Devil's Angel (13 page)

“The night before Gunthar was to kill me, Erika freed me. It was the first time she’d killed someone, and she cried as she stepped over the bodies of men she had known all her life.

“We spirited away from home, aided by our friend Lars, who had been one of Erika’s suitors. She’d hidden a store of weapons and coin away, and we gathered those and Lar’s longboat and sailed around the coast to France. Five years we have traveled, from Constantinople to Normandy, selling our blades and protecting the innocent. We have endured, but it has not been without strife.”

Fists clenched against the pain, he stared at Conor. “I will never forget that I owe Erika my life. That is the burden I bear, that she turned her back on all that she knew and loved, comfort and security, to see me free.”

Conor and Ardan exchanged glances as Olan gulped his ale. Loyalty indeed. Leaving behind luxury and the sight of home to come to a land not known for its love of Vikings, to be forever on the road without a place to call home. All this, for the love of a brother. What would she do, Conor wondered, for the love of her husband?

“The last five years have not been easy for Erika,” Olan said suddenly. “She does truly have a gentle heart, and I believe that she longs to put her sword away. That is why I hope yours will prove the better blade.”

Ardan nearly choked over his ale. “You want the Angel to lose?”

“I want my sister to be happy,” Olan retorted. “I want her to put down her sword and wash the blood from her hands. I want her to become the carefree sister I remember. I want her to be an angel of life, not the Angel of Death.”

Conor regarded the younger man with narrowed intent. There was much of Erika in her twin, the same determination, the conviction and the deep love they had for one another. Yet he had seen the way Olan had watched Gwynna and realized that the Viking was infatuated with his sister, perhaps more.

“Do you tell me this for your own ends?”

The bear of a Viking leapt to his feet, oversetting his bench. Dogs and servants scattered, and several men-at-arms started forward. “You question my motive, Devil?”

His voice wasn’t raised, but the soft menace of his tone was enough to cause some of the soldiers to stand back. His huge hands clenched into fists at his sides, the only outward show of anger. “I place my sister’s life and happiness so far beyond my own that mine have no meaning. Whatever the outcome of your duel, I will ride away from here if that is what she wishes. Can you tell me that your motive is pure?”

That the Northman dared challenge Conor told him that the man spoke true. He waved away his men-at-arms and pushed Ardan back onto his bench. “Do you believe that Erika can be happy here?”

“That is up to you to decide,” Olan answered, his blue eyes still flat with anger. “She has loved
Iraland
since she first stepped onto its soil, and does not want to leave it. I do not know what you intend by the marriage to my sister, but if you treat her as well as you treat your people, then I believe she will come to be happy here.”

He resumed his seat, his eyes never leaving Conor. “If you do not, all the fires of hell will not keep me from putting my hands about your throat.”

Conor knew he meant it. He felt the same for his sister. After all, he had killed her husband for daring to beat her. “And I make that same vow to you, my friend.”

They shook hands, and the talk turned to things most men enjoyed, ships and horses and fighting and women. Over refreshed tankards, the tentative bonds of friendship were extended.

A sudden silence gripped the hall, causing Conor to look up. When he saw what captivated everyone else, he rose to his feet, aware of his mouth wide with surprise.

Gwynna and Erika paused at the foot of the stairs. Gwynna wore a sleeveless gown of emerald over a pale green underdress. Dark green ribbons were threaded through her black curls, and the gold belt about her waist was worked with emeralds. She was stunning.

Conor didn’t even notice his sister. He only had eyes for Erika.

She wore a gown of deep lilac embellished at bodice and hem with silver thread. Her hair was a glorious crown of curls and braids that gleamed golden in the candlelight. A belt of worked silver was fastened about her slender waist, from which hung a silver-handled dagger.

Conor felt desire pull him, harden him. She was magnificent.

She was terrified.

The entire hall—soldiers, servants, and pets—stared at Erika as if she had suddenly sprouted horns. Even Conor was staring at her as if he had never seen her before. No, he was staring at her the way he had when he kissed her. Erika felt her cheeks burn. She felt naked in the dress, showing, she believed, much more of her figure than her trews did.

They had been dressed more than half an hour ago. The delay occurred when Erika tried to walk in her dress. She hadn’t been in skirts since she was a child, and found it hard to shorten her stride. Already she had tripped several times, and the stairs were particularly difficult. She knew she would fall on her face before Conor’s people and disgrace herself for all time. For the first time in her life, she wanted to run.

Conor and Olan came towards them. Gwynna squeezed Erika’s hand reassuringly. “Do you think Olan will like this?” Gwynna whispered, straightening her skirts with her free hand.

Erika was surprised. Was Gwynna nervous as well? She decided to reassure her. “He wanted you when he first saw you, when you were drenched in his blood,” she whispered back. “He will not want you less now.” Gwynna made a choking noise, but she nodded.

Olan stopped before Gwynna. “The sight of your beauty has driven coherent thought from my head,” he admitted. “Might I have the honor of escorting you to table?” Gwynna murmured her assent and slipped her arm into his.

Which left Erika alone with Conor. He continued to stare at her, as if he could not believe his eyes. She looked everywhere but at him. That didn’t mean she wasn’t painfully aware of him, however. The man did know how to overwhelm the senses. He was still dressed in black, but his tunic was worked with silver and gray that glinted off the silver in his eyes. She could also see every muscle in the man’s legs. Oh, how she wished she had her breeches—or even her sword—to hide behind. “Say something, damn you,” she hissed, her nerves at the breaking point.

He did. “Is this the same woman who tried to kill me?”

Erika felt the heat rush to her ears. If he had kicked her in the seat of her breeches, he could not have shamed her more. It was bad enough that his people did not know whether to poison her or run away screaming, but did he have to pour greater humiliation upon her? It hurt bitterly, and even more so to know that he could cause her hurt.

“I told Gwynna that this was foolishness,” she whispered. She turned to flee.

She heard him mutter under his breath as he caught her hand. Before she could extract it and escape, he brought it to his lips.

“Forgive me, Erika,” he said softly, his breath warm on the back of her hand. “That was not what I meant to say. It’s just that I have never seen anyone more beautiful in my entire life.”

Surely he was mocking her, but the touch of his lips on her hand was sending tendrils of desire streaking through the deepest parts of her body. It was even headier than the other kiss they had shared. She suddenly forgot the hall and everyone in it. She wanted him to kiss her again.

“Conor.” Gwynna’s low voice reached them. “Quit tormenting the girl and bring her to table.”

Relieved by the distraction, she said, “I would propose a truce, at least for dinner. You cease trying to mock me, and I’ll cease trying to kill you.”

His lips curved minutely into a smile. “I accept your truce.” He put her hand in the crook of his arm. “But if I may say so, if you lift the hem of your skirts you would walk much better.”

She glared at him but did as he suggested and was relieved to discover she didn’t trip once on her way to table. But if she thought she was being given a reprieve, she was mistaken.

He insisted on sitting close, so close she could feel his leg, solid muscle, through her skirts. And his arm, as it brushed against hers. But she was not so overwhelmed by his presence that she didn’t notice he was careful to place her to his right, away from the ravaged side of his face. No torch glowed behind him, leaving his left in shadow.

She realized then that it had become a habit to him, to them all, to avoid the scarred side of his face. Only in anger did he face her full. And as careful as he was to shield his scar, his people were as careful to avoid it. Erika shook her head. Vikings wore their scars proudly and with honor, boasting of the battles they survived, the enemies they vanquished. Their scars proved them to be warriors.

But Conor’s scar did not come from an enemy. It came from a wife, a wife who betrayed him.

The trenchers were served. “Where is mine?” she asked after noticing a maid place a trencher of choice cuts before the lord. The girl looked up, caught Erika’s frown, and squeaked in fright before she scurried away.

“We will share, my lady, if you do not mind,” Conor replied, his eyes alight with amusement. He broke off a piece of bread and offered it to her. “You may want to smile more. You near frightened Maire out of her wits.”

She was not the only one. Erika knew there were strict laws regarding serving choice cuts of meat. Bards and brehons were given the finest cuts, then clergy, then the chieftain. Conor had the highest rank this night, since the elders and the priest had left soon after her embarrassing exercise in the practice yard. That meant he, and she, dined on the best cut of beef.

She took the proffered chunk of bread, noticing that her hand shook. Conor, blast him, noticed it as well. “Are you afraid, Angel?” he asked her, his voice pitched low so that only she could hear.

“I am not afraid,” she whispered back, lifting her chin. “I am…uncomfortable.”

Even that admission seemed to cost her a great deal. The Angel of Death was not one to display anything other than supreme confidence. Conor could understand that. He knew the energy it took to remain controlled and confident.

“Sure now, being the object of everyone’s scrutiny is not uncommon?” he asked. Indeed, everyone focused their attention on the head table.

“No, it’s not. However, this dress, sitting at the head table, the food… You honor me.”

Conor heard the disconcertion in her voice and sought to ease it. “And I should. We did not begin well, you and I, and my anger earlier was not warranted.”

It was the closest to apologizing that he could get, but it seemed enough. She plucked a morsel of beef from the trencher. “Unwarranted but understandable. I do not know why I seem to be making a habit of pointing blades in your direction.”

She plopped the bit of beef in her mouth, licking droplets of gravy from her fingers. Conor’s arousal grew almost painful. He would be hard put to await the duel. “The meal agrees with you?”

“It does,” she replied. “I have not had so sumptuous a meal since I left home.” A shadow crossed her face, and Conor knew she thought of her youth.

“Do you miss it, your homeland?”

“There are days when all I can think of is keeping my head,” she answered, staring into the hearth. “But there are other days…I miss my father’s laughter and my mother’s songs. I miss riding through the hills in the summer and slipping on the frozen lakes in the winter.”

“Do you ever think about going back?” Conor was touched by the sadness evident in her voice. Without thought he reached for her hand.

She rebuffed the comforting gesture by pressing her hands to her lap. “I can never go back. I would be killed if I did. But it matters not. Denmark ceased to be our home after our father died. Now home is wherever my brother and I are.”

He’d have to have been a fool not to see the pain and longing in her eyes. His desire left him, to be replaced by a feeling much more tender and profound. “And right now, you are here.”

The remainder of the meal passed in a blur.

“An mbeidh aon cheol ann anocht?”

Startled by the soft question, Conor turned to the woman beside him. The pale-haired beauty looked out over the feasters, a wistful expression on her face. He could not deny her, he realized. Not if it would bring a smile to her eyes. “Yes, there will be music tonight,” he told her. “And singing and dancing and shouting and drinking and fighting. It is our way.”

A smile flitted across her lips. “And ours.”

Conor signaled the harpist to begin a light tune. “You told me that you know chess. Are you for a game?”

A place was set up for them, and the noise level in the hall rose another notch as Dunlough’s people relaxed from the day’s endeavors. Erika was a formidable opponent, taking the game as serious as he.

Now that her focus was away from him, Conor took the opportunity to learn more about his betrothed. “Did your mother approve of your warrior’s way?”

“Mother died in childbirth when we were four,” Erika replied. “Father did not wed again. He said watching a wife die for a third time would surely kill him. He didn’t know much about taking care of girls, but he knew his women tended to die, being as fragile as they are. I didn’t want to die as my mother did, so I decided to become a boy.”

Ardan, who had remained nearby, nearly choked on his ale. “How did you do that?”