Devil's Angel by Mallery Malone Read Free Book Online Page A

your life, which continues only by my goodwill. Your friends are few, your enemies as great. Your life is in my hands. You would do well to remember that.”
    Transferring the leg and arm shackles to Padraig, Conor grabbed the remaining length of chain that hung from the neck collar, wrapped it around his ample fist, then led her towards the door. Erika balked, suddenly not wanting to leave. “Where are you taking me?”
    He drew her inexorably to the door. “To the one place I can ensure your safety. My chamber.”

Chapter Six
    Gwynna watched the silver-haired man sleep, unable to halt the strumming of her heart.
    He was magnificent. Even battered and broken, his body awed her with its innate strength and beauty. She had refused to let him die, and it was a mixture of skill and will that brought him back from the brink time and time again.
    How many hours had she sat beside him, urging him to live? How many hours had she listened to his disjointed ramblings, soothing him with words and touch? More than she had with the others, that was true. God help her, she had given more of her attention to him than the men of Dunlough, all the while believing he was their enemy!
    It had been a burden on her soul, wanting the Viking to live, knowing that at any moment, Conor could order his death. She’d attempted to rationalize her want by hiding behind the healer’s desire to help all, enemy or no. But the relief she’d felt at discovering the truth proved her rationalization for the lie it was.
    She should have been afraid of him. He was a large man, acclimated to the ways of killing. His body bore evidence of the brutal existence he led. A giant with pale curls that flowed past shoulders twice as wide as she was, there wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on him. His face would have been harsh had it not been for the thick lashes that rimmed his eyes and the hint of softness around his lips. Yes, she should have been afraid of him. She had good reason to fear men such as he. Yet she did not.
    Perhaps it was because he was powerless, on the brink of death as he was. Perhaps it was because she was the one in power, with God’s blessing, holding his life in her hands.
    Perhaps it was because of the dreams.
    Delirious with fever, he had thrashed about on the pallet, calling out in a mixture of Norse, Gaelic and Latin. Gwynna hadn’t been able to catch more than a few phrases, but she knew his thoughts were of his sister and her safety. His concern touched Gwynna, for it reminded her of Conor and his concern for her.
    Turning to check his forehead for fever, she was startled to find the object of her daydreams staring at her.
    His eyes. Sweet Lord, she had forgotten about his eyes. Blue as late afternoon sky on a warm summer’s day, his eyes delved into her, uncovering her heart, her very soul, and claiming both for his own.
    A smile split the close-cropped beard, lighting his expression. “Angel.”
    Gwynna couldn’t hide the twinge of disappointment. Was he still under the spell of fever? His gaze was clear and steady, not glazed and pained. “I am Gwynna, my lord, not the Angel.”
    “Lady Gwynna.” His voice was deep, rumbling from the depths of his chest, reminding her of waves crashing against the cliffs. He spoke her name again, slow, as though savoring each syllable. “I am Olan, and I am lord of nothing, save myself.” He looked down at his mending body. “And perhaps not even that.”
    His gaze journeyed around the chamber, taking in everything before resting on her again. “Where am I?”
    “You are in Dunlough, my home,” she informed him. “You are safe.”
    Disbelief shadowed his eyes. “I traveled with others, a man and woman, Northmen as I am.”
    Gwynna noticed how careful he was not to reveal their relationship to him. But she could see the pinched expression that had nothing to do with physical pain. She gathered his large hand between hers, noting the long, calloused fingers.
    “Your friend, Larangar,