Free Devil's Angel by Mallery Malone Page A

inquiry for the warning it was and retreated. Conor was not that man. “By the beard of St. Patrick, I would never mock someone with such an eagerness to fight.”
    His lips curved in a goading caricature of a smile. “Unless of course, I could defeat his good self. Or her self, as the case may be.”
    It was a challenge and Erika knew it. Her smile was like sunshine and her eyes flashed as she purred, “And do you think you can best me?”
    Conor allowed his gaze to travel the length of her, noting the defiant tilt to her chin, and the still-sharp planes of her face and arms. “Now, of a certain. After you heal, more than possible.”
    Erika rose to her feet, her grin just as feral as his. “I accept your challenge—if you swear to free us when I am victorious.”
    So that was her game. Conor admired her cunning as he gained his feet. “I will accept your winning as Danegeld payment, and I will give you the freedom of the dun while you heal.”
    Erika gripped his hand. If she worried about how it engulfed hers, she gave no sign. “Not that I intend to lose, but what will you set the Danegeld for if I do?”
    Your surrender . “I have not decided. I will think on it. But perhaps now you would like to see your brother?”
    Her face lit up like dawn breaking across a lough. “He will live?” she asked, her eyes aglow.
    Conor blinked at her. When she wasn’t talking so calm about killing, she looked most female. “Yes. Despite our efforts to the contrary, you Northmen are resilient. If you wish it, refresh yourself, and I will escort you to him.”
    Erika hurried through as complete an ablution as she could manage with Conor present. How she longed for a bath. Quick dips in frigid loughs had been a staple of her life for the past few years. Most of the bruidheans , places of rest and hospitality for travelers, had been ransacked by the lawless or feuding clans.
    As if reading her thoughts, Conor said, “A bath will be waiting for you, when you return.” He handed her a robe of blue so deep it was nearly violet. “Let us go,” he said brusquely, and opened the chamber door.
    Following Conor into the hall, Erika looked about her with interest. There were four other rooms on this level that she could see, two each flanking his room. The hall was wide, with solid, stone walls and planked floors, and lit every few feet with torches. Conor placed her to his right then led her down a curving stair that opened into a massive hall. There were two hearths large enough to roast an ox flanking four long trestle tables. The packed dirt floor was strewn with fresh rushes and the double entrance doors were open to allow the smoke from the hearths to escape.
    A handful of people dotted the great hall, servants cleaning the tables or serving a few latecomers. All activity jerked to a halt as Conor and his charge walked past. The stares ranged from curiosity to outright hostility. Erika lifted her chin high, determined to ignore them.
    She didn’t speak until they reached the second stairway. “Your people do not seem taken with me,” she remarked, as if commenting on the weather.
    “They have no love for outlaws or any who help them,” he replied, his tone devoid of inflection.
    “They must know by now that I did not raid the village,” she protested. “I only wanted to help.”
    “Your help brought death to their friends and loved ones.” Conor’s voice was hard. He set a brisk pace up the stairs.
    Erika puffed along behind him. Her circuits about the room had not prepared her for the amount of stairs they were climbing, but by Odin’s blinded eye, she would not tell him to slow. “It was war,” she argued, surprised that she had to explain it. “Perhaps the battle should not have happened, but surely they understand—”
    “Death is death, Angel,” he said curtly. “They understand that husbands will never come home again, fathers will not teach their sons to hunt, and some weddings will not occur. Would you