Devil's Angel (21 page)

“I have no doubt that you and Conor will do well together, perhaps in spite of yourselves,” Fionnuala finally said, carefully drying her eyes. “It will not be easy—Irishmen are stubborn, wild men. Niall and I did not mesh well at all in our first days. As true as rain is wet, I hated him.”

“You hated your husband?” Erika had seen the way the couple regarded one another and could not believe there had ever been any animosity between them.

“Ours was an arranged marriage, melding two powerful families. He is a decade older and was set in his ways even then. It took long months to bend him to my will. But bend him I did. And so will you, with Conor.”

Erika snorted her skepticism at that, but Fionnuala brushed it aside. “Mark my words. Be honest to yourself, and to him. You will have a long, blessed life together.”

There was a knock at the door then Múireann entered, her eyes round. “My lady, the
tigerna
bade me bring you this.”

Hands trembling, the maidservant stepped forward and deposited a small, elaborate casket in Erika’s hands. Curiosity lifting her brows, Erika turned to the table, set the box atop it, then lifted the lid.

Purple caught the light and fractured it into a million shards. Inside the casket, on a folded swath of gray silk, lay the most beautiful neck-chain she had ever beheld. The links were of twisted strands of silver highlighted with thin threads of gold. They coiled like plaits, ending in clasps that cupped the bale of the silver pendant that held the massive amethyst crystal.

“Sweet Freyja.”

Breath bated, Erika lifted the beautiful pendant from its display. Substantial and cool in her hands, the purple quartz swung freely in the light, mesmerizing her. The bauble was like a living thing in her hands, power and beauty and grace, ferocity and brilliance and ice, all combined.

It was Fionnuala who fastened the heavy silver clasp, settling the neck-chain onto her collarbones. The older woman stepped back, her eyes wide with awe. “You were beautiful before. You are stunning now. It is perfect for you, Erika. Perfect.”

Erika’s hands fluttered against her collarbone as Múireann held the bronze mirror so that she could view her reflection. She had never owned anything so lovely. That Conor had gifted it to her made something thrum deep inside her. Was she so mistaken about the man who would be her husband? Could he care for her?

She was prevented from articulating her thoughts by Gwynna’s arrival, with the priest and Fionnuala’s maid behind. “Erika, Abbot Brochadh has come to hear our confessions before we pledge our troth.”

Erika privately liked the dun’s priest, though she rarely saw the man and knew he was not enamored of her. His personality was pleasant and the manner in which he helped the people of Dunlough pleased her.

The russet-haired man took the carved chair near the hearth that Múireann offered, and the goblet of wine Fionnuala’s maid handed him. Fionnuala went first, as befitted her rank, and then Gwynna.

It came Erika’s turn. Brochadh gave her a genuine, if somewhat wary, smile. “Shall we begin, my lady?”

With a nod and a deep breath, Erika launched into her confession.

Her voice was quiet and matter-of-fact as she recounted every man she had killed since choosing the warrior’s way at fourteen. Eyes fixed on the priest, Erika was nonetheless aware of the horror Gwynna and Fionnuala felt with each word that left her lips. It saddened her that their regard for her might be tarnished, but she had done what she had to do, and most of the men had needed killing. Punishing at the very least.

An hour and two glasses of wine later, her confession was done. It was some moments before Brochadh could find his voice. “Do you enjoy being the Angel of Death?”

“I take no joy in killing. It is what was given to me to do, and I have done it well. If I can prevent horror by my presence or my name, then that is a good thing. It is the same for the Devil of Dunlough.”

Brochadh nodded, as if her words were expected. “And do you believe the
tigerna
to be a capable man, able to defend his people and his
tuath
?”

Erika paused. There was something in the careful wording of the priest’s questions that puzzled her. “There has never been a question of that, not to me,” she finally said.

“If you believe him capable of protecting his people and his home, how much more will he protect his wife, the mother of his heirs?”

Too late Erika saw the trap opening before her. Must be the wine, making her addled. “You wish for me to put away my sword.”

It was not a question, but Brochadh answered her. “It is not seemly for a woman of rank to go into battle, or even to touch an instrument of death. The Church forbids it.”

Erika thought about that for a moment. She was still too Nordic, too Viking, to ponder the ramifications of the Church. How could God damn her for being what she was, and doing good with it?

Brochadh gathered her hands in his. “I listened to you, my lady. I know you take sorrow in killing. I also know you did not have much in the way of choice. Now you do.”

Yearning pulled at her, sweet and strong. Putting away her sword…it was the secret dream buried in her hearts of hearts, a dream she never believed would come to light. Doing battle had been a part of her for so long, she did not know anything else.

“Has Conor asked this of me?”

“Nay, my lady, the
tigerna
has not asked this,” he said, his eyes lowered.

The priest seemed so distressed that Erika longed to cheer him. “I will make a vow, that you will not see me draw a sword. Will this satisfy you and the Church?”

“Of a certain,” he replied, vastly cheered. “Thank you, my lady. Your new path will not be regrettable, I promise you.” He left.

Fionnuala smiled serenely. “I noticed that you neglected to mention that you would not draw a sword when Brochadh wasn’t looking.”

A shrug lifted Erika’s shoulders. “If the priest did not notice the oversight, far be it from me to point out the faults of a holy man.”

Gwynna’s laughter echoed theirs. “You will be more than a match for my brother, Erika. I welcome you as my sister.”

Touched beyond words, Erika found herself initiating the hug with her new sister. “Thank you.”

Fionnuala broke the emotional silence by clapping her hands. “It is time.”

Gathering her sword, Erika moved towards the door and her rendezvous with destiny.

Chapter Nineteen

His bride came to their wedding armed.

Conor saw his sister descend the flower-lined path to the verdant plain first. She wore a deep tunic of green banded with gold, her dark curls adorned with delicate white flowers. He heard Olan, standing beside him, gasp for breath and whisper something in Norse. Conor smiled to himself. Gwynna would overrun the young Viking if he did not learn to control his impulses.

It was the last coherent thought he had.

Erika made her way towards him, a vision in silver, gray and lavender. Held before her was her naked blade, point towards the earth and festooned with flowers and ribbons. The amethyst pendant nestled in the hollow of her throat as if it belonged there. The gem highlighted the deep color of her eyes, making them a mystery. The afternoon sunlight flocked to her until it seemed she glowed, from the artful array of braids, curls and purple ribbons adorning her hair, to the silver beads on her slippers.

He watched as she smiled to everyone she passed, robbing all of speech. When she reached him, she bestowed upon him a smile so brilliant he forgot the effrontery of her sword. He wondered, dazed, if he courted the danger of going blind. She stood to his left, urging him to poetry, her beauty stealing through him like a fog.

Radiant.

His mind latched on to that word. Yes, she was radiant, more luminous than the moon, brighter than the sun. He gloried in her presence, finding her scent beneath the perfume of flowers. Tonight she would be his. Tonight, after the feast of Beltaine, he would claim her.

Beautiful, untouchable. Yet she suffered his touch, seemed to glory in it. Why?

The question shook him, releasing a flood of others. Why did she suffer his touch? Why, after pursuing her quest for freedom with single-minded intent, why did she capitulate?

What did she want from him?

And the deed was done. For good or for ill, the Angel of Death was joined to the Devil of Dunlough in holy matrimony.

Whatever their feelings for their new mistress, the people launched themselves into celebration with exuberant wholeheartedness. It was Beltaine, after all. The great festival heralded the rebirth of the earth, and the Celtic spirit in all was unleashed with a zeal that would have been debauchery anywhere but in Eire.

Tinder for the great bonfire that was the hallmark of the festival day had been laid after the completion of the duel. Horse and foot races and feats of strength—not to mention great barrels of wine—kept the crowd occupied and the mood festive. Now was the time for feasting, singing and drinking. With sunset would come the lighting of the bonfire and the time for lovers new and old.

The hall overflowed with revelers. Conor surveyed the gathering with satisfaction. For too long Dunlough had been overshadowed by grief, death and war. Today changed that. His bride changed that, starting with lighting his dim corner of the hall and deliberately sitting to his left, in full view of his ravaged face. Those simple acts won her the admiration of his people—their people.

Over the rim of his tankard he watched her converse with Fionnuala. Conor was glad that Niall’s wife had befriended Erika. His bride knew little of managing a household, much less one of Dunlough’s size and stature. The mistress of Dun Lief would be a welcomed aid.

The dun was rowdy. Erika grew more intoxicated, her eyes rounding with each passing libation.

A tittering sound had Conor turning. Did his wife just giggle? “Something amuses you, my lady?”

A weaving hand gestured towards a darkened corner. “Your people dance passing strange.”

Gaze following her unsteady gesture, Conor realized that the couple in the corner participated in a dance as old as time, the only rhythm that of their bodies. “Passing strange, indeed.” He shifted to block her view.

Undaunted, she peered around him. “I wish to dance,” she stated, her voice imperious with wine. “Will we dance that way?”

Heat assailed him. The image of Erika writhing beneath him caused his hand to tremble as he reached for his goblet. He couldn’t keep the huskiness from his voice as he said, “In time, my lady wife, we shall indeed dance.”

The new mistress of Dunlough smiled and clapped with delight. Conor damn near found himself smiling in return. Her eagerness drove blood into his manhood, making him achingly erect. Nothing would do but satisfaction, and now.

He shot to his feet, need making him clumsy as he overset his seat. Music and revelry ground to a halt. Erika rose to her feet as well, her smile for him alone. “Now shall we dance?”

The need to throw her over his shoulder and carry her to their chamber drowned out all else, including good sense and decorum. He reached out, hands settling on her waist—

“It is time.”

Aine’s voice cut through his fevered senses, reining in his ardor. He couldn’t help his muttered curse of frustration, however.

Niall, damn his hide, noticed his state. “Let us light the bonfire before you quench your own,” the older man jested. “You’ll dance soon enough.” Ardan and Fionnuala joined his laughter with their own.

There was nothing for Conor to do but follow the old woman out to the bonfire site, Erika weaving along beside him. Most of his people, it seemed, were paired off. Those maidens still awaiting marriage contracts had already been secluded by their protective mothers.

Impatient, he hurried through his duty, giving his speech and laying his torch to the kindling. Tradition held that conceiving a child at Beltaine was a good omen for the year to come, and he meant to do his part.

As soon as the fire sprouted Conor turned away, seizing Erika’s wrist and all but dragging her toward the dun. Niceties and tradition be damned—he wanted his wife, and he wanted her
now
. No one would gainsay him.

Except his bride.

She dug her heels in as people streamed around them, ribald comments and well-wishes coloring the air. “I do not wish to go inside as yet.”

Petulant as a child, Conor thought, feeling the frown stealing over his features. “Whyever not?”

Her lower lip pushed forward in a pout that would have been amusing at any other time. “You promised me a dance, and I shall have it.”

“So you shall.” He turned to the dun once more. “In our bedchamber.”

“No.”

“No?” Surprised that she dared again to contradict him, he let her go.

With a trill of laughter she spun away from him, graceful despite the amount of wine in her blood. “If you think marriage will make me meek and biddable, you are mistaken. Just because you won our duel does not mean you shall have me so easily. You shall have to catch me first.”

She gave him a measuring stare that fired his blood anew. “If you can.”

Taunt still ringing in his ears and too dumbfounded to do aught else, Conor watched her traipse down the path to the lake.