Devil's Angel

by Mallery Malone

  “It is a letter, found half-burned in our chamber.” He read it aloud. Each word slammed within her as she realized their portent.

  “You think these—these lies were for me? You think I seek to betray you?”

  “It is beyond the seeking now, Angel.”

  “You believe this? How could you believe this?” She brought her fisted hands to her heart. “By my life, I swear that I have not betrayed you.”

  “Be ware of what you swear, Lady Death. You may need to fulfill that vow.”

  Erika blanched against the vehemence of his voice. “Conor, please. If I could have a word in private—”

  “What you have to say to me, you may say to my people.” The Devil’s face was stern and implacable, shorn from rock. “For ’tis true, you have dishonored their trust as well.”

  Stung, she raised her eyes to his, willing her husband to hear her, to believe her. “I have dishonored no one,” she said, forcing her voice to firmness. “Everything I have ever claimed as mine has been taken from me. All that remains is my honor, and you would take even that?”

  “You have given it away!” he roared. “You gave it willing to the Cur of Ulster!”

  His words slammed into her battered heart like spears launched by an expert hand, causing her to stagger. Conor looked on, impassive. So implacable, so unreachable. So beloved.

  Glancing about the hall, Erika realized that none of these people would come to her defense; none would dare risk the wrath of the Devil of Dunlough. It wasn’t what she’d done. It was what she hadn’t done.

  She had been so quick to escape Magda’s presence in the dun that she’d left the Irishwoman ample opportunity to turn the people against her. Flesh and blood she could fight, but words, thoughts, hatred—she was powerless.

  Ardan and Múireann wore matching stricken looks, and everyone else seemed horrified and frightened. Only Magda’s face glowed with malicious triumph.

  Conor’s expression wounded most of all. Gone were the lights of tender feelings in his eyes, as if they had never been. “You believe me capable of such treachery?” she choked out.

  “You tried to kill him more than once!” Magda’s strident voice shook the rafters. “And you killed his babeif it ever was truly Conor’s. Was it at the behest of your lover that you did these things—the lover whose child you carry even now?”

  Gasps pierced the charged atmosphere, led by Erika herself. Her hands cupped her womb in a protective gesture. How could Magda know, when she’d only realized it herself?

  She lifted her head, seeking Conor. He was frozen in place, his face drained of all color. “Is this true?” he whispered in a strangled tone.

  “Conor—”

  “Are you with child?” Her hesitation infuriated him. “Answer me!”

  The dun waited with bated breath. All she had to do, Erika knew, was deny it and be welcomed back into her husband’s bed. Then if a babe arrived early to the royal couple, all would be acceptable.

  But she could not, would not lie. Not about this. Eyes never leaving Conor’s, Erika spoke the words that would forever damn her. “I am with child. Your child.”

  The hall erupted with outrage, drowning out her words. She ignored everyone else. Their opinions did not matter. Only Conor’s did.

  She watched shock drive color from his face, and the anger of betrayal that quickly replaced it. He believed as the others did, that she couldn’t be carrying his child, that it was impossible that she had conceived before he’d left to attend the King of Connacht little more than two months ago.

  Anguish hit her low in the gut, almost doubling her over. He didn’t love her. How could he, and believe the worst of her?

  Forcing her back to straighten, she stared at the man who had broken her heart. “I know the Devil of Dunlough has little reason to trust women. I know there is naught I can say or do that hasn’t been done or said, but I will say this: I am not Aislingh. I would never betray you. Even if I never had your love, I thought I had your trust.”

  He did move then, so quickly that she heard the thudding sound almost before his arm lowered. Gasps filled the hall. Buried in the packed earth before her feet, still quivering with furied force, was the tiny amethyst-studded dagger she had surrendered to him so many months before.

  She staggered, pain blossoming in her heart as if he’d stabbed her instead of the hard ground. It was the final act. He would never believe her, would never forgive her. Closing her eyes, Erika let go of everything she possessed: hope, dreams and love. Even when her babe was proven Conor’s, she could not stay here, not with a man who didn’t love her, if he ever had.

  “Take her to the pit.”

  Ardan stepped forward at Conor’s words. “Sure you’ll send her to her chamber?”

  “Do not think to gainsay me!” the Devil of Dunlough thundered. His voice was unrecognizable, so twisted was it by fury. “Take her to the pit—and all else out of my sight. Now!”

  His thunderous shout had the great hall emptying with alarming speed. Erika remained frozen, too numb to do aught but stare as Conor turned his back to her. Fight, a voice inside her screamed. Fight and escape.

  Fighting would mark her forever guilty in Conor’s eyes. Her sole hope was to wait, to bide her time until she could speak to her husband alone. Wait, and fight the grief that threatened to consume her.

  With her fist pressed against her heart, it was all she could do to hold her spine straight and her head unbowed as Ardan and a pair of soldiers led her into the night, remaining silent until they reached the earthen cell. “And so it ends, the way it began,” she whispered. “Even the gods would smile at the irony.”

  “My lady.” Ardan cleared his throat several times before he continued. “Once his anger cools, he will see reason.”

  She wanted to believe it, was desperate to believe it, but the truth stared at her as cold and sure as death. “He’ll not see reason about this, Ardan. The past is too close, still holds him. He thinks that I could, that I could—”

  She swallowed, reining in her emotions lest she shatter. “Upon my soul, I have not done that of which I have been accused.”

  “I believe you, my lady,” Ardan said in a gruff voice. “I know your love for him.”

  “It is not enough. Perhaps it will never be enough.”

  Ardan had no rejoinder for it, and true what more was there to say? She stepped into the dank, cold cell, struggling not to lose hope as the door slammed home behind her.

  “I will bring a stool and blankets for you,” Ardan told her. “I’ll not deny you comfort while we wait for the Devil to come to his senses.”

  Conor. Anguish welled within her, potent and bitter. He thought her capable of the ultimate betrayal, of yielding the body only he had known to another. Of carrying another’s child.

  She cradled her womb, wanting to shield the tiny, fragile life inside her, to protect it from a world in which honor and love meant nothing. She wanted a son to grow in Conor’s image, final proof of her veracity. She wanted a daughter to teach to be strong, courageous and unyielding to the weakness of the heart. She wanted to be far away from Dunlough and memories of what she had gained and lost.

  The sound of the door opening had hope leaping in her breast. It died a quick death as Magda walked through.

  Erika’s first instinct was to put her hands to the witch’s neck and make the world a better place. She remained seated, her hands on her knees as Renald and Crutchin entered with her, weapons drawn and torches high.

  She felt the fury pounding behind her eyes. “You sent Conor that message. You killed that poor messenger and hid my neck-chain on his person.”

  Magda laughed, a chilling sound. “I would never kill someone by so foul a method. That’s why I have Crutchin and Renald to do my bidding.”

  “Why?” Erika asked the question that burned her soul. “Why have you done this?”

  “You do not belong here. I will always be the rightful mistress of Dunlough.”

&nb
sp; “Conor will hear of this.”

  Magda laughed anew. “Who will tell him? You? Do you think he will believe a deceitful Viking mercenary over his brother’s widow?”

  No, Conor would not believe his brother’s wife capable of such treachery. It was far easier to believe it of his wife the mercenary. Every moment he did not come to her proved that. Despair settled deeper in her heart.

  “Be done with your gloating, and leave me in peace.”

  “I cannot do that. In fact, I’ve come to help you.”

  Her disbelief must have been obvious even in the torchlight. “Believe me or no, it is your choice,” Magda said. “You would never be happy here, even if Conor had asked you to stay. You live by your sword, and your freedom means much to you.”

  The Irishwoman stepped closer. “Conor does not love you, Viking. ’Twas obvious even before today. Even now, he ponders whether to hang you or banish you. Do you wish to abide in this pit until he decides? Would the legendary Angel of Death sit meek as a lamb or would she choose her life and her freedom?”

  With Renald at the ready, Magda took another step closer. “Your stubborn mount awaits you just beyond the door, along with your sword and a bag of hack silver. Leave here, this place that was never your home. Leave Eire and never return.”

  Erika knew there was a caveat to Magda’s offer, but found she didn’t care. All that remained was the need to be as far away from Dunlough as Tempest could carry her.

  She rose, towering over the men and the woman, who stepped away. That gave her the first real smile she’d had in hours.

  “And sure the witch of Roscommon has no need to fear me?” she asked. “Though I must confess, the need to strangle you is like a fire in my veins. If your death would change what lies between Conor and myself, you would even now be dead.”

  Both men stepped further back, leaving Magda unguarded. “What fine guards you have, so eager to protect you. Fortunate for you my desire to be quit of this place is greater than my desire for vengeance.”

  Magda regained her aplomb as she stepped aside. “Then be gone.”

  Still uncertain and sensing a trap, Erika moved through the doorway. Sure enough, Tempest awaited her. Since she still wore the trews she’d worn earlier, it was a simple matter to vault astride, to put her heels to his flanks, to speed towards the opened and unmanned gate. She did not look back.

  She forced her mind to subdue her roiling emotions. Freedom was all that mattered now. Dun Lief and Glentane were closed as options; she would not place friends and family in this breach. The village was also closed to her. Although near the sea, she could not hide there until a boat large enough arrived to offer transport, and she would not leave Tempest behind.

  That left the north. If she could make it to Dun na Ghall, she could find a longboat, a Viking crew to take her to Anglia or Normandy. Places where she would be just another Viking woman, and not the cast-off wife of an Irish noble who held more to the past than the present.

  So steeped in misery was she that she didn’t acknowledge the absolute stillness of the night until too late and was ambushed. Screaming a defiant curse, she pulled free her sword and managed to fell three of her attackers until their sheer numbers dragged her to the ground. Blows rained upon her, and she curled into a ball to protect her unborn child even as she flailed out with feet to shins and knees, breaking several.

  “Ease off, you bastards!” a harsh voice commanded. “The whore’s no good to us dead!”

  Stars danced before her eyes as the pack retreated, and she gasped in a pained lungful of air. It was too dark, but she sensed someone standing near her.

  “So you are the legendary Angel of Death,” the voice spoke again. The sound of it slithered over her skin like dead fish. “Bring a torch and let’s have a look at our prize.”

  Erika realized then that she couldn’t see clear because her eyes were nearly swollen shut. She discerned a pool of light, and a pair of legs, scabbed and sparsely covered with red-gold hair.

  A fist gathered in her hair, wrenching her to her knees. She bit back another gasp of pain and widened her eyes as far as she could to regard the face of the man she would kill when she was able.

  “I am Ronan the Red Hand, the man who will kill you and your precious Devil of Dunlough.”

  Ronan of Ulster. Despite her pain, Erika almost smiled. This was the man responsible for raiding Dunlough village. Norns willing, she would be able to fulfill her promise and deliver the bastard’s head to the villagers.

  “Too pale for my taste,” Ronan was saying as someone bound her hands. “Don’t know why the Devil chose you, but then everyone knows the mac Ferghal is mad. Let us see what has entranced him so.”

  His free hand slid over the front of her tunic. Revulsion filled her stomach at his vile touch then rose to her throat as he ripped the front of her tunic open with a sharp downward pull. When his hand touched her bare skin, she struggled anew, attempting to bite him and gain her feet.

  He stopped her weak attempts with a ringing blow that toppled her onto her side. “I like a woman with spirit,” he crowed, reaching for her hair again to pull her upright. His breath was fetid as he leaned over her. “’Tis my hope your spirit will last until you service the lot of us.”

  No! Her mind screamed even as the men about her cheered the news. She would rather die than let him touch her again.

  “Of course, no celebration would be complete without our most honored guest,” Ronan said. “How shall we ensure the Devil’s attendance? What invitation can we send that he would not refuse?”

  His hand tightened in her hair as he drew a wicked long dagger that was almost a short-sword. “Undeniable proof, that is what I need. And I know what will provide it.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  When tankards failed to numb his pain, Conor called for the barrel.

  Drinking himself into oblivion wasn’t occurring fast enough. The pain still twisted inside him, widening the breach where his heart had been, growing until he wanted to scream with anguish.

  Erika had betrayed him. He had done right by imprisoning her. So why did he now feel as if he’d made the gravest mistake of his life?

  She had professed her love to him, given of herself in a thousand ways that seemed to bear truth to her words. Yet she had stood in the great hall, damning herself with every question answered. Then she had confessed her greatest betrayal.

  In that moment, Conor came close to hating her. History had repeated itself, giving him another unfaithful wife. Then she had read his very thoughts and insisted that she was nothing like Aislingh.

  Enraged anew, Conor threw his tankard against the far wall. The act of violence dampened his rampant emotions enough that it begged repetition. A pitcher, a platter, then the table followed the tankard.

  How could she claim the babe was his? He’d been away a month. Before he’d been away for almost two, subduing raiders near Dun Lief. The last time he’d lain with Erika had been when?

  After she’d saved the drowning child. After she’d near driven him mad by risking her life. After he’d realized that he loved her and didn’t want to live without her.

  Exhausted, Conor sank into the remaining upright chair and buried his face in his hands. Aye, he loved Erika. He loved her as he’d loved none other. Even now, with his heart flayed open by the whip of her betrayal, he still loved her.

  Had she betrayed him? The rational part of him wondered. He remembered the look of wondrous joy on her face as she’d cradled her womb. It was a look he’d seen once before, the first time she’d told him she carried his child.

  Then he remembered the look on her face after he’d thrown the dagger. The horror and the anguish were unfeigned. By the saints, he hadn’t even thought when he pulled the dagger from his belt. His hands shook as he recalled how close he had come to felling her.

  Was she innocent? He had the missive. The dead messenger had been found with Erika’s neck-chain in his hand. Why would he have her chain?
>
  Why indeed? When Erika wore it, it was as he did—tucked inside her tunic. But she’d not worn it in some time, not since she’d first become with child. Had he misplaced it, left it where someone else could take it? Someone who wanted to discredit his wife? Who would want to do such a thing?

  Magda.

  Dread settled into his stomach and refused to let go. Why would Magda do this to Erika? Their strained relationship could not be so unbearable that his sister-by-law would resort to such harsh measures.

  It mattered not. All that mattered was freeing his wife from the pit. Once he was reconciled with Erika he would deal with sister-by-law.

  He flung open the chamber door and stepped out, near colliding with Aine, Ardan and Padraig. “So you’ve come to your senses then?” the old woman asked.

  “Aye, that I have. I can pray that it is not too late.”

  He strode into the hall, the trio following. “Ardan, find Magda and bring her to me.”

  “Magda?”

  “This is her doing, and I would have her tell me why—after I reclaim my wife.”

  Grabbing a torch, he walked out into the night, his stride eating the distance between the dun and the pit. A soldier intercepted him. “My lord, Lady Erika has escaped!”

  A skittering sensation crept up his back. No one had ever escaped from the pit. The wooden frame was buried deep in the soil then packed with earth then covered with rocks. Brute strength would not open the door. Someone had helped Erika to escape.

  Or convinced her to.

  Soldiers converged on them. “Her horse is gone as well, my lord.”

  “Who guarded the gate?”

  Padraig answered. “Crutchin and Renald.”

  Magda’s soldiers. Too late, things became clear.

  Conor turned for the gate, calling for his horse and sword. Dun Lief was closer than Glentane, but would she go there? Would she go instead to Olan and Gwynna? They would not make it easy for him to get Erika back, but no matter what it required he would do it.

  A shout went up from the gate. A single rider rushed up the slope, a pale horse in full gallop. Conor recognized Erika’s horse seconds before he realized it was riderless.