Devil's Angel (39 page)

Then he remembered the look on her face after he’d thrown the dagger. The horror and the anguish were unfeigned. By the saints, he hadn’t even thought when he pulled the dagger from his belt. His hands shook as he recalled how close he had come to felling her.

Was she innocent? He had the missive. The dead messenger had been found with Erika’s neck-chain in his hand. Why would he have her chain?

Why indeed? When Erika wore it, it was as he did—tucked inside her tunic. But she’d not worn it in some time, not since she’d first become with child. Had he misplaced it, left it where someone else could take it? Someone who wanted to discredit his wife? Who would want to do such a thing?

Magda.

Dread settled into his stomach and refused to let go. Why would Magda do this to Erika? Their strained relationship could not be so unbearable that his sister-by-law would resort to such harsh measures.

It mattered not. All that mattered was freeing his wife from the pit. Once he was reconciled with Erika he would deal with sister-by-law.

He flung open the chamber door and stepped out, near colliding with Aine, Ardan and Padraig. “So you’ve come to your senses then?” the old woman asked.

“Aye, that I have. I can pray that it is not too late.”

He strode into the hall, the trio following. “Ardan, find Magda and bring her to me.”

“Magda?”

“This is her doing, and I would have her tell me why—after I reclaim my wife.”

Grabbing a torch, he walked out into the night, his stride eating the distance between the dun and the pit. A soldier intercepted him. “My lord, Lady Erika has escaped!”

A skittering sensation crept up his back. No one had ever escaped from the pit. The wooden frame was buried deep in the soil then packed with earth then covered with rocks. Brute strength would not open the door. Someone had helped Erika to escape.

Or convinced her to.

Soldiers converged on them. “Her horse is gone as well, my lord.”

“Who guarded the gate?”

Padraig answered. “Crutchin and Renald.”

Magda’s soldiers. Too late, things became clear.

Conor turned for the gate, calling for his horse and sword. Dun Lief was closer than Glentane, but would she go there? Would she go instead to Olan and Gwynna? They would not make it easy for him to get Erika back, but no matter what it required he would do it.

A shout went up from the gate. A single rider rushed up the slope, a pale horse in full gallop. Conor recognized Erika’s horse seconds before he realized it was riderless.

And covered with blood.

He ran forward as the animal entered the gate, snatching its reins as it reared with fright. Its withers had been sliced open. A pouch slipped to the ground, and one of the soldiers retrieved it as Conor calmed the bleeding animal.

Hands shaking, Conor opened the pouch and reached inside. Finding silk beneath his fingers, he grasped it and pulled it out.

It wasn’t a scarf, or a rope. The strands beneath his fingers were spun moonlight, a braid as thick as his wrist.

Erika’s hair.

Knees weak, Conor gripped the severed plait in whitened knuckles. He knew what had happened, as sure as if he’d seen it. Magda had urged Erika to flee, and she had—into Ronan’s trap. Then the bastard had cut her hair.

Eyes closed against a fresh onslaught of pain, he brought the pale plait up and looped it about his neck. It lay heavily on him, like an iron collar, searing his skin. It would remind him, always, of what he now knew without doubt.

Erika hadn’t betrayed him. He’d betrayed her.

“Tigerna?”

Conor opened his eyes, vision blurred against the tears that flowed unchecked down his cheeks. The yard overflowed with the people of Dunlough. Their expressions were neither reproachful nor accusatory, just expectant.

Rising to his feet, he stared into the faces of each one and spoke. “I would beg your forgiveness, each and every one. Today, I made the gravest mistake of my life. Tonight I ride to correct that wrong. To return my wife and my child to their rightful place.

“This will not be a battle for bards to immortalize. This will be a slaughter. Ronan and his men will die this day. Nothing and no one will stand in my way. I will even defy heaven and hell to bring my lady home. I will order none to go with me. I only ask that you do not visit the sins of the father upon my son, and allow him to be the ruler I wanted to be.”

Ardan stood beside him. “She saved my life. I will go.”

Another stepped forward. “She healed my son. I shall go.”

“She taught my Bebhinn to swim. I shall go.”

“She sat with me when I was ill. I will go.”

“She delivered my bairn safe to me. I shall go.”

And so it continued until every man and several women volunteered to go. “You are our lord; where you go, we shall follow.”

Shouts shook the gates as the Devil swung astride Brimstone. Their approval touched him, strengthened him. He would not fail them. He would bring their angel back. Or die trying.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The Angel bided her time by contemplating the slow manner in which she would kill Ronan of Ulster.

Almost lovingly she stoked the anger, keeping it simmering. As long as she was angry, she lived. As long as she was angry, she conquered pain and fear. As long as she was angry, she had the strength to kill as many of these men as she could before she died. And the one she would certainly take with her was their leader.

Ronan was a thin redheaded man with a permanent sneer. That he had taken his blade and shorn her braid at her shoulders enraged her. That he had taken her to induce Conor to follow to his death angered her. Besides, she knew what he did not: Conor would not follow.

For a moment, anguish roared through her with the force of a bonfire, sparked by the memory of Conor’s betrayal. Before the entire populace of the dun, her husband had denounced her, judged her guilty for that which she had not done.

Summoning the cold, deep part of her was difficult; it had been months since she had needed the Angel. But the warrior still lived within, heeding the call.

Ronan took that moment to stop before her and regard his prize. If he thought to see the Devil’s bride broken, if he thought to see her weeping, if he thought to see her crawling, he was disappointed.

For one thing, she was upright. Despite the fact that she bled from several wounds, despite the fact that her garments hung in shreds and one eye had swollen shut, the mistress of Dunlough held her head high as any queen out for a stroll with her subjects. She caught his stare and bestowed a smile that did nothing to warm his heart.

She wouldn’t smile long. The Devil’s bride would pay for what he did to Ronan’s Aislingh. Then Conor would pay.

Ronan gave the rope binding her hands a vicious tug. Angel stumbled but refused to fall. The look she gave him would have frozen flame.

For a long, yawning moment, he stared into the eyes of Death. Then he smiled. “Do not think to intimidate me, Viking wench. Not when your fate is in my hands. When I am done with you, I intend to sell you into slavery. A beautiful woman like you will fetch a high price, of that I am certain. And you will not have to worry about your husband finding you, for he will be dead.”

The Angel stared into the face of her enemy, not bothering to conceal her disgust and hatred. “You gain nothing this day but your own death.”

Ronan tossed his head back in a bark of laughter. “How bold you are, surrounded as you are by my men. Or does your confidence stem from the fact that your husband and his men will come for you?”

It was Angel’s turn to laugh, a sound completely devoid of mirth. “You are mistaken, dog of Ulster. The lord of Dunlough will not come for me.”

Ronan was incredulous. “The Devil not come for his Angel? Do you take me for a fool?”

“You are a fool.” Her voice cut the air, whiplike, and Ronan stepped back as from a lash. “Conor mac Ferghal set aside his wife. He cares naught for her, nor for the Angel. He will not come.”

The copper-haired man stared at his captive, searching for any sign of falsehood or pain. There was none. Instead, the shorn woman stared back at him with eyes resolved to her fate. She believed the Devil would not come for her. And now he believed it as well.

“You have just ensured your death, Angel.” His gaze swept her from boots to hair. “But first, my men and I will take some solace in your flesh before we return your body to Dunlough.”

The Angel laughed again, but this time there was mirth. Mirth made all the more chilling by her words. “Think you to frighten me, Irish dog? Me, the Angel of Death?”

On a night with no moon, she seemed to glow. She shook her shining head, her words still full of mocking laughter. “I do not fear Death. I welcome it. For then I will be truly free of this pain. ’Tis not I who will meet Death this night. If your men are blessed, their deaths will be quick. You, however, will die slow and painful. For the crimes you have committed, I will strip you of your manhood, then disembowel you with your own sword. Then when you can no longer scream from the pain, I will let you die. The last of this world your eyes will see will be me, taking your head from your shoulders with your own blade.”

Silence, save the rushing of waves to the rocky shore below. And over it what could only be the wind, bringing the promise of rain, blowing with a sound that was almost a moan rising to a strangled shriek. Several of Ronan’s men made the sign of the evil eye, and several more backed away from the Angel’s soulless gaze.

The Valkyrie smiled. “The
bhean sidhe
is with me one last time. Those of you who wish to live, leave. Now!”

More than a handful obeyed the otherworldly order, turning and disappearing into the night. Many screamed as they went, but the screams were abruptly cut off when they reached the shadows of the trees.

Ronan spun in the direction of the trees. “What madness is this?”

The pale-haired warrior smiled. “It is Death, come for them. And for you.”

It took every ounce of willpower Conor possessed not to charge into the clearing. A brute of a man held his wife, her arms drawn up tight behind her. In the dawning of the gray day he could see the dried blood in her hair and about her mouth, the bruises marring her eyes and jaw, her ripped tunic exposing her skin from neck to navel. The desire to kill everyone who had looked upon her rose within him, a potent brew he could ill-afford to give free rein. Wits would win this day, not brute strength. When the day was won, then would he hack Ronan to pieces, and take his time in the doing of it.

“They die,” he whispered to Padraig. “Every man there will breathe his last for what has been done to my lady. You will save Ronan for me.”

“When?”

Conor’s reply was stopped by Erika’s voice, carried to them on the wind. “The lord of Dunlough will not come for me.”

“Do you take me for a fool?” Ronan sneered.

“Conor mac Ferghal has set aside his wife.” Erika’s voice was cold, lifeless. “He cares naught for her, nor the Angel. He will not come.”

The words slammed into Conor, shredding his heart. Erika believed what she said. She believed he would not come after her.

She was wrong! He wanted to scream it at the sky, reveal his presence and his love to her. Ronan was too close to her; they were too close to the cliff. He had to save her first. There would be time. If she forgave him, there would be all the time in the world.

“Nothing is more important than Erika’s life,” he breathed, knowing the men surrounding him heard and understood.

Men broke away from Ronan’s band, heading toward Conor and his men concealed in the copse of trees. He did not have to give an order. Dunlough warriors fell upon those in flight, silencing them forever.

Ronan spun toward the trees. “What manner of madness is this?” His voice shook with a new emotion, different from the haughtiness: fear.

The wind once again brought Conor Erika’s answer. “It is death, come for them. And for you.”

It was time. “Ronan!”

Conor strode from the concealing cover of trees, sword loose in his grip, staring at the man he would kill this day. Padraig and Ardan flanked him.

“So you have come for your tainted bride after all, Devil?” Ronan’s grip on Erika tightened. Whether she was surprised or glad to see him, Conor could see no sign. “Come no further, lest I slay your soiled angel where she stands.”

Conor felt his lips pull back from his teeth. “For laying your hands on her, you will die,” he said, his voice almost pleasant. “For cutting her hair, I will kill you slow.”

“Such brave words for a man come to meet his death,” Ronan laughed, a sound without bravado. “Do you not fear it?”

Conor shook his head. “I am wed to Death. I have no fear of it.” He kept his eyes away from Erika lest he lose the iron-hard grip on his anger and charge his enemy. “It is you who should fear.”

He took a step forward, then stopped as Ronan took one step closer to the cliff. “Leave the woman. I am the one you want to face. There is no sport in killing women.”