Outlaw's Angel (18 page)

The earl smiled. “The Angel is back. Kyle is drumming up support among the other clans. He has become a hero to them.”

“Aye.” Colin’s brow grew thoughtful; the earl could almost hear his mind thunder. “Kyle should have stayed in the colonies. He does no good here.”

“The MacKenzies stand to lose much should the clans rally,” the earl said quietly. “You know the MacLeods have never forgiven your family for taking their lands. Should Kyle succeed, the MacKenzies’ claims would be meaningless.”

Colin nodded in agreement. “Aye, but who is to say that will happen? My own people admire the Angel. It would be difficult to rally them against the man, without proof.”

“Do you recall the prophecy?” the earl questioned, observing the murderous flash of blue eyes and the flaring nostrils of the man beside him. “When the Brahman seer predicted the decline of the house of Seaforth? Already much of that prediction has come to pass.”

“’Tis lies!” Colin protested. “Tales and witchcraft! No one believes that to be true.” But his face flushed furiously, a flood of red color that left a telltale stain on his ruddy cheeks.

“A prediction is just that,” the earl said shrewdly. “The seer did not know that one day you would rule the clan. Nor did he know that you are a fighter, not some weak merchant content to let Kyle whittle away at your lands and steal your own men. No, you are a leader of action, and prophecies can change.”

“Aye,” Colin said, calming a bit. “But I am not certain my people would rise. We need an incident….”

The earl smiled, a master of creating incidents. “You did know that the Lord of Sutcliffe is in residence at the MacLeods?”

“Devon?” Colin said, aghast. “What is he doing here?”

“Kyle has ransomed his fiancée for the jewels. The same jewels his father was accused of stealing when he disappeared at Culloden. Apparently, the duke has promised him those gems, in exchange for the girl. The jewels, from the ancient families of Scotia…”

“Holy Christ!” Colin spat. “He’d have the support of every clan in the country!”

“Aye.” The earl smiled, content. His job was done. It would be an easy matter to move in, after a bloody clan battle, and claim the lands. Kyle would be dead, his own clan expanded, and the MacKenzies would do the work.

“Here’s to fate.” The earl extended a flask of Scotland’s best whiskey. “And to controlling destiny.”

With a grin, Colin MacKenzie reached for the flask and drank.

“Oh, for the love of God, do you really mean to paint this glen?” Shannon grumbled when Marisa, the next morning, insisted on climbing the mountain to sketch. Kyle had been gone for three days, investigating some odd doings from a neighboring clan, and Marisa missed him more than she could express. He had returned that morning, his stallion snorting with a frosty breath in the morning air. Kyle gave Marisa a distant and unnerving glance, one that held a bit of regret?…Frowning, Marisa buried herself in her art, unable to bear the suspicion of what it all meant. Carrying a parcel of crude charcoals and parchment, she clambered about the hillside, pausing only when a particular vista caught her eye.

“You know how painting relaxes me,” Marisa replied. “And I’ve slept little all night.”

“Aye, the castle is as tense as an Englishman at a wake,” Shannon agreed. “But I still think it a silly idea.”

Mac had come with them as a guide, his own patience at having to perform such a task tempered only by his inherent good nature and the willow-branched bow Kyle had given him. Stringing the bow, he watched Marisa wander along the mountainside, amazed at her determination. Sending the arrow into the sky, he was rewarded by a solid twang when the flint struck an oak, centering exactly where he wanted.

“Nice,” Shannon commented. They were a few miles from Glenelg, looking down into the valley. The scenic vista appealed to Marisa and she took out her pad, intending to draw a preliminary sketch quickly, then fill in with the more subtle shadings later. Already the high proximity of the sun was changing the shadows and evaporating the tiny crystal prisms of the morning dew. Marisa feathered a few quick strokes onto her paper while Shannon sighed impatiently.

“It will just be a minute. Don’t be so impatient….” Frowning, Marisa gazed at the scene below, then back at her pad.

“What’s wrong?” Reluctantly, Shannon peered onto her paper. It looked perfect to her.

“Nothing. It’s just that green. Look, there it is again. Do you know what’s causing it, Mac?”

The young Highlander shrugged, gesturing with his bow. “Perhaps it’s those bushes, the way the sun is hitting them.” But his frown deepened as he stared mare closely, barely able to perceive the slight movement that was miles away. Marisa glanced up in time to see speculation become certainty, then horror as the significance of the sight became apparent.

“Mac! What…”

“Holy Mother of God, it’s the MacKenzies! Come along, Marisa! Shannon! Quickly!”

Marisa and Shannon had little time to figure out what Mac meant. Marisa snatched up her paper and retrieved her charcoals. Then Mac was half dragging them both down the heather-filled path to the castle below.

Kyle was talking softly with Duncan in the main hall. Breathless, Mac burst into the room, Marisa and Shannon behind him.

“What is it, Mac?” Kyle gave Marisa the cool tension-filled perusual he’d favored her with this morning. Marisa shivered, hating the way her heart pounded at the sight of him. He was leaning against the huge granite mantel, clothed in fawn-colored breeches and a simple linen shirt, yet he looked damnably attractive in a way no foppish gentleman, with his fashionable brocades and silks, could attempt. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I would rather have seen a ghost,” Mac replied. “It’s the MacKenzies. They’re coming. I saw them in the valley. We were climbing the mountain and saw them below.”

“The MacKenzies?” Duncan and Kyle exchanged a glance, one that made Marisa’s heart fill with dread. “And how can ye be sure, lad? Now be specific. This is important, as ye well know.”

“I saw their tartan. ’Tis the green, all right. Marisa noticed it first while trying to draw. They’re coming through the Carron pass.”

“Colin.” Duncan stared thoughtfully into the flickering flames of the fire. No one spoke for a moment until Kyle gently interrupted the chieftain’s silence.

“I know Colin is not the most reasonable man, but it is unlike him to attack a clan without provocation.”

“But he is no longer as young as he once was,” Duncan said. “He is feeling his age, and he is losing many of his best men to the colonies. Under such circumstances, the rousing excitement of a battle may seem preferable to wasting away the years.” Duncan shrugged. “Or it may be simply because of you.”

“Me?” Kyle questioned, incredulous.

“Aye. You pose a threat to them. Should you succeed in winning freedom for Scotland, Colin will lose most of his power. He is not willing for that to happen, no matter how old he is. In some ways, like an aging mongrel who feels his aches, he is even more dangerous.”

“What will you do?” This time it was Mac who asked. “It looks like the MacKenzies are going to fight.”

“Then we shall simply have to fight back,” Kyle said calmly.

The men were called—Kyle’s men, Ryan and Brannock, Roarke and Mac, Douglass and the rest. They were joined by the men of the MacLeods, men who either rented land as tenants or forged a living from the harsh earth by other means. Few wore tartans; at a gathering like this one, wearing the outlawed garment was considered too dangerous. They murmured among themselves, thinking of the harvest, the winter months ahead, and the rumor of battle. MacKenzies. Not a soul present held any love for the clan name, nor could they deny the excitement of a rousing battle. It had been too long since Culloden, and defeat still tasted bitter after thirty years.

Duncan presided over the gathering, allowing their gestures of respect—the tipped sword, the bowed knee. Yet their eyes went to Kyle. The Angel. With battle facing them, he was their inspiration. “A mon not afraid of neither Brits nor the devil,” muttered a shepherd, who pulled on a flask hidden in his coat.

“Aye,” his neighbor responded. “Nor the MacKenzies, though they be devils themselves!”

“They are that.” A florid-faced man spoke between the clouds of smoke emanating from his pipe. “I counted my cattle this very morn. Six of them gone! And my lands are closest to Carran, as ye all well know.” He leaned forward to his nodding crowd with an air of importance. “And my man saw the green of their kilts. MacKenzies, it is.”

“You are right, Garret,” Duncan said quietly, stilling the murmurs around him. It was about to begin. Not a man present felt regret; all were impassioned by the sense of pride that wove itself like a living tartan throughout the room, its threads the common bond between them. “It is the MacKenzies. We have several alternatives that I felt you should be aware of.”

The murmur grew confused, distorted. Alternatives? To what? The MacKenzies were looking for a fight, and by all that was holy, the MacLeods would give them one. Every man present, since he was a bairn in nappies, knew that.

“We could meet directly with Colin and find the cause of his grievances.” The buzz grew louder until Douglass silenced them, slamming his tankard like a mallet on the nearest table.

“Begging your pardon, Duncan.” A strong young man stood up, wiping his chin on his sleeve. “But I think we know the cause.”

His eyes went to Kyle and the men broke into applause, drowning Duncan’s speech. A hunger assailed them, an eagerness for battle and assuagement.

“Angel, Angel.” The young man started the chant.

“Angel, Angel.” Another continued. Soon the sound grew, echoing in the damp and drafty castle walls.

“Angel!”

Kyle stood up, quieting the men with an uplifted hand. When the chant died down, he looked to Duncan for permission, and at the slight inclination of his head, turned to the clansmen.

“We have no other choice but to fight.” When the rousing cheer died, Kyle continued. “The MacKenzies do not want to see us succeed. Should we entice the prince back, raise enough support among the clans, and rally against England, we will crush them. Should we allow the MacKenzies to raid our cattle and make fools of us, few other clans would feel encouraged to join our ranks.”

“Aye, aye!” they shouted.

One old man lifted a blue-veined hand, gesturing to the window outside. “Listen to me, young rebels! I do not like this. Fighting English is one thing. Fighting our own is another.”

“Highlanders have always fought each other, James,” Ryan said impatiently. It was always like the old to put a damper on things. “Especially the MacKenzies and the other clans. Remember MacGregor?”

“That does not make it right,” James continued. “The other clans may not like it.”

“Unless we rally them now,” Kyle said softly.

Duncan looked at him, astonished. “Ye don’t mean…”

“Why not?” Kyle asked. “We could easily quell the MacKenzies, unite the men in a common cause, and discover how badly they are willing to fight. Such information couldn’t be more timely, with the impending arrival of the jewels.”

Duncan smiled shrewdly. “We could then contact the prince with a ready contingent of men, men who have recently fought and are willing to continue?”

“Exactly,” Kyle said. “Is my reasoning flawed?”

“It is genius,” Duncan said, clasping Kyle’s hand. Their eyes met, grey eyes probing into deep silver. I cannot stop it, Kyle said silently. Nor would I try. He beseeched Duncan for support, relieved when he felt the handclasp turn firm.

“What can I do to help you?”

Chapter Eighteen

“Mari, will you sit down for the love of God?” Shannon put her teacup down in exasperation, watching Marisa pace the floor.

“I can’t help it,” Marisa said, though she dropped into a chair and stared moodily into the fire. Shannon and Maira watched her without comment, the sound of the older woman’s spinning wheel a pleasant whirr in the room. “I can’t believe this is happening! They’re going to fight. I’m afraid Kyle will get hurt.”

“How bad can it get?” asked Shannon, whose countrymen fought constantly at the slightest provocation. Eating another scone, she frowned, her nose crinkling prettily. “They’re just fighting. Let them get it over with.”

“You don’t understand,” Marisa shivered. “I saw Kyle fight once before, when the British soldiers attacked. This isn’t just a brawl, Shannon. They kill. It was horrible. Blood was everywhere….”

“Nothing can stop them,” Maira said. “The Angel will not let the MacKenzies attack without defending the clan.”

“The MacKenzies,” Marisa said, her green eyes flashing dangerously. “Why do the MacLeods hate them? Does anyone remember? Does anyone even care?”

“You speak as an Englishwoman,” Maira said. “There are times when one acts simply from what one feels. Have you never done that, little Marisa? Thought from your heart and soul, instead of your mind?”

“Hogwash,” Shannon said impatiently. “They’re simply spoiling for a fight, the way the clans always are.” To Marisa, she said, “Too bad you never told Kyle you loved him. He might be less eager to fight, knowing you were waiting for him. Marisa, what in God’s name?…” Shannon’s mouth dropped in amazement as Marisa brightened, then abruptly left the room.

“I think you may have just given the lass the advice she needs,” Maira said with a chuckle.

“Wonderful,” Shannon replied, looking at the place that Marisa had vacated. “Now if I could just figure out what I did, maybe I could do it more often.”

Her heart bursting with a thousand precious thoughts, Marisa raced through the castle to find Kyle. God, it was so simple! How could she have known it all these weeks and not acted upon it! She loved Kyle, and he didn’t know. Lord, with Devon showing up out of nowhere, Devon who never roused himself for more than another glass of wine, who knew what Kyle thought. Kyle, who even now plotted war. The Angel of death, they were calling him in the clan. It had to be stopped—the killing, the nightmare. What if Kyle should lose? What if?…

The rest would not bear thinking of. Gravel crunched beneath her feet, and the cold, damp air of the castle tore at her clothes and took the wind from her lungs. Rough granite walls scraped her legs as she ran up the stairs, looking, searching….

At last, finally, she heard his voice, echoing through the hallway. Good. He was in the library, a room Devon had been surprised to find existed in a Celtic castle. Pausing breathlessly outside the door, Marisa was about to knock when she realized Duncan was arguing with Kyle. Marisa froze as she heard her own name.

“I think ye are a fool, lad,” Duncan said harshly, slamming something down on a table. “You’re lying to yourself, and you’re lying to me. That girl means something to ye, Kyle. Stand there and tell me Marisa is no mair than a ransom.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Though she hated being an eavesdropper and spy, Marisa could not move. She leaned against the wall, her legs suddenly weak, her breath refusing to fill her lungs. She could hear the maids calling below, the clatter of swords outside as the clansmen prepared for battle, the soft lift of the curtains in the breeze. Her heart seemed to hammer inside her, as if it were a separate living thing, determined to fight its way out of her body.

Finally, Kyle spoke, his voice metallic and cold, tinged with icy humor and malice. “So you think you’ve got all the answers, then? And you’ve decided to forget your legendary diplomacy for a moment? Why? Because I’ve carried the day, because the men side with me?”

Marisa heard Duncan’s withdrawn breath and she winced for him. No one heard the pain in Kyle’s voice; it was too carefully schooled, from years of practice after his mother’s death, his incarceration, his own near hanging. Only Kyle knew the truth.

“I give not a damn that the men go with ye,” Duncan whispered. “Only that ye are about to learn the hardest lesson of your life, ye who’ve had too many lessons already. But I cannot save some souls, try as I might.” Then abruptly, “So ye mean to let his Lordship have the girl, as if she were no mair than a tin whistle to be traded for goods? Is that what ye mean to do?”

“I don’t have to answer to you!” Kyle shouted.

“No, ye don’t,” Duncan agreed. “But perhaps ye’d like to answer to yourself. Do you love the lass?”

“Duncan, Marisa is better off with…”

“Do ye love the lass?”

“No!” Kyle spat out the denial, unable to stand another moment. “No, I do not love her. I have not loved any woman since—”

“—your mother died,” Duncan said quietly. Kyle did not reply. “So you punish the lass for what happened before. You are a fool, Kyle MacLeod, and a liar as well. I know ye care for her.”

“Do I?” Kyle asked pleasantly, though Marisa recognized his sarcastic tone. “I suppose I loved all the others then, including the whores I took in London, When I needed a woman’s flesh beneath me?” Kyle laughed sharply, a terrible sound in the stillness. “That is lust, Duncan, not love.”

“Ye wouldn’t ken the difference if ye came across it, wrapped in lace and ribbons.” Duncan said, scathingly. “Give her up, then. His Lordship awaits, ready to take her hame. A titled gentleman, he can give her much, can he not, Angel? I’m certain the lady will appreciate your kindness. After all, Devon will understand why she’s slightly shopworn, will he not? And perhaps his Lordship will be grateful for the pretty tricks you’ve no doubt taught her. But can you bear the thought of her in another man’s bed?”

Marisa could bear no more, not Kyle’s response, nor Duncan’s loud laughter that obliterated it. Fleeing, she ran in reverse, past the excited scullery maids who talked of war, past the open door where the flash of silver swords blinded her eyes, past the cozy room where Shannon and Maira drank tea. It was only when she reached her own room and buried her face in her warm quilt that she allowed the tears to escape, in a horrible, silenced sob. Never again, she vowed. She would never love anyone again. It was entirely too painful.

It was evening when Devon, while relaxing in a hot bath and sipping whiskey, decided Scotland wasn’t all bad. He’d had a good dinner of roast mutton, fresh fish, several kinds of scones, and tea with cream so thick it stood away from the side of the pitcher. London boasted a richer fare, that was true, but for a rocky and wild Highland, where the ruddy Scots did nothing but brood over their wrongs and battle the clans, such luxury was not to be despised. Especially after the long journey from England.

“Would ye like your back scrubbed, sir?” The maid giggled, and Devon gave her a boyish grin. She was pretty, all right, her eyes that wonderful Celtic blue so reminiscent of the lochs and her skin like the compressed petals of a dozen field daisies. Blushing at his perusal, the maid leaned over the tub and wielded the soap with a hopeful smile.

Devon was about to respond when the door flung open and Marisa strode into the room. Shoving the maid aside, Devon snatched up a towel and got out of the tub, wondering what Marisa had heard and, worse yet, what she thought. But his fiancée scarcely noticed the maid rushing from the room, her face flushed, nor did she seem to notice Devon’s half-naked torso. Instead, she seated herself by the fire as if its workings were of the utmost importance.

“Devon, I’m ready to go.”

“All right, Marisa,” Devon said, ignoring the streams of water that puddled on the rug beneath his feet. Her words finally struck him, and he glanced up fearfully. “Go where?”

“Home.” Marisa looked directly at him for the first time. “I want to leave. Now.”

“Now?” Devon looked outside. Already, night blackened the glens, turning the purple and green mountains into a slumbering dragon. “But it’s dark!”

“I know,” Marisa replied. “I meant in the morning.”

Devon slumped into a chair, ignoring the towel that barely covered him and the water that continued to trickle down his legs. He had been hoping for a brief respite, enough to enjoy some of the benefits of being a guest of the MacLeods. And he wasn’t exactly eager to resume another journey; his legs still ached from his toes to his waist, and his rear end felt like it had been pounded by a blacksmith’s hammer.

“Marisa,” Devon said cautiously, “I’m glad that you are eager to leave. So am I. I cannot wait to get back home to London, so we can marry as planned. However, it was a long trip up here. I am tired, I’m sure Shannon is exhausted….”

“She’s fine,” Marisa said. “I asked her. She said she’s ready to leave this heathen place whenever I am.”

“Right,” Devon replied, smothering a curse. Shannon would never forgive him for that card game. She was obviously determined to make his life hell. Cleverly, Devon tried another tactic. “Marisa, a few days one way or the other won’t make much of a difference….”

“The MacKenzies approach,” Marisa said pragmatically. “Devon, I do not wish to be caught in the midst of a battle. They should be here sometime tomorrow.”

“The MacKenzies?”

“A neighboring clan,” Marisa explained. “I spotted them while painting this morning. Apparently, they are going to attack, and Kyle’s men plan to fight. I’ve seen them battle, Devon. It isn’t like England, where there are rules, twenty paces and a clean pistol. They use swords. People get cut, lose limbs, bleed….”

“I can picture the rest,” Devon said quickly, more amazed by the moment. “You mean you actually saw?…”

“I want to be gone before it happens,” Marisa said abruptly. “I don’t think I can bear it.”

“Sure, Marisa, if that’s what you want.” Silently, Devon regretted that he hadn’t eaten more at dinner. And that feather bed…“Are you certain they’ll be here that quickly?”

Marisa nodded. “They had approached the Carron pass when I saw them. Even Duncan said they’ll be here tomorrow.”

“That settles it. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Marisa replied softly. The frantic urgency left her and she smiled gratefully.

Poor Marisa, Devon thought, she really is afraid. He felt a surge of protectiveness toward her as she walked to the door, her shoulders squared, her chin up. He followed, wondering what else had happened during her captivity, what other terrible things she had witnessed. Yet, to see her, clad in a cool muslin gown, her hair knotted in the back with a single tendril artfully arranged about her face, one would never think anything disturbed her at all.

Suddenly Marisa’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why, Devon, you’re not dressed! You really should put something on before inviting a lady to your room.” With that, she disappeared, leaving behind a bemused Devon.

The castle was a frenzy of activity come dawn. The Highlanders, eager for battle, assembled below even as the mist burned from the heather and the morning sun failed to warm a man’s knees. The MacLeod tartan flashed a brilliant saffron and black, blinding in the sun and gorgeous against the green of the hills. Bagpipes wailed; the ocean sobbed against the rocks, the air blew chill with the promise of battle.

The men stirred as one, the anxiety throbbing through them becoming anticipation as Kyle appeared, then a dull roar. Seated on his black stallion, his own tartan a vivid splash of color against his mount, his sword sheathed at his side, he looked every inch the part of the Angel. The Avenger, the men whispered, recalling the days when most of Scotia was theirs and the MacKenzies, with their government contracts, a weak underling. The Angel of death. The stir became deafening as Kyle joined the ranks with Duncan at his side.

The pipes wailed, crying for Scotland, for the hills beyond, the lochs, the lands and the people who were slowly trickling away. It has come, Kyle thought, wondering if it would be the way he had envisioned for so long. So many things were not. Even without the jewels in his possession, he felt invincible, as if the gods had gifted him in some secret way. Or maybe not the gods. Maybe he had sold his soul….The thought came out of nowhere, and he deliberately dismissed it, concentrating on his men instead.

Roarke saluted him, his handsome face rising above the men. He patted his sword, then indicated Ryan and Brannock, who argued among themselves as always. Mac was there, the other clansmen, and the rest of the MacLeods. Kyle made a mental calculation and frowned. Scarcely a hundred. Surely the other clans would meet them—the MacDonalds, the Camerons, the MacLeans. They had promised support when the time was ripe, and Douglass had hastened to alert them during the night.

The MacKenzies were less than five miles away.

“Follow me!” Kyle said when the wild and discordant music had died. “We fight the MacKenzies today! Tomorrow, we fight to free out homeland!”

“Aye!” the men shouted as one. They began to move; one horde of Scotsmen, joined in a common cause, united by the golden-haired man before them. It was as if one heart beat among them, one joint breath inhaled, then exhaled, one tense muscle expanded in the flick of a sword hand. Kyle felt it, and his men knew it.

Dropping to the rear, the mountains rising like a newly awakened monster before them and Loch Morar shimmering like a drop of liquid mercury behind, Kyle could not suppress the wild joy that flooded through him. It was happening. Now. Years of waiting, planning, now culminated in the battle that was about to begin. Glancing up at the castle, Kyle was startled to see a woman’s form pressed against the glass, watching them leave.

The wind caught a tendril of her black hair and Kyle knew. Marisa. The name caught at his heart with a fresh pain. She was gone from his sight, only to reappear at the carriage waiting outside. Frowning, Kyle reined up his horse, then stopped cold as Devon joined her, along with the Irish girl.

Devon. Marisa apparently didn’t see fit to bid him farewell. An icy rage exploded within Kyle, one that held no logic or reason. Can you bear the thought of her in Devon’s bed? Duncan’s taunt returned, making his hand tighten against the hilt of his sword, aching to kill.