Devil's Angel (42 page)

“True,” he admitted. “A month hence, I will be fine.”

A ghost of a smile dusted her lips. “A month hence, I will still be losing my meals. No more swords during pregnancy.”

“A wise precaution.” Conor assembled his features into an expression of gravity. “And then there is the birthing and weaning. That is near two years hence.”

Erika dried her eyes with the back of her hand, then took a step towards him. “What will happen if I birth a daughter?”

“I will love my daughter and spoil her in full measure,” he declared. “But since she will no doubt be as beautiful as her mother, I would like a son to help me fend off unwanted suitors.”

Her tremulous smile was like a balm to his soul, restoring his heart. “That puts our duel near four years away.”

“Aye, it does at that.”

“What shall we do in the meantime?”

She was finally, blessedly, close enough to touch. Heedless of his injury, Conor captured her wrist and pulled her to him. “Will you forgive me?” he asked, his voice ragged. “Will you try to love me again? With but half your love, I would be content. Even half.”

She touched his cheek with her good hand, her eyes spilling anew. “You have all my love, Conor. You always have. It is just that I thought you didn’t love me.”

He didn’t want to let her go, but he was near to toppling over. “Sure I told you, at the cliffs? I wanted you to know with my dying words that I love you.”

She made a sound half-laugh, half-sob. “I heard you apologize for
not
loving me.”

“You’ll never misinterpret my words again. I love you,
mo leannán
.” He repeated the words in Latin and Norse for good measure, then sealed the pledge with a kiss.

His fingers touched her shorn locks, and another bolt of pain pierced him. “If I could kill him again, I would.”

A touch stilled him. “No more,” she whispered. “No more darkness and dwelling on things past.” She took his hands, placed them on her womb. “Our lives are here and now. Our lives start here and now.”

She was right. The past was gone, and with it the darkness. The future stretched before him, bright with promise and love.

Energy spent, Conor all but collapsed onto the bed. “I’ll not have more hair than my wife,” he declared, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Think you can trim it for me? And rid me of this beard while you’re about it?”

Her eyes brightened, then dimmed. “I don’t think I can ever point a blade in your direction again, after I sealed your wound.”

He took her hand, drawing her down beside him. “You did what you had to do to save me, and I’m grateful. No more dwelling on things past. Your words, my lady. If the future starts here and now, we must do something to mark it. I can think of nothing more fitting, except perhaps a certain pale
leine
worked with silver?”

The smile went to her eyes, chasing the last fragments of pain and doubt away. “I would like nothing better than to mark the occasion,” she whispered. “But between my arm and your chest, I don’t think we make one whole person.”

“You’re wrong about that, my love.” He held her close. “Between the two of us, we are complete.”

Epilogue

Seven months later

Erika awakened slowly, still in the clutches of sleep. With careful movement she turned onto her side, suppressing a groan at the ache deep in her womb. It was to be expected, after near a day spent giving birth. Expected, yet so very worthwhile.

Conor sat in a chair beside her, dressed in a blue
leine
embroidered with a gripping-beast design she’d sewn herself. In the curves of his massive arms he held the fragile forms of their twin daughters. His expression was a potent mixture of emotions: pride, wonder, love and joy.

Her throat tightened. She’d received those emotions in full measure in the months since they were freed from their chamber. True to his word, there was not a day that went by that Conor did not find a way to show her that she was loved, and she did the same for him.

He had been ever beside her, his presence constant since the first pains announced the beginning of her travails a day ago. How he’d endured her vituperations she didn’t know. Some of the names she’d called him made her flush with shame. He had borne it all, soothing her when she needed soothing, urging her when she needed urging. She knew she could not have done it without him.

She raised her gaze, startled to find him quietly staring at her, his silver eyes shining. “Good morrow.”

His gaze brightened, and she felt as if she’d just been kissed. “Good morrow, wife.”

She gave him a wavering smile. “You’re not disappointed that I didn’t give you sons first?”

“Never.” His eyes misted as he cradled their children. “Two daughters, two beautiful, perfect daughters. They’ll not want for anything, and they’ll be free to make their own destinies.”

He gave her a warm smile, his eyebrows arching upward. “Though ’tis true I’ll enjoy the making of sons, when you’re up to it.”

“Conor.” Laughter was beyond her at present, but it colored her voice.

“I’ll need the help protecting my daughters from every young prince from here to Constantinople.”

Erika snorted softly. “I doubt that any will want to cross the mighty Devil of Dunlough. And for that matter, who’ll protect my sons from every noblewoman from here to the Orient?”

He snorted. “With the Angel of Death as mother, our sons will be well-protected indeed.”

“My days of fighting are behind me,” she whispered, “now that I have what I fought for. I love you, Conor mac Ferghal.”

The smile he gave her stole her breath. “And I love you, Erika ni Conchobhair. Not a day will go by that you’ll not know it.”

“Promise?”

“I do.” He leaned forward most carefully, so as not to awaken the children, and kissed her. “A promise has been made.”

She reached up, cradling the clean-shaven cheek of the man she would love forever. “A promise shall be kept.”

Author’s Note

While this is very much a work of fiction and artistic license, I could not have created this world without research. I am forever grateful to the following works and writers:
A Social History of Ancient Ireland
by P. W. Joyce;
A History of the Vikings
by Gwyn Jones;
The Story of the Irish Race
by Seumus MacManus; and the
Book of Irish Names
by Ronan Coghlan.

Any inaccuracies are entirely my own.

About the Author

Mallery Malone became a romance writer because she’s a firm believer in happy ever after. She lives in Atlanta with her guitarist-machinist hero, two dogs and a killer fish. When not writing she likes to belly dance, ghost hunt and watch the Science Channel.

She can be reached on the web at
www.mallerymalone.com
or via email at
[email protected]
.

Look for these titles by Mallery Malone

Now Available:

Lady Sings the Blues

A king’s duty has never been so sweet…

Maiden of the Winds

© 2012 Janeen O’Kerry

In order to please her oppressive parents and gain some freedom, Keavy agrees to marry a man she does not love, though it is to be in name only. She makes the journey to the neighboring kingdom and goes through with the ceremony—only to find that in this place it is considered the duty of the king to spend the wedding night with the bride. If she refuses, she will be sent home with her marriage declared invalid.

Although shocked by this unknown custom, Keavy finds herself drawn to King Aengus, a powerful and handsome man with the eyes of an eagle. Now she has to make the choice of either returning home—husbandless—to her very troublesome family, or submitting to the First Night attentions of the king.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Maiden of the Winds:

The first winds of spring blew cold and fresh over the forests of eastern Eire, lifting a soaring golden eagle high on outstretched wings. The bird could see all of his kingdom and more from up there, and he took the time to inspect his every wheat field, beehive, and farmer’s house, every apple tree and glittering stream, and every grassy, flowering meadow. It was an annual task after the long, cold nights of winter.

Reveling in his power, the eagle soared through the sky examining his kingly domain.

A motion far below caught his sharp eye. There, running and dancing along a sunlit brook and weaving in and out of a row of silvery birch trees, was a group of young women. Each wore a soft linen gown of yellow or green or blue, and each carried a small basket. Their feet were bare in the soft new grass, and their hair streamed long and loose down slender backs.

The eagle circled once above them and then flew down to perch high in one of the birches. The young women did not notice him as he watched and listened.

Their laughter reached him first. They were five in number, all young, all tall, all slender, all beautiful—yet one of them stood out among even such a gathering as this.

“Keavy! Keavy!” called the others, laughing as they tried to keep up with the long-legged girl who led them in their playful dance. “Wait for us! How will we ever find any primrose or watercress when you go so fast?”

The one called Keavy stopped at last and turned to face them, her long fair hair shining with silvery light like a river in bright sunshine. She set down her basket in the grass and waited for them with her hands on her hips, frowning in mock impatience.

“How can I stay still on a day like this?” she asked, then burst out giggling. She caught up her basket and dashed away again, her simple green gown swinging around her legs and billowing out behind her in the wind.

The rest of the girls squealed with laughter and raced in pursuit. All of them ran until they reached an open, sunny spot by the edge of the stream, where they dropped down to sit breathless in the grass, surrounded by the calling and singing of the wrens and the larks.

“The servants will be waiting for their watercress,” said one girl.

“And the healers did ask for more primrose,” warned another.

“We said we would bring these things for them if only we might be allowed outside the fortress gates for a little while, so we’d better fetch them back if we ever want to go beyond the walls of Dun Mor again!”

“They will have them, they will have them,” Keavy said with a laugh. “Though I’d have said I’d bring them all the gold in Eire if it meant being outside on a day such as this, after staying inside all winter!” She threw back her head so that her hair formed a shining pool in the grass behind her, and closed her eyes as the warmth of the spring sun caressed her face.

The eagle spread his wings and flew to another birch tree, just above the place where the young women rested. None of them noticed he was there.

“Are you ready to go on yet?” Keavy asked, reaching for her empty basket.

But her companions only moaned in protest and stayed where they were. “It is not fair, Keavy—you are older than the rest of us and can go farther than we can!”

Keavy only laughed again. “I have only just reached seventeen years. The rest of you are all sixteen, are you not? I am not so much older.”

“But you are taller and stronger, no matter what your age, and you have tired me out!” complained another of the girls. All of them laughed.

Still smiling, Keavy caught up her basket and got to her feet. “Stay here, then, and rest. I cannot sit still! I’ll get the watercress, and perhaps by the time I do that you will be ready to go on and look for primrose.”

“Go, go!” they agreed. “But not too far.”

“Not too far,” Keavy promised.

As she started along the stream, her hair flowing down nearly to her ankles as she walked, the eagle left his perch and followed, wheeling high above, the trees in the bright blue sky. Even with his sharp eyes, it was sometimes difficult to see her as she walked. Through the sunlit trees far below, her skin was nearly as white as the bark of the birches, her gown nearly the same shade of green as the leaves and grass. Yet he could easily find her pale golden hair with its silvery highlights, and when at last she stopped to search out some watercress at the edge of the stream, the eagle flew down to a branch just above her.

The sound of his great wings made her look up.

Keavy nearly dropped her basket. “Oh,” she whispered, and took a step forward.

The eagle folded his wings and remained very still.

“Well, beautiful eagle,” Keavy said, also standing still. “I am happy to share this day with you. I find that I am often followed by wild birds, who seem to like my company for some reason—but they are usually wrens or larks or sparrows. Never have I been in the company of a golden eagle.”

She took another careful step forward, and another, until she stood just in front of the low branch. The kingly bird was almost near enough to reach up and touch.

The eagle watched her closely as she approached, tilting his head and fixing her with his deep amber stare. She was even more beautiful up close than she had been from the sky: tall and slender, graceful and fair, with light green eyes and her long hair streaming in the fresh spring winds. And she was still young enough to fly from him like the maiden she was if he were to show himself to her in his true form. But a creature of nature, even one as powerful as a golden eagle, would not frighten the maid at all.