“Gwynna was not able, though she did try,” Erika insisted. “She told me what little she could of your progress while I was locked away, and for that I am grateful.”
Blue eyes, blazing like sapphires, pierced her own. “All I knew of you was that you were alive, and at times, I could feel your fear.”
His voice was as hard as the tempered edge of a sword. “Have you been harmed? Did that scarred whoreson who stabbed you in the belly attempt to touch you?”
Erika hesitated. She had never lied to her brother, though she had omitted telling him things at times. “My only injuries were from the battle. One guard attempted to harm me, but Conor prevented it. And more than that, I was able to challenge him to a duel, to first blood. When I win, we will go free.”
Her news did not have the reaction Erika expected. A short, bitter word broke free of her brother’s clenched features. “That you even have to face this is more than I can bear,” he said in a harsh whisper. “I have failed in my duty to you.”
“No, Olan, you haven’t! Do not blame yourself for this.”
“How can I not?” Anger drove him to his feet, though he swayed with the effort. He raked his uninjured hand through his shoulder-length mane, away from his sweating brow. “This life we lead—this is no life for you!”
Concern rising like bile in her throat she rose to her feet, facing him. “But it is the life I chose.”
“That does not make it right!”
The outburst must have cost him dearly. A moan escaped him as he closed his eyes, leaning his head against the wall. Erika hurried to his side. “Olan?”
“Allfather, God in heaven, give me strength,” he prayed, so low she almost didn’t hear him. Opening his eyes, he stared at her, and Erika saw the anguish apparent in his gaze. “Rika, I do not wish to argue with you.”
“Then do not.” She quickly poured watery wine for him, pressing the cup into his hand.
He swallowed deeply, then refused her urging to sit on the small stool. “It is not I who will argue,” he said, his voice hard. “I’ll stand toe to toe with you as I tell you what you do not wish to hear. And you will hear what I have to say.”
When he took that tone, Erika knew better than to challenge her brother. That did not mean that she would be complaisant. She sat his mug on the low table then folded her arms, waiting for the speech she had heard so many times before.
Olan smiled faintly at the stubborn tilt of her chin, but his expression sobered when he began to speak. “I have never been happy with the path your life has taken,” he said. “You deserve more than this.”
With one massive shoulder he pushed away from the wall, cradling his mending right arm with his left. “I swore a solemn vow when our father made his voyage to the afterworld. I vowed that I would do whatever was necessary to see you safe and happy. I have put us upon this course, not only for the gold and silver we have acquired, but also with the hopes that you would find a place you love.”
No longer able to keep silent, she cried out, “But I am content!”
Slowly, Olan shook his head. “You are not content. I know of the tears you thought to conceal from me in the early days of our travels. I also know the day you ceased to shed those tears. I am your twin, remember? I can see the sadness in you. I have lost the sister with the ready smiles and bright laughter, lost her to a woman who only knows death and destruction.”
“Olan—”
“That is why we were heading to Donegal. Larangar wanted to go to Anglia to join Canute, with you protected as his wife.”
Shocked beyond measure, Erika could only stare at her brother. She sank onto the three-legged stool, trying to assimilate his words. “We were going to leave Iraland?” she whispered, her voice catching. “You were sending me to Anglia as Larangar’s wife against my will?”
“No, not against your will,” Olan replied, flushing with anger. “Never against your will, Erika. You must know that.”
“Then what is this plan you speak of, this decision you made concerning my future that you did not share with me?” She surged to her feet. “How could you do this to me?”
“Because I will not see you die with a sword in your belly!”
He leaned heavily against the wall, strength ebbing from him. Startled to see her brother so angry, she rushed to him. “Olan, please do not tax yourself so!”
“Do you not know how it plagues me each time you are injured, no matter how slight?” he asked, his voice rasping with each word. “I would take you away from that, Erika. Lars wanted that as well. He has…had…loved you long.”
She should have been shocked at his words, she knew. But deep inside, she had always known the truth. They had known the dark-haired Dane for most of their lives—their fathers had been best friends and often went a-viking together. She knew Lars had held deep affection for her, and had often joked about claiming her for his own if he could ever best her in swordplay.
“I loved Lars, but I could not have wed him,” she said, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders. “That is not the sort of love I bore for him.”
“I know.” Olan sighed. “That is why I did not tell you. If Larangar could not convince you to wed him and settle in the Danelaw, I would have taken you elsewhere.”
“But the reason we did not go Anglia from the start is because there are too many men there who knew our father, who might be loyal to Gunthar,” Erika protested. “The risk was, and still is, too great.”
His face was becoming alarmingly ashen as he ground his words out. “I will find a place for you. I failed you with Gunthar, and I have failed you here. If we live through this, I will not fail you again.”
Her heart hammering in her throat, Erika brought the stool to him so that he could sit on it while resting his back against the wall. “You have never failed me, Olan,” she whispered fervently, tears pricking her eyes once again. “I have never blamed you for what happened at home. Please believe that.”
She found a cloth and a basin of water, and set about mopping his perspiring brow. He sighed gratefully, but the look he gave her was one filled with an anguish years old. “I know you hold me blameless, Rika, but I blame myself enough for the two of us.”
Erika had never before considered that her brother carried such a weight with him. Olan had always been light of heart, and save for his berserker rage, his anger was as fleeting as a summer squall. Her heart twisted painfully inside her, knowing that she was the cause of his grief. Her own unhappiness she could bear, but not his.
She sought to lighten his mood. “When I win my duel with the man called Devil, we will find a place to call home, I promise.”
“What if you lose?”
Erika laughed, a sound like silver bells. “I have never lost, Olan, as well you know, even when it did not matter. I will not lose now.”
“If our lives are at stake, perhaps I should be the one to challenge him.”
“I do not believe our lives are forfeit,” she replied. “When I challenged Conor, he did not have time to set a prize for himself. But I will ask next time I see him.”
Olan raised an eyebrow. “You are this familiar with the man who wished you dead?”
Erika had the grace to blush. Olan’s mood was lightening. She would not ruin it by telling him she had been living in Conor’s bedchamber the last three days. “Our deaths are no longer uppermost in his thoughts,” she said, hoping it was true. “And he did subdue the true raiders.”
Olan perked up. “Did the raiders suffer greatly?”
“Absolutely.” She related the tale to Olan, and soon they were both laughing with delight.
Chapter Ten
Conor was startled by the sound of Erika’s laughter. It was a sweet, musical sound. He wondered what it would be like to share such a laugh with her.
The laughter ended with the opening of the door. Erika shot to her feet, preparing to defend her brother against harm. Conor held up his hands. “Ease, Erika. No one here will harm you.”
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br /> She relaxed her fighting stance, though she remained standing before her brother, blocking him from Conor’s view. The look she gave him was wary, yet pleading. “Is Lady Gwynna about? My brother needs her.”
Before he could answer, Gwynna pushed past him into the room. Erika stepped aside as his sister hurried over, and Conor had his first good look at the blond giant sitting against the wall. He had been impressive lying facedown in a puddle of his own blood. Now, even half mended, the Viking was a force to be reckoned with.
He seemed not to notice Conor’s presence, focusing instead on Gwynna. “Mo aingeal.”
My angel. Conor frowned at the endearment. How dare this man be so familiar with his sister? His hand clenched into fists and he stepped forward. The anxious expressions on the women’s faces halted him. Perhaps the Viking was still delirious from his ordeal, and thought Gwynna someone else.
Erika stood in the center of the small chamber, wringing her hands. The love she bore her brother was unmistakable, as was the concern. Conor knew he could use that to his advantage. He also knew he wouldn’t have to.
He moved into the room, coming to stand beside the fair-haired woman. The need to reassure her, to erase the pinched look from her expression and replace it with the laughter he had heard earlier, was strong, and he gave in to it.
“Gwynna is the best healer in Connacht.” His hand, of its own volition, moved to rest on her shoulder. When she glanced up at him, startled, he continued, “Her knowledge of the healing arts is handed down through generations of Dunlough women and Druid healers. You need not fear for your brother’s life at her hands.”
A ghost of a smile flitted behind her eyes. “I have seen the truth—”
“Diabhal!”
More epithet than name, the word was uttered low and harsh by Erika’s brother. The Viking, having finally noticed Conor’s presence, climbed to his feet, his eyes blazing. Gwynna tried her best to return him to the stool, but the man had the width and breadth of a cromlech, as immovable as those stone tombs. Conor read the clear intensity of the blue-eyed giant and knew they would be soon to battle.
“Gwynna, take Erika and wait outside,” he charged his sister. “Olan and I have something that we must discuss.”
“No.”
Both women spoke simultaneous warnings, emerald and amethyst eyes flashing.
“Conor…”
“Olan…”
“Wait outside,” the blond man commanded, his eyes never leaving Conor’s. “No blood will be shed while you are gone.”
Gwynna turned toward Olan, her back spear-straight. “I did not pull you from death’s embrace just to send you back again. If you re-injure yourself, your healing will be a long, painful one.”
Conor thought it most amusing until Erika turned to him with equal vehemence. “Do not think to have my brother stand in my stead in our duel, or I will give you cause to regret it.”
They turned and left, their positions clear.
The atmosphere in the tiny chamber dropped several degrees as the blond man’s eyes turned upon him with cold intent. “I will champion my sister in this challenge of yours,” the pale warrior said with the deep rumble of a tree caving under the weight of ice. “I will enjoy returning to you that which you dealt to her.”
Conor felt the familiar bloodsurge grip him. “It will be my pleasure to give you leave to try.”
The Viking smiled, as if pleased by his answer. “Whether I kill you or merely injure you will depend on your answer to my question,” he said, his tone of voice and posture that of studied nonchalance.
“Indeed? And what question have you that decides my fate?”
“Just this: What do you intend with my sister?”
Liking the younger man’s bluntness despite himself, Conor assumed a bland expression. “Why do you believe I intend anything towards your sister?”
“Everyone intends something towards my sister. Can you tell me you do not?”
That steady blue gaze measured him like a spice merchant selling his precious wares. Conor found that he could not have been dishonest with the Viking if he wanted to. “No, I cannot. I do have intentions towards your sister, intentions I feel you would not be adverse to.”
“And they are?”
“To marry her and have an heir.”
The words surprised him, surprised him further with their rightness. The Devil of Dunlough having sons with the Angel of Death. His people would be protected long after he was gone.
A guffaw split the sudden, brittle silence. Olan’s shoulders shook with the force of his laughter, cutting to a hiss of pain.
Conor’s satisfaction became consternation. “This is no jest. I mean what I say.”
“I believe you do,” Olan replied, laughter rippling his voice. “Yet the fact that you still stand tells me that you have not made your intentions known to my sister.”
Surprised and unsettled by the Northman’s obvious mirth, Conor could only stare. “Think you that Erika will not be amenable to my offer?”
The response was wry. “Amenable is not an adequate description of the Angel of Death.”
“Why would she refuse me?”
That caused another pain-filled laugh. “Why indeed? Is it because she has refused grander offers than yours? Is it because she has bested all who have challenged her for her hand?” Cobalt eyes narrowed at him with murderous intent. “Perhaps she will refuse you until the bruises from the shackles you had her in are healed.”
There was nothing Conor could say to alleviate the other man’s anger, except, “How long before you are able to defend your sister’s honor?”
To his surprise, Olan shook his head. “It is not my place. Erika challenged you, or you goaded her into challenging you. She is the one you will have to meet, and the one you will have to defeat, may God bless you.”
“I found her to be a worthy opponent for the brief time our swords crossed. You believe she is that good, then?”
“She is.”
Conor digested that bit of information. “Then you have no objections to me wedding your sister?”
“Erika is a strong woman and a strong fighter. She vowed long ago to wed the man who can defeat her in a trial of combat. If you believe you are such a one, I give you leave to try. Tell my sister your intentions.”
A twinkle returned to his eyes. “But I do not wish to be around when you do.”
“Can you hear anything?”
The Valkyrie pressed her cheek against the smooth wooden door. Gwynna loomed behind her, straining to catch any sound emanating from the room beyond. There was nothing.
“That is a good portent, isn’t it?” she asked. “After all, we’d hear shouting if they were coming to blows.”
Erika paused, considering. “I have seen Olan give a great battle cry at the outset of a fight. But when he enters his berserker rage, he becomes extremely quiet.”
A nervous giggle bubbled from Gwynna’s lips. She should have been appalled to hear the Northwoman speak so calmly about her brother’s killing tendencies. She should have walked away and never looked behind her. She should have never given birth to the fragile dream in her heart.
She cleared her throat. “Your brother, is he…is he quick to anger?”
“No,” came the answer. “He is patient with the old and the young, but he does not suffer fools.”
Fools? What manner of fools? Those touched in the head, or those set in their ways? Gwynna gathered her courage to phrase another question. “Has Olan ever s-struck a woman?”
The warrior-woman lifted her shining head from the door to regard her, her expression curious. “I have never seen my brother strike a woman. But I have not seen a woman give him cause to.”
She must have blanched or made a distressing noise, for Erika was suddenly by her side, supporting her. “Are you unwell?” the Viking asked. “Who heals the healer when the healer falls ill?”
Gwynna managed to regain her footing, and a measure of her composure.
“I am fine,” she assured the silver-haired woman. “I just took an improper breath.”
She smoothed her skirts and shook out her intricately styled hair. She knew enough, Gwynna thought. She would not pry further into Olan’s life. She did not want to know if there was someone waiting for him… “Was Olan betrothed when you left your homeland?”
Lavender eyes regarded her in a steady manner that seemed to see straight through her. “You ask strange questions, Gwynna.”
Feeling her cheeks flame, Gwynna made a great show of straightening her skirts yet again. “I am powerful curious about the life of the man I lo…saved,” she stammered. By the saints, what had she been about to say?
Erika stared at her, and Gwynna felt as if every tumultuous emotion was illuminated in her cheeks. There was more writ there than she knew, for the Valkyrie said, “You favor my brother, don’t you?”
As soon as she asked the question, Erika knew she had guessed correctly. The healer’s cheeks paled, then flared with color.
“No! He is a warrior and I am a healer. I abhor what he does!”
Erika chose not to argue that point, though she privately believed Gwynna protested far too vehemently for the circumstances. She knew that women found her brother pleasing, and told Gwynna so.
The healer lapsed into a fit of coughing. Erika pounded her back until Gwynna was able to decry her assistance. “Are you certain you have no need of a potion or herbal?” she asked worriedly. “I know a small amount of herbology. I would not wish you to fall ill, while I did nothing to assist you.”
“My thanks, but I need nothing.”
Erika stared at the other woman with unabashed curiosity. Her color was still high, and her eyes shining with surprising anger. Why was Gwynna irate? Erika had not thought of the healer as being odd, or simple. Was that why she was unmarried? Surely the workings of marriage for Irish nobility could be no different than they were in her homeland. Gwynna was, like herself, several years past marrying age. But perhaps things were done differently here than in Denmark. After all, Conor was a prince of Dunlough, leader of his people, and he was still unmarried.
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