Devil's Angel

by Mallery Malone

  As quick as he grasped her he pushed her away. “Return to the dun.”

  “I will. With you.” Her voice was cool as moonlight.

  “No!” He stumbled to his feet and away from her. “I was near to killing you—do you not recognize that? You were close to being beheaded!”

  “Yet I was not.”

  How could she be so calm when he was seething inside? “Leave me be!”

  “No.” She rose and came closer, and the tremble in her voice reached him. “I will remain with you, Conor. You will not turn me away. I will not let you.”

  Her essence stole into him as she stepped close behind him, cooling the madness that burned his soul. He turned into her, pressing his burning cheeks into the softness of her hair. “Angel of Death, become angel of mercy. Will you show me mercy? Can you heal me?”

  She stroked the dark silk of his beard. “I would like to try.”

  With a groan he crushed her against him, capturing her mouth in a kiss that hovered on brutal. His hands were clumsy on his clothing and he heard the rip of fabric. He knew he should slow his pace, but need rode him with the desperation of a drowning man reaching for a rope just beyond his reach. “Touch me, Aingeal,” he commanded, his voice grating. “Burn me with your light. Make me forget.”

  She came to him, molding her body to his, lightning melding with thunder. It was she who pushed him to the dew-covered grass, she who rose above him, straddling his thighs, her hands wrapped about his hardness.

  He could not bear the waiting. Grabbing her waist, he surged inside her with one swift invasive thrust, causing her to gasp. There was nothing gentle about this joining, and beneath the storm of need the part of him that could still reason despaired for causing her pain.

  “Conor, look at me.”

  He did, and what he saw stole his breath. Her pale skin was aflame with desire, her eyes glittering with the same need he felt in himself. He kept his eyes on her, needing the glory of her flesh in the moonlight to banish the darkness. Fingertips scored his chest as she rode him, meeting him wildness for wildness, needing the comfort as much as he. They were warriors, their passion warring with tenderness. Need drove them, the need to be united, to be lost and found in each other.

  He matched her stroke for relentless stroke as she moved above him, head tossed back, breasts thrust upward. Her pace increased, and passion blocked all but her image from his mind. When she arched backward, his name tearing from her throat, he was engulfed in silver flames that seared his heart, mind and soul. His release, when it came, was violent, shattering, bursting over and around them like thunder.

  Spent, they collapsed against each other, their breaths mingling on the night air. It was a long moment before they could bear to part, but the night air forced them into their clothing. Conor wrapped Erika’s cloak about her then settled her against him tight, unwilling to be parted from her for long. “Why did you come?”

  “You needed me.”

  He did, and most desperate. “I didn’t believe you were real. What would you have done if I had not stopped? What would I have done had I killed you?”

  “Yet you didn’t. Think on that instead.”

  He shook his head, unable to put into words the horror he felt at how close he had come, how his madness had near driven him to…

  Her hands on him were soothing, comforting. “Tell me, what drives you so?”

  “I will not speak on it.”

  “Even to me?”

  His sigh trembled. “How can I be called Devil, and not face my demons alone?”

  Erika cradled his cheeks in her sword-calloused hands. “I am your wife. You no longer need to face anything alone.”

  The words were a balm to his soul, and he closed his eyes in gratitude for the gift. Be they truth or falsehood, he needed to hear them.

  Defenses crumbling, he gathered her hands in his, needing the contact but unable to look in her eyes as he prepared to bare his soul to her. His gaze remained fixed to the darkness.

  “I see them sometimes, riding through the mists. The spirits of my clan, the princes of Connacht. My foster-brothers, my cousins, my friends. I remember how they lived, and I remember how they died.”

  Once begun, the story spilled from him, an unstoppable torrent. As he spoke, a gentle rain, whisper-soft and full of mist, gathered around them. He told her everything, unburdening his soul the way he had with none other.

  “You are wed to a weak man, lady warrior,” he said finally, when her silence had become unbearable to him. “Will you mock me now, or will you call a brehon to pass judgment upon me?”

  “I will not mock you, nor will I send for a law-giver.”

  He snorted in disbelief. “I do not need your pity, lady wife.”

  “And you shall not receive it.” The solemnity of her voice softened the harsh words. “We are warriors both. It is who we are. Death will always be around us, but it does not mean that we have to enjoy it. Nor does it mean we are unaffected by it. If I lost Olan, I would be beside myself.”

  “And if you lost your husband?”

  He hadn’t meant to ask the question, but he could not take it back. Until now, he feared nothing, but he feared the answer she would give. “Never mind, Erika. It is not a question that deserves an answer.”

  “I would be devastated.”

  Conor’s breath caught. “What?”

  She smiled at his surprise. “The last five years of my life have been full of wonders and fear. You have taken away that fear, and given me magic to replace it. I cannot imagine life without you.”

  Stunned, Conor caught her against him. “How is it that you are mine?”

  “Do you not remember? I lost a duel.”

  The reminder stirred his ever-present guilt. “Erika…”

  She touched her fingertips to his lips, silencing him, then kissed his apology away. “I am capable of jesting, as are you.”

  He held her away. “Is this a time of jesting?”

  “Our people would not want us to wail and gnash our teeth in constant sorrow,” she said. “They would want us to celebrate their lives, because they live on in our hearts.”

  Then she told him what he needed to hear. “Our Ardan lives on in Dunlough. He sleeps now, but he spoke to me.”

  Ardan lived. Air whooshed from his lungs as he engulfed her in his arms, rocking her. Words couldn’t come to him, so he pressed kisses to her cheek, forehead, and the side of her neck, breath surging in and out with the force of his emotion. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Thank you for saving him.”

  Erika let her tears fall even as she gave him a gentle smile. She was the thankful one, for in saving Ardan she had saved her husband.

  “Let us return to the dun. Our people await us.”

  After a long moment he released her and rose, helping her to her feet. She was grateful for the assistance. Now that the danger was past, weariness settled over her like fog above the lough. It was all she could do to gather her sword while Conor gathered the horses.

  He lifted her to her saddle. She reached for the reins and would have toppled to the ground had Conor not caught her. “Erika!”

  She managed to give him a smile through a yawn. “I am simply weary, my lord. It has been an unending day.”

  “Then we shall stay here, so that you may rest.”

  “No.” Her hand rested on his forearm. “’Tis true I could be anywhere with you, but I would prefer to have you beside me in our bed. Besides, I promised Ardan that I would bring you home, and he means to see that I keep that promise.”

  Her jest was rewarded with the faint glimmering of a smile. She had felt the darkness drain away from him, lightening him. Saving him. Conor lifted her to his rested stallion, and vaulted up behind her. She settled against the comforting solidity of his chest with a sigh of contentment. Gladness filled her, and she rested her head on the warm, wide expanse of his shoulder as fatigue dragged at her. “Conor, will you promise me something?”

&nb
sp; She felt him grow still. Dragging her eyes open, she raised her head. His jaw was firmly set, his eyes once again shuttered. “What does my lady wish?”

  Another yawn escaped her, and she muffled it in the fabric covering his chest. “We are together, you and I. That matters a great deal to me. Promise me that when the time comes for grieving, we will grieve together.”

  Grieve together. Conor held his wife as she slipped into a blessed slumber. He gave Brimstone his head, letting the stallion pick his way down the mountain path. Padraig and three others materialized out of the night, surrounding them. He surrendered Tempest’s reins to one and concentrated on holding his wife close.

  Dawn began its banishment of the night as they returned to Dunlough. Erika stirred just as Conor debated giving her to Padraig while he dismounted. “Why do we stop?”

  “We are home.” He paused to savor the warmth that filtered through him at the phrase. “Can you stay your feet long enough for me to dismount?”

  She slid to the ground, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. When he stood beside her, would have gathered her in his arms again, she turned to him. “Let us see how Ardan fares.”

  His heart hammered, cutting off any reply he could have made. He wanted to see his captain, true, needed to see that his friend would indeed survive. If Erika’s assurances proved false, he did not think he—

  A hand slipped into his own, cool and comforting. Fortifying. Erika would be at his side, regardless the outcome. With a deep breath, he stepped into the dun.

  The main hall was dark save for the area before the main hearth. A pallet had been created, and stools ringed it. Múireann and another woman were there, with two of the shield guards, keeping vigil.

  His feet felt like ogham stones as he allowed his wife to pull him forward. Do not let him be dead, he thought to himself. Do not let him be dead, do not let—

  “So you’ve come back then, my angel?”

  Erika knelt beside the pallet, brushing Ardan’s hair from his face with a tender gesture that tugged at Conor’s heart. When had Ardan’s hair gotten so much snow in it?

  “I have indeed returned, as promised. And I’ve brought someone with me.”

  The wounded soldier raised his eyes. His face wreathed into a smile. “Ah, there he is. We did us a good turn, didn’t we?”

  The rough voice, though weak, was the sweetest music Conor had ever heard. “That we did,” he answered, kneeling beside his wife, staring into his friend’s face to keep from staring at the blood-soaked bandage on his chest. “You did us proud. Everyone brought honor to Dunlough.”

  “C-couldn’t let you fall,” Ardan said, his voice fading. “Needed to make sure you got home safe to the Angel…” His eyes closed.

  Panic hit him square in the gut. “Ardan?”

  Erika’s hands covered his. “He sleeps. He will be thus for several days, as he heals.” She lifted the bloodied bandage on Ardan’s chest, and Conor’s stomach lurched at the sight of the puckered, angry wound covered in a green, slimy substance.

  “I need to change this dressing,” she said, struggling to get to her feet. Her knees buckled, and Conor swept her into his arms. “Put me down, Conor. I must see to Ardan and the others!”

  “I’ll tend him, my lady, and the rest,” Múireann said before he could argue with his wife. “You’ll be beyond weary, that’s for certain.”

  “But the dressing must be securely fastened around him, after you put the salve on,” Erika protested.

  “I will help,” Padraig said, echoed by the other two guards.

  “Fionn and Séanán will assist Múireann,” Erika mumbled in a mixture of Norse and Gaelic that proved how tired she was. “Mind you, Ardan is a wounded man, not a sack of grain. Padraig, I command you to take yourself off to sleep or I’ll have your ears for breakfast!”

  Conor’s translation combined with Erika’s commanding, though sleepy, stare hastened all to do as she bid. Once she was certain all was progressing as she wanted, she slumped against his chest and fell headlong into slumber.

  She didn’t stir as he carried her to their chamber, or as he undressed her and put her to bed. He sat beside her, fingering the silk of her hair. The hollows beneath her eyes looked as if they’d been smudged with ashes.

  Realizing then how she had pushed herself to the limits, he felt guilt that was soon consumed by pride. His wife, so long an instrument of death, had embraced the cause of life. Instead of fighting to kill, she now fought to heal.

  How fierce she was, daring what so few, man or woman, would. His wife had stared down a princess of Roscommon, battled for a life and wrestled him back from the brink of insanity.

  She had healed him. He felt the knowledge of it sink into his bones. Since she had invaded his life, it had become worth living. He had begun to think about more than the past, more than ghosts and demons, more than his failures. He had begun to hope and to need.

  Even now, need welled within him, deep and sure. It was not the white-hot flash of lust, or the steady flame of the desire he ever felt for her. This need was more fundamental, more abiding.

  He needed her to love him.

  His hand froze in its journey through her hair, waiting for his heart to resume its normal pace. Conor mac Ferghal, the mighty Devil of Dunlough, wanted his wife’s love.

  Could she love him? His mind latched onto the notion with hunger for proof. She had given him her battle charms, had clung to him with such relief when he returned. She had ridden out into the dead of night, not knowing what to expect, to bring him home. She gave her body to him again and again, taking and giving pleasure as if it was the only sustenance they needed.

  “Conor?” Her voice was full of sleep as her hand reached out, seeking him.

  “I am here, mo aingeal.”

  “Come to bed. I cannot sleep until you do.”

  He refrained from informing her that she’d done just that, and obliged her by pulling the leine over his head and slipping beneath the bedclothes beside her.

  She curved against him as he gathered her close. “I will make a bargain with you, Devil,” she whispered on a yawn. “I’ll make a leine for you of my own hands, one that befits your rank, and you’ll wear it and leave go the horrible black.”

  Did she realize what she asked? He glanced down at her. Her eyes were closed, her hand a sleep-filled movement in the hair and scars on his chest. He could scarce think, and realized he didn’t need to. If she asked it of him, he would do his best to see it through. “I will.”

  She gave him a sleepy smile. “Thank you.” Her hand stilled upon his chest as she once again settled in to sleep.

  He pressed a light kiss to her forehead, closing his eyes as contentment drove the last of the darkness from his heart. Sleep would come easy for him tonight, and every night hereafter, thanks to his Angel.

  She was courageous.

  She was magnificent.

  She was his heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  She was pregnant.

  Erika stared at Aine in surprise. “Are you certain?”

  The old druid’s expression was amused. “Can you not tell the difference in your own body?”

  Thoughtful, Erika lowered her eyes to her still-flat belly. “My courses have never been regular,” she admitted. “I thought I had eaten bad cheese.”

  She thought that Magda had poisoned her. It was not something that she had proof with which to substantiate. She knew the day she drew her blade on the crimson-haired princess that she had made an enemy, one who was sure to retaliate.

  Thoughts of Magda couldn’t halt the smile spreading through her. She was with child. Conor’s child. She looked down at her hands, instinctively cradling her womb. What would a child born of the Angel of Death and the Devil of Dunlough be like? Would it have her pale features or Conor’s dark ones?

  Impulsively she threw her arms about the old woman’s neck. “Thank you, Good-mother! I must give Conor the news!”

  Heart light, Erika flew
out of Aine’s hut. Finally she would be able to give the man she loved his dearest wish.

  Joy swelled inside her as she ran, laughing, crying and calling Conor’s name. This time of day he would be in the faitche, practicing weaponry with his men. Not the best time of day to interrupt, but she found she didn’t care. She scrambled up the slope to the field, her legs barely keeping pace with her heart. Then she saw him, her Irish thunder god, turning as she called his name. Alarm colored his features as he dropped his sword and ran to her.

  Giddy, almost incoherent, she crashed into him, all but leaping into his arms. He held her close and she could feel his heart beating a pounding pulse. “What is it, are you all right?”

  Laughter bubbled out of her. “I am more than all right. We have done it!”

  Alarm turned to impatience as he stared down at her. “By all that is holy, what has been done?”

  She gave him a smile that began deep in her heart. Cupping his dear face in her hands, she whispered, “I carry your child.”

  Time seemed to suspend itself. She saw the moment her words registered, saw the spark that flared in his silver eyes a moment before hearing his intake of breath, feeling his hands tighten on her waist.

  “My child,” he whispered, and there was such wonder in his voice that tears came to her eyes. “Well done, mo aingeal.”

  “I could say the same to you, mo diabhal,” she whispered tremulously. “I thought it well done indeed.”

  Dunlough’s soldiers gathered around them, relaxing their defense. “What news?” one called.

  Conor set her down slowly, then lifted his head to his men. “The lady of Dunlough tells me that there will soon be an heir.”

  Cheers greeted his pronouncement. “A ceili! A ceili to celebrate!”

  “Aye, there will be singing and dancing, and ale for all!”

  The men dispersed to spread the news, leaving them alone. As they began to walk back to the dun, Erika placed a hand on her still-flat womb. “I didn’t know at first. Aine had to tell me.”

  His arm still circled her waist, his eyes bright with pleasure. “If Aine has said it, it must be so.” His grip loosened as his expression lost some of its pleasure. “You will have to forgo being the Angel of Death for a time.”