“I’m sorry, Múireann,” she said, her words stiff with a nameless emotion. “But it is a credit to your husband that he died gloriously, in battle.”
The Irishwoman gazed at her with red-rimmed eyes. “How can you say such a thing? There is nothing glorious about battle.”
“In my country, it is a warrior’s greatest hope, that when he dies it is with his sword in his hand and his enemy at his feet. For then the Valkyries come for him, to take him to Valhalla.”
“What is Val-Valhalla?”
“It is a place of much celebration and feasting. All warriors who fell in battle are gathered there.”
The woman’s smile was wistful. “Owain would like that. But ’tis a small comfort to me now.”
Erika touched the woman’s shoulder. “I will do what I can for you.”
With a shake of her head, the grieving woman stepped back. “What can you do for me?”
“Take you to the dun.”
“What?”
The more Erika thought about it, the more she liked it. “You will return with me to the dun. You and your son will have a place there.”
Múireann’s eyes glimmered as hope revitalized her. “But the tigerna…”
Erika dismissed her objections with a wave. “I will deal with the mac Ferghal. Gather your belongings.”
“Thank you, my lady, thank you!” After an impulsive hug of gratitude, Múireann rushed back inside. Erika turned, feeling very satisfied.
Then she noticed that all the villagers were gone. In the middle of the mud track stood Tempest, her four guards—
And the Devil himself, astride a sulfur-and-brimstone horse.
“Are you ready to deal with me now, Silverhair?”
Chapter Fifteen
Curiosity.
At least, that was what Conor told himself as he followed Erika and her guards. He was curious to see where she would go, what she would do, on her first day outside the walls of the dun since their moonlit ride.
He did not expect the journey to the village.
She rode at her ease in the center of his men, her back straight and chin high. Her demeanor was one of complete assurance. She would need that, he knew, to approach the village.
The people of Dunlough were most curious about the woman he had chosen for his new bride. While many accepted it as they accepted everything he did, some were still angry with the Angel of Death. He did not think any of his people would harm her or would be given the opportunity, yet until everyone, including Erika herself, accepted her role as mistress of Dunlough, she would be followed and protected.
It was apparent, however, that the Angel was becoming more acclimated by the moment. It had amazed him how the villagers welcomed her, how she coaxed laughter from people sore in need of it.
Seeing how she comforted the grieving widow made his heart swell with a proprietary pride. The Angel would make a more than suitable mate for him.
As soon as she realized he was the one who made judgments, not her.
When she caught sight of him and began walking to him, he forced his features into their usual state of menace. Difficult to do when he was fair bursting with admiration. Even though she knew she faced certain trouble, he saw determination stamped on her features.
Brimstone snorted as she approached. Erika quieted the horse with a hand to its shoulder. She fired his blood with a hand to his knee. “May I have a moment in private?”
She could have anything she wanted, if only her hand moved higher… “Tell me why I should not be angry with you.”
Her hand gripped his knee tighter as she stared at him, a silent plea in her eyes. “Will you walk with me?”
He could not ignore her request. He slid off his horse and held out his hand.
She stared at him a moment, as if certain he would trick her but not sure how. Then she slipped her hand in his, and he began a sedate stroll, heading toward the copse of trees near the cliffs above the sea.
The breeze grew stronger as they neared the drop, catching their cloaks and unraveling Erika’s braids. She lifted her hands to repair the intricate design, but Conor stopped her. “Leave it. It pleases me this way.”
He expected an argument and was surprised when he did not receive one. Instead, she folded her arms across her chest and turned into the breeze, closing her eyes as the salty mist bathed her face.
Conor watched her expression soften to one of peace and felt blessed that he had brought her here, had brought this gift to her. He too loved the sea and often walked along this edge, letting the soft rumble of the tide soothe his soul.
“You belong to a beautiful land, Conor mac Ferghal.”
Her voice flowed soft, reverent. If not for the sword on her back, Conor would have thought her an ordinary maiden swayed by the sight of beauty. The Angel, however, hailed far from ordinary.
“A beautiful land, true, but also bloody. We fight for what is ours, to keep what is ours—and what we believe should be ours.”
She smiled, seeing the humor he hadn’t intended to interject. No one thought him humorous, least of all Conor himself.
“How much of this is your land?”
Being near her without touching was difficult. He took her hand again, pleased when she gripped his. “Our land,” he began with subtle emphasis, “begins at the sea and stops at Slieve Torc, where the lands of the mac Murrough clan begin. I fostered at Dun Lief, and if there be someone not of my clan that I trust, it is Niall mac Laighin. All to the north is ours, until the plain before the kingdom of Ulster.”
“And they are your enemies?”
“Yes.” The word rang harsh. He would not say it aloud, but he believed deep in his soul that Ronan of Ulster had felled his brother. The enmity between them had run deep, birthed during a summer festival near fifteen years ago.
He changed the subject. “What is your homeland like?”
She remained silent for a time, and Conor let her have it, for she leaned into him as she gathered her thoughts. “Like this one, in a way,” she said at last. “Most of it lies between two seas, but there are many islands that make my homeland. Large tracts of forests filled with deer and wolves. Mostly moors, rivers, and marshes. I think there are more fjords than people, which is why we always traveled by boat. Olan and I learned to swim before we learned to walk. In summer, everything was green and wet. In winter, the north was all covered in snow and ice. Even the lakes froze over, and we would skate on them.”
“What is ‘skate’?”
“Blades made out of bone that we would strap to our feet to cross frozen lakes. And in deep snow we used ice-legs, made of leg bones from horses, to go overland.”
Conor stared at her, wondering if she was telling a tale for his amusement. “You speak true?”
“I always speak true. If there is snow here this winter, I would show you how to skate.” Her lips lifted in a smile. “I would challenge you to a race on ice-legs. It would be…rousing.”
Her words warmed him, for Erika had just promised a portion of her future to him. She would not have if she were so set against their union.
“You do not have to challenge me to rouse me, my lady,” he whispered, hearing the hunger in his voice and doing nothing to temper it. Using their intertwined hands, he drew her close to his side. “I am well-roused by the scent of your hair alone.”
Blush-pink stole into her cheeks, highlighting the color of her eyes. “You mistook my words, mac Ferghal,” she managed to say.
“Have I?” he drawled. “Perhaps then, rousing me is not your intent. Perhaps rousing yourself is what you’re after.”
The blush caught her ears now, turning them a sunset rose. “C-Conor—”
“Ah, ’tis not easy for you, is it now? Perhaps you need a bit of help becoming roused.”
“Conor.” Pink had risen to her forehead, into the veil of her hair. “Why do you tease me so?”
Conor didn’t believe himself capable of teasing, yet here he was. How she provoked him!
“Because the blush on your cheeks makes you more than comely and less the dreaded Angel of Death.”
Her brows dipped in confusion. “But I am the Angel of Death. I cannot change that.”
“And that is why, without reason or need, you vowed to protect this village?”
Her fingers tightened in his grasp, but he refused to let her go. “I am doing what is right.”
“It is not for you to do.”
“Then who is it for?” she demanded, turning to face him. “I made a vow—first to the villagers, then to Múireann. Her husband is dead. Not because he is an evil man, but because I mistook him for one.”
“Erika—”
“I told Múireann that she and her son could come live in the dun,” she blurted out. “She has no one now to claim her. I want—I need—to make sure that she is cared for. I cannot shirk that responsibility.”
“I do not expect you to.” Conor captured her other hand, bringing her full against him. Lifted by the breeze, her hair whipped about them, seeming to cocoon them from the world.
Erika opened her mouth then closed it. Confusion again darkened her lavender eyes. “What do you mean?”
“By your actions this day, Múireann will be given into your care, as she will care for you. It is fitting, as you are about to become mistress of Dunlough. My people will be your people, and your responsibility.”
Her lips pressed together, and Conor saw the old argument about to begin. “You have acquitted yourself well this day,” he murmured, drawing her closer. “I could not have chosen better for a wife.” Then he kissed her.
Any protest she might have made expired as her lips met his. She leaned into him, and when he released her hands, they found their way around his neck. Her sigh vibrated through him, causing his hand to tremble as it cupped the nape of her neck to deepen the kiss. He nibbled her bottom lip from the edge in before plundering inside, mating to her with his tongue.
Before sanity could be consumed by the passion raging through his veins, he pulled away from her. Her lips were still bowed for his kiss, her half-closed eyes soft as heather in a misty rain.
He reached up to smooth back a pale curl. “You have done what should be done.” He cupped her cheek. “You will make a fine mistress of Dunlough.”
The dreamy expression left her eyes. “Conor, I know nothing of running a household. I have done neither spinning nor weaving since I was a child. I cannot be a wife to you or mistress of Dunlough!”
At least she wasn’t prattling on about freedom. Did that not mean she grew accepting of the idea of being his wife? “You can be mistress of Dunlough. And you will be wife to me.”
She pulled away from him, protest in her eyes. “Why? Why do you want me so? Surely there are other women you want more, women who would joyfully become wife of the leader of Dunlough?”
Her questions seeped into the heat that had risen in his mind and his loins. Why did he want her as he did? “It is enough that I wish it,” he said in his most commanding tone, a tone that made many a man cower.
His intended did not even blink. “There must be more,” she insisted. “Is it because—because you have come to love me?”
The question pricked what little conscience he had left. He could not lie to her, yet he could not tell her the truth. What was the truth, at any rate? That having the most feared Viking woman in Ireland at his side would make him invincible? That he wanted her as he had never wanted another woman but would never admit it and thus give her power over him? Or that he was incapable of love, and if she needed that, she was doomed to an unhappy existence in Dunlough?
A sigh lifted from him, carried on the ocean breeze. “Erika, I would have no lies between us. I do this for my people.”
Erika stepped back. She didn’t know what she expected him to say, but that certainly wasn’t it. “Your people?”
Silver eyes regarded her somberly. “Not of my choosing am I the leader of my people. I am king of my tuath, chieftain of my tribe and adviser to the over-king of Connacht. My people expect me to protect them and their children. I do that of my own free will, but there will come a time when I will not be able to do so. I must see to the future. To do that, I need sons. Strong men unafraid to fight for what they believe in and wise enough to use words first.”
He stepped closer to her, his gaze unwavering. “I would have those sons of you, Angel of Death.”
You knew, she told herself. You knew it was nothing more than that. Yet the knowledge struck like a blow.
She lowered her head, the better to conceal her hurt. It was all she could do to speak. “The Devil and the Angel. An alliance between us would give many cause to fear.”
“And many cause to rejoice.” His hand cupped her cheek. “You will be a queen in Dunlough, a great lady. You will be accorded every respect. You will be welcomed and protected, and cared for. Our sons will rule this land.”
I will be without friend, for Olan will surely wed Gwynna and leave to find his way. I will be kept in the dun with no light, no sea spray. I will be protected only because of my ability to bear children.
A love match had never been her wish. Her only requirement for a husband had been for a man strong enough to defeat her in battle, strong enough to protect her from any threat. Her childhood heart had always assumed that the champion would be someone she could love and who would love her in return. Reality was beginning to prove different.
Her distress must have been obvious, for Conor pulled her back against him. “Erika. For all the books I have been blessed to read, the poetic words escape me. You and I are alike in many ways, but the greatest is in our desire to protect those unable to protect themselves. You will be able to do more with Dunlough behind you than you would on your own. Our marriage will benefit us both. Then there is this.”
He pulled her back against him and kissed her again, a rough, fiery plundering of her lips and mouth. This time a moan escaped her, and Conor himself groaned in dark satisfaction.
As soon as he was sure she was nearly senseless, he broke the kiss. His satisfaction grew as she whispered his name, her voice throbbing with want. She clung to him on that windswept overhang as if he was all that stood between her and being lost at sea. And perhaps he was.
“What is between us will be enough,” he said, his voice ragged. “We have fire aplenty, and the desire to keep our people safe. It will be enough.”
Would it? Erika wanted to believe him, wanted assurance that the rest of her life would not be a cold existence. What would become of them years from now, when passion died?
Desperate for assurance, she asked, “What if I cannot bear you sons? Will you set me free?”
For a long moment he gazed at her, his eyes shuttered and unreadable. Erika knew that she had gone too far. Before she could apologize, he stepped away from her, dropping his hold as if she’d burned him.
When he spoke his voice was wooden. “If it’s freedom you’re after, fine. Bear me a son. Then you will have your freedom.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Mac Ferghal, there is something I need to discuss with you.”
The solemnity in the younger man’s voice had Conor drawing his mount to a halt. At last, the reason for this aimless wandering about the northern rim of the tuath. “Does this have anything to do with my sister?”
Olan had the grace to flush, as he shifted his reins from one hand to the other. “It does, at that,” he admitted, then fell silent.
Conor let him have his peace. There was no need to rush the man into a statement that would alter his world. If there was any among the people of Dunlough who deserved love and happiness, it was his sister. He, who knew loneliness better than any, had felt his sister’s sadness like an axe blow. If this Viking was as capable of bringing light back to his sister’s eyes as he seemed to, Conor would give his consent of marriage without hesitation.
And if it meant that Erika would remain near to Dunlough no matter the outcome of their duel, so much the better.
He followed Olan down a sloping hill toward a copse of trees. They were at the westernmost portion of Dunlough land, near the cavern-pocked shore. There seemed to be purpose to the Viking’s wandering, and since his men had startled several deer for the evening meal, Conor saw no need to pull back.
“I love the lady Gwynna and want to wed her.”
Conor halted his mount and fixed the younger man with a stare. “Do you, now?”
Blue eyes stared at him without flinching. “I do, and she feels the same.” His tone dared Conor to say different.
He didn’t accept the dare, not outright. “And what can you, a Viking without a home, offer a princess of Dunlough?”
Olan dismounted and Conor followed suit, waving his men to stay mounted with weapons at the ready against unwanted intruders. The Northman moved into the stand of trees, keeping his eyes to the ground as if he searched for lost treasure.
“I know you think me as unworthy of your sister’s affections as I know you are of mine. But while your reasons for the match with my sister are a mystery only you are privy to, my reasons for wanting your sister’s hand are as plain as the light of day.”
That much was true. Conor knew the way his sister looked at the blond giant whenever he was near, and Olan shared that intensity. “Did she tell you of mac Broin?”
“Yes.” The younger man’s features grew as harsh as the wind howling from the sea on a dark winter’s night. One hand curled into a massive fist. “It is good that this man is dead, though I feel a need to disturb his eternal rest.”
Conor shrugged. “Who said he was resting?”
Olan laughed, clapping him on the back with enough force to cause him to sway forward. “As you have taken care of your sister, so shall I. This I can promise you. And more.”
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