Devil's Angel (3 page)

Ruthless, he dampened his growing regard for the Viking. Admirable or not, she was responsible for many lives this day, including the people in the village. “Will she live?”

When Gwynna nodded, Conor strode to the door. Yanking it open, he beckoned the two guards inside. “Take the Viking to the pit and put her in chains.”

Gwynna was aghast. “Conor, you cannot mean that. She is a wounded woman!”

He swung to face her. “A woman who tried to kill me and did kill several of our people, or did you forget? Even now she should be dead.”

“And why is she not?”

Aine’s quiet question halted his diatribe and movements. How many more would question his actions? It was his right to destroy her. Yet when and why had he made the decision to spare her? It could not be that he was taken by her comeliness. He knew firsthand how treacherous a beautiful woman could be.

“The Angel of Death is a prize many have sought,” he finally said. “She will be of use to Dunlough.”

Aine’s mossy eyes measured him, and Conor wondered what she witnessed. “You’ll do what you must, and well we know it. But remember this, Conor mac Ferghal: with this woman, things are not always as they appear to be.”

Conor inclined his head, acknowledging her words and the tone in which she’d said them. Christian or pagan, one did not fail to give Aine the respect that was her due. Her utterances were always full of wisdom when they could be understood.

“I will remember what you say, but neither of you will gainsay me in this. She is not called the Angel of Death for sport. Until I know the truth about the Valkyrie, she is to be a prisoner.”

Chapter Three

Pain.

It was the first thing she was aware of. Agonizing pain that arced up her legs to her side then to her arm. Endless, unrelenting waves of pain that hammered at her will.

Erika welcomed the pain. At least it kept her from dwelling too much on her failure.

Without opening her eyes, she sensed her surroundings. Her neck, legs and arms were shackled together, with just enough length in the chain to allow her to lie in sparse straw. She wore only a thin shift too small for her and a blanket riddled with holes. Stalks of straw pierced through the threadbare material and into the skin of her legs and back. Tightness surrounded the aches in her right leg, left arm and left side. Bandages.

Someone had treated her, Erika realized. Why go to the trouble of healing a prisoner? Why hadn’t the tall warrior killed her when he had the chance?

She remembered the hill. She saw Larangar take a thrust to the chest. A cold certainty told her that her dearest friend was dead. But what of Olan? What of her twin?

She struggled to remember. After his mail broke, deflecting a blow meant for her, several arrows had hit Olan. Yet she could still, weakly, sense her twin in the back of her head, the sense that told her he was alive.

Lars dead, Olan near death, herself captured—and to what purpose? She had failed in her duty, failed to destroy the vile creature that ravaged the poor village they had ridden through. She had promised the villagers vengeance, and she had failed them.

The failure cut deeply. Never before in her life had she been unable to fulfill a vow she’d made.

Mentally she cursed her fate. In her mind she could still see him, the towering warrior who was her nemesis. As tall as Larangar and Olan—who were considered giants—her personal demon had been dressed completely in black, with dark hair spilling past his shoulders, eyes like thunderclouds and a menacing scar that ran from his left temple through his close-cropped beard to his chin. He fit closely to what the Irish monks described as the Christian devil.

Erika ground her teeth in frustration, for a moment close to tears. Angrily, she brushed them away. Tears would not save her, not from a man heartless enough to ransack a village full of women and children. She forced herself to remain still, even though the pain made her want to writhe and scream in agony. Her mind raced with plans, for she knew that while there was breath left in her body, there was still opportunity for vengeance.

She would make the Devil pay for what he did. Or she would die trying.

By the feeble light of a single torch, Conor watched the Valkyrie feign sleep. The earthen room, scarce large enough for both of them, had no windows and only one heavy, ironbound wooden door. Light was not a common occurrence for the occupants of this pit. Yet the light found her, illuminating the silvery braid and pale skin, making her seem an apparition.

The shift Gwynna had found for her was too thin and too small. He could see the supple length of her legs beneath its hem. Even in the sputtering light, he noticed the flat stomach and a surprising small waist for so tall a woman. He could also see the firm, high breasts that pushed against the flimsy fabric of the bodice.

How long had she walked the warrior’s path? Years, ’twas certain. Her grace with a sword could not be learned in a year’s time. Yet if a sword did not protect a man at all times, truer than true it would not protect a woman. How many men, he wondered, had she given herself to when her sword proved useless?

He felt the desire that had sprung alive in him and shook his head, erasing his sudden need. He had been too long without a woman if he was attracted to this bloodthirsty wench.

His anger returned as he remembered the faces of the dead. “Open your eyes, Angel of Death,” he ordered. “I know you are awake.”

Against her better judgment, Erika obeyed the harsh command. Every part of her body ached, even her hair. Opening her eyes only intensified the torment. But she would look upon the face of evil and prove herself unafraid.

Her devil, she discovered, was a man.

He sat on a rough-hewn bench. A torch protruded from the packed earth of a wall, casting meager light between them. It was enough. His legs were well muscled and covered with dark hair. His
leine
, a knee-length tunic made of soft wool, did nothing to conceal the girth of his shoulders and chest, broad enough to support the strength evident in his powerful arms. She could not see his face clearly, obscured as it was by shadows and dark sheets of hair that hung past his shoulders, but she could see his eyes.

Unnerving.

His eyes glinted in the dim torchlight. Erika would swear she saw both the lightning of Thor’s hammer and the fires of the Christian hell burning in their depths.

She was doomed.

“Are you the one called Angel of Death?”

The Devil’s voice rumbled deep and harsh as he spoke fluid Latin. She barely quelled the shudder that snaked through her. It was easy to believe that she had entered eternal punishment. She had failed to protect the poor of this verdant land, a land that she had fallen in love with at first sight. Now she would have to pay for that failure with her very life.

Every extremity shrieking in protest, Erika struggled to a sitting position. Flames of pain danced before her eyes, stealing her breath. She might well die this day, but as long as her heart beat, she would fight the man before her.

Defiant and proud, Erika raised her chin, the heavy iron collar biting into her neck. Even that small act caused pain to radiate through her. Through gritted teeth she finally answered him in Gaelic. “My name matters not. You need only to know that I am your enemy.”

A low sound wafted toward her. It took a moment to recognize the noise as laughter because it held little in the way of mirth. “I admire your courage, but it will not do in the stead of sense,” the dark warrior admonished her. “I know you are my enemy. I would have you tell me why.”

Erika’s temper climbed, driving her to her feet despite her agony and the heavy chains. “You dare to question the cause for enmity between us?” she asked, disdain rising like bile in her throat. “You, who are the embodiment of all I hate about this land?”

The harsh accusation brought Conor to his feet. He stepped forward, out of the shadows. “You would do well to guard your tongue, Lady Death. Men have died for less than your insult.”

To his surprise and secret pleasure, the Valkyrie did not recoil at the sight of his ravaged features. She thrust her face forward, her eyes sparking with fire and passion.

“Are you so easily wounded, Devil, by words alone?” she asked. “Prepare to be slain, then, for I have more darts to let fly!”

Conor growled. He had never struck a woman on purpose in his life. He was not about to begin, no matter how much she goaded him. “I warn you again, Viking wench, to guard your tongue. The sole reason you yet live is to answer my questions!”

The pale-haired woman had the temerity to laugh. “Then you would do well to attempt to kill me now. For I have nothing more to say to you than this: pray for God to cleanse the blood of innocents from your hands, for if I am able I will send you to Him for judgment!”

For a lightning-quick moment, Conor almost laughed.
Attempt
to kill her? He could snap her neck with one deft twist of his hands. Attempt indeed! Then he registered the rest of her vehement declaration.

Settling his hands upon his hips, lest he fit action to thought and take her beautiful head from her shoulders, he summoned the iron calm that had served him for years. “What do you accuse me of?”

The earthen chamber fell silent, save for the muffled sputter of the torch and the Viking’s own tortured breathing. Conor could see perspiration beading on her forehead and lip, and her nostrils flaring with each labored breath. He knew resolve alone kept her upright.

“I will use whatever means necessary to gain the answers I seek,” he told her in a voice chilling in its softness. “I will have answers.”

The mercenary refused to answer him. Conor could do naught but stare at her. How comely she looked, glaring in pure Viking defiance. He wondered if she knew how her breasts pushed against the delicate fabric of her shift when she breathed.

“Where are my belongings?” she demanded. “And my—my companions?”

“The pain makes you rude, Angel,” he admonished her. “Your weapons are locked away safe. Most of your garments are ruined, but more will be procured for you. If you need them.”

So, she was to be left with nothing. Erika knew then that she would die. She could accept that. It had always been the destination at the end of the path she had chosen. But by Odin, she would take this despicable cretin with her when she left this world!

Despicable or not, her adversary was not unpleasant to look upon. She thought the men in her homeland were giants, but this man matched the size of many a Viking warrior. There was an air of masculine grace and prowess about him that was unmistakable. Just looking at him caused something to thrum deep inside her. Those gray eyes bored into her own, digging beneath her surface.

The pain made her more than rude. It made her fanciful as well. Blinking to clear her thoughts, she demanded, “Will you tell me the fate of my companions?” Her jaw clenched as she jerked her eyes away from him to stare at the wall. She would not ask again.

She heard him take a foundering breath. Would he tell her? “The elder Northman is dead,” he said bluntly. “The younger man still clings to life, but my healer is not optimistic.”

Larangar. She wanted to shriek at the grief that welled inside her. Another two days, and her close-kin would have been on a ship bound for Anglia. She clung to the belief that he had found his way to Valhalla and was even now drinking with their fathers. She could not bear it if he was denied. Then his blood would be on her hands, as surely as if she’d felled him herself.

Pushing the anguish away, Erika summoned anger as her shield. Weakness spread through her with each breath. If she wanted to vanquish this ignoble cur, she would have to do it now.

“You wish to know what I accuse you of,” she said heavily. “I accuse you of being a thief and a coward and a murderer!”

“What?” His roar of outrage could flatten the stoutest of men. Even Erika was not immune to it. Her legs crumpled beneath her, and she collapsed nerveless onto the coarse straw.

“You would feign ignorance of your heinous deeds?” she demanded, wheezing as stars danced on the periphery of her vision. Her arm pressed against her side in a futile effort to staunch the pain that throbbed with every heartbeat. “You—you murdered the women and children of that village for nothing more than fish, pelts and a few pieces of silver!”

“How dare you accuse me of raiding my own village?”

“I have seen Irish as well as Viking attack villages and monasteries,” she answered, gasping. “Your protest means little to me. Devil or no, I will kill you. You will pay for what you have done.”

She pushed him too far. Infuriated, Conor swooped down on her, grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her upright. It was no small accomplishment—though slight of build, the Viking had weight to match her height. He brought her close until a mere breath separated them.

“What
I
have done?” he echoed, his anger blazing like a summer squall. “You are the one who will pay for what you have done!”

She stared at him with eyes as hard as the amethysts they favored. “Threatening wounded women—that is so like a coward,” she sneered. “Is that how you earned your name?”

“Woman, you try my patience!”

“What will you do? Kill a defenseless woman? Surely you have more honor than that, Devil?”