Devil's Angel (25 page)

Conor heard the seriousness in the older man’s tone and paused. “What is it?”

“How long do you intend to keep Magda here?”

The question surprised him. “Why do you ask such a thing?”

“A dun cannot have two mistresses.”

“My dun does not.”

“And you are certain of this?” Niall’s voice was skeptical. “Magda was princess here for two decades. Your new wife is a Viking mercenary. Whom do you believe your people follow?”

Surprised and disconcerted, Conor replied, “They follow my wife because she is my wife. I do not expect her to change from Angel of Death to princess of Dunlough overnight. If Magda can help her learn her duties, is that not a good thing? Besides, Erika has not complained.”

Niall gave him a level look. “Would she? To you? About your brother’s widow?”

He could not refute Niall’s words, and the logic behind them. However, he tried. “This is Magda’s home. I cannot send her away.”

“Forgive me, Conor, but Murrough is dead. No amount of wishing and keeping her here will bring him back. Having Magda act as mistress here only sows discord in your home. Unless…” He paused. “Unless you have tired of your wife already, and mean to put her aside?”

Anger pulsed through Conor, and he clenched his teeth. “Only the friendship I bear you keeps you on your feet, Niall.”

The other man smiled. “So that’s the way of it, then. You are besotted with your wife.”

“Besotted? I think not.”

“Think what you like, but it was only when I questioned your need for your wife that you threatened harm.”

Conor stopped denying. “Erika is a fever in my blood. I thought my need for her would wane, yet it increases. When I cannot have her, I become surly. But our time is limited.”

“Why?”

“She means to leave after she births me a son.”

“’Tisn’t true!”

Conor nodded. “It was a vow we made before we wed. She can have her freedom when I have an heir.”

“And she agreed to this?”

“Freedom is important to Erika. Important enough to duel for, do you not remember? And we are both of us honor-bound to keep that vow.”

Niall frowned. “And ’tis certain you do not entice her to stay with another woman under your roof.”

“What can I do? I cannot throw Magda out.” The guilt at even the thought threatened to crush him. “I will not throw her out.”

“I know, my friend.” Niall clapped his shoulder. “I would just urge you to caution. Having loved and lived with my Fionnuala for the last fifteen years, I can tell you women are handful enough without hurting their feelings. Once you do that, there’s the devil’s own mother to pay. I do not envy you and your decision. I do not envy you at all.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Conor mounted the stairs to the bedchamber, fatigued in body and mind. It seemed more possible that war would be waged yet again, and Dunlough’s warriors would join those of Glentane and Dun Lief to heed the request of the King of Connacht. While thoughts of going to battle resigned him, thoughts of what he would leave behind plagued him.

Gwynna and Olan had come for a visit and announced their impending parenthood at dinner. Erika was quick to embrace both with joy at the news, and he’d managed to mutter something congratulatory. Yet as Erika returned to her seat beside him, her hand went to her still-flat stomach. A look of such intense longing crossed her face that it caused a most painful twist to his insides. He’d reached over to clasp her hand, and she’d returned the gesture with a desperate embrace. Moments later she’d excused herself by pleading a headache, a plea Conor knew to be false but allowed to pass.

Could Erika be upset that she had yet to increase? It concerned him, yet it did not. It would take her time to become acclimated to the role of wife. And the longer it took her to conceive, the longer she would remain. Was it possible that Erika wanted to carry his bairn? Why? To leave—or because she wanted their child as much as he?

Thoughts jumbled, he pushed open the door to their bedchamber, then stopped in surprise.

Candlelight glowed from every corner of the room, casting light on a steaming bath. Sitting on a stool at the head of the bath was his wife, welcoming him with a warm smile.

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “I thought you were sleeping your headache away.”

She rose and crossed to him, and he saw that she wore a thin shift that outlined every curve of her body, and the necklace he had gifted her with on their wedding day. “I didn’t have a headache,” she confessed, not the least ashamed of her falsehood. She gathered his hand and led him forward. “But you seemed weary with all the talk of wars and rumors of wars, and I want to give you surcease tonight.”

Conor tore his eyes from his wife’s beguiling form and looked at the steaming bath, wanting nothing more than to bathe his cares and strain away. Taking his silence for agreement, she unfastened his belt, placing it on the waiting table, then helped him from his
leine
. The simple act of unfastening his belt had unleashed his hunger for her, and he settled his hands on her shoulders to draw her near.

She slipped away from him with a light laugh. “Bathe first, my lord.”

Disgruntled, he glanced at the bath with several vegetable-looking things floating in it. “Think you to make of me a stew?”

“They are just herbs, to ease you,” was her answer. “Though I will make a stew of you if you do not get in.”

So he complied, enjoying her light banter and the heat on his skin, knowing it to be a precursor of the heat he would find inside her. He sat waist-deep in water, his arms draped over the sides, his legs slightly bent. “I do not suppose I could entice you to join me?”

She laughed again, kneeling beside him, and her mirth soothed him. “There is not room enough for us both, though the idea is a tempting one.”

“You could sit on my lap.”

Her eyes darkened, and Conor thought he’d won. Then she shook her head. “Allow me my way tonight?”

“As you wish, my lady.” He settled in the water. “But you are in my debt.”

Erika moved behind him to sit on the stool he’d seen earlier. “You shall collect soon enough,” she said, her hands running through his hair, pulling it over the lip of the bath, untangling it. Conor closed his eyes in pure delight, almost groaning as warm water sluiced over his scalp.

Why was she doing this? She had never attended him before—unless he took too long to undress before bedding her—and he had never expected her to. What had he done, or hadn’t done, to receive such blissful attention?

“Why do you tense?” her voice whispered over his left shoulder as she massaged his hair.

“I do not.”

“Then why are your hands fisted?”

Caught, he forced himself to relax, his fists to open. “I wonder why you do this.”

Her hands stilled in his hair. “Does this not please you?”

He heard the genuine surprise in her voice, and beneath it the hurt, and near groaned again. “It pleases me much. My true question should be what have I done to deserve this, that I may do it again?”

The ministrations of her hands commenced again. “You are you, Conor mac Ferghal. I want to do this for you. Is that not reason enough?”

Thrown, Conor remained silent, though inside he marveled at the woman who was his wife. How could she have known that he needed this—needed her? He didn’t care whether she knew how to make candles, stuff a mattress, or pluck a chicken. If it ever came to it, and he was unable to defend Dunlough, knowing she was within its walls was a sweet relief.

“Erika?”

“Hm?”

“Tomorrow, if you will attend me at council?”

A gasp answered him, and a minute twinge of pain as her fingers tightened in his hair. Before he could demand to know what befell her, she answered, “It would honor me.”

“Good. We will begin after the morning meal.” He settled deeper in the bath. Her hands in his hair were as gentle and lulling as being in a
curach
on the still waters of Lough Dun. He could imagine himself in the little boat, waves cradling them as he rested his head in Erika’s lap and played her a tune on his harp…

A sharp cracking sound had him lunging from the water, reaching for his sword. Laughter stopped him, and he turned around.

Erika still sat on the stool, her hands covering her mouth, her eyes dancing with mirth. “We are not being attacked, my Devil. ’Twas but a snore.”

Heart still pounding, he pushed his wet hair from his eyes and returned to his previous position. “If you are weary, my lady, we should end this.”

A fist connected with his shoulder. “Do not think to lay that devil’s sound at my door. ’Twas yourself that snored, and loud enough to wake the dead. ’Tis right obvious you are tired. Perhaps sleep is all you need this night?”

Lightning quick he turned in the bath to grab her, but she had already stepped away. Miffed, he stood, planting his hands on his hips as the water sheeted off him. “Do I seem as if sleep is all I need?”

Appreciation sparked her eyes as they dropped to the center of his anatomy. “Far from it, my lord.”

The husky murmur swelled his erection further, pushing the tip snug against his navel. He held out a hand to her. “Come here.”

As if in a dream, she shook her head, her gaze never leaving his arousal. “Only if you let me finish your bath.”

“I am done with my bath, and with waiting.” He paused, and her gaze moved to his face. “I want you, Erika.”

A small sound escaped her as she dropped the cloth she held. Her breathing came faster, causing her nipples, firm and proud, to push against the delicate barrier of her shift. It was a moment before she found her voice. “If I—if I could dry you?”

With a nod, he stepped from the water and moved to stand before her. She retrieved the cloth she’d dropped and stepped behind him to dry his hair. He could feel the heat of desire rising from her, and the gossamer glide of her shift on his back near undid him. Tremors shook her fingers as she rubbed the cloth in a slow, amorous manner over his shoulders, down his back to his buttocks, down one leg and up the other.

Conor forced himself to stand still, to accept the torturous ministrations that seemed so important for her. The cloth, damp now, slid down his left arm as she crossed in front of him. Then across his chest to the right arm, the heavy-lidded expression she wore stealing his breath.

Sweet skies, she made love to him with her hands, her heat combining with his to evaporate the water on his skin. The cloth slid down his chest, bypassing his turgid center, and she knelt to dry the front of his legs. She made his battered body feel more precious than any treasure.

Warm breath on his thighs almost brought him to completion. His erection didn’t want to be dried. It wanted to be wet, to bathe in the warmth of her mouth. But she had never done that to him and he had never told her of that ultimate pleasure. Then her hands closed about him, both hands not enough to cover the length. The half-formed request died before reaching his lips as his hips moved forward, pushing his hard length through her hands. He thought he would die.

And then she kissed him.

Knees close to buckling, her name on his lips was a groan, a plea, a prayer. Then a benediction as her mouth drew him inside. She was unskilled—the brush of her teeth told him that—but her fervor was enough to kill a lesser man. He was sure he himself saw the lights of heaven.

Harsh groans tore from him, and he attempted to back away from the exquisite pleasure. She stopped him with fingernails digging into his flexing buttocks and the gentle press of teeth on his vulnerability.

When he stood still, she paused long enough to ask, “Do you like this?”

“Like it?” His voice was a strangled groan he didn’t recognize. “I’m close to dying from the liking of it. Who told you of this?”

“A whore in Constantinople,” was the blithe reply. “She said it could drive men to madness. Are you mad?” She licked him.

“Delirious.” Another harsh groan shook him, deep and rumbling, as his hips flowed forward on instinct. “Erika, stop. I am close to spilling in your mouth.”

She paused again, looking up at him in mischievous pleasure. “Will I like that, do you think?”

Breath whooshed out of him on something close to a laugh. “I do not know,
mo aingeal
, but you are close to discovering it for yourself.”

“All right.” And damn him if she didn’t latch onto him in earnest, demanding with lips and tongue until he shouted.

She gagged and withdrew. He dropped to his knees, weak-limbed, the final spurt of his seed spilling to the rug. He thought he’d been struck blind with pleasure until he realized his eyes were closed. Dragging them open, he discovered his wife beside him, wiping her hands and mouth with the drying cloth she’d used earlier.

Her smile was satisfied as she poured a goblet of wine. “You’re salty, like sea-spray. Not unpleasant at all. Next time, I will be prepared for the amount.”

“Next time?” Conor near dropped the wine she passed him. “Next time?”

She took the goblet back, taking a long draught that fired his senses. “Surely there will be another time? You were pleased, and I enjoyed giving you pleasure.”