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Authors: Mallery Malone
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sister’s welfare for himself.”
No, he could not. Had the situation been reversed, Conor would have been beside himself wanting to know the fate of his last remaining sibling.
He took the bundle of clothing and the water from the startled servant. “See to the Northman’s needs,” he told Gwynna. “We will reunite brother and sister within the hour.”
Gwynna gave him a long look that he could not interpret before turning away. Conor waited until they were gone before opening his door, fully expecting to be attacked.
He wasn’t. But if eyes were daggers, he would have died a thousand deaths.
Erika stood beside the window, her arms folded across her chest. She still wore the thin shift but had added a leine over it. The dark tunic falling off her sparse frame and the heavy iron collar did nothing to diminish the imperious tilt of her chin or the furious flash of fire in her eyes.
Conor had never seen anything so lovely—or irate. “You are well this day, my lady?”
“How can your mouth even form the words?” she asked, caustic. “You have trapped me in this room for three days!”
Glancing about the room, he noted everything was almost as he had left it. One of his chairs now stood by the window, and someone had advanced pieces on the chess set. The bed was untouched.
“Keeping you here was necessary, for your own safety,” he replied, setting his burden on the table near the hearth. “Or would you rather I had kept you in that cell?”
“I would rather be free.” It was not a request.
Conor had to admire her unflinching, if single-minded, resolve. He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “This is the best chamber in the dun. Only one other has a true bed, and it belongs to Gwynna.”
He nodded toward the bed, knowing the answer before he asked the question. “Did you not enjoy sleeping in my bed?”
Amethyst eyes flashed with lightning. “You know well enough that I did not lie there.”
“Whyever not?”
She stared at him as if he had taken complete leave of his senses. “Because it is yours.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “So is the leine you wear.”
Cheeks flaming, Erika snatched the wool garment over her head and tossed it to the rug-covered floor between them. “There.”
She stood there in pure Viking defiance, her hands on her hips, color high on her cheeks. She did not avoid looking at his ravaged face, staring at him full-on instead, firing his blood. She was magnificent.
He wanted her. Total and complete and sure. Wanted her pale fire warming him, her passionate nature fueling him. Wanted the purity of her emotions writ clear on her features to be for him and him alone. Wanted to be the one to claim and tame the legendary Angel of Death. What a fine match she was for the Devil of Dunlough.
He gave her a long, deliberate look. “If you refuse my leine and my bed because they belong to me, then you must refuse the shift as well, if you think on it.”
A sharp gasp preceded a short word in Norse. “How dare—”
“Your reasoning is flawed,” he interrupted. “If you refuse one aspect of my hospitality, you must refuse all.”
“Hospitality?” Her voice rose as she gestured to her hobbled ankles. “This serves as hospitality in Dunlough? I am overcome by the way you honor me.”
“Erika.” His voice was low with warning.
She gave him a withering glance. “Three nights. I have been trapped here for three nights. And that heaping lump of clay you call a guard has not allowed anyone to enter, not even Gwynna with news of my brother!”
“Had you but asked him, Padraig would have told you how your brother fares.”
She sniffed. “Had I but asked him, Padraig would have spat on me.”
Conor’s eyes narrowed. “You have a low opinion of the people of Dunlough, Angel.”
“I have not seen enough of your people to form an opinion,” she retorted. “Of the women, I know only Lady Gwynna. Of the three men I have met, one tried to kill me and
No, he could not. Had the situation been reversed, Conor would have been beside himself wanting to know the fate of his last remaining sibling.
He took the bundle of clothing and the water from the startled servant. “See to the Northman’s needs,” he told Gwynna. “We will reunite brother and sister within the hour.”
Gwynna gave him a long look that he could not interpret before turning away. Conor waited until they were gone before opening his door, fully expecting to be attacked.
He wasn’t. But if eyes were daggers, he would have died a thousand deaths.
Erika stood beside the window, her arms folded across her chest. She still wore the thin shift but had added a leine over it. The dark tunic falling off her sparse frame and the heavy iron collar did nothing to diminish the imperious tilt of her chin or the furious flash of fire in her eyes.
Conor had never seen anything so lovely—or irate. “You are well this day, my lady?”
“How can your mouth even form the words?” she asked, caustic. “You have trapped me in this room for three days!”
Glancing about the room, he noted everything was almost as he had left it. One of his chairs now stood by the window, and someone had advanced pieces on the chess set. The bed was untouched.
“Keeping you here was necessary, for your own safety,” he replied, setting his burden on the table near the hearth. “Or would you rather I had kept you in that cell?”
“I would rather be free.” It was not a request.
Conor had to admire her unflinching, if single-minded, resolve. He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “This is the best chamber in the dun. Only one other has a true bed, and it belongs to Gwynna.”
He nodded toward the bed, knowing the answer before he asked the question. “Did you not enjoy sleeping in my bed?”
Amethyst eyes flashed with lightning. “You know well enough that I did not lie there.”
“Whyever not?”
She stared at him as if he had taken complete leave of his senses. “Because it is yours.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “So is the leine you wear.”
Cheeks flaming, Erika snatched the wool garment over her head and tossed it to the rug-covered floor between them. “There.”
She stood there in pure Viking defiance, her hands on her hips, color high on her cheeks. She did not avoid looking at his ravaged face, staring at him full-on instead, firing his blood. She was magnificent.
He wanted her. Total and complete and sure. Wanted her pale fire warming him, her passionate nature fueling him. Wanted the purity of her emotions writ clear on her features to be for him and him alone. Wanted to be the one to claim and tame the legendary Angel of Death. What a fine match she was for the Devil of Dunlough.
He gave her a long, deliberate look. “If you refuse my leine and my bed because they belong to me, then you must refuse the shift as well, if you think on it.”
A sharp gasp preceded a short word in Norse. “How dare—”
“Your reasoning is flawed,” he interrupted. “If you refuse one aspect of my hospitality, you must refuse all.”
“Hospitality?” Her voice rose as she gestured to her hobbled ankles. “This serves as hospitality in Dunlough? I am overcome by the way you honor me.”
“Erika.” His voice was low with warning.
She gave him a withering glance. “Three nights. I have been trapped here for three nights. And that heaping lump of clay you call a guard has not allowed anyone to enter, not even Gwynna with news of my brother!”
“Had you but asked him, Padraig would have told you how your brother fares.”
She sniffed. “Had I but asked him, Padraig would have spat on me.”
Conor’s eyes narrowed. “You have a low opinion of the people of Dunlough, Angel.”
“I have not seen enough of your people to form an opinion,” she retorted. “Of the women, I know only Lady Gwynna. Of the three men I have met, one tried to kill me and
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