“I do not know what you have done,” Gwynna remarked, “but you are to keep doing it. I believe I saw my brother smile.”
“Conor has always smiled,” Erika insisted beneath her blush. “Though truly, not with what most would consider gaiety.”
“I concur with Gwynna,” Fionnuala said. “Today you have come into your own as mistress of Dunlough. Remember yourself, and know you have but to send word, to either of us.”
Touched, Erika embraced the older woman. “I know, and I will. I promise you that.”
She saw them to their respective entourages and husbands, and looked for her own. He was already astride his night-dark stallion, overseeing the contingent of Dunlough men. The black leine he wore contrasted sharply with the saffron yellow of his men, and her heart swelled with pride to behold the man she’d wed.
His gaze caught hers and he urged his mount up the slope to where she stood. She couldn’t resist touching him, resting her hand on the powerful muscles of his thigh, reveling in the flexing of muscle and sinew and bone beneath her hand. “My lady, I entrust the safety of Dunlough and its people to you. You will be the Angel, but you will have a mixed company of soldiers from each of the duns with you. Do not endanger yourself or the future of Dunlough.” He gathered his reins.
“That is it?” she asked, incredulity causing her voice to rise. “That is all the leave-taking I am to receive from you?”
“What more is there to be said?”
What indeed? Tender expressions of heartfelt devotion? The feelings swelling in her chest were too fragile to be set free, even more so that she could not be certain of his response to them.
Averting her gaze, she muttered, “Perhaps no more to be said, but surely more to be done.”
Conor stared down at his wife. How she had blossomed during her short time as mistress here. He was loath to leave her, to miss any moment away from her side. The quicker done with battle the quicker he could return.
He lifted her hand from where it burned the skin of his thigh and brought it to his lips. “Take care of our land and our people while I am gone.”
Dropping her hand, he wheeled his mount around and dug his heels into its flanks, lest he do something he’d never done—such as throw her over his shoulder and carry her off like plunder.
Keep going, he told himself, feeling the normal frown pulling his features. Keep going and do not look back, do not see the way the sun glistens through her hair, the tender expression in her eyes, the firmness of her breasts beneath her tunic—
Cursing to wake the dead, he startled the men around him by wheeling his horse in full stride and turning back from whence he came. His wife saw him, must have read the intent in his eyes. At the right moment she launched herself at him, vaulting up even as his arm settled about her waist to haul her before him. To the cheers of their men, the Lord of Dunlough carried his wife off to their private glen.
Her laughter vibrated against his chest, her hair streaming like sunlight over his shoulder. His heart swelled with a heady, rich feeling it took him several moments to recognize: happiness. He set the feeling free, allowing it to burst from him in laughter to match hers.
Once the dun disappeared from view, he slowed the horse to a walk. “Swing your leg over and lean forward.”
Without question she complied, and he yanked the hem of her skirt up, exposing her thighs and pert behind. His hands on her bare flesh had her peeking at him over her shoulder. “What do you do?”
“I’m attempting to ease the fever you have caused in my veins,” he answered, easing her back and down.
“But we’re on a h…ah.” Her protest died as he slid into her soft heat.
He anchored her with one hand on the flat of her stomach and urged his mount into a steady trot that did his work for him. “How can I give you a proper leave-taking when I do not wish to leave at all?” he asked, passion roughening his voice as he curved into her. “How can I ride away from the memory of last night and your mouth and heat?”
“Conor.” She leaned against him as he dropped his hands to her waist, her hands digging into his thighs, no longer needing the horse’s movements as guide. His hair fell over her shoulder like a sable waterfall as he leaned forward to trail kisses along the column of her neck, her jaw, then to her lips.
His hand slipped beneath her skirts, his fingers finding the slick jewel at the center of her pleasure. “By the saints, I’ll never have enough of you.”
He wasn’t deep within her, but he was deep enough, stroking her, inflaming her. Within moments she shuddered about him as he spilled inside her, their cries of completion mingling on the summer-laden breeze.
Sated by the proper farewell, he righted their clothing then pulled her back against him with both arms wrapped about her. He rested his cheek against the back of her head. “This memory and last night shall be like a sumptuous feast, giving me sustenance while I am apart from you.”
She turned as far as she could, giving him so deep a kiss that his toes curled. “So it shall be for me as well.”
Conor turned Brimstone back to Dunlough. “I will rest easy, knowing that Dunlough and the others are in your capable hands. But have a care for my battered soul and be not overzealous in making the presence of the Angel of Death known.”
His hand settled on the rise of her stomach. “And if ’tis true that the heart of Dunlough’s future beats beneath your breasts, you are to cease.”
She laid her hands atop his, clasping them. “I promise. Will you promise something to me?”
“If I can.”
She reached up to remove a chain from inside her tunic and turned to place it around his neck. “This is for you.”
Curious, he lifted the chain in his hand. It was a pale cord wrapped in silver wire, from which hung her cross and hammer. That she would part with her battle charms for his sake pleased him beyond measure. Then he realized the silken cord was not the ribbon he thought it, but hair.
She smiled when he looked at her in wonder. “I know I cannot ride into battle beside you as is my wont, so I will leave that to Ardan. With this you can take a part of me with you, and I shall be there in spirit. All I ask is that you bring my charms—and yourself—back home hale and whole.”
“I will.”
It was a promise he made willing, and was glad for the making of it. This vow he would keep.
For the first time in over two years, he felt hope.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Erika sat astride her mount on the rutted and well-worn path that was the road north to Dunlough, three guards with her. The secluded glen and trips to the village had been her comfort during the month of Conor’s absence, as Magda had continued her subtle attacks. Now, even that small measure proved fleeting.
Above her, the sky churned in a frightful swirl of black and ash-gray clouds. The air was heavy with anticipation of the tempest, so much so that the very land seemed to quail beneath the promised onslaught. Yet the sky served as manifestation of the tumult churning inside her.
Someone close to her was dying.
She had felt it in her dreams. Had dreamed of a wolf with the bloodied, broken body of a raven in its jaws as it loped along a blood-drenched plain. Had dreamed of Valkyries descending from Asgard to gather those heroes slain in battle, lightning flashing on their helms.
Word had already reached them two days ago of the terrible battle fought at the center of the island. The carnage supposedly rivaled that of Clontarf. No one knew the number of dead, only that hundreds were.
Was Conor among them? Erika’s heart asked what her mind could not, answered what her mind could not. The Devil could not be among the slain. Every fiber of her being thrummed with the knowledge that her husband still lived. Yet her mind and her heart needed the proof, needed to see him astride his huge black stallion, needed to touch him, to hold him. Only then could her body cease its frantic trembling. He had promised that he would return to her. He had promised.
She huddled
in her cloak, scarce able to believe that this was late summer. Her guards, affected by her somber mood and the unnatural sky, gave her a wide berth. It seemed as if the entire world held its collective breath, waiting.
Padraig reined in beside her. “All is in readiness, my lady.”
Erika could not look at him, could not tear her sight away from the path that the men of Dunlough would return on. “Where is the good-mother?” she asked, meaning Aine. While many others, led by Magda, had dismissed her warnings as nonsense, the healer had corroborated them.
“She is within, my lady, awaiting your word.”
Curiosity limned his voice, but he wisely did not give utterance to it. Yet even she had to wonder at Aine’s obsequiousness. The Druid woman was still a force to be reckoned with, and not even Magda dared to gainsay her. When they were in the presence of others, the ancient healer deferred to Erika in all things, a fact the people of Dunlough instinctively emulated even as they questioned it. Erika, irritated by the need for Aine’s blessing, used it to her advantage, ordering Padraig to clear half the main hall to make room for the wounded that were sure to come.
A cool wind laden with the salty scent of the sea, or blood, caught her sun-kissed braids, causing her to shiver inside her cloak. “Thank you, Padraig. Go to your rest now.”
The stern warrior didn’t budge beside her. “You should come inside, my lady, out of this strange weather.”
Touched by his kindness, Erika laid a hand on his arm. “I cannot,” she whispered, “not until I know—”
“Then I will wait with you.” His hand covered hers briefly before dropping away.
Her throat constricting with emotion, Erika returned to her vigil, thankful that it was no longer a lonely one.
Soon, sooner than she had believed, a shout went up. “They come!”
Forgetting to breathe, Erika craned to see. A first she could make nothing out of the graying afternoon light. Then coming up the dip in the road she saw them: Dunlough’s men.
Usually there was cheering and bawdy songs as the men marched triumphantly home. Now they were quiet. Too quiet.
Where was Conor? She pressed her legs against her mount, straining for a glimpse of a huge black beast, a dark-haired man.
There! Conor’s horse. But no one rode it. Why wasn’t he on his horse?
Something was in the center of the silent procession. A collection of shields, being held shoulder-high, with something lying upon them. Another few heartbeats, and she could discern a bundle, covered with a cloak.
A decidedly human-shaped bundle.
“Conor!” Denial shrieking past her lips, Erika kicked her heels in Tempest’s sides and went thundering down the path, dimly aware of the dun emptying behind her. She could not tear her eyes from the interlocked shields with their terrible burden. A splash of dark flickered in her vision as she slipped from her horse and ran headlong into the returning men. Was it Conor’s black leine, at the head of the shield guards?
It was. She changed course, still running, decorum be damned. Nothing mattered except reaching her husband and proving her dreams false.
Colliding with the solidity of his bulk was the most wondrous feeling in the world. Only the weight of his arms surrounding her eclipsed it.
“Conor!”
“Erika?”
His voice was distant, as if he awakened from a dream. Then his embrace tightened about her. “By the saints!”
As abruptly as he’d embraced her he pushed her away. “No, I can’t touch you.”
Erika stared up at him. Dirt and gore still covered him, but she didn’t care. He was alive and she would ensure that he remained that way.
She cupped her face in his hands. “I don’t care about the stains. I need to know you’re all right—”
Laughter rang, dry and hollow. It was a sound that chilled her soul. She noticed for the first time how bleak his eyes seemed, how desolate. “I’m not all right. I’ll never be all right.
“Ardan’s dead. And I killed him.”
Shock turned her blood to ice, eclipsing the joy she’d felt at holding him in her arms. “No.” Her eyes stinging, she turned to the cluster of shields beside them. “Not Ardan.”
“A bhean uasail.” Erika turned to the warrior calling her by the formal title of lady, never loosening her hold on her husband. She didn’t ever want to be away from him again.
It took her a moment to remember his name. “Fionn. Tell me, what happened? What of my brother?”
“We left him and his men at the divide in the road to Glentane. Our Ardan took a terrible sword thrust to the chest, a blow that was meant for the tigerna.”
“So he died defending his lord, with honor.” Erika turned to Conor. “You cannot blame yourself for that.”
His eyes were bleak, his expression remote. “I can. I do.”
Gripping his shoulders, she forced him to look at her. “Ardan gave his life for yours. Do not belittle his sacrifice.”
A low moan answered her. It took a moment to realize that the sound did not come from Conor. Cautiously, she moved to the cortege. “Lower the shields. I want to see him.”
Several of the warriors looked at her numbly, then looked to Conor. He nodded, and they carefully eased their burden to the grass. Kneeling and taking a deep breath, she lifted the edge of the blanket.
Blood caked the shield, but some of it was red, not brown. The old warrior’s face was mottled red, but his skin was still warm to the touch.
“Mother of God!” Erika whispered. She turned to Conor, who was still watching her with despondent eyes. “Conor, come see! Ardan isn’t dead!”
Her exclamation sent a murmur through the gathering. Conor knelt beside her. “Not dead?”
Smiling, she caught his hand, dragging his fingers to Ardan’s neck. “Careful. Do you feel that?”
She watched his face, saw the realization lighten his gaze. “That is his lifebeat?”
“Yes. He’s survived the journey home. That means that he may be able to survive completely.”
She took his hands, wanting to reassure him, protect him, revive him. “I do not know if we will be successful, but Aine and I will do all that we know to make sure Ardan lives.”
Silver eyes stared down at her. “Whatever you must do, do it.”
“I will. I swear it.”
With that promise given, she turned to the people gathered around them, commanding them to action. Three of the warriors cut Ardan free and carried him inside, Erika and Conor hurrying after.
Throwing off her cloak, Erika quickly cleared off one of the trestle tables. “Put him here. Take care not to jostle him overmuch.” She continued with her orders as she checked Ardan for further wounds, her voice flowing with command, not pausing to marvel at the quickness with which her orders were obeyed.
Besides the wound just above his ribcage, there was a deep gash on Ardan’s right temple, which probably had much to do with his unconscious state. His breathing, while light, was steady, not rattling, and no blood poured from his mouth. She breathed a silent heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving that there were no more injuries. She could tend the head injury easily enough, but she had never attempted so serious a wound as the one on his chest.
“Rhory, find Old Aine and bring her to me. Múireann, have the cook bring boiling and fresh water, and mead. Sibheal, where are the fine needles and boiled thread I asked for? Magda, did you tear the bandages?” Turning to the table, she pulled free her dagger, to slice the yellow leine away from the wound.
“Who are you to order me about?” Magda sputtered. “I am a princess, not a servant. Besides, the man is already dead!”
Quick as silver lightning, Erika turned to face her detractor. Her blade gleamed in the candlelight, its tip steadily pointed at the red-haired woman’s pale throat.
“Though you are no longer mistress here, you have responsibility to those once your people,” Erika said in the sudden quiet, her voice ringing with chilling gravity. “I have not the
time to argue with you, my lady. You will either help us save Ardan and the other men of Dunlough who once served you, or you will retire to your room.”
Averse to saying more than she had already, Erika turned back to the table, if only to hide the paroxysm in her hands.
She had pressed a blade to the throat of a princess of Ireland, a feat that would little help her situation. There was sure to be a law against such a thing.
She could ill-afford to dwell on it now. Even if she were to be banished from Dunlough, she would keep her promise to Conor and do all in her power to save Ardan.
Behind her, Madga audibly swallowed then chimed, “Come, Conor, I will see to your needs.”
For the second time in as many minutes, Erika came close to violence. It took a supreme effort not to turn and throttle the Irishwoman. If Conor went to her now, Erika would never forgive him.
Knowing that everyone watched her, she began slicing away the top of Ardan’s tunic with more calm than she felt. Save his life, she thought to herself. Perhaps later there would be time to save her heart from breaking.
“Leave go, Magda,” Conor’s voice rumbled as he moved to stand beside Erika. “There are many here more injured than I. See to their needs.”
Erika released a breath she didn’t realize she held. She knew she had done herself no favors by drawing her blade on Magda—the violent rending of cloth being torn into bandages assured her that she had made an enemy for life.
“My lady.” Aine’s voice washed over her, calm and soothing. “I am here.”
Grateful for the ancient woman’s presence, Erika ordered everyone to their duties as she continued to carefully pull the leine, bloody brown instead of saffron yellow, away from the wound. “Conor, can you tell us what happened? Was it a sword or an axe blow?”
Her husband stood beside her, staring down at the still form of his dearest friend. His hair was matted to his head; Erika could see dried blood on his temple. His eyes were dark with inner turmoil as he answered. “I-I do not know. Everything happened so fast…I think it was a sword, meant for me, but he—he stepped in the way. His death is on my hands.”
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