Devil's Angel (24 page)

“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 dun. 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.”

Erika forced her hands from the crusted gown. While Magda’s voice was pleasant, there was an undercurrent to her words that felt like barbs. And even though the widow smiled, it was a smile that did not reach her eyes.

Must be the grief, nothing more, Erika thought. It must have been devastating, to lose husband and sons the same day. She remembered how bowed with grief she had been over her father and could not begin to perceive the depth of Magda’s sorrow. Two years would not be enough time to sublimate a loss of that magnitude.

Magda spoke again. “And none of the stories mentioned that you had children.”

“Children?” Erika stared blankly at the woman. “Oh. No, they are the dun’s children. I promised them we’d go riding.”

“Riding?” Magda’s voice was incredulous. “How do you find time for riding, when there is so much to be done running your household?”

Despite the dulcet tones, the censure was all too evident to Erika’s sensitivity. Her back stiffened, and she said, “The people of Dunlough know their duties and do them well. I have complete trust in them.”

“Well of course you do, and didn’t I train them myself?” Magda answered smoothly. “Yet even I, who was mistress here twenty years, would not leave them to their own devices. You must ensure the standards are maintained, for Dunlough is renowned for its hospitality.”

Conor finally came to her defense. “She did passing well with the feast at Beltaine.”

Erika flashed him a grateful smile, a smile that faded as he continued, “I am sure, however, that there are a thousand daily tasks that my lady has yet to experience. Your advice would be appreciated.”

A brilliant smile lit the Irishwoman’s features, and she bowed her head in demure acceptance. “Of course, Conor, I will be happy to assist where I can.”

She should be grateful, Erika knew. But dislike, intense and unforgiving, flooded her. She had always relied on her instincts, and her instincts sent a frisson of alarm through her and prodded her to say, “I would not want you to extend your visit just for me. I am sure you’ll be anxious to return to your relatives soon.”

Both Conor and Magda turned stone-like expressions her way, and she knew her voice had betrayed her. Magda reached out a small hand, and touched her larger, calloused one. “It would honor me to assist you. It has been long since I have had a purpose such as this.”

Conor put his hand on the older woman’s shoulder. The intimate gesture sent a shaft of something so foreign coursing through her that it took Erika a moment to realize it was jealousy. The bolt twisted further when he said, “Dunlough was your home for twenty years. It is still your home, and we wish you welcome.”

Chastened and chagrinned, Erika swallowed her initial impression. “
Ceade mile faite
.”

Múireann took that moment to reappear. “Milady,” she said, bowing to Erika, “a room has been prepared.”

“Thank you, Múireann.” She turned to her visitor. “Perhaps you wish to rest from the ardors of your journey?”

The two women turned up the path leading to the dun proper, Erika grateful that Conor did not accompany them.

Magda leaned close, careful to keep her cloak from touching Erika’s blood-soaked skirts. “Is it true then, that you had to duel Conor, and wed him because you lost?”

The hushed horror in Magda’s voice had Erika wincing. “It is so.”

The older woman drew closer on the path. “It must have been horrible for you, to forfeit your freedom to wed the Devil of Dunlough.”

Obvious sympathy had Erika wondering if she had imagined Magda’s earlier censure. “Of a certain, it has been difficult at times.”

“And overwhelming, to be sure,” Magda said with understanding. “I cannot imagine having to forgo being—what are you called?”

“The Angel of Death.”

“To forgo being the Angel of Death, to come and go as you please, being a warrior and a force to be reckoned with, reduced to being a prisoner of Dunlough.”

“I am not a prisoner.”

“Of course you are not. Being mistress of a political center like Dunlough is a different kind of freedom altogether. ’Tis certain to be a monumental adjustment to you, dealing with the dun and its master. Do you find it difficult to look at him?”

The blunt question took Erika by surprise. She rushed to defend her husband. “Conor is a handsome man.”

“I meant no disrespect,” Magda said, her voice reassuring. “He was quite a handsome man, a favorite of many a lady, until Aislingh carved his face in her madness.” She paused. “You do know about Aislingh, his first wife, do you not?”

“I know.” Erika’s hands bunched in her skirts. She was more than ready to dispense of this duty, change her clothes, and take a much-needed gallop to the village and back.

“What a sad day that was for Dunlough,” Magda continued. “It was devastating to Conor, so it was. Even more so, since he loved her to distraction.”

“Conor loved her?” The question escaped before she could stop it.

“He did indeed. And swore never to marry again, because of it. That is why your marriage is such a surprise, though a pleasant one. I’m glad he realized that if Dunlough is to remain strong, he needs an heir.”

The woman’s perception was too much. “Forgive me, but I must clean my gown before the fabric is ruined. Múireann will see you to your room. If you will excuse me?”

Without awaiting an answer, she gathered her skirts and fled.

Chapter Twenty-One

Even the Angel of Death knew when to admit defeat.

Spring faded into summer as Erika’s marriage entered its third month. The bliss she’d experienced as a bride had quickly faded after Magda’s arrival. The former mistress had moved from advising Erika to managing the dun. When Erika discovered that the servants reviewed her every order with their former mistress, Erika stopped giving orders altogether.

She kept her misery to herself, however, and filled her days with riding, telling stories to the dun’s children, and studying herb-lore with Aine. True, she could have gone to Conor, but to what purpose? Would she say that Magda was too helpful? Erika had to admit that the Irish princess knew her duties and did them well, leaving Erika feeling decidedly extraneous. The only expectation that Dunlough seemed to have of her was to provide an heir.

By the saints, how she wanted to comply! More than anything she wanted to give Conor his heart’s desire. Yet she was torn, for the bargain loomed in her mind: if she birthed a son, she would have to leave.

But she didn’t want to. She had come to regard Dunlough as her home and could not imagine being anywhere else. Conor would not want her to leave if there was something she could do, something necessary.

Summer, like spring, was a green time, and Erika was dazzled by the variations of the color as she walked up the path to the dun. With the coming of summer, most of the dun’s livestock had been moved to grazing grounds closer to the mountain. Some of the women were there as well, the better to make the butter and soft cheeses that were part of summer’s food. They were guarded by youths old enough to defend themselves yet too young to go to war, and some of the men whose turn it was to remain at home.

War. Before, the word would fill her with tingling anticipation. Now it caused her worry. Would Conor have to fight? What if he didn’t come back to her?

Urgency quickened her pace to Aine’s hut, close enough to the dun for its protection, yet far enough away that the old woman could “hear the earth think”, as she put it. The earth and timber dwelling seemed to grow from the land surrounding it, covered as it was by grass, flowers and plants. But there was peace here, a calming power that never failed to soothe Erika. Today she hoped it would aid her.

She rapped her knuckles against the doorframe before stepping inside. “Good-mother, may I have a word with you?”

The old woman looked up from the bundle of herbs she was wrapping. “Of course, child.”

Erika settled on the wooden bench that had seen better days. She retrieved needle and thread, to continue stitching the herb-bags she’d begun earlier that morning. Usually this task was a mind-numbing exercise of pain as she stabbed her fingers more than the cloth, but now she brought all her will to the task as she struggled to put her request into words.

“What bothers you, my lady?” Aine asked, her green eyes alight with her inner strength. “’Tis obvious that something weighs heavy on you.”

Looking everywhere but at the woman beside her, she replied, “In my study with you I have learned that there is more practical than magical in your remedies.”

She could feel the ancient eyes on her, assessing her. “’Tis true enough. But what is practical to some can seem magical to others, like a great tree growing from so tiny a seed. Are you in need of magic?”

Being subtle was difficult for Erika, so she dropped all pretense. “I wish you to give me a tonic to quicken my womb.”

The request hung in the air between them like a poisonous fog. Old Aine turned on the bench, piercing Erika with her squinted stare. “I know of your foolish bargain with Conor. Are you anxious to leave your life here?”

Erika couldn’t subdue the flush that stained her cheeks. “No, I like being married to Conor. I just…” She faded, looking down at her fingers as she twisted them into knots in her lap. “He wants a child so much. I want to be able to give him that.”

A gnarled, pale hand reached into her lap and squeezed her numb fingers with surprising strength. That simple gesture released the iron control Erika held herself with.

“I have tried, Aine! I have tried to do as Magda bids, to learn what I must as Conor’s wife. I have tried to prepare meals, I have tried to sew, I have tried everything. I can do nothing a woman is supposed to do in a household. I would like to be able to do this one thing!”

“My lady, it is still early in your new life. You must give your body and yourself time to adjust. You will conceive when it is time.”

Erika turned on the bench, grasping the old healer’s arm. “Please, Aine, you must help me. I must be able to do this. I must!”

Green eyes stared into lavender for an interminable time. Finally the old woman sighed. “All right. I will help you.”

“Far be it from me to intrude where I do not belong—”

“When has that ever stopped you, Niall?”

Niall coughed once, then squinted up at the graying sky. The rhetoric of the meeting was enough for one day, and Conor had called its end, leaving them to stretch their legs. “Never, when I deem it important.”