Devil's Angel Read Online Free Page A

man.
    He sat on a rough-hewn bench. A torch protruded from the packed earth of a wall, casting meager light between them. It was enough. His legs were well muscled and covered with dark hair. His leine , a knee-length tunic made of soft wool, did nothing to conceal the girth of his shoulders and chest, broad enough to support the strength evident in his powerful arms. She could not see his face clearly, obscured as it was by shadows and dark sheets of hair that hung past his shoulders, but she could see his eyes.
    Unnerving.
    His eyes glinted in the dim torchlight. Erika would swear she saw both the lightning of Thor’s hammer and the fires of the Christian hell burning in their depths.
    She was doomed.
    “Are you the one called Angel of Death?”
    The Devil’s voice rumbled deep and harsh as he spoke fluid Latin. She barely quelled the shudder that snaked through her. It was easy to believe that she had entered eternal punishment. She had failed to protect the poor of this verdant land, a land that she had fallen in love with at first sight. Now she would have to pay for that failure with her very life.
    Every extremity shrieking in protest, Erika struggled to a sitting position. Flames of pain danced before her eyes, stealing her breath. She might well die this day, but as long as her heart beat, she would fight the man before her.
    Defiant and proud, Erika raised her chin, the heavy iron collar biting into her neck. Even that small act caused pain to radiate through her. Through gritted teeth she finally answered him in Gaelic. “My name matters not. You need only to know that I am your enemy.”
    A low sound wafted toward her. It took a moment to recognize the noise as laughter because it held little in the way of mirth. “I admire your courage, but it will not do in the stead of sense,” the dark warrior admonished her. “I know you are my enemy. I would have you tell me why.”
    Erika’s temper climbed, driving her to her feet despite her agony and the heavy chains. “You dare to question the cause for enmity between us?” she asked, disdain rising like bile in her throat. “You, who are the embodiment of all I hate about this land?”
    The harsh accusation brought Conor to his feet. He stepped forward, out of the shadows. “You would do well to guard your tongue, Lady Death. Men have died for less than your insult.”
    To his surprise and secret pleasure, the Valkyrie did not recoil at the sight of his ravaged features. She thrust her face forward, her eyes sparking with fire and passion.
    “Are you so easily wounded, Devil, by words alone?” she asked. “Prepare to be slain, then, for I have more darts to let fly!”
    Conor growled. He had never struck a woman on purpose in his life. He was not about to begin, no matter how much she goaded him. “I warn you again, Viking wench, to guard your tongue. The sole reason you yet live is to answer my questions!”
    The pale-haired woman had the temerity to laugh. “Then you would do well to attempt to kill me now. For I have nothing more to say to you than this: pray for God to cleanse the blood of innocents from your hands, for if I am able I will send you to Him for judgment!”
    For a lightning-quick moment, Conor almost laughed. Attempt to kill her? He could snap her neck with one deft twist of his hands. Attempt indeed! Then he registered the rest of her vehement declaration.
    Settling his hands upon his hips, lest he fit action to thought and take her beautiful head from her shoulders, he summoned the iron calm that had served him for years. “What do you accuse me of?”
    The earthen chamber fell silent, save for the muffled sputter of the torch and the Viking’s own tortured breathing. Conor could see perspiration beading on her forehead and lip, and her nostrils flaring with each labored breath. He knew resolve alone kept her upright.
    “I will use whatever means necessary to gain the answers I seek,” he told her in a voice chilling in its