Outlaw's Angel (17 page)

“Like this.” Marisa teased him playfully with a kiss, her tongue tracing artful little paths along his teeth. Groaning, Kyle wrapped his arms fiercely around her, returning her kiss, answering with a desperation of his own. He could never get enough of her; he wanted to memorize every sensation that was distinctly Marisa, her fragrance, the feel of her, the taste of her….

Then he pushed her fiercely away. Marisa stared up at him in confusion, her lips throbbing from their passion, her body crying out for more.

“I’m sorry, Marisa,” he said with that awful coldness. “You’re only making this worse.” He strode away from her.

Marisa’s eyes fell upon the bench where he’d been working. There were his tools, his cloths, his gun….She snatched up the weapon.

“One moment, Kyle.”

He turned, his expression ominous when he saw the pistol in her hands. She pulled back the trigger until he heard the sharp click of it falling into place.

“I won’t let you do this,” Marisa said softly, then, with more determination, “You can start by taking off the shirt.”

“Marisa…”

“I’m not as good with a gun as you are, Kyle. Remember? There was a time when I couldn’t shoot you. But I’ve learned a lot since then, from being with you and the clan. Please don’t try me.”

“Marisa, you can’t be serious.”

A bullet zinged by, nicking the door and leaving a half circle just a few inches past Kyle’s face. Staring at the hole in astonishment, Kyle spoke sternly. “Marisa, put that damned thing away before someone gets hurt.”

“I’ll be happy to put this down…when I’m through. I’d advise you to do as I ask.”

Kyle hid a rueful smile. Damned if she wouldn’t shoot him. Slowly, he removed his shirt, tossing it casually into the hay. “And now?”

“Why, the pants, Angel.” Marisa said.

“Certainly, my lady.” He shucked the trousers. His eyes held a glimmer of amusement as he stood naked and unabashed before her. He looked like a Greek god as he approached her, and she trembled with desire for him. Kyle easily removed the gun from her grip, taking her face in his hands instead.

“Very effective, little mermaid. I think this is the first time a lady has ever raped me.”

“Hardly rape,” she whispered.

“Perhaps not,” he agreed, and then succumbed to the temptation to take her then and there.

Marisa treasured the next few hours as she and Kyle strolled through the heather. He told her stories of himself as a child, songs that delighted him and made her laugh, poems that lived in his mind each and every day.

Marisa, in turn, told him of her life, of the satins and rosewood furnishings in London, of the fashionable school she attended where she spent lonely days knowing that, for some inexplicable reason, she didn’t belong. The other girls resented her exotic beauty, her refinement, her intelligence, while the boys who visited found much more charm in the buxom blondes who proclaimed their virginity at school then gave all in the fields beyond, buried in buttercups and wood daisies. She lived for the summers, when Shannon would visit and brighten her life for that brief interlude. She told him how she was no longer able to go to Ireland, how her parents felt it unseemly now that she was a woman.

Kyle listened, not laughing when she explained all this with a rueful smile. Instead, he traced her profile with a fallen oak leaf as they sat beside a tarnished silver stream. Tossing the leaf into the water, they watched it shatter the peaceful surface, then float joyously downstream.

They had spent part of the morning visiting the tenants, Kyle including Marisa as if he had done so all his life. Marisa, in turn, was duly impressed by the improvements Kyle had suggested, including things like planting different crops each year so as not to deplete the soil. One old man, Iain MacLeod, heard them passing and called to Kyle, bringing out a freshly scrubbed potato from his hovel.

“Here ye are, boyo. ’Tis the best present I have to offer. Would ye and the lady take a cup of tea?” Iain smiled hopefully, his gnarled face smoothing. A pair of Celtic blue eyes that were covered with a film stared unblinkingly out at them. The man was blind.

“Only if you let me bring it,” Kyle said firmly. Helping Marisa through the narrow door, he presented the man a thick pouch of good tea, smiling at Marisa’s surprise.

“That’s good, Angel.” Boiling water hissed into cups as Marisa glanced around. The place was little more than a hut, yet it showed the care of its owner. Patched walls showed the effects of whitewash, and a turf fire burned comfortingly at the hearth. Kyle pocketed the potato as carefully as if it were the finest of gifts, and Marisa grew more amazed by the moment.

“Ah, enjoy the tea. I heard tell of ye, mistress, in the clan. They don’t like ye because you are a Tory, but if Kyle likes ye, then I do, too.”

“Thank you,” Marisa said. She sipped the tea, noting Iain’s delight in being able to partake of such quality refreshment.

“Kyle comes by every day to see me,” Iain said proudly. “He does an old man good, listening to my tales and telling me what the clan is up to. He fixed that door for me yesterday. The draft was fierce on a cold night.” He chuckled to himself, offering Kyle an extra spoon of precious sugar, unable to notice that the bowl refilled magically.

The door opened mysteriously, and Marisa smiled when a pig entered and nuzzled Iain’s knee. The old man scratched the animal behind the ears, offering the pig scraps from his table.

“This is Johnny, my other companion. He sleeps by my bed at night and tells me when someone is coming.” At Marisa’s chuckle, Iain nodded. “Ye hae a bonny laugh. Johnny likes it, too. Don’t be a fearing of him.”

The pig nudged Marisa gently, then returned to Iain. Kyle smiled, noticing the animal’s affection.

“Marisa has an odd affinity for swine, Iain.” Grinning at her indignant expression, Kyle fed the animal a biscuit, earning an affectionate rub. He ignored Marisa’s laughter as the pig followed them outside, grunting to keep up with them like a breathless puppy.

“Tell me, Kyle,” Iain said, “about the sunset, like afore.”

“It is purple tonight,” Kyle said. “And the mountains are ablaze with scarlet, while the streams run gold and amber.”

“And the valleys?” Iain asked, with the excitement of a child hearing the same bedtime story each night but reassured by the familiar images.

“The glens are a sad grey-green, as if already slumbering. They know winter approaches; already the beeches are garlanded in crimson. The oaks are still green, as are the maples.”

“Then we hae time,” Iain nodded to himself, looking at some forgotten memory when seasons and color still existed. He stood at the door, waving good-bye. Marisa watched him fade into the twilight, his hand still gently uplifted, his unseeing gaze filled with pleasure.

There are sides to this man I’m only just discovering, Marisa mused, looking at Kyle.

The castle loomed in the distance, a granite sculpture against the sky that no longer seemed menacing to Marisa. Frowning, Kyle noticed a commotion outside, the rushing of women’s skirts and the stableboy leading a frothing horse into the barn. As they approached, Mac rushed up, his adolescent face red from confusion, sweat, and outrage.

“What is it, Mac?” Kyle asked.

“It’s them, Angel.” Mac spat out his words as if he hated them. “Lord Sutcliffe and a lady. They’re in the hall now with Duncan, awaiting ye.”

Chapter Seventeen

Devon glanced up when Kyle entered. Seated on a velvet sofa before a fire, the remains of a meal at his side and a tankard of ale in his hand, he could not repress a shudder at the look on Kyle’s face. The Angel. He’d seen that look in his dreams. He rose, wishing he still had the pistol Childers had taken along with his cloak.

“Where is Marisa?” Devon demanded.

“You’ll see Marisa soon enough,” Kyle responded, a terrible smile curving his lips. “I thought it better that she not be present just yet. We do have some things to discuss.”

“Ah, yes, the ransom,” Devon said. “A certain emerald necklace. Quite a sum for one lady’s honor, don’t you agree?”

Kyle stared at him, his eyes penetrating. “You are not worthy of lacing her slippers,” he finally said softly. “Why have you come?”

“And you aren’t exactly a paragon of virtue,” Devon drawled. “I’ve come to take Marisa home.”

Kyle studied Devon closely, noticing that the man returned his perusal with a curiosity that was vaguely unsettling. “What makes you think she wants to go?”

Devon forced a laugh. Not liking the look in Kyle’s eyes, he hastily produced a rolled parchment that was obviously travel-worn and stained. “A letter from my father, the duke. It promises to deliver the jewels, all of them, upon Marisa’s safe return to London.”

Kyle scanned the missive. The document was intact, and the writing legible. He placed aside the note, his expression inscrutable.

“Why should I trust you?” Kyle asked. “I, who was nearly executed by your people, who fights your king every day of my life.”

“For Marisa’s sake,” Devon replied, with a flash of intuition.

They locked eyes with a strange sense of knowing each other. He is thinking of Marisa, Kyle realized, unable to explain the pain that tore at him, that settled in his belly like a burning ache. He saw Devon, a young lord free of complications, his polished dark looks representative of his life. He was educated, respectable, titled. He could give Marisa the life she deserved. Whereas for him, Marisa was merely the means to the jewels, was she not?

“I will think on it,” Kyle replied.

“Fine.” Devon sank back into his chair in relief. So far, so good. “You will let me know soon?”

“I will,” Kyle said, a small smile playing about his lips. “You are brave, milord. But also foolhardy. Have you considered that I could kill you now and London would not be the wiser? What have you based your own trust upon other than your own misguided courage?”

“Your word,” Devon said simply.

Against his will, Kyle felt a grudging respect for Devon. He turned and strode abruptly from the room, unable to tolerate the man’s presence another moment.

The Earl of Argyll was seated at his desk, poring over a huge, crudely lettered map. Measuring distances, he made notations in the margins, mentally calculating travelling time. The MacLeod land was advantageous both geographically and politically. Located on a seaport, it also had advantages for shipping and transportation.

Perfect, the earl thought, sitting back and sipping quietly at a cup of good tea. At the knock on the door, he scarcely lifted his head. It was the man he’d met at the tavern.

“I’ve news for ye,” the man grinned, his ruddy face breaking into a huge smile that was warm and reassuring. The earl nodded. There was little about this man that should assure anyone, but his manner made bedfellows of Tories, it was said.

The earl tossed a gold coin at the man, pleased to see him scramble it up. “If it is worth it, more will be forthcoming.”

“Oh, it is worth it, all right,” the man said with a chuckle. “In fact, what price would ye put on the information that his Lordship has arrived?”

“His Lordship? Do you mean Laird MacLeod? I am well aware that Kyle is back in residence. The Avenging Angel has been drumming up support for the past few weeks. Sadly, I think he will be disappointed when the time comes.”

“It may come sooner than anyone thinks,” the man continued.

The earl studied him closely, seeing more than he revealed in the man’s intensity, the way his eyes widened greedily at the thought of more monetary rewards. It was genuine, whatever the news.

“Pray continue. You interest me.”

“His Lordship, the Lord of Sutcliffe, has arrived.”

“The lord of…Devon?” Amazed, the earl spilled a small quantity of tea into his saucer. “Devon has come here? Whatever for?”

“For his fiancée, they say.” Settling back into his chair, the man grinned, pleased at the effect of his news. “Marisa Travers. Apparently, the duke is ready to bargain once the girl is returned home.”

“I see.” The earl no longer smiled. Devon! This could only mean that the duke had agreed to part with the jewels in return for his future daughter-in-law. No other payment would satisfy Kyle; of that the earl was sure. Frowning, he stirred the teacup thoughtfully, measuring the impact this would have for him personally. Kyle would have the gems, would petition the prince for help….Even without the prince, the jewels would be very useful to Kyle in rallying the clans.

The Campbells risk losing everything, the earl mused. He had not forgotten the tidy sums of money the crown had paid for their clan’s compliance. The MacLeods, offered the same terms, had turned the king down flat. Now the MacLeods would be heroes in the eyes of their people. But as the king’s representatives, and the Black Watch, how could they risk an attack? Unless…

“Kyle must be stopped,” the earl said, more to himself than his companion. If Kyle were destroyed, the rebellion would die with him. Suddenly remembering his companion’s presence, the earl tossed two more coins onto the table. “I’ll ring the cook for tea. You’ve earned some refreshment, as well as your reward. Well done, Rainsford.”

His companion made himself comfortable before the fire.

“Marisa! Is it really you?” Shannon hugged her dear friend, unable to believe that this healthy, radiant woman was indeed Marisa.

“It’s me,” Marisa said, fighting the flood of tears that threatened to spill forth. She had never felt so glad to see anyone in her life; Shannon represented all that was fun in her youth, the times she’d risked her overprotective upbringing to take a gamble. Hearing a loud sniffle, Marisa fumbled in the pocket of her gown, handing Shannon a linen and lace handkerchief.

Shannon eyed the piece suspiciously. “You blow your nose in this? It looks too pretty.”

“That’s what it’s for,” Marisa assured her. “Do you like your room? Is there anything you need?”

“Surely you jest. I’ve ne’er seen the like. ’Tis really a Scottish castle, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Marisa joined Shannon by the fire, accepting a cup of tea from the tray placed conveniently nearby. “Though not as grand as Devon’s place in London, it is the MacLeods’ home. It is good to see you, Shannon.”

Shannon grinned, sticking out her tongue at Marisa’s formality, then stretched toward the fire. The batiste gown a maid had brought was a wonderful luxury for Shannon after the trip, as was the bath she had taken. Her hair dried from the fire’s warmth, looking much like the flame behind it. She carefully studied Marisa as she sipped the good tea.

“You look well,” Shannon said, observing the good muslin gown Marisa wore and the soft sheen of her hair. “In fact, you don’t look at all as I pictured. They must treat captives very well here.”

“The MacLeods have all been very kind,” Marisa said cautiously. “So tell me, how did you come? Was my family very upset? Did you tell them of the letter?”

“Aye, I did that,” Shannon replied. “It relieved them to know you were safe, especially your mother. I did not tell them all you said—”

“—about Kyle.” Marisa placed her cup aside, unable to stand the unspoken question between them.

“Kyle…” Shannon gazed at Marisa directly. “Devon’s come with me. Did they tell you?”

“Yes.” For a long moment, Marisa stared into the fire, saying nothing.

Shannon noticed the way her eyes had softened when she said Kyle’s name. The Angel. Marisa had thought herself in danger of falling in love with the man….“Well, what do you mean, yes?” Shannon said impatiently. “Marisa, what’s between you and Kyle? I mean, has he?…”

Marisa glanced up, her face flushed. “Nothing has happened that I regret,” she said carefully.

“Well, that tells me a lot,” Shannon said, exasperated. “Mari, what are you hiding? Did the man beat you? Did he jail you? I hear there’s a dungeon below. Or are you saying he…forced himself on you?”

“No!” Marisa said quickly. “No, Shannon, nothing like that. He treated me very well, under the circumstances. No, it’s…”

“What?” The Irish girl glanced up, amazed to see Marisa’s eyes grow misty, though she seemed intently interested in the shadows thrown against the floor by the fire.

“Shannon, what would you say if I told you I loved him? That he means everything to me and the thought of losing him is unbearable?”

There was a long silence. The fire crackled, then snapped as a log fell into the grate. The wind blew outside, ruffling across the heather fields and ending in a soulful cry in the treetops above.

“Do you really want to know?” At Marisa’s nod, she continued. “I’d say, the saints be praised! You’ll be marrying a man you love. I cannot say I blame you, either. Who can resist him?” Shannon’s eyes grew dreamy as she hugged a thick feather pillow. “The Angel.”

“But, Shannon, you know I can’t marry him,” Marisa said quietly. “He’s devoted to a cause; it means everything to him.”

“Bah!” Shannon threw up a hand. “A cause can’t last forever. Eventually, he’ll want and need someone….”

“A wife?” Marisa smiled sadly. “He is wanted by the law. Someday, they’ll find him and kill him.”

“What if he flees the country? He could go to the colonies! He’d be safe there.”

“I’ve already thought of that.” Marisa sipped quickly on a cup of hot tea, more because of the lump in her throat than thirst. “He refuses to consider leaving, not now, with the state Scotland’s in. And now—”

“—Devon’s come.” Shannon swore beneath her breath. “Of all the accursed ironies! I travel all the way across the country, only to find out the last thing you need is rescuing. If that doesn’t beat all.” Shannon leaned forward, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “So you’ve really fallen in love with the rogue, eh?”

Marisa lifted her head, her lips curving gently. Shannon, thank God for Shannon. Already the pain was lessening. Shannon, as practical as starched cotton and about as comfortable. Burying her emotions, Marisa couldn’t resist a tease. “I didn’t say that. If you recall, I said what if?”

“Don’t try and gammon
me
, my girl!” Shannon declared. “I know you too well!”

A door slammed downstairs and Marisa’s lovely face lost some of its brightness as the reality of the situation became apparent. “Shannon, is Devon really angry? Do you think he’ll try to kill Kyle?”

“Devon?” Shannon laughed. “Hardly. He’s worried, but not insane. No one with an ounce of brains would challenge your Angel, and if there’s one thing I can say for Devon, it’s that he has an amazing sense of self-preservation.” Shannon thought back to that card game. Yes, Devon knew how to take care of himself, all right. “I suppose you want to see him.”

“Shannon, come with me,” Marisa pleaded. The prospect of facing Devon, after all this time and the intimacy she had shared with Kyle, was an intimidating one.

“Oh, no you don’t. This is between you and Devon. In case you haven’t noticed, I am in an awkward position here.”

“No, you’re not. You came with Devon. Please, Shannon, I don’t think I could face him alone.”

“But it’s only Devon! You’ve known him since we were children….”Groaning, Shannon got to her feet, tossing the shawl aside. “All right. Let me get dressed. I’ll go this once, just until things ease up. But then you’re on your own.”

“Fine,” Marisa promised, relieved.

True to her word, Shannon followed her downstairs, into the room where Devon waited. As Marisa entered, he looked up, a slow smile crossing his face as he got to his feet. Shannon stepped aside as Devon took Marisa’s hand and placed a kiss upon it.

“Marisa. It is wonderful to see you, my lady. Are you well? He hasn’t harmed you?” Devon searched her carefully for signs of abuse.

“No, I’m fine,” Marisa assured him. “They’ve treated me well; there is no need for concern. It was kind of you to come, Devon.”

“Kind?” Devon gave Marisa a closer perusal, then glanced at Shannon. The Irish girl turned to the window, refusing to get involved. “It was hardly a question of kindness,” Devon said slowly. “I have assured Kyle MacLeod that the jewels are forthcoming, once you are safely returned to London as my bride.”

“And did Kyle agree?” Marisa asked stiffly, averting her eyes.

“He will,” Devon said confidently. “I have never known a Scotsman to renege on his word. They would sooner slice their own throats. No, I am sure you have little to fear. Kyle MacLeod will give you up, Marisa. I am certain.”

*      *      *

The earl shivered as a north wind passed through the mud and wattle hut, forecasting winter. The scene outside was majestic, the Five Sisters of Kintail reflected in the loch below like a mirror image, but the earl cared nothing for that. Instead, he waited patiently, biding his time until the door finally opened.

A man entered, his beard streaked with red and silver, his massive form little subdued with the passing of time. Colin MacKenzie. The earl nodded in greeting, recalling everything he knew about the clan. Long a hated rival of the MacLeods, the MacKenzies were the reason Kyle’s family had lost much of their lands. Hatred has a way of flourishing with age, the earl thought. Like an acorn, it took root as a tiny seed, then sprouted years later into a massive oak.

“A braw day,” Colin said cautiously, wondering at this meeting. The Campbells were devious, he didn’t need to be warned of that. And the earl most of all.

“A good day to fight a MacLeod,” the earl agreed.

Colin MacKenzie stared back in surprise, then took a seat on the bench beside the earl. “And why is today a good day to be fighting them? Though I grant ye, any day would suit.”