Devil's Angel (14 page)

“She cut off all her hair, that’s what she did,” Olan interjected. “Not even six was she, yet used one of our father’s daggers to do it.”

He grinned at his sister, who glared back.

The glare was softened into a smile by memory. “Father threatened to feed me to Fenrir if I ever cut my hair again. He gave me the dagger as a rite of passage, then told me if I was going to own a dagger, I needed to learn how to use one. Training warriors was what he did best. So I became a warrior.”

“Had you no aunt or female relatives to teach you?” Gwynna asked.

Erika shook her head. “My mother was captured by my father on a raid. Father only had brothers, and they were scattered to the four winds. But I had a nurse who looked after me until she died.”

Conor exchanged looks with Gwynna, who blinked back tears. Erika had reached womanhood without the guidance of a mother and with a father who denied her the right to be what she was.

Erika realized that Conor and Gwynna were both staring at her in horror. Even Olan seemed chagrined. “We had a good life,” she insisted, defending her father. “Father was happy that I was learning to take care of myself, and I liked to make him happy. Father did the best he could before he died. It is not his fault that Gunthar was such a pig.”

“Gunthar?”

“He was our father’s firstborn. He hated the fact that Father replaced his mother with ours, and as a result he hated Olan and me. Another reason I learned weapons was so that I could defend myself against his pranks. He never forgave me for being better at swords than him.” Her eyes grew grim. “He had his revenge though.”

Conor and Ardan had heard the tale from Olan, but they were riveted by Erika’s blunt account. “How did he do that?”

Erika didn’t realize she was holding Conor’s hand in a death grip. It was her only outward show of emotion as she said, “When
Jarl
Thorold died, Gunthar the Spineless became
jarl
. We were fourteen. He accused Olan of treason and imprisoned him. Olan demanded the right to a trial or be met in combat. Gunthar refused, knowing the gods would be on Olan’s side.

“Meanwhile, Gunthar arranged for me to be wed to one of his friends. By our father’s decree I had the right to choose my own husband, and I refused Gunthar’s request. He locked me in my chambers and threatened to kill Olan if I continued to refuse. I asked him to release Olan and I would consider his request, but he decided to starve me into submission. When that did not work, he tried to whip me.”

Hard, metallic sounds jerked Erika from her commentary. She looked up and was surprised to see that both Olan and Conor had crushed their mugs in their hands. They wore identical expressions of anger. Even Ardan looked outraged, and Gwynna was stricken. “The scars on your back?” she whispered.

When Erika nodded, Olan made a strangled sound. “He scarred you?”

Her brother’s voice was a harsh whisper. Erika knew that when Olan got that quiet he was about to go into the red rage. “Why did you not tell me?”

She stretched a hand towards him, feeling his anguish. “I thought it more important at the time to escape, Olan,” she answered, begging him to understand. “It would not have taken long for the men loyal to Gunthar to surround us. I wanted to get us to safety.”

Even through his beard Erika could see the tight clench of his jaw as he fought to subdue his anger. The tips of his ears were fiery, marking the effort a failure.

With a curse, his fist came crashing down on the table. Gwynna threw up her hands, as if to ward off a blow. The dark-haired woman scrambled quickly to her feet, breathed an apology, and fled.

Olan made to go after her, but Ardan restrained him. “Not while you’re steaming like a horse that’s been ridden too hard, lad.”

“I wouldn’t hurt her!”

The old warrior’s eyes were agate-hard. “She’s not after knowing that, I’m thinking. Calm yerself. Mayhap she’ll return.”

Olan sat down, stricken. He was no less so than Erika. A simple game of chess and telling tales had become a disaster. Had she upset Gwynna with her tale? Why did the Irishwoman think Olan would strike her?

Erika turned to Conor. “Forgive me. I did not intend my tale to spoil the evening.”

Conor was silent as he tried to smother his own rage. The idea of Erika being whipped made his vision turn red. He was consumed with the need to bash someone’s head in. How dare anyone hurt her? That he had once chained her and threatened to execute her was burned away.

He asked only one question. “Is this man dead?”

Erika looked at him in surprise. His expression and tone was the same as her brother’s, but while she knew Olan’s stemmed from the love and protectiveness he felt for her, she knew Conor felt no such things. His anger on her behalf confused her.

His gaze compelled her to finish the tale. “Gunthar made the mistake of binding me with ropes instead of chains. I had worked most of the braid away with my dagger before he came to whip me. He taunted me before applying the lash, which gave me time to free myself.”

She would not tell them how Gunthar had looked at her with lust in his eyes. How he had pressed against her, his fetid breath on the back of her neck as he told her how he and his friend would share her.

“The lash only reached me twice—once on the back, the second time around my arm, when I grabbed it and jerked it from Gunthar’s hands. I stabbed him with my dagger, took his sword, then went to free Olan. I had to kill two men to do it, men I had known my entire life, but they were loyal to Gunthar, not us.

“We took Olan’s longboat and made it to Larangar’s holding. We sank our ship in a fjord, making it seem as if we drowned and washed out to sea. Larangar gave us safe passage to France, then chose to sell his boat and stay with us.”

She looked down at the table. “I did what I had to do,” she whispered. “Larangar was more our brother than Gunthar ever could dream of being. I will be forever grateful to him for what he did for us.”

After she ended her tale, Olan excused himself from their company. Erika longed to go after him, but did not. She knew that he walked a fine line between grief and fury. Seeing her would not alleviate it.

“He will be fine,” Conor assured her, his voice gruff.

Blinking to dry the moisture in her eyes, she said, “Olan’s feeling of responsibility to me is great. He believes he has failed to safeguard me, but he has not.”

“When we are wed, I will be your avenger.”

Erika frowned at the possessiveness in his tone. “I am my own avenger. And our marriage is not a given.”

Conor frowned back. “I see I have many things to teach my future wife. The most important is to never disagree with your husband. You surrendered your blade to me. Our marriage is as good as done.”

Her scowl deepened, and even Ardan moved back. “I surrendered my dagger, true, but never my sword. I will marry you only if I lose our duel. Is that why you are trying to break my hand?”

With a muttered curse he let go. Erika shook her abused hand to restore the life to it, then quickly hid it in her lap. The Devil didn’t know his own strength, but she did. She would be hard-pressed to win her freedom from him. Why did he want to wed her anyway? She could think of no other reason, except perhaps the kiss they had shared. But surely he didn’t have to marry her to kiss her, as he was already doing so now? Did he still mean to have revenge upon her for attempting to behead him? As his wife, Erika would be at Conor’s mercy, and she would be honor bound to endure it without Olan attempting to kill him.

It all came to one thing: she could not afford to have Conor best her in their duel.

“Erika, would you walk with me for a time?”

Only a moment’s hesitation brushed her before she decided to agree. She was more than tired of seeing the walls of her chamber. “I suppose it is not safe to go for a ride?” she asked as Conor sent a servant for her cloak.

“There is a full moon, and we are safe on Dunlough land.”

A servant brought Erika her cloak, and she smiled her thanks. She followed Conor outside to a large wooden enclosure on the east side of the dun. A young boy rushed in ahead of them then returned, leading a large stallion the color of charcoal.

“Have you a mount for me?” she asked as he accepted a nudge of welcome from his mount.

“That I do. Rhory, if you please?” The youth scrambled back inside then returned once again, leading a pale, recalcitrant mount. “Tempest?” she whispered. “Is it really you?”

The horse gave an answering whinny, and came over to butt his nose against her shoulder. “Tempest!” she cried, throwing her arms about his neck. “I believed you lost!”

Conor approached, watching as Erika talked to her horse. His men had found the animal about two hours after the battle, and it had taken four of them to drag him in. The stubborn animal had fought every step of the way, as mean-tempered as a winter storm. Young Rhory was the only one capable of getting the beast to mind, and Conor left the horse to him. He was preparing to tell her what an evil mount she had, when she robbed him of coherent thought by hiking her skirts above her knees, tucking them into her belt and swinging onto the gelding’s back without aid.

His eyes were filled with the image of her bare legs. They didn’t seem to stop. He watched her muscles flex as she gripped the horse’s flanks. For the first time in his life, Conor wished he were a horse. The state of arousal that had plagued him all night intensified. The need to snatch from her horse overwhelmed him. He fought the desire by gaining his mount and pounding out of the gate.

Erika followed, leaning over Tempest’s mane, unable to hold back her laughter. It felt so good to be free of the dun, galloping through the meadow with a breeze bringing her the crisp fragrance of the night. She passed Conor with a peal of laughter, her hair slipping free of its elaborate design and streaming behind her.

When they came upon a crystal lake, she halted Tempest with a soft word. She slid to the ground, turning in a slow circle as she righted her clothing. The lake was in its own private glen. The full moon shone through the ring of trees, bathing its surface with a silver glow. Tiny pale night flowers danced in a gentle breeze. It was a place of magic.

Perhaps it was the moon. Perhaps it was the wine. It may have even been the heady fragrance of the night, or the man watching her. Whatever caused the emotion to rise within her she gave in to it.

Trilling in delight, she spun in a circle, her arms flung wide. Her laughter pealed like silver bells as she danced about the lake, with the pure unadulterated happiness of being outside.

Conor had forgotten how to breathe. Moonlight caught the Valkyrie’s pale hair and the silver cords threaded through her dress, causing her to sparkle from head to toe. She seemed like a vision out of faerie, the moon goddess come to commune at her sacred pond. Something inside Conor, buried long ago, began to awaken, brought from slumber by the sound of Erika’s joy.

She stumbled to a stop before him, and he steadied her with hands to her waist. Her smile of gratitude was like sunshine breaking through rainclouds. He felt grateful that he had done something to bring this gaiety forth. He couldn’t help but smile in return, though the muscles strained with disuse.

By Asgard! Conor became a different man when he smiled. He didn’t seem nearly so devilish. In fact, he seemed downright
appealing.
Did he realize the moon caught the silver flecks in his eyes, making them glow?

Guided by impulse, Erika leaned towards him, placing her hand against his scarred cheek. The touch sent a jolt running through her. The way his eyes widened and he caught his breath, she knew Conor felt it as well.

“You should smile more,” she whispered, not wanting to break the spell of this place. “You are pleasing when you smile.”

He wanted to laugh at that, the idea that his pillaged face could be anything but wretched to gaze upon. The wonder in her regard stopped him.

His eyes never leaving hers, Conor reached up and covered her hand with his own. Her skin was soft, despite the calluses on her fingers. Heat radiated from her palm down the length of him, stoking the fires of desire.

“You make me smile,” he whispered in return, reaching out to caress her cheek. He was afraid she would bolt, but she only closed her eyes, leaning against his palm. “But I fear you have imbibed too much wine, if you find this battered face pleasing.”

Sooty lashes swept up as she regarded him again. “My head is clear, and so are my eyes. I know my own mind, and I think you are handsome.”

“Do you not see this scar?” His voice hoarse with demand, he pushed his dark locks back, exposing his blemish to the moonlight and her gaze.

Because he seemed to want it, Erika examined the flaw in his otherwise perfect features. It was a pale, angry mark, vicious and deep, that began at his hairline, running into the edge of his eyebrow and narrowly missing his eye. It coursed through his cheek, splitting his beard and ending beneath his jaw.

“I see it.”

“Do you know why my wife marked me? She wanted to blind me, because a blind man cannot rule.”

Why?
The question danced on her lips, but she refused to give voice to it. She did not want to know the answer, and doubted he would tell her.

Reaching out, she touched her fingertips to the start of the scar. Conor flinched but otherwise remained silent and still. Her touch light, she trailed her fingers along the path of the gash until she reached its end. “It is a badge of honor and courage,” she finally said. “You should be proud.”