, dimly aware of the children and wolfhounds buzzing about her. She felt like a great lumbering beast, ugly, ungainly and boorish. Doubting that the woman before her had ever been other than perfect, Erika passed a grime-encrusted hand over her unraveled braids and down to straighten her skirts, stopping when she encountered the dried streaks of blood.

  Mortified, she stepped back, intending to retreat into the dun or back to Denmark. At that moment the couple caught sight of her.

  “Erika?” Conor strode toward her, scattering children and hounds alike. “Are you injured? What befell you?”

  His hands settled on her shoulders, his concern loosening her tongue. “I fought your dinner. The dinner won.”

  For a moment his eyes sparked silver with mirth, then just as quickly shuttered. “Come. There is someone for you to meet.”

  Despite her reluctance, he guided her to the petite woman. “Erika, I would like you to meet Magda of Roscommon, widow of my brother Murrough. Magda, this is my wife, Erika.”

  Cool appraisal hit Erika as the Irishwoman gazed at her, from her soil-covered feet to the bloodstained smock to her dirt-smudged face and unkempt hair. She knew without the words that the widow was less than impressed.

  “So this is the infamous Angel of Death?” Magda asked. Even her voice was beautiful, soft and lilting. “You look older than I imagined. The tales did not give truth to your beauty—nor to your prowess in battle, I’m sure.”