Outlaw's Angel (11 page)

Marisa could do little else except ignore him, continuing her bath, aware of his eyes watching her. Strangely enough, she found the experience not totally without pleasure. In fact, it was Kyle who wore a pained expression when she reached for the soap, exposing full round breasts, the tips of which gleamed with tiny rivulets of water. Marisa looked up, seeing the smoky darkness of his eyes and the intensity of his stare. Fighting the delightful flush that raced through her, she indicated the table.

“A towel. Can you hand me another?”

Kyle leaped up to do something, anything. He felt like a man who had ordered his own torture, his own desires sorely tested as Marisa reached for the linen square and obligingly stepped out of the tub. The towel was a mockery, barely covering her slender thighs and exposing more than a generous amount of cleavage. Kyle groaned loudly, collapsing into the chair while Marisa questioned him innocently.

“What’s wrong, Kyle? Is it the old wound?”

“Aye.” He turned back to look at her with an expression that nearly took her breath away. “And there is but one cure for it. Dare I name it?”

“I know nothing about medicine,” Marisa said, hiding a smile.

“Ah, you’re a coy wench.” Kyle rose and approached her. “The bath did nothing to warm your blood. I see I’ll have to do that.”

“Kyle!” Marisa protested as he drew her closer. “The merchant and his wife! They’ll be in here shortly.”

“Aye, I suppose they will.”

Marisa found the tables turned as Kyle traced a wet curl down past her shoulders, to where she clutched the towel. Following a droplet, he let his fingers burn an enticing trail across her flesh, down between her breasts until Marisa trembled. Her eyes turned imploringly to his, liquid emerald pools that reminded him of his purpose and his reason for keeping her. That thought, and an unreasonable kindness that Marisa brought out in him, made him step back and hand her her clothes.

“Mac supplied some fresh things. ’Twould seem I owe him a new wardrobe. Did you like the bath?”

“Yes.” Marisa breathed more easily now. “Thank you.”

Kyle handed her the clothes impatiently. “Get dressed before I forget all my good intentions. I can’t stand the throbbing of old wounds.”

Smiling, Marisa obeyed, conscious of his eyes on her as she did so. When she was fully clothed, he took her hand, the warmth from his own roughened fingers transferring like a radiant heat to her own soft skin. He took her to the kitchen, where the men were impatiently pounding the table, chortling as Agnes slammed bowls of stew before them.

“What’s this mess? Looks like something my dog left on the floor,” Douglass said, belching loudly. Agnes sent him a scathing glance, while Roarke and Brannock sought to soften the woman with compliments.

“Ah, don’t listen to him. The man doesn’t know a good meal when he sees one.”

“ ’Tis just that he’s blinded by our mistress’s beauty.” This last, from the handsome Roarke, caused the frugal Scotswoman to blush to the tips of her hair. Douglass guffawed, wiping his eyes, only stopping when he saw Marisa.

“There you’ll be, lady. ’Tis a shame we haven’t a good meal to grace you with. You look unco bonnie after your bath. I can smell your hair from here. It ’minds me…”

“That’s enough,” Kyle interrupted, well aware of what it reminded Douglass of. Drawing out a seat for Marisa, he joined her at the table, handing her a bowl and utensils. He was a puzzle, Marisa thought. She never knew what to expect from him. His eyes met hers and held; he smiled, the intensity leaving his face and a youth emerging. Marisa smiled back. For the moment, it was as if they were alone in the room.

“Angel, oh, I’m sorry.” Douglass took a swill of ale, laughing all the while. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. If you want to make eyes at the lassie, far be it from me to stop you. If she was mine, I wouldn’t take my eyes off her.”

“Douglass, what the hell do you want?” Kyle questioned good-naturedly.

Douglass waited, looking blankly at the interested Scotswoman until Agnes took the hint.

“I’ll be outside should ye need anything else,” she said sourly, wiping her hands on her apron and bestowing Roarke with an extra chunk of bread. Marisa chuckled as the Highlanders choked in their drink, not daring to comment with Kyle in the room.

“As I was saying…” Douglass continued. “Since we’ll likely reach the Highlands quickly, do you want to keep to the shore route? Those damned Sassenach will be likely looking for us again.”

“Aye, and most probably will head for the city,” Kyle replied, handing Marisa a chunk of brown bread and admonishing her to eat it. “By the time they reach Edinburgh, we will be safely within the clan.”

“It will be hard to negotiate from there,” Douglass said, his mouth full of food. “It could be weeks between messages.”

“I’ve thought of that,” Kyle said carefully. “I’ve a few contacts in London that can be trusted, men who’ve hidden my identity. I may contact them to continue negotiations. One way or another, I’ll get those jewels.” He continued to stare thoughtfully at the door from which Agnes departed, chewing his meal in an absent manner. Douglass noted his lack of interest and turned to Marisa with a shrug.

“Here, sweetie. Have a drink. It’s good beer. One thing a Ferguson can do, it’s make a beer so thick the foam stands alone.” He demonstrated by emptying his cup.

“Don’t be giving her ale,” Mac said disparagingly. “Have you lost your mind? Here, Marisa, eat more of the stew.”

Marisa graciously declined, unable to eat another bite, then she turned back to Kyle. He was nodding to the men and responding to their queries, but his attention was still subtly focused on the door. It was as if the wall didn’t exist, as if somehow he could see right through it. His expression barely changed but Marisa stifled a gasp as he reached beneath his coat and withdrew a pistol. Kyle turned an icy stare on her, one that warned her not to cry out. Gingerly, she lifted a chunk of bread to her lips, forcing the harsh crumbs down her throat. Her own gaze flickered back to the door. Evidently, he’d seen more than she did…and something that had aroused his distrust.

Gregory reentered with his wife. The conversation died as the Highlanders became aware of the Fergusons, and more than one man nudged Roarke good-humoredly. Only Kyle did not smile. Instead, he fixed the little merchant with a dissecting stare that caused the man to tremble.

“My wife and I want to go to bed now,” Ferguson sputtered, his body shaking lightly like an insect on a birch leaf. Agnes looked defiant. “We were just finishing up with the chores outside, so if you don’t mind…”

“Finishing the chores,” Kyle said blandly, placing the pistol on the table in front of him. “Isn’t that odd. I was just thinking to myself, I wonder where our good host is. There is not much in the way of chores that must be done outside this time of night.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” the merchant choked.

By now, Douglass and the men had begun to catch on. Douglass pulled back in his chair, clearing the way between Kyle and the merchant, while Roarke and Brannock watched with avid interest.

“We don’t have to listen to you, MacLeod. Murderer!” Agnes shouted, stepping forward. “That’s what ye are, no doot about it. Your own mother, after all!” She ignored her husband’s groan, her bravado disappearing as Kyle picked up the gun and fingered it lightly.

“You know, Agnes, they say the first killing’s the hardest. They’re all easier after that.”

The gun exploded, magically catching the merchant’s wig and sending it across the room like a white dove. The Highlanders chuckled as Ferguson grasped his skull, thinking he was maimed. Amazed, he gazed at his palm, finding no trace of blood.

“Ye could have killed me!” the merchant gasped. Even Agnes grew subdued as she stared at the white froth of curls on the floor.

“I could have, Ferguson, and next time maybe I will. The MacLeods are legendary for their patience, but I find mine is running out. Has your memory returned? What else did you do outside besides chores?”

Ferguson choked, nearly collapsing in fright. Agnes bolstered him up, glaring at his round, quaking form.

“Tell him, Greggy! He’ll kill ye!”

“I sent the boy,” Gregory said, sinking to the floor beside his wig and mopping at his face with a linen cloth.

“What boy?” Kyle continued inexorably, his voice a terrible calm.

“The stable lad. He left but a minute ago. You could still catch him.” His round little eyes turned pleadingly up to Kyle. “Please don’t kill me! She said it! She said there’s a price on your head and that we’d be rich….”

“I did not!” Agnes declared indignantly. She glared at Kyle. “So now you know. What do you plan to do?”

Kyle did not respond for a moment. He stared at the merchant, ignoring Marisa’s glance, his eyes measuring. Thinking. A cold smile broke out on his lips and he gestured with the gun.

“Get up.”

Gregory scrambled to his feet, glancing at his wife, then Kyle. The Scotsman stared at him, his eyes holding the spectre of death, more vivid than any dream. The merchant prayed.

“You look as if you enjoy your beer, Gregory. Is that so?”

The man looked dumbfounded, then nodded quickly, unwilling to cross this Scotsman.

“Aye.”

“A man who drinks like you should learn to work it off. A good run ought to do that.”

“Run?”

“After the boy,” Kyle grinned. Chuckles broke out among the Highlanders as they realized his intent. “I would suggest you start now, Gregory. For every minute, the lad gains.”

Staring stupidly at Kyle, the merchant jumped when the Scotsman pulled back the trigger. He sprang out the door, his heart pounding, cursing for having listened to his fool wife. Agnes, meanwhile, stared at Kyle coldly, her lip sliding out in disgust.

“And what do you mean to do with me?”

“Why, you’re the entertainment,” Kyle said, listening to his men laugh. “Pray have a seat, mistress. And hope you mean enough to the merchant that he returns.”

Chapter Eleven

“Can’t we stop, please?” Marisa begged Kyle, but he refused repeatedly.

“When Ferguson manages to get untied, hell rush right out and try to collect the reward. We won’t be safe until we reach home.”

“I can’t go another day like this,” Marisa said desperately. “I’m soaked to the skin, my legs feel like lead, my bottom feels like it’s been rubbed raw. I’m not good at adventures, I told you that.”

“I think you’re doing very well,” Kyle said, amused. “In fact, for the first lady we’ve ever abducted, you’ve done much better than I expected. I find the arrangement so enchanting, I wonder why I didn’t try it before.”

Marisa’s eyes flashed dangerously at him, and her anger only receded when she saw his grin.

As fierce as the Lowlands appeared to Marisa, the Highlands were even more so. Black craggy mountains rose in the east, wreathed in clouds and brilliantly laced with silver streams and rivers. The sea crashed upon the heather hills with a vengeance, then slithered back to the ocean as a defeated foe, only to return to the foaming rocks once more. And the sunsets! Come twilight, the hills were ablaze with color, their steep slopes plated with every shade of gold, from the palest saffron to a rich, dark amber. Marisa was awestruck at the terrible grandeur of the landscape, mesmerized by a world time seemed to have forgotten. In London, it was easy to sneer at the superstitions of the Scotsmen, to laugh at their faith in ghosties and beasts and things that go bump in the night. But not here. Here one believed.

Kyle seemed undaunted by the wild and beautiful scenery, but Marisa saw the special gleam in his eyes when he spoke of his home. They drew nearer by the day, each magic glen with its secret paths and courses taking them closer to the Highlands. Once Marisa remarked on the well-built roads, rare for such a desolate place. Kyle’s face darkened.

“Aye, they were constructed after Culloden. The British wanted to insure that no Scots uprising would ever threaten them again. They sought out the families that supported the prince, and either killed or drove them out of the Highlands. ’Twas a terrible time for all of us.”

Marisa shuddered at the way he recited the tale, as if it mattered little. She glanced at Douglass and Mac, noticing the way they all nodded, looking deep into a remembered past that held nothing but pain. Marisa made no comment, aware that anything she said in defense of her country would be misconstrued. She vowed to think twice before asking a simple question again.

As the landscape grew more harsh and fierce, the journey took longer and was more uncomfortable than even before. The sky, pregnant with rain, gave birth to a deluge that even Kyle’s cloak could not ward off. Marisa shivered beneath its sodden folds, trying to stifle the sneeze that brought a dozen good wishes for good health. Scowling at the men, she wiped her nose on the sleeve, wistfully remembering the days of linen and lace handkerchiefs, dry clothes and hot food. The Highlanders tried to bring a smile to her face, but the rain slashing at her cheekbones, plastering her hair to her neck like rat tails, did not leave her inclined to levity. “I think I’m catching cold,” she sniffled.

“The road’s liable to be washed out ahead,” Douglass joined in. “It couldn’t do much harm to put up until this wretched rain stops.”

Reluctantly, Kyle gave in, though Marisa could clearly tell he was against it. Depositing her on the doorstep of the first inn that appeared, a whitewashed affair boasting all of three rooms, he made the necessary arrangements and tossed her the key.

“I’ll be watching the main road to Glasgow. I suggest you get as much sleep as you can, for we will be going as soon as the rain stops.”

Nodding, Marisa retreated to the room above, shuddering at the not-too-clean bed linens and the dirty floor. Lace curtains, once white, sagged from the window frames, promising an unrewarding view of rain-drenched roads and barren hills. Sighing, Marisa drew to the fire that the surly landlord had prepared, allowing its warmth to penetrate her damp clothes.

Rain beat determinedly at the windows, threatening to wash away this desolate chunk of land. Marisa dozed, her body aching at every movement. Awakening a short time later, she peered out the window, dismayed to see a slight edge of pale grey in the east. The rain would be stopping soon. They would come for her and the trip would resume, to the ends of the earth if need be. Woefully, Marisa wondered about her parents, Devon, and Shannon. Were they trying to find her, or had they given up?

The sight of smoke caught her eye and she looked south. Chimneys. Lots of them. Kyle had said they were close to Glasgow. The town must be within a few miles, the mushrooming cloud misted with rain indicating the spot. A flutter of hope grew within Marisa. Perhaps, if she tried to escape now and reached Glasgow, she just might be able to find help….

The thought was too enticing to ignore. Opening the windowpanes, Marisa could see little of the yard below and even less of the land surrounding the house. Although there was a drainage pipe dangling from the roof, it was simply too risky. Marisa withdrew, terrified by the thought of plunging into the nothingness below. Yet her alternative was equally bleak. She recalled the ease with which Shannon had scrambled up the tree adjoining her house, then climbed into her bedroom window. If Shannon were here, she would try it. That thought both annoyed and strengthened Marisa. Without thinking further, she clambered to the window ledge, determined to be brave for once and try to get away. Unfortunately, her foot slipped on the rain-soaked wood and she fell, grasping onto the pipe, her heart pounding wildly. The rusted metal creaked, then broke, sending her hurtling down into the dark void below.

Kyle came around the house just in time to see a feminine form fall from the window into the livestock pen. Marisa let out a shriek as she stared into the red glowing eyes of a dozen pigs. They stared her down, the largest one sauntering closer to her with a malevolent expression. Marisa tried to get up, but her feet slipped as if on a bar of lye soap, sending her back to the filth once more. The pigs rooted about her feet, pushing her, grunting loudly. Marisa screamed.

“Take my hand. Quickly.”

Wasting no time, Marisa grabbed onto Kyle’s muscular arm, her quaking form lifted from the mire as if she were little more than a child. Setting her on the feet, Kyle brushed away the dirt streaks and tears on her face, his hands quickly examining her limbs for injury.

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” Marisa choked. Embarrassment joined with relief as she stared up at him, her knees still shaking at the thought of her escape. Kyle’s expression was fighting between sternness and amusement, the mischief gleaming in his eyes finally winning out.

“I must say, my lady, my company’s been rejected before for swine, but not quite so literally. You’ve demonstrated that you’re still eager for adventure. Let’s be off, and this time you’ll ride alone.”

The same storm that had caused Kyle to halt, however temporarily, had moved south. Devon knew that storms mattered little in London; roads were still passable in that fair city, people still traveled. But in the wild Welsh countryside, a storm meant that roads became thick yellow rivers, impassable and treacherous. The carriage immediately became stuck in the mire, the wheels buried impossibly fast in a ditch. Cursing, he left the coach, only to return a moment later with his hair soaked and his disposition little improved by the weather.

“Damned roads! The wheel is stuck fast. We’re not going anywhere, sweetheart, not for a long time.” Running his hand through his wet hair, he took out a handkerchief, not bothering to hide his glare.

Shannon shrugged thoughtfully. “There’s a light just ahead. Mayhap we could release the horses and ride up. We could spend the night there and return for the coach in the morning.”

“Right. And subject myself to the horrors of a country inn? Forget it. I’ve been in a few of those, and they’re everything you’ve heard.”

“Really?” Shannon asked sweetly. “Have you a better idea?”

“In fact, I have,” Devon said coldly, fixing his gaze on her. “We can wait out the storm, get the damned wheel loose, then return home where we ought to be. I don’t know how I got talked into this, anyway.”

“Your father had something to do with it,” Shannon said helpfully. “Didn’t he say he’d cut you off without a penny if you didn’t return with Marisa?”

“Don’t remind me,” Devon snapped. Adjusting his coat, he reached for the door, sending Shannon a questioning look. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go. This was your idea, remember?”

Biting back a retort, Shannon grabbed her shawl and pulled it over her hair. She followed Devon out into the sheeting rain.

Thankfully, the farmhouse was only a few yards away, though it seemed like miles with the wind and rain slashing at the earth. Devon knocked discreetly at the door, hiding his repugnance at the ill-kept look of the place.

“It’s probably deserted,” he remarked. They were about to leave when the door opened, and a wizened old woman appeared. She looked about seventy, her brick-colored hair still fighting to retain its lost glory and her bosom sagging nearly to her waist. She peered out at the strangers suspiciously. “Excuse me,” Devon said politely. “But would you be kind enough to let us rent a room for the night? Our coach is stuck.”

The woman stared at him blankly. Devon turned to Shannon, but the Irish girl stepped past him and spoke a few words in Gaelic. Immediately the woman nodded, then indicated the back of the house.

“She says there is a place out back,” Shannon said. “And that we’re welcome for supper.”

“Thanks no,” Devon shuddered. “We’ll just take the room. Now can we come in out of this rain?”

“Speak for yourself,” Shannon said, though the woman finally opened the door enough to allow them to enter.

The room was little more than a mud hut. Devon stared at the place in amazement, his eyes running from the dirt floor to the wattle walls, then the thatched roof. Water leaked indiscriminately, caught in pans that overflowed onto the floor. A fire burned soddenly, the wood soaked from the leaks, and an odd-smelling cauldron boiled from a hook.

“It’s downright primitive,” Devon said, not masking his astonishment. “This woman actually lives like this?”

“ ’Twould appear so,” Shannon replied.

“Where will we sleep?” Devon couldn’t help but ask. He’d already observed a particularly large spider ambling across the floor and a rook nesting in the roof. Shannon posed the question and at once the woman looked frightened, then responded in a coarse tongue. Shannon broke into bright laughter.

“What’s going on?” Devon asked suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Shannon said when she could speak again. Wiping her eyes, she looked at Devon, then laughed again. “She thinks you want to go to bed with her.”

“What!” Incredulous, Devon turned to the woman and saw her visibly wince. Swearing under his breath, he turned to Shannon.

“Tell her, will you? And stop laughing. This isn’t funny.”

It was less funny when the woman picked up a pitchfork, aiming it directly below Devon’s waist. Shannon hurriedly launched into an explanation, sighing with relief as the Welsh woman lowered the weapon, her gaze still narrowed. She handed Shannon a bowl of what she was cooking, then indicated Devon with a nod of her head.

“I think you should eat some,” Shannon said wisely. “You aren’t exactly her favorite person at the moment.”

“Right,” Devon replied, taking a seat near the fire. He tried to smile as she handed him the bowl, wincing as he recognized the eternal mutton stew.

“I hate lamb. Sheep should stand on hillsides and make mufflers,” he murmured to Shannon, forcing a smile as he tasted a bite. It was worse than he imagined. Devon dared not think of what else could be flavoring this concoction, particularly as a roach stared back at him inquisitively from the wall. But the woman watched him closely, her hand still on the pitchfork, and Devon had little choice. He ate the meal, groaning inwardly between bites while Shannon giggled merrily.

“I can’t wait to see the bed part,” Devon replied when they’d finished. Somehow, he’d managed to get the stew down, though each bite still stuck in his throat. Shannon indicated to the woman that they wished to sleep, and obligingly she led them out back. Devon stared straight ahead in disbelief as she indicated a barn that was, incredibly, in worse shape than the house.

“She’s got to be joking,” Devon said as the woman held open the door and indicated the hay. “She can’t mean…”

“She can,” Shannon said. “Cheer up. At least it’s dry. Things could be worse.”

At that moment, lightning flashed, striking the coach with a loud crackling noise. Shannon and Devon stared out the door, helplessly watching the carriage burn, the wood engulfed by flames. He turned to Shannon, all hell in his eyes, and she decided retreat was the best option.

“I think I’ll get some sleep now. Good night.” Escaping his reach, she chose the farthest part of the barn and spread her shawl on the hay, curling up like a sleepy kitten.

It was a long time before Devon could do the same.

It was nightfall before Marisa saw the tiny lights twinkling in the darkness, indicating some sort of a house. She was not at all prepared for the sight that greeted her eyes when the lights grew brighter.

A castle rose before them, its turrets and round sentry towers silhouetted against the night sky in all its Celtic glory. Marisa gazed about in confusion as they headed purposefully up the fuchsia-lined walk, directly for the door. A dog bounded joyously from beyond the huge fortress, running up to Kyle and leaping with a welcoming bark.

“Down, Argus. You lazy mongrel, take that.” Marisa saw him toss a biscuit to the huge shepherd, who scrambled it up quickly then laughed in the moonlight, his tongue lolling at the joke. It was only then that Kyle turned to Marisa.

“My home, milady,” Kyle said simply.

Douglass broke into laughter at Marisa’s astonished expression. “Thought we’d be taking ye to some bawdy inn or somewhat, didn’t ye now? Mayhap this will be an improvement.”