Devil's Angel (34 page)

Still holding young Turlough in her arms, she rose to her feet. “I’ll finish the rest of the story tomorrow,” she told the children, speaking over their chorus of disappointment. “Our men have returned, and we should prepare for them.”

The children gleefully scattered as she gave them various duties. Conor had topped the rise by then, reining in his horse.

Time seemed to suspend itself. Erika just stared at him, at the man who had the power to hurt her as no one else could. He was dirt-stained and sweat-soaked, and new lines creased his eyes. He seemed exhausted, mentally and physically. Above all he seemed to be holding himself in check. The air felt as charged as a summer sky giving way to lightning.

Erika’s heart plummeted. She had hoped that time and distance would heal the breach between them, that he would be able to forgive her for taking away what he wanted most. The look in his eyes said otherwise.

As if sensing her distress, Turlough stirred in her arms and began to wail. Conor’s eyes darkened further, and the brown beast he sat astride pawed the grass.

Quickly, Erika handed the crying child to Bebhinn. “Take him to his mother,” she whispered to the girl, who nodded and scurried away. She gathered folds of her skirts and turned back to him as he dismounted. “Welcome home, my lord.”

He ignored her lackluster greeting as he dismounted, standing close but still far away. “You were not at the dun,” he said. “Magda told me that she has not seen you for more than a week.”

Harshness weighted his voice, causing her to hesitate. It would do her little in the way of good to tell him she had quit the dun as soon as she’d regained her feet, spending her recovery in the solace of Aine’s hut. The dun had become oppressive to her, and Magda a presence she avoided at all costs.

“I returned to my studies with the Good-mother when I was able,” she finally said. “A sickness befell the children here and it caused Thala to deliver early…”

Her voice cracked and she fought to subdue it. She would not recount to him how it was duty alone that had kept her by Thala’s side, or the jealousy and sorrow she’d endured when the woman had birthed a healthy son.

She raised her head. “The sickness has passed, thank God, and we did not lose any of them. Thala and her son are doing well also.”

Conor’s anger fled him. How difficult had it been for her, to help a mother through a difficult delivery? He had not seen such shadows beneath her eyes since she was first captured. The bones at her throat stood out in harsh relief, mute testimony to what she had endured.

’Twas obvious that she’d suffered, and the renewed guilt he felt over that near consumed him. ’Twas obvious she’d suffered and too much.

He held out his hand, intending to lift her to his horse. “We return to Dunlough. I will have one of the villagers bring your things to you.”

“But there is still much to do—”

“You have done enough!”

Pale skin paled even further, but all she said was, “I must look in on Thala before we go.”

Without a word, she turned and walked down the path, leaving him to follow. After pausing long enough to call himself twelve kinds of fool, he did. He saw her stop before one hut, taking a deep breath before stepping inside.

After a time she came out, followed by Eithne. The old woman thrust a bundle at him with gnarled hands. “Mind you now, herself’s worn out caring for the children and poor Thala. Don’t let her overdo the welcoming of you.”

He took the bundle, relieved to see it was clothing and not the bairn. After securing it to his mount he turned to his flushed wife to help her mount, then vaulted astride behind her. She sat as straight as a yew tree though she bade a warm farewell to the villagers.

Not halfway on the slow journey to the dun, Erika settled against him and fell asleep. Conor slowed his pace even further. It felt good to be close to his wife again, to hold her in his embrace. Yet he could feel her thinness, her fragility, even through two layers of clothing. He made a silent vow to take better care of her.

She stirred as they entered the gates, then straightened away from him. When he stopped, she slid to the ground without assistance. She looked at the dun’s entrance with an expression of intense dislike. As quickly as it appeared it left, leaving Conor to wonder if his fatigued mind played games with him.

In a fluid motion he dismounted, standing beside her. “Are you well?”

She sighed, straightening her shoulders as if to bear a heavy weight. “I am. The Good-mother has aided me.”

Before he could ask her what Magda had done to aid her, she continued. “You must be tired after your journey. I’ll send for hot water for a bath.”

Conor itched with the desire to take his wife into his arms, but he refrained. The cool aloofness had returned to her eyes, and he had no weapon against it. Had it only been a season ago that she had run out of the dun to greet him? A season that she had come to him, banished his madness with her pure light?

They entered the dun. He was relieved to find the main hall scarce. There was a decided relaxing to his wife’s shoulders as they mounted the stairs to their chamber, only to return again as they were left alone within.

Conor watched her close, awaiting some evidence of her supposed regard. Yet his lady wife’s eyes were hooded and she appeared uncomfortable to be in the same room as he.

Want rose sharp within him, the want for more than pleasure. He wanted Erika’s forgiveness as much as he wanted her love. Wanted to know there was still hope for them despite their loss. Yet she couldn’t even look at him. What would she do if he attempted to touch her?

Impulse suited thought as he raised a hand to touch her hair. Erika flinched as if awaiting a blow. He dropped his hand, a sick feeling twisting his guts. His first night home in nearly two months and his wife could not suffer his touch.

A thought came to him, unbidden. Aislingh had been much the same way when she began to betray him.

Conor stepped back from her. No, he could not, would not, think that of Erika. His Valkyrie was not Aislingh.

“I must see to the dun,” he said, his voice stripped bare.

“Shall I—shall I wait for you?”

Her voice shook. Did she ask out of want or out of fear? He could not discern and decided not to test her further. His battered pride would fracture if she fled him.

“There is no need,” he said at last, folding his hands behind his back against the urge to bury his fingers in her hair. “’Tis certain I will not be done until late. I will sleep elsewhere, so as not to disturb your rest.”

Erika nodded once, eyes downcast. He left, not wanting to see relief in her eyes.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Her life had become a living example of the Christian hell.

Erika walked the path near the high edge of the lough, Múireann by her side as she sought medicinal plants among the weeds and grasses. It was the only task she could manage, for all her energies poured into holding back tears.

In vain, she had waited for Conor to return to their chamber, waited until an exhausted sleep took her. This morn the place beside her had been untouched. Only his rumpled
leine
of the previous day had convinced her that he was indeed home. But where had he spent his night?

The question dogged her. She’d fled the dun as early as she could, feeling the pitying looks of the household like nettles stinging her skin. They knew, every single one, that the Lord of Dunlough had not passed the night with his lady. They might even know whose bed he had shared.

She could not endure much more of this. She felt more like a foreigner with each passing day. Her role was undefined and unacknowledged; her attempts to find her own way met with failure. Her one shining moment of saving Ardan’s life had been eclipsed by the miscarriage. She needed to know if she belonged, if she was necessary. She would put the question to Conor; his answer would determine whether she could find a place here or somewhere else.

The thought gave her pause, a heavy feeling growing within her. She did not want to leave. She loved Dunlough and its people. She loved Conor. She wanted—needed—the joy Gwynna and Fionnuala shared with their husbands. Without it, she would surely go mad.

“Sure we have enough by now, my lady,” Múireann protested as the sun drew high overhead.

Erika straightened her aching back. “I must replace the tonics we used at the village. We must have enough to last the winter.”
Whether I am here or no
, she thought to herself.

Múireann sighed, but resumed her harvesting. Erika did not blame her. She would not have thought that such a lackadaisical activity would be such a painful process. A scream slashed through her thoughts. Múireann dropped the collection of plants she was carrying. “What is that?”

Erika had already discarded her basket and unsheathed her dagger. “Run to the dun and get Conor. Quickly!”

Gathering her cumbersome skirts in one fist, Erika ran at full speed to Lough Dun, the direction the screams were coming from. The shrieking continued unabated, sure to bring every warrior in the
tuath
running. She crashed through a stand of yew trees, unmindful of the branches scratching at her face and arms, and burst through the other side.

A woman knelt on a steep overhang above the lough. Over her screams, Erika could hear frantic splashing in the water below. “What is it?”

The woman raised a tear-streaked face. It was Maire, one of the villagers. “Oh mistress, Bebhinn fell in!” she cried, grabbing Erika’s skirts. “Please save her—she’s all I have!”

Erika didn’t hesitate. Taking a deep breath, she leapt off the bank and into the lough. The shock of hitting the frigid water threatened to steal the air from her lungs. She flailed about, failing to find the child. She knew she did not have much time. The run to the water had left her winded and fatigued. The folds of her dress were already heavy with water, jeopardizing her ability to stay afloat.

She broke the surface long enough to catch her breath and get her bearings. A small hand pierced the water less than ten feet away before slipping beneath the dark surface. Erika quickly shed the constricting smock, then dove and swam toward the spot. Her outstretched hand connected with something soft and yielding. Wrapping both arms around it, Erika again headed for sunlight.

The sodden bundle struggled in her arms, kicking and thrashing with strength born of the instinct to survive. A blow struck her squarely in the right eye, causing Erika to release the child. The little girl managed to remain afloat for several seconds before the water reclaimed her.

With a cry of denial, Erika plunged beneath the surface again, snagging the child before she disappeared into the murk. Coughing and spluttering, she resurfaced with the now-unconscious girl and paddled to the bank. To her horror, the bank was too sheer to climb. There was only a small rock protrusion and a tree root.

Her muscles trembling in protest, Erika managed to wrestle the still child onto the tiny ledge. Remembering what her father had taught her, she eased the girl onto her side and pushed on her stomach until water spewed from her mouth.

“My lady?” The hysterical woman’s voice floated down to her. “My Bebhinn—is she—”

Erika looked at the little girl. Her skin was pale, but her chest rose and fell evenly. “She lives,” Erika called, “but I cannot climb up from here. Múireann went for Conor—see that they bring rope and dry clothing!”

She heard the woman scramble to her feet and run off and she sighed, lowering her head to the rocky outcropping. Now that immediate danger was over, reaction was beginning to set in.

The shallow end of the lake was much too far away. She would not abandon the little girl, who was becoming paler by the moment. Even without the child, Erika knew she would never be able to swim that distance. It was taking all of her energy to hold on to the root and the outcropping. Coldness sank into her muscles, into her soul, sapping the rest of her strength and her mind. She did not know how much longer she could hold on to the ledge. She said a fervent prayer that Conor would come soon, that he would not let her die this way.

Conor slammed his heels into Brimstone’s flanks, outpacing the soldiers accompanying him. His heart had yet to recover from Múireann’s hysterical report there was trouble at the lough and Erika had gone to investigate armed with just a dagger. Then came Maire, screaming that her child had fallen into the lough and Erika had gone in after her.

He was off his horse and bellowing Erika’s name almost before the animal scrambled to a stop. He couldn’t see sign of her or the child. The bank was devoid of life; everything was still. His heart seized. What would he do if she were hurt?
Don’t let me be too late. Dear merciful heaven, do not let me be too late.

There was a flash of light at the far end of the lake. He sped along the bank. Dropping to his knees, he peered over the slope. What he saw stole his breath.

A small child lay on a minuscule rock ledge, unmoving. Erika was up to her chin in icy water, one hand on the child, the other gripping a root. “Erika?”

She raised her face, and Conor could see the stark fatigue and strain in her eyes. She managed a fragile smile with lips turned blue with cold. “My thunder god comes for me,” she said in Norse.