Devil's Angel (40 page)

“You’d be knowing the truth of that, wouldn’t you? The Devil of Dunlough and his blighted honor.” Ronan spat on the ground. “Here’s what I think of it.”

“Blighted or no, I have it. What would you know of honor? You turned Aislingh against me, and now you think to claim Erika? Why settle for my leavings when you can have me?”

He beckoned with his free hand. “Come now, Ronan. I know you and honor are not acquainted, but I challenge you nonetheless. Just you and me, as it should be. To the death.”

“And leave your whore free to wreak havoc? I think not.” He turned to his men. “Attack!”

The remainder of Ronan’s men surged forward, believing themselves to be more than a match for three men out-matched seven to one. Angel knew just how wrong they were when the three stood their ground, calm, waiting, then began to move in a dance of death that made Ronan’s men seem oafish.

Rain swept in from the sea, drenching all and muffling sound. It was time to act. Without warning she jerked her head back, slamming her skull into the face of the man holding her from behind, shattering his nose. Even as her captor fell she spun, drawing free the dying man’s blade and completing her circle to face her enemy.

Ronan’s frozen astonishment thawed with a mad laugh. “Think you to defeat me with your hands tied?”

Angel crouched, heady with the red berserker rage coursing through her veins. “I can kill you with one hand tied behind me,” she said in a quiet, still voice. “Shall we see?”

“Your life ends now!”

Ronan raised his blade high overhead. Angel remained in a semi-crouch. With her hands tied, she wouldn’t be able to gather the force she needed to separate his head from his shoulders. But let the overweening bastard swing down; she would roll under his swing then gut the raider like the swine he was.

Ronan’s blade slashed down—

The shriek of metal on metal rang in her ears. Another blade had stopped Ronan’s downward arc.

“I believe this fight is mine.”

The Devil stared into the twisted features of his enemy, the coldness of his rage just held in check. He’d long waited for this revenge, Angel knew. She stepped out of reach of the blades but not before saying, “No. I want to kill him.”

“It matters not to me which of you I kill first,” Ronan declared, his jaw twitching with the strain of holding his sword to the Devil’s. A maniacal grin twisted his face. “You will both die this day.”

Never taking his eyes from his enemy, the Devil said, “Angel, take the dagger from my belt then give way. Mine is the greater claim.”

Of course. His honor demanded nothing less. Reluctant, she acquiesced. “Do not be quick about it.”

“I do not intend to.”

The Devil of Dunlough pushed the raider away. “Enough talk. This ends now.”

Their blades clashed together with the force of a lightning strike. “Wouldn’t you like to talk about your wives, mac Ferghal?” Ronan taunted. “I have had them both, you know. Shall I tell you which was better?”

For answer, Conor struck him a heavy blow, meant to quiet the fool and settle into the fight, but the red-haired man blocked it with a faltering parry. “I’ll not be as easy to dispatch as Aislingh was,” he boasted. “Though ’tis true she deserved to die, for failing to blind you as I ordered her to.”

The words did not surprise him but they cut nonetheless. Ronan must have seen something in his eyes for he laughed and said, “She begged me to release her, your precious Aislingh did. How she longed to be free of the dishonored Devil with no courage. It was simple to finish what Magda began, making your sweet wife betray you.”

Cold slammed into Conor, stunning him. Even then, Magda had worked against him?

“Did you not know?” his adversary asked. “Magda’s hand was in this from the beginning. And like Aislingh before her, your white witch was turned against you.”

Ronan swung quick and wild, making himself vulnerable as he slipped in the wet grass. Swift and sure, the Devil brought his blade up, the tip sinking through Ronan’s tunic, his heart and out his shoulder.

The Ulster raider dropped his sword and sank to his knees. The Devil leaned forward, to fix the dying man’s eyes with his own. “The Angel is nothing like Aislingh.” A foot to the chest freed his blade. “Nothing.”

“You did not take your time.”

Erika stood several paces away from him. Her right hand held a blooded sword, and her left the tattered halves of her tunic. She didn’t look at him, but kept her gaze on the dead man.

“Dead is still dead.” He pulled free his cloak pin and secured her tunic before swinging off his cloak and draping it about her. Now that the rage had left him, he saw anew the hurt she’d suffered, the purpling bruises to her eyes and jaw. Saw the ragged shorn locks that just brushed her shoulders and the absolute emptiness of her eyes. “Did he, did he—”

“No. Never.”

He believed her. Near too late, he believed her. “Erika. Say that you’ll—”

Something hit him in the back. He looked at his wife, saw her bruised eyes widen with horror scant moments before pain blossomed in his shoulder. He looked down.

An arrow protruded through his chest, just above his heart. Grimacing against the pain, he reached with numb fingers to break the shaft and pull it out.

“Don’t!” Erika’s voice shook as her hands covered his. “You could bleed to death before I get you to safety. Just keep your hand over—ah!”

Her words broke with a scream of pain. Her sword clattered to the ground, torn from her grip by an arrow in the muscle of her upper arm.

“Erika!” He took a step toward his staggering wife, but his legs buckled and he fell to his knees.

“Have no care for your Viking whore,” Magda said, stepping from behind a standing stone. “You shall see each other in hell soon enough.”

Conor wished for the rage, the cleansing purity of anger, but it did not come. Instead, a heavy stillness settled deep into his bones, numbing the physical pain. He had been wrong about so many things. “Why, Magda?”

“You dare ask me that,
Diabhal
? You stole my very life the day you let Murrough and my sons die. That is why I took yours.”

Through a haze of pain he heard Erika’s gasp. “You poisoned me! You came to my chamber and put something in the brew Aine gave me!”

Magda’s laugh was frigid. “You were to die as well, but I failed to consider the hardiness of your peasant blood. When that failed to drive you apart, it became necessary to enlist Ronan’s aid once again.”

She turned back to Conor, freeing a dagger from her cloak. “Aislingh’s betrayal and the Viking’s quest for freedom made it simple to inflame the rumors of an alliance between the Angel and Ronan, and Ronan himself supplied the proof to turn you against your precious wife. Now you know what it feels like to lose everything. Even your life.”

Conor tensed, waiting for the path of the dagger before striking.

A scream tore through the damp air, the chilling wail of the
bhean sidhe
. “You killed my child!”

Shrieking with rage, Erika crashed into the smaller woman. Fear rose like bile in his throat as momentum took them close to the cliff’s edge. He stumbled to his feet and launched himself at his wife, wrapping his arms about her waist just as Magda disappeared over the promontory.

The sound of a snap reached his ears as he fell to the ground. Pain stole his breath and caused stars to dance a jig before his eyes. He heard Erika pleading, the sound of running feet, the slow thump of his heart. Hands were on him, severing his grip on his wife. “Erika? Erika!”

Then she was beside him, the morning rain pelting her cropped hair and mixing with the tears on her cheeks. Her hands cupped his face, but he could not feel them. “I couldn’t save her, Conor. I tried to hold her but she let go.”

It took tremendous effort to reach up, to brush his fingers along her cheek. He left a trail of blood in his wake. “You…you are safe?”

“I am safe. You saved my life.”

Peace drove the last fragment of pain away. “My life for yours. A fair trade. And my…burden is gone. You, you are free.”

Her face contorted in grief or pain he did not know. He wanted to ask her forgiveness, to tell her that he loved her. His hand fell through the remnants of her hair. “Erika.
Mo leannán
. I think I hear your Valkyries come for me. I was a f-fool to wait so long. I’m so sorry I didn’t…”

The last thing he saw was her tear-streaked face.

Chapter Thirty-Three

“Conor, no!”

Her shriek of denial brought more Dunlough warriors running, but Erika paid them little heed. She couldn’t take her eyes from the splintered remains of the shaft protruding from Conor’s chest, close, so very close to his heart.

Ardan dropped beside her. “Sweet merciful heaven, no.”

Blood was a shiny stain on the darkness of Conor’s
leine
. His heart, his strong, proud heart was killing him with every beat.

“My lady. Oh God, no.”

Ardan’s anguished words galvanized her. She had to act. She had to act or Conor would die.

“Ardan, Ronan had a fire. See if it still burns. If not, you must start one.”

He looked at her dully, his face streaked with rain and tears. “What can you do, my lady?” he asked brokenly. “He is—”

“Not going to die today.” Somehow she forced horror and heartache away. She grabbed his tunic with her unwounded hand. “He thought the same of you, and I brought you back. I will not let him die.”

Ardan lowered his eyes. “Yes, mistress.” He scrambled to his feet. Erika pulled at the ragged edge of her tunic to free a strip of cloth. She pressed it carefully against Conor’s chest. “You will not die, Conor mac Ferghal. I will not let you.”

Ardan returned. “By the saints, the fire still burns. And we found dry wood for it!”

“Thank you,” she whispered, casting her eyes heavenward for a brief moment. She pulled a blade free. “Ardan, take my blade and one more. Put them into the fire until they become red with heat.”

Padraig took his place. “What would you have me do?”

“Send someone to ride for Aine, and to Gwynna and my brother. I need four of you to help me move him closer to the fire.”

He gathered a few warriors and they took hold of their lord. At Erika’s word they lifted him, their movements gentle for men so rough. In moments they placed him beside the fire. He’d neither moved nor spoken, not even a groan. Had she lost him already?

No. She refused to believe it. She would save him. She would.

“Cut his
leine
away for me. I have to pull the shaft free when Ardan returns with the heated blades. I need cloth to bind the wound, a cart to take him home on.” She looked up at the gray sky. “I need it to stop raining!”

As if obeying her scream, the rain eased to a mist, then stopped altogether. She pulled Conor’s cloak from her shoulders and cast it over him, then prepared to rip the sleeve from her tunic.

“My lady!” Padraig’s hand forestalled her. “You are wounded!”

Erika looked down at the remainder of the arrow protruding from the blood-soaked sleeve of her tunic. She had forgotten it in her grief, but now the pain returned with a vengeance. She gritted her teeth and set herself to ignore it. “My wounds matter not. We must see to Conor.”

Padraig ripped his own sleeve free, several warriors joining suit. He then helped her raise Conor to a seated position, then he began to cut the
leine
away with unsteady hands as Erika cradled Conor close. Moisture blinded her, running down her face in an unending stream as she cried without sound.

Conor had neither moved nor spoken during her preparation. His face grew paler with every heartbeat. He couldn’t die. What would she do if he died?

She pressed her lips to his cheek, just below his ear. “I know you came here to die, Conor mac Ferghal, but I will not let you. Damn your hide, the people of Dunlough need you, not your ghost!”

“The blades are ready, my lady,” Ardan informed her.

She held Conor tight against her, stroking his hair, his beard, the scar that marked his ability to survive. “You will survive this,” she whispered. “You must!”

She turned to the captains. “I cannot see as I should. Padraig, you’ll need to help me hold him. Ardan, when I say, you are to pull the shaft out, from his shoulder. Can you do this?”

The men nodded. Using a scrap of fabric, she lifted one of the blades from the fire, feeling the heat radiating from the red-tipped metal to her palm. She pressed her lips against her husband’s cheek, her breath drawing in raggedly. “Please forgive me.”

Ardan pulled the remainder of the shaft free of Conor’s shoulder blade. Erika quickly pressed the hot blade against the spurting wound, filling the moist air with the scent of burning flesh and blood. Conor jerked once before moaning and settling back into silence. It was Erika who cried out for having hurt him, feeling the pain as surely as if she’d seared her own flesh.

Her stomach protested the violent action, but she fought the reaction down, fought the palsy in her hand. She dropped the first knife to the damp grass and retrieved the second. It was the dagger she’d worn in her braid, the dagger Conor had embedded in the ground at her feet before banishing her. Her silent tears became huge sobs as she repeated the cauterization on his back, singeing blood and flesh.