Outlaw's Angel (14 page)

“The light?”

“Unlike any light you’ll see in this life. It glowed like a fallen star, silver with a veil. The thing seemed to draw me. I stood where I was, remembering the tales, forcing myself not to run or do anything foolish. It was only by closing my eyes and taking one step at a time that I got back out. Even now, when I look to the moors, I can feel its power. Like a full moon. Or the way a cat looks at you, with too much wisdom for a lowly beast.”

There was not a man present that didn’t believe, Marisa realized, herself a bit shaken by the tale. Douglass was one of the most pragmatic men she’d ever met. For him to tell such a story, he would have to be convinced. Innocently, Marisa glanced up at Kyle, unaware that in her concentration, she had relaxed into his arms, her hair now neatly redone. Her hand lay casually on his thigh and she quickly withdrew it, amazed at the burning passion she saw in his eyes. That and the hardness she felt, branding her naive touch, made her fully aware that he wanted her.

It took all of Kyle’s control to politely remove himself from the soft sweetness of her body. She was in need of protection, not seduction, Kyle told himself, fighting the passion that made him long to take her in his arms.

His expression was not lost upon his men. Douglass and Roarke exchanged amused glances, deciding between them that Kyle’s guilt over this damned wench made him seem definitely more human. Though, as Roarke put it over one too many ales, Kyle had made his own little hell.

Marisa frowned as Kyle withdrew, missing the muscular feel of him around her. She grew less pleased when he left without a word, walking stiffly across the moor as if something pained him. Roarke and Douglass broke into renewed chuckles, choking down their laughter as Marisa looked at them questioningly.

“Private joke, lass,” Douglass said when he could speak. “You’d have to be a Highlander to appreciate it.”

Marisa frowned, watching him until he was gone from her sight, wondering at the strange ache in the pit of her belly. It was a longing, a desire to be his once more, that grew stronger each day.

Kyle returned to the castle, his body still aching from his slight contact with Marisa. What was it about her that aroused him so completely? He had had other women before, women who could raise the passion of a corpse. Marisa was a complete innocent…until himself, that is. Kyle smiled wryly. What a wonderful fix he was in this time, having her just beyond reach, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“Is that you, lad?” Duncan joined him in the huge library. Glancing out the window to the moors beyond, the chieftain poured himself a drink and watched as the Highlanders amused Marisa. He could hear her bright laughter, like the sound of fairy bells.

“The men are enchanted with the lass,” Duncan remarked. “They have insisted she come to the dance tonight. I’ve agreed; the clan all know of her presence here. But I’m afraid to see what will happen when she goes back.”

Still Kyle said nothing. He sat in a winged chair, facing the fire in what was the warmest spot in the winter. The fireplace was filled with a vase of late flowers, and it was here his attention was drawn.

Exasperated, Duncan slammed down his cup. Only then did Kyle look up, acknowledging his presence, a sardonic smile curving his lips.

“Is there something you wish to discuss with me?” Kyle asked coolly.

“Aye, and well you know it. Stop ignoring me; you’ve been like this since you were a lad, never trusting a soul, hiding your deepest thoughts….”

“Since I was accused of murder,” Kyle said simply.

“I understand your feelings on that,” Duncan said, his voice softening. “But, lad, there is a time for ye to let go. No one truly believes you killed your own mother, just as no one thought your father ran off with the jewels.”

“Sometimes I did.”

There wasn’t a sound in the room. The maid’s brisk step echoed outside in the hall, Douglass’s laugh carried on the wind, but silence ensued inside. Duncan spoke hesitantly, eager to shatter the quiet.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” Kyle responded. “There was never a trace of him found, and the jewels were gone with him. What was I to think, same as everyone else?”

“But your father was a guid mon,” Duncan assured him. “It was not in him to do such a thing.”

“I’ve found that the capability is in almost all of us, under the right circumstances. Who knows? Perhaps they were right for him,” Kyle shrugged impatiently, already tired of the topic. But Duncan refused to relent.

“Ah. So that’s what has been eating at you all these years. It’s nay so much to clear your own name. It’s not knowing the truth.”

“Duncan, leave it alone. I’ll find my own answers in my own time.”

“Will ye now?” Duncan asked sharply. “At whose expense? Marisa’s?”

“Marisa is still not well,” Kyle said. “When she is, I will contact Lord Sutcliffe. I will return her when I have the emeralds. I cannot forget my priorities, Duncan.”

“Priorities! Kyle, this is too much, even for you. Has it occurred to you to look closely at those priorities lately? Lad, things are not the way they were. We no longer have a chance. There is little left to fight for and much to lose should ye continue. Landlords are evicting tenants in favor of sheep, for the love of God! Kyle, I love ye like a son. Give it up. I know ye care for the lady. Why don’t ye admit it? Go back to the colonies, to the property that’s waiting, live out your life in freedom….”

“Because I cannot!” Kyle slammed his drink down coldly. His eyes glimmered in his rage like the fine steel points of a sword. “I cannot.” Kyle’s voice grew calmer as he physically forced himself to relax. “I’m committed, as you know. You cannot stop me. Unless you wish to turn me in.”

“You know I’d never do such a thing,” the chieftain replied, horrified.

“Then there’s no need for further discussion,” Kyle said simply. “I’ll ease your mind, Duncan. You take care of the clan. I’ll take care of Marisa.” A long moment passed, then Duncan finally smiled.

“I do believe you mean that, lad.”

Marisa paced restlessly about her room. Her seclusion was beginning to wear on her, and an unidentified restlessness possessed her. The air in the room was too hot. Her gown clung to her; even her slippers seemed too tight for her feet. Leaning on the window, she stared out into the softening night, watching the twinkling stars overhead.

Kyle. He was in her blood, affecting her even now when he was nowhere in sight. She tried to force him from her mind but he kept creeping back, along with images of the last time he’d made love to her. She could recall everything about it, from the way he had kissed her to the languid sensuality he had employed in his caresses. He made loving an art.

A distant glimmer caught her eye as she gazed out into the heather-covered fields below. A pocketful of stars seemed to have fallen to the earth, nestled in a black velvet cushion in the midst of the heather. A pond. Mac had told her about it that morning. It was used by the clansmen to water horses and for a cool dip in the summer. The pond furnished water for the castle and ice in the winter. Fed from a bubbling spring, it would be deliciously cool tonight….

Mischievously, Marisa grinned, thinking back to another night not very long ago. Come on, Shannon would say impatiently. You only live once. And there was little chance she would get caught. Kyle was below with Duncan, the Highlanders preparing for a fling that night. Even the maids were busy getting ready, polishing the massive furniture and cooking endless meals.

A hot wind blew. Without further thought, Marisa snatched up a linen towel from the washstand and dashed outside. The heather felt sharp beneath her feet, and the moonlight washed the fields with a liquid silver. An owl hooted as she made her way through the gardens, feeling at one with the wood creatures around her. Crickets chirped approval, and Marisa smiled as a startled bullfrog splashed into the glasslike surface of the pond.

It was even more beautiful than she thought. Ripples fanned out from the banks, shattering the starlight and the soft sheen from the moon. Trees lined the perimeter, rendering a good degree of privacy, and the silence that surrounded the place was reassuring. Marisa tossed aside her gown, luxuriating in the sensual feel of the night air upon her skin. Stepping into the water, she sighed in pure primal pleasure as the water caressed her through her shift, plastering that simple garment to her skin. Every curve of her slender body was shown in stark relief as she raised her arms in celebration of her senses. She looked like a young-moon goddess, splashing playfully in the water, young, alive, and well….

The man watching her from the woods smiled slowly to himself. Kyle had come to the pond, wanting the same thing—a little welcome relief from his own strained body and the chance to swim away some of the tension he felt. Watching in chagrin, he saw Marisa dive beneath the silver-black surface of the pond, then rise again like a sleek water nymph. His smile deepened as he stepped back, enjoying the view as Marisa climbed reluctantly from the pool. The shift hid nothing from his regard, the linen towel even less as she dried her slender limbs. Forcibly reminded of the first time he’d seen her, Kyle fought the impulse to take her now, while his body cried out for relief. Instead, he smiled as Marisa tugged on her gown and rushed back to the path, glancing furtively behind her as if sensing him. So, my lady, Kyle thought. You are apparently recovered. Grinning in anticipation, he left the pond, no longer needing that swim.

Chapter Fourteen

Night had just begun to mature when Marisa saw Kyle again. Striding rather abruptly into her room, he ignored her startled glance, his smile coming slowly as he surveyed her. Perched before a gilt mirror, Marisa was trying to sweep up her hair, her unfastened gown gaping charmingly away from her slender body. Framed in gold, she made a lovely reflection, one that could make a man believe in fairies and sorceresses. The candlelight lent a sparkle to her hair and a soft amber tint to her flesh. Her breasts strained against her shift, enticing beneath the sheer gauze.

Kyle closed the door, watching her with a faint glimmer of something like amusement in his eyes, as if they shared some mischievous secret. He gave her a lazy smile, his sparkling gaze hooded by gilt-dusted eyelashes, but Marisa had seen enough to be wary.

“Would you mind waiting outside?” She took refuge in formality, hoping that he would not notice her damp hair. He sank comfortably into a chair, crossing his long booted legs with an indolent expressionn.

“I would, my lady,” he responded with the same polite tones, parodying hers.

“But the maid!” Marisa tried.

He smiled. “I passed Agatha in the hall. She was on her way down and assumed you needed no help.”

Marisa shivered beneath his scorching perusal, dazzled by his smile. Oh, why did it have to be him? Of all the men in the world, why was it Kyle who could turn her to marmalade with simply a glance? The thought of Devon crept into her mind, unbidden. Devon, who was of her class. Devon, who was handsome and charming, a lord without a cause or a death sentence hanging over his head. Yet Devon had never aroused more than a friendly warmth within her….

In vain, Marisa struggled to lace the gown. She watched him rise in the mirror, his image bathed in candlelight, his blond hair glistening like a gold coin. He moved with a peculiar unstudied grace. His hands lingered on her shoulders. Marisa saw them in the mirror as if in a trance, long tanned fingers idly tracing the structure of her shoulders. Mesmerized, she could do nothing as those magic fingers found a curl, kissed it, then blew on it as he arranged it back into place. His thumb found an earlobe and stroked it, sending hot urgent messages through her nerve centers. Her nipples strained against the shift, the small excited peaks showing clearly through the fabric. The ache between her thighs grew to a throb, the shift clinging sensuously there, rubbing her sensitive skin, making her swallow hard with arousal.

His fingers came dangerously close to her breasts, enticing her with an age-old argument, one that Marisa knew she had no chance of winning.

That sobered her. That, and the thought of her monthly time, which thankfully had come during her illness. Kyle had taken care of her then; she still blushed to think of the implications. She had gotten away free once. Marisa knew she would be a fool to think luck would always be with her.

Placing her hand to her head, Marisa fought the disappointed rush of feelings that went through her. Kyle’s expression changed to concern and he lifted her face up to his.

“Are you all right?”

“Just a slight dizziness,” Marisa said, amazed at how close to the truth she was.

“I see.” His caresses changed to comfort rather than arousal, though his fingers left her satin skin regretfully, to tie the laces. “You look so lovely tonight I almost forgot you are ill.”

Marisa glanced sharply at him, then at the mirror, aware that what he said was true. Her face was flushed with desire, her eyes held a dreamy sparkle. There was little in her appearance to lend credence to her feigned illness. She reached for a cool cloth and patted her cheeks.

“I think it’s the fever. Not bad, like before,” she hastened to reassure him. “I am feeling better. It always takes me a while to recover when I’ve been sick.”

“Perhaps you should stay in bed tonight,” Kyle said thoughtfully. “I don’t wish your illness to get worse.”

For once, Marisa wished he weren’t quite so concerned. “I’d love to come down. Please, I’ve never seen a Highland dance before. I don’t want to miss it.”

“No, I’m afraid I’ll have to forbid it. You just had a dizzy spell, and you look a little feverish. Even your hair seems damp and sweaty.” Marisa opened her mouth to protest, but Kyle was already out in the hall, summoning Agatha. The maid clucked into the room, her hand feeling Marisa’s forehead.

“She does seem warm. I’ll have some broth and tea sent up to her. Now, there’s no use in that, miss,” she said sternly, dismissing Marisa’s protestations. “We all want to see ye well. Ye can miss the dance one night. ’Tis naught but a lot of fools pretending they are young once more. No, cool cloths for your head and a brick for your feet ought to do it.”

“You are in capable hands,” Kyle assured her, placing a chaste kiss on her forehead. “Agatha will certainly see to your needs. Good night, my lady.”

Marisa watched him step from the room. She could have sworn she saw his shoulders shake from suppressed laughter, but before she could call him back, an icy cloth descended upon her head.

“Agatha, I really don’t need…”

“Hush now, miss. Old Aggie will take proper care of ye. A dance is no place for ye to be this night.”

Silently, Marisa fumed, wondering how to get out of this one.

The hall appeared transformed for the night’s festivities. The main room, cleared of tables and rugs, was crowded with local clanspeople. Townsmen and pipers, tenants and landlords, gathered together to laugh and sip ale, telling boisterous stories that would not bear credence come morning. Douglass and Roarke sat near the blazing fire, teasing a lively young brunette, while Brannock and Ryan argued over a whiskey. Maids were ushered in, carrying smoking trays of food, stews, and chunks of thick bread that would line many a belly for the cooling autumn nights.

Duncan approached Kyle, a little uncertain of his reception. Clad in his Highland best, the MacLeod tartan gleaming from his shoulders, exposing heavily muscled legs, Kyle looked every inch the Celtic warrior. There was an inflexibility about him that was both reassuring and frightening. Duncan could hear the ladies titter about him with excitement. Kyle, to them, was a hero, the Avenging Angel, almost a lost breed since the battle of ’45.

“Well, lad, you look fit,” Duncan said, relieved when Kyle gave him a polite grin. “Where is the lady? She might enjoy the festivities tonight, after all she’s been through.”

“Marisa wasn’t feeling well,” Kyle said, his smile deepening. “I left her in Agatha’s hands.”

“The puir lass,” Duncan said thoughtfully. “Ye mean she cannot even come down and sit by the fire? We could see her warm and well cared for.”

Kyle grinned, his silver gaze meeting Duncan’s with a sparkle of genuine amusement. “The lady has crawled beneath even your skin like a kitten with a basket of yarn.” Laughing outright at Duncan’s indignant expression, Kyle laid a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Duncan. The lovely princess will not be banished to her stone dungeon forever. I’ve given Agatha instructions to fetch her down shortly.”

“Good,” Duncan replied. “ ’Tis a shame to keep her hidden away. One might think you don’t want to share her but keep her locked away all to yourself.”

Kyle chuckled softly. “Actually, I don’t. Marisa, being an English lady, may not receive the warmest of receptions tonight. I thought to spare her that.”

Kyle stared thoughtfully into the crowd. Many of the MacLeods were there, with their memories as long as time. The neighboring clans had no love for the English, either.’Twas only the Lowlanders or ambitious clans like the Campbells, with their larcenous green government kilts, who had any love for England. In America, the colonies were beginning to rebel, themselves sick of a situation that enriched Mother England at the expense of her supporters. Kyle bit into a hot scone, thinking of his years spent on American soil. It was an enticing place, with open lands and a familiar rumbling for freedom. But his own country came first….

The Highlanders gave Marisa a loud roar of greeting as she entered, lovely as always in a violet muslin gown. Kyle heard the disapproving murmurs of the ladies around him. Ignoring their gossip, he strode forth to greet Marisa, bowing before her with a mock chivalry that only she interpreted.

“Agatha declared you were much better. I was so relieved.” He led her formally to a brocade sofa, leaving her there while he went to get her some tea and scones.

Marisa turned to watch the men. Their tartans, worn illegally as always, flashed in brilliant saffron and blue, reminding Marisa of fields of sun-drenched daisies. Men from neighboring clans wore dazzling plaids of red and green. They lifted their cups in greeting and gave Marisa frankly appreciative stares, not bothering to hide their curiosity the way an Englishman would.

Marisa blushed, knowing the reason for their perusal. Word had gotten around about her presence. Although her relationship with Kyle was purely speculation, they naturally imagined the worst. She could see it in their knowing glances, although they spoke politely enough.

The women were less kind. Although few gave her openly antagonistic stares, Marisa could sense their feelings. She was English, a product of the hated enemy, and Kyle’s captive. She had not anticipated this when thinking about the dance tonight, but it was too late now.

“Feeling all right?” Kyle had returned with the food, placing it beside her on a small table.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she assured him. “Just a little thirsty.”

“Here, lass,” Douglass boomed, thrusting a cup into her fingers. “’Tis only whiskey and water.”

“She shouldn’t be drinking that until she’s better,” Kyle said sternly.

“Let the lass live, Angel. A little whiskey won’t hurt her.”

“The lot of you are determined to turn her into a fishwife.” His voice sounded stern, but Marisa could discern laughter in it.

“And what’s wrong with the lass taking a drink of guid whiskey?” an old woman asked, joining them abruptly. “’Tis what your mother gave to you as a lad, when you were ill.”

“Ah, Marisa, let me introduce Maira before she does it herself. She’s dying of curiosity, though she’s too polite to own up to it.”

The woman rapped Kyle sharply with her cane. “You young imp! If Flora was still alive, you’d not talk to me like that! Of course I want to meet the young miss who’s taken up so much of your time. Word gets around, you know, Angel.”

“Aye, often too much,” Kyle said sharply, his eyes watching the young women in the room. He’d noticed their avoidance of Marisa and his displeasure deepened, until Ryan pulled him aside. Marisa heard the talk turn to politics, and the names of butcher Cumberland and the Earl of Argyll bandied about.

“Don’t mind those young simps,” Maira said, gesturing to the women talking softly together and glancing in Marisa’s direction. “’Tis just that many of them have never seen an Englishwoman before. And they can’t bear the thought of sharing his Lairdship there.”

“Has Kyle ever been…I mean, not that it’s any of my business…”

“Of course it’s your business,” Maira said in a huff, breaking out a small flask and pouring her own drink. “No, Kyle had never been interested in the local ladies. Seems he’s in love with his cause. ’Tis sad. He was such a warm lad when he was a bairn. I knew Flora well.”

“Kyle’s mother?” Marisa asked, interested.

Maira nodded. “Yes. She was a lovely woman, all brown hair and grey eyes. I’ll never forget the night she was found dead. Young Kyle would not let her go. He kept holding her, his own hands covered with blood. Then to be accused of her murder! ’Tis more than any young lad should bear.”

The picture she painted reminded Marisa startlingly of her dream. No wonder Kyle was so bitter! She suddenly felt an overwhelming compassion for the man.

“Aye, but our Angel needs more than medals and glory. He thinks that avenging her death, clearing his name, will provide what he lacks. So he searches and fights, hoping that it will fill the emptiness inside him. He’s driven, he is.”

“Are ye beating the lass’s ear, Maira?” Douglass interjected. “She’s just recovering from an illness. Don’t give her another one.”

“Aye, get on with yourself,” Maira snapped. “You can’t keep her all to yourself. And tell Flossie to get over here. Fine manners, miss. You don’t even say hello?”

Gradually, the women joined Marisa, spurred on by Maira. Marisa soon saw that this maternal little grandmother had to do naught but command and the clanspeople rushed to do her bidding. She sat quietly beside Marisa, firelight dancing on her sugar-spun hair, her hands deftly sewing a shawl or sipping a whiskey. Maira eased the way for the others, and once they met Marisa, their curiosity got the better of them and they plied her with questions.

“How do you do your hair like that?”

“What are they wearing in London? Are wigs and powders still in style?”

“Tell us about the gowns. Are yours made each season?”

Marisa laughed and tried to answer them all, describing the fashionable hoops, the silks and brocades the ladies were wearing, and the scented powder to be used for their hair. The ladies were giggling at her vivid descriptions of life at court, including the incident with Lady Marklam’s wig. They wanted to hear all about Shannon and Devon, amazed that this cool young Englishwoman actually had a real life. By the time Kyle returned, Marisa was showing them how to use pieces of cotton sheeting to bolster a hairstyle into an enormous headpiece.

Upon seeing Kyle, the women blushed and dispersed, leaving him to stare after them curiously.

“It must be your charm,” Maira said solemnly. “They turn to a bowl of bread pudding at the sight of ye. Although if I were ten years younger…”

“I thought you were,” Kyle replied, taking a seat beside Marisa. Maira slapped him sharply.

“You wouldn’t be so impertinent if I was. Unlike this young lady, I wouldn’t stand for ye hauling me aboot the country like a tinker with his sack. Ye ought to be ashamed.”

“I am,” Kyle said, though Marisa could detect the glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “I repent each night, thinking about it.”