Outlaw's Angel (12 page)

“Kyle…” Marisa sought to question him, but he cleverly avoided answering, pointing out features of interest as they dismounted.

“The main turret predates the rest of the house. It was built in the 1100s, during the Norman conquest. We nearly lost it at one time in a scuffle with the MacDonalds, but the property is back in the family now, secure for the time. It’s a monstrous place, with a banquet room and a hall. There’s even a dungeon that they say is haunted. Kyle smiled at her expression, aware that fatigue was sapping the strength from her bones.

“I’ll take you around,” Roarke offered, but it was Mac who answered sharply.

“You’ll take her nowhere. She’s tired, can’t you see that? What she wants is a bed and sleep.”

“Not yet,” Kyle said blandly. “She’s not going to get another chance to escape. I want her right by my side.”

Marisa started to protest, but Kyle was already taking her through the great hall. She caught flashes of polished granite, of tables so smooth they shone like glass, of velvets and rich lace curtains dangling like fairy webs from arched windows. Marisa could hardly absorb it all; she felt like one engorged on sensations. Finally, they entered what appeared to be a huge library. Books lines every inch of the walls. Even over the fireplace mantel, more volumes rested together like ladies at a tea party. Portraits adorned the other wall, ancestors of the MacLeods, without doubt. Dumbfounded, Marisa sank onto a Wedgwood-blue velvet couch, studying the painting closest to her. It could have been Kyle’s cousin. An identical pair of gray eyes to the ones that watched her in amusement from the painting followed her gaze around the room in the flesh.

A servant entered, placing a tea tray beside Marisa. He then broke into a smile when he observed Kyle standing beside the roaring fire.

“Master MacLeod! When did you return? I’d heard we had guests, but I had no idea…” His eyes went in confusion from Kyle to Marisa, then back to Kyle, who offered no explanation.

“I just got in, Childers,” Kyle replied, pouring himself a brandy and admonishing Marisa to drink the tea. “Does he know?”

“Duncan? He’s on his way down….”

A footstep resounded in the hall and the door burst open. Marisa nearly choked on the tea as Duncan MacLeod strode in, the Scots chieftain. Dressed in full regalia, a short square hat and a blue waistcoat, the MacLeods’ kilt flashing citron and lemon above his knees, he stood nearly a head taller than Kyle’s six feet. Like most chieftains, Duncan lived in the castle along with the other clansmen. He extended a hand to Kyle, palm up, then pounded him heavily on his back.

“You’ve returned, laddie! Aye, the streets will be thick with rose petals on the morn when the ladies hear. How is London? Have ye recovered the jewels? We’ve been in contact with the prince….” His merry gaze fell on Marisa and his eyes widened.

“A lass? I didn’t know ye brought company.” Curious, the chieftain stepped closer to Marisa, amazed at what the firelight revealed. In spite of the horrid clothing she wore, which smelled suspiciously of a pigsty, she was extraordinarily beautiful. Her profile was a delicate as a Rembrandt, her figure as dainty as a wood nymph. There was something esoteric about her, especially as she looked up at him, her cheeks smeared red with embarrassment. Her eyes were magical. Duncan could not look away from her. Mysterious, shifting emerald and gold, her eyes held him spellbound until she looked away. Duncan turned to Kyle and was outraged. He was at once the girl’s champion and defender.

“Kyle, I hope ye have an explanation for this,” Duncan said, his voice losing its jocularity. “The young lassie looks fair exhausted.”

“She is,” Kyle said. “She has a damnable habit of trying to get into trouble. She landed in a pigsty, trying to escape me.”

Duncan choked back the outrage he felt, not wanting to upset Marisa more than she already was. “Would ye mind telling me where ye got her?”

“In London,” Kyle replied, daring to sound amused. “I stole her on her wedding day.”

“Are ye daft, mon?” Duncan exclaimed. “Ye don’t just steal a wench from another man simply because it’s Tuesday!”

“I think we should let Marisa get some sleep,” Kyle said pointedly. Duncan called for a maid, continuing to glower at Kyle.

“Take the lass upstairs and see that she gets a bath and a bed. And Miss…”

“Travers,” Kyle supplied helpfully. “Her name is Marisa Travers.”

Duncan hid his astonishment. He offered Marisa a hand, then smiled at her kindly.

“Miss Travers, I wish to welcome ye to my hoose. If there is anything you need, do not hesitate to tell me. You will soon find that not all the MacLeods are scoundrels.”

Marisa tried to smile, her face still hot.

“I suggest you lock her room,” Kyle instructed the maid. “She has an unreasonable desire for the company of swine.”

The maid looked confused but melted beneath Kyle’s brilliant smile. “Glad to have ye back, Master,” she whispered as she led Marisa upstairs, into the bedchamber.

The girl hardly quit the room when Duncan burst into speech. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, bringing that lassie up here? Drag her all the way from London, did ye? What kind of a mon are ye?”

“Evidently a scoundrel,” Kyle replied, unperturbed. “Watch out, Duncan. The wench is a mystic. She’s enchanted all of my men. Including me, I sometimes think. She’s Lord Sutcliffe’s fiancée,” he explained.

“Ah,” Duncan said, taking a seat beside Kyle. Sutcliffe! There was scarcely a name more likely to inspire Kyle MacLeod’s hatred or desire for vengeance. Duncan knew of the connection between the young lord and the emerald. Kyle had written to him, telling him of the gem obtained gambling and the results of his investigation. Somehow, the old duke had something to do with the murder of Kyle’s mother and the ruination of his name.

“But to abduct the lass,” Duncan protested. “She’s innocent of all this! Couldn’t ye devise a more honorable plan?”

“Not without the gems,” Kyle said flatly. “Word from France sounds encouraging. If I could lay my hands on those jewels, we stand a chance of enticing the prince back once more.”

“And ye’d know who killed your mother,” Duncan stated.

The fire crackled; a log fell into the grate with a crash. Kyle stared thoughtfully at the ghostlike wisps of smoke wafting up the chimney before putting his drink down and facing the chieftain.

“Yes. I cannot seek revenge nor clear my name without proof. I took Marisa, intending to ransom her for the jewels. Instead, Lord Sutcliffe sought to trap me in London, without paying the ransom. I was forced to flee. There was but one place I could go….”

“Of course,” Duncan grunted. “This is your home. And it is the only place ye are safe. They will be after ye, without a doot.”

“Aye, I know. I’ll have to think on that. But I cannot let the girl go without those jewels. She’s my best chance.”

Duncan digested this, wondering about the relationship between Kyle and this young woman. Marisa was a surprise, in more ways than one. She was exotically beautiful, and she was a lady.

“The clan will be glad to know you’re back,” Duncan said carefully. “There isn’t a day when they don’t ask after ye.”

“I should be happy to see them in the morning,” Kyle said formally.

Nothing, Duncan thought, he tells me nothing. From the time Kyle was a boy, he had always been a loner. Able to command respect, he made a wonderful leader and a natural hero for their cause. Duncan glanced out the window, a heaviness swelling within him. Already, the changes the government had put into effect were being felt. More than one local landlord had evicted his tenants, clearing the land for sheep. Immigrant ships departed from the harbor each week, carrying away the best of Scotland’s youth, lads with an eye to the future and mouths to feed at home. They left by the dozens, the ships returning for their families when they were settled in the colonies. That is where Kyle belongs, Duncan thought sadly. A place of opportunity. But how did one tell a man such as Kyle that he was fighting for a lost cause?

“The clansmen will be pleased,” Duncan said quietly. He turned back to look at Kyle, his thoughts lightening for a moment. “Glad to have ye back, laddie.”

Chapter Twelve

“You have a visitor, Your Grace.” Saunders placed the card with its little silver tray before the duke. Absently, the duke glanced at the card. His heavy lidded glance narrowed at the scrawled name.

“Show him in,” the duke said, his voice betraying no emotion. Before the butler could return to the hall, the door burst open and Alastair Travers stormed into the room.

“I must see you now. I will wait no longer,” Alastair cried, flushed from exertion and anger. “I refuse to come back, to wait outside, or to listen to any more excuses!”

“I had just sent for you,” the duke returned smoothly. “Pray take a seat and we’ll discuss whatever is on your mind.”

“You well know what is on my mind,” Alastair fumed. He took the chair, however, and stared pointedly at Saunders.

“Anything else, sir?” the butler asked politely, as if it were an everyday occurrence to have merchants bursting angrily into the library.

“No, nothing. You may go. And, Saunders, close the door.” The duke waited until the butler obeyed before turning toward Alastair, his face showing only polite patience. “I assume this is about your daughter?”

“Aye, and little enough you care,” Alastair spat out. “My Marisa has been missing for weeks now, and the most you can do is order a regiment to find her. A regiment that failed, I might add.”

“The Angel is a formidable enemy,” the duke concurred. “How were we to guess that he and fifteen Highlanders would fight off a British troop? The Scots were armed with dirks, I was told. They put up a considerable fight.”

“I’m not at all interested in the failings of the British army,” Alastair said hotly. His eyes narrowed as he leaned across the polished marble table, his gaze dropping beneath the force of the duke’s. “I want my daughter back. You’ve had enough time.”

“Time?” The duke’s smile vanished. “I gave you no guarantees for time. Kyle MacLeod is no ordinary outlaw. The man is cold, intelligent, daring, and resourceful. His men would follow him to the ends of the earth, if need be. The government has tried to capture him repeatedly these past few months, but they were unable to discover anything about him. We’ve known he had a secret identity, but no one would provide any information regarding the man. That proves he has loyal London followers as well as Highlanders.”

“That proves nothing!” Alastair banged a slender fist on the table. “He’s not immortal, damn it! A lot rests on this, Your Grace. As you well know.”

The duke studied the merchant closely, noting the angry tremor in his throat, the almost fanatical gleam in his eye. He has not changed, the duke thought. He recalled that day years ago, on the battlefield of Culloden, when he had come face to face with this man for the first time. Little did he know that the kindness he had extended to one injured soldier would come back so forcibly to haunt him.

“I told you I would extend all of my efforts,” the duke replied, refusing to allow his own anger to show. “I’ve employed the best regiments, picked the hardiest men. I’ve even given my own son.”

“Devon?” Alastair questioned, a smile coming to his face. “You’ve sent Lord Sutcliffe?”

“Yes,” the duke responded, lighting to keep his emotions under control. “My son has agreed to search for Marisa. He is in Wales, having picked up the scent toward the Highlands.”

“Devon,” Alastair continued in wonder. “The man must care for Marisa. But then, what man would not?”

“I’ve also had word on Kyle’s whereabouts,” the duke continued coldly. Removing a parchment from his brocade coat, he thrust it beneath Alastair’s nose and moved the taper closer. “Go ahead. Read it.”

Glancing up like a quizzical mouse, Alastair applied his spectacles to the missive. Amazingly, it was from the Earl of Argyll, claiming that Kyle was back in the Highlands, at the home of his chieftain. The letter went on to state that the earl would assemble a band of Campbells, several thousand men, to see to Kyle’s capture and death. “The man is a threat to us all, Scottish and English alike.”

The duke said nothing, pouring himself a drink and staring moodily into the fire. Alastair finished the note, then chuckled his relief.

“Aye, it looks like we’ve got him now. The Brits from the south, Devon from the west, and his own kind from the east. I’d say he was sewn up tighter than a maiden’s shift.”

“Yes.” The duke took up the letter and slipped it inside his pocket once more. “As you can see, your daughter will be found and returned as quickly as possible. You will note that the earl’s men saw her with Kyle; she is alive and well, according to the report.”

“Let us hope she remains that way,” Alastair grunted. “I grow weary with the wait. I would hate to have to confess my mind now, when Marisa has such a brilliant future before her.”

“You have little to fear,” the duke said wearily. “Now go, man. I wish some time to myself.”

Magically, Saunders appeared with Alastair’s hat and cane. The merchant departed, leaving the duke alone.

Sobbing. A woman was crying somewhere in the castle. It was a plaintive sound, resonant and disturbing. It rose with the wind, sighing through the great antechambers, ending in a tragic cry somewhere below. Marisa tried to follow the noise, looking behind oak-panelled doors, thick granite walls, secret chambers and passageways. But the cry was as elusive as yarn to a kitten. Each time she thought she drew nearer, the cry came from farther away….

She was running, fog smothering her steps in a horrid milk-white blanket. Somehow, she was below the great house, down near the dungeon where rusted iron turrets once housed recalcitrant clansmen. Drawing nearer to that ill-omened room, Marisa heard the cry more clearly. It was definitely a woman; the sobs were those of a broken heart, of a pain so tormenting it no longer belonged to this earth. The iron gate felt cold and unrelenting in her hands. Frozen in fear, Marisa stared, transfixed, into the interior of the chamber.

Blood. Puddles of blood ran over the flagstones, beneath her feet, out into the hallway. A silent scream came from her lips as a woman looked up, her eyes pleading, her dress scarlet. A knife clattered to the floor and the woman joined it, sinking down to the stones in a heap.

“No!” Marisa screamed, waking to sunlight, sharp reflected crystals of it dancing on the rose-colored carpet with the sway of the trees outside. A dream. It was all a dream. But something was very wrong. A maid stood in the corner, pouring out water. She seemed to fade in and out of her vision the way the sunlight did. Marisa tried to sit up, but her arms collapsed like a soft rag doll’s. Why was she so warm? Tongues of flame licked her skin, penetrating like a warm summer sun. Her bones felt brittle, her stomach, never the strongest, tumbled like a joker at a fair. She could see the maid coming toward her in a watercolor wash, her calico dress trailing behind her in a wispy train of scarlet and yellow. The woman was calling for someone…Kyle, Marisa realized. She tried to protest, but the maid gently forced her back to bed, soothing her with whispered words of comfort.

“We’ll get help for ye right away, ye puir lassie. Taken about the country as if ye were little mair than an old satchel! Don’t ye worry none, Aggie will take guid care of ye.”

Marisa had a vision of swirling skirts, cries for help, and pots of water carried to and fro. A fire was built, the hot mass of it stinging Marisa’s eyes until salty tears dropped to the bedcovers. Why were they building a fire? Didn’t they know she was too hot? Marisa tried to tell them, but her voice, even in her own ears, was nothing more than a hoarse croak. She ignored Aggie’s comforts, determined to get out of bed and stop this raging dragon. Firm hands gripped her shoulders, holding her in an embrace she would never mistake. It was Kyle.

“All right, sweet, lie down. I’m here now. Don’t fight me, Marisa, let me help you. What is it?”

“Gibberish,” Agatha said piteously. “The puir lass hae the fever. She’s saying ought aboot dragons and murder.”

Kyle saw the sweat clinging to Marisa’s forehead, droplets beading there like a crystal band. Her legs fought pathetically with the covers, trying to fling them off while she moaned quietly with the effort. Indignantly, Kyle doused the flames, ignoring Agatha’s outrage.

“She’ll catch a chill! ’Tis bad enough the lass is ill with the consumption. Nae wonder she doesn’t get the chest sickness. Fair freezing she was when ye brought her in! What possessed ye to take sich a fair flower from her hothouse?”

Kyle looked at the maid closely, his eyes holding all the warmth of the Atlantic before a storm. “She will not be chilled,” he said slowly. “She’s burning with the fever now. Fetch some cold water and ice if you want to do your mistress any good.”

“Ice!” Agatha nearly choked. “Isna’ enough ye barely killed her already? Fll fetch a doctor.” She was gone before Kyle could stop her, leaving him swearing behind her.

“Kyle?” Marisa questioned softly, the fever slipping away for one reclusive moment, only to return with a vengeance. He was beside her instantly, his hands holding her, his eyes containing a warmth that spoke of emotion rather than desire.

“Yes, my lady?”

“I had a dream.” All at once she was too frightened to tell him. The visions swirled up again in her mind like shadows at night, the horrid images making her feel ill again.

“It’s just a nightmare,” Kyle said soothingly. “When I was small, my mother used to tell me nice stories to get my mind off such things. I’ll see if I can remember.”

The tale he spun was enchanting, from what Marisa understood. She drifted between wakefulness and slumber, hearing of faeries and knights, ladies and kings. It was like entering another world, a place of mystical people, one that was so beguiling she never wanted to leave. She could even see the faeries now, laughing in the wind. They were dressed in autumn leaves, the brilliant crimson and citron of the maples, the modest brown of the oaks, the perennial green of the hollies.

A doctor had come. Marisa woke long enough to see him peering mercilessly into her eyes and to feel him thumping painfully across her ribs. “She’ll have to be bled,” he said matter-of-factly. Metal instruments jostled each other on Marisa’s night stand.

“No,” Kyle stated.

“But she must!” Even in her delirium, Kyle could hear the doctor’s frustration. “The poison’s in her blood! If it is not released, she will die.”

“I am not convinced,” Kyle said flatly.

“Listen to the mon, laddie.” Duncan’s voice came from far away, the sounds muted through the shimmering phases of heat but intelligible through the force of his personality. “She needs help.”

“Not that kind,” Kyle said. “I’ve seen too many die from a surgeon’s blade. On the prison ship, our doctor killed more men than scurvy. And when he was taken ill, he refused to let a knife near himself. I’ll take care of Marisa, but I will not have her dead through lack of skill.”

The physician assembled his ghastly tools in a huff. “Then her death will be on your head. A murderer of women, they will call you.”

“I believe they already do,” Kyle responded.

The doctor’s lips tightened. Blessing himself, he departed the great castle, eager to be home.

Duncan watched patiently as Kyle doused another cloth in ice water, bathing Marisa’s resisting body. She shivered beneath his touch, crying out as the chill liquid cooled on her heated flesh. Duncan waited until Kyle collapsed beside the young girl before commenting.

“Wishing won’t save her, lad. It’s up to fate.”

“Then I’ll control fate,” Kyle said.

Travelling through England by carriage during a downpour was unpleasant; on horseback, it was extraordinarily uncomfortable. At first, Shannon tried to cheer Devon up, but after the first few days, she wisely kept her own counsel. There were times that discretion served her well; her own bawdy and sometimes violent family demonstrated that. But when Devon took a detour toward an established gaming hall, Shannon protested.

“The Angel’s got enough of a lead as is. If we stop now, we’re liable to lose him completely.”

“It’s only one night, dammit!” Devon shouted through the sheeting deluge. “We’re not going to be any help dead of consumption! You do what you want, my dear. I choose to spend one night warm and dry.”

Shannon finally gave in when she realized that the air had turned chill and that her rain-sodden coat offered little protection. Devon did have a point. He sneezed as if in response to her thoughts, sending her an accusing glare.

After days on the road, the gaming hall felt like a palace. Shannon sighed in pure luxury as a disgruntled maid led her to a room and lit a fire. It seemed ages since she had been warm and dry. Centuries. Tossing aside the cloak, she went straight to the fire, reveling in the warmth of the flames.

The door slowly opened and Devon walked in. Shannon whirled about, startled, then stared in confusion as he tossed aside his own coat and waistcoat. Ruffling a hand through his wet hair, he sat down and poured himself a drink, making himself at home. Shannon quickly found her tongue.

“What in God’s name are you doing?”

“Give it a rest, Shannon, all right?” Devon responded wearily. “I’ll let you have the room first, to wash up or whatever. Then I’ll take it for a while. I’ll be downstairs most of the night; there’s a game going. With luck, I can win back a bit of what this trip’s cost me.”

Normally, the last sentence would have alarmed Shannon completely. Now she hardly heard it in context with the rest.

“We’re sharing this room?”

“There’s only one room available. And, after all, we’ve been sharing accommodations for over a week. You don’t think—” Understanding finally dawned as Shannon stared at the bed uncertainly—“that I…I mean, you and I…”

The situation struck him as amusing. Without meaning to, he burst into laughter, especially recalling the old woman’s reaction the previous night.

Shannon face got hot. “And what is so funny?”

Devon forced down a grin, realizing the implication of his mirth. She looked so damned vulnerable, he suddenly thought. And hurt by his obvious amusement. His chivalrous instincts were aroused and he extended his hand.