Outlaw's Angel (19 page)

Kyle almost turned around when Roarke shouted back, “Are we losing ye, Angel?” His men glanced about, reassured when they saw him take up the lead again, his eyes deadly, his body leaning forward in a determined manner.

“No, you’re not losing me,” Kyle replied. “Let us be off.”

*      *      *

“Marisa?”

Devon touched her shoulder lightly, helping her into the carriage. Marisa complied, allowing Shannon to drape a lap robe over her legs, though her gaze never left the window. For the briefest moment, she thought he was going to stop, that he would realize, as the heroes did in all of their romantic novels, and return for her. Then, Kyle was gone, leading his men, his mind as lost to her as if she never existed.

A cold wind blew and Marisa could not repress a shudder. Shannon pushed more of the robe toward her friend. “Here, take some of mine. Marisa, are you all right?”

“Fine,” Marisa said, refusing to meet Devon’s eyes. The carriage jolted, then rattled into life as the MacLeod castle disappeared behind them.

Neil MacKenzie saw the carriage in the distance and gestured to Colin. “Ye don’t think that Kyle…”

“The Angel?” Colin snorted. “Hardly. Kyle MacLeod is the last man to run from a battle. Most likely, ’tis his Lordship. The Sassenach can’t stand the sight of blood nor battle, unless ’tis themselves, in some heathen country.”

“They would make a good ransom,” Neil said hopefully.

Colin paused, then shrugged. “Aye, and that they would. But we’ve our own battle to fight, one far more important than a ransom.” Flexing his weapon, Colin grinned like a fox teaching his cub his tricks. “And with this, we are sure to win.”

His men were listening now, most of them on foot. Only a few of the leaders, Colin and Neil among them, were mounted on horseback. Yet they had a distinct advantage alien to the usual clan brawls—bayonets. Neil balanced his own weapon, sunlight glinting from the deadly blade.

“Men! We are almost there! We’ve had proof of the MacLeods’ treachery, and ’tis time we ended the threat to our land!” Dismounting, Colin surveyed his men, pleased to count over three hundred in number. They were all garbed in green tartan, a color that proved useful in battle as camouflage and even more important as a uniting factor. Scooping up a handful of the rocky soil, Colin let it dribble through his fingers as the men nodded to each other.

“This land! This is what we fight for today, what we defend! The MacLeods want not just this territory, but all of Scotland! The Angel must be stopped before it is too late!”

“Aye!” the men shouted, the blood rising within them, blood of the true Celts mixed with that of their Viking ancestors. It was that heritage that made their muscles flex in anticipation of a fight, their adrenaline flow to stiff arms and legs, flooding them with a desire to kill. It was for the land beneath them and their love for the clan—the clan that was being threatened—that they were driven on. Each man nodded and grinned to his neighbor, wiping his mouth in the cold noonday sun.

“Angel,” they said.

Kyle reached the MacKenzies within the hour. At first, when the clan was just within sight, he could not believe his eyes. Muttering a curse, Kyle reined up his mount, drawing back to where Douglass stared in disbelief at the flash of silver ahead.

“Do you see it, Douglass?”

The old soldier nodded, then swore out loud. “Sweet Jesus! Those damned MacKenzies have bayonets!”

Confusion mingled with panic and surged through his men. Kyle felt their outrage, their fear. His mind worked frantically. Bayonets. Where in God’s name could they have gotten such a weapon?

“What do ye say now?” Duncan shouted, urging his mount through the melee to join Kyle and Douglass. “They’ve got us outnumbered at least twice. And with those weapons…”

“We can’t stop,” Kyle decided quickly, ignoring the horror that sprang up in Duncan’s eyes.

“Are ye mad? This is sheer suicide! Our men have naught but swords and dirks. Bayonets will fire them down before we can even reach them! Then those blades! I’ve seen them kill a man five feet away, as easily as slicing through a ripe peach. We cannot fight that! I’ll not stand for it!”

“They’re not your men now,” Kyle replied caustically. Then, with more diplomacy, “Duncan, it is too late. They’ll never make it back to the castle. Our only chance is to stand and fight.”

Duncan nodded, his horse whirling sharply, his voice distinct above the commotion. “Come along, lads! For Scotia, we fight!”

“Angel, Angel, Angel!”

Following Kyle’s signal, the men marched into the MacKenzies. The first volley from the bayonets brought a line of MacLeods down like so many crushed flowers beneath the enemy’s feet. Kyle cursed, fighting to subdue Damien as the huge stallion pawed the ground restlessly, excited by the smoke and stench of blood. The sun rose higher, bathing the scene in stark painful light as a second volley fired. This time, more Highlanders dropped, some clad in green as Kyle’s men struck home, most clad in yellow.

Colin pushed forth through his men, searching through the smoke, the blood, and the dust. He was looking for one man in particular, one man he’d known since childhood and hated as long. Relentless, he perused each face, searching for the man who would lead the clan. Swords connected in a raspy, metallic rage, a body severed in two dropped before him, a bayonet pierced a shield and killed its owner before the cry could leave his throat. Colin smiled. The blood lust ran through him, making him immune to almost anything except the sweet, almost sexual urge that possessed him at this moment.

It was then he saw Kyle. The Angel. Fighting from the ground with his men, his sword flashing furiously, Colin stepped forth with a raised bayonet. It would take but a moment, the Angel would die, and the rebellion with him.

Kyle saw the bayonet and knew in an instant it was intended for him. Furious, he fought with renewed energy, outraged that this man, Colin MacKenzie, meant to snuff out his life with the same insignificance that he would dampen his taper before bedtime. Strange thoughts flashed through his mind as he saw the smile on Colin’s face, the utter satisfaction of killing. He did not think of the battle or Scotland or his clan. He thought of Marisa. Her name and face came unbidden. An aching regret ate through him like acid. He would never see her again, never know the joy of having her love him or seeing his children born from her laboring body….Swearing silently, Kyle renewed his efforts to break free. He couldn’t die now, he couldn’t let this man destroy him, not yet….A swollen-faced MacKenzie refused to relent, engaging Kyle’s sword arm and fighting for his life. Kyle could not escape, even as he saw Colin’s blade thrust.

Duncan saw the bayonet, saw Kyle’s expression, and his own fury erupted. Kyle, their legend, about to be killed. He forgot in an instant that he and Kyle had disagreed, forgot that he was against this battle and that Kyle had usurped both his power and popularity. Well-trained in fighting, Duncan reacted purely on instinct and challenged Colin MacKenzie. His sword clashed insultingly on Colin’s weapon, forcing the man’s attention from Kyle. Colin, seeing another prey before him, one equally meaningful, smiled and approached, his bayonet glinting evilly. For the briefest moment, their eyes locked, each man remembering the other as a wee bairn. Colin’s eyes grew cold at the thought, and he thrust his blade home. He did not count on Duncan’s agility, however, and as he moved, committed to his blade’s deadly path, Duncan swerved and buried his blade in Colin’s throat.

Colin felt the rush of pain and knew instantly he was about to die. Roaring like a wounded bear, his voice choked with blood and he staggered across the field. Blood spilled in a tangled scarlet web across his cambric shirt as he garnered all of his resources and thrust his bayonet into Duncan, who seemed to expect it. After all, Colin had shown no mercy as a child, fighting the others with a ferocity that was as appalling as it was enviable. Together they slumped to the dust, unnoticed by most of the men except one.

Horror sprang up in Kyle, cold, deadly horror that immobilized him even as he sent the MacKenzie to his God. Numbly, he stepped across Colin’s body and reached for Duncan. A hand caught his arm and he looked up into Douglass’s face.

“Help us, Angel. The men need you now. There’s nothing ye can do for him.”

“Duncan…” Kyle glanced down at the prone figure, observing the way his fingers loosened and his sword dropped free. Duncan, who didn’t want to fight, who felt this thing wrong….

“There’s no time, lad. We need help! Now man, or we’ll all be corpses!”

Reacting only physically, Kyle forced himself to go to Roarke’s aid. A sturdy shepherd had backed Roarke against a tree, pointing the bayonet at his throat with a crude lust. Kyle saw his joy, and hatred sprang up within him. Bringing his sword through the air quickly, down onto the man’s arm, Kyle severed the limb, ignoring the man’s scream and sending him fleeing for his life.

Swords clashed with bayonets, shields dropped, men fell like sacks, their bodies mutilated, unrecognizable. Kyle’s sword arm ached from the effort, and he glanced repeatedly toward the east, hoping against hope that help would be forthcoming. It wasn’t. His men fought valiantly for him, Kyle realized, long after they should have. It was only when the dirt flowed with blood and the grass grew slippery with the life flow of his clansmen that Kyle cried out, “Retreat! Come, men, retreat! I order you!”

Douglass nodded, gesturing to the men, helping those who could be helped, leaving those who had already died. The MacKenzies, observing their withdrawal, cried out triumphantly and redoubled their efforts. Falling back behind a briar hedge, Douglass wiped the blood from his forehead and gazed at Kyle.

“Well, Angel, now what?”

Kyle, their leader, stared numbly ahead, completely without knowledge of how to counsel his men.

Chapter Nineteen

Kyle stared straight ahead, past the carnage that lay around him, past the blood of his friends that soaked into the soil, the harsh Highland dirt that refused to yield drops. Purpose…What was his purpose? It seemed as if he had known a moment ago. Why wouldn’t it come?

The smell of death came to him in a fetid breath and he choked, unable to stand the stench. The bog. They had evidently wandered several miles and were now on the border of the great moor. Dying vegetation added to the smells of dry blood and death, making the men cough and choke, while the creeping grip of the oncoming night threatened annihilation. If only he could think of something…

Impatiently shaking the mire from his boots, his mind turned back to the bog. The footstep filled in as quickly as he withdrew his boot, reminding him with a macabre warning that they would all become mummified specimens for the gods if he didn’t think of something fast. The MacKenzies, sensing victory, now fought with a ferocity that appalled even him. The bog…

“Douglass, lead the men this way!” Kyle sprang to life, his body surging forward with an ambition that the older Highlander decried.

“Are ye mad? ’Tis the moor! Why, if the men fall in…”

“Just do as I say! Douglass, we can’t just stand and die! For the love of God, man, do as I say!”

Nodding, Douglass delivered the instructions, bidding the men to obey without question. One by one they slipped back toward the bog, fighting to stay alive, fighting the muck that threatened to destroy them from below. The MacKenzies followed. The smell of death was everywhere—dying plants, dying men, water that had long ago become useless and was now a River Styx, threatening to claim them all as her own….

Twilight approached, rendering the place the color of slate. A raven cawed, and the sounds of swords mingled with muttered curses as the Scotsmen found themselves knee-deep in mud. The MacKenzies, although superstitiously afraid of the swamp, pressed on, wanting to kill and end the thing, their desire to win obliterating all thoughts except one.

“Do you see it, Douglass?” Kyle called, urging his men forward, holding his shield in one hand, pointing with the other. “Do you see it?”

A silence followed, grim and ghastly, filled with horror as the men stared where Kyle pointed. There, ahead in the bogs, was a light, but not as many men had seen before. It glimmered with shades of scarlet and gold, chartreuse and pale yellow, radiating a cold warmth that made each man there cross himself and mutter a prayer. Douglass nodded in recognition, and his clan, benefitting from his tale, knew the thing for what it was and refused to follow it. But the MacKenzies panicked. Fear, primitive and more powerful than even a bayonet, rose up in the men, and they ran, fighting to get out of the mire that held them.

A dozen splashings rent the night as MacKenzies fell into the moor, disappearing with horrible cries into the floating green morass beyond. A few, compelled by the light, moved toward it, walking trancelike deeper and deeper into the bog, never to be seen again.

Kyle took full advantage of the situation. “The Wisp!” he murmured to his men, helping them out, leading them to safety while the MacKenzies fought their own fears and the deadly grip of the swamp. By the time darkness had fully descended, the MacLeods that survived the battle were safe, their worn and muddy bodies draped on the grass above the bog, their eyes tearing from the strange shimmering light that beckoned within. Like a goddess, it enticed in the most primal way, calling to them with its odd shape and fading brilliance, until many of the men forced their eyes closed to rid themselves of the Circean spell. Only Kyle lay awake, watching the Wisp, thinking of Duncan lying out in the carnage beyond.

Landscapes meant nothing to Marisa on the way home. Staring dissolutely from the carriage window, she did not see the grandeur of the Highlands fade behind her, the craggy cliffs, the secret, mist-shrouded glens, the silver rivers that passed beneath her. It all seemed a vague grey blur, one that she would scarce remember upon returning home.

Shannon chattered brightly, disturbed by Marisa’s silence. Relating points of interest and tales about the trip, her voice slowly trailed off as she realized that Marisa wasn’t even remotely listening. Giving Devon an accusing frown, Shannon wrapped the lap robe about her legs and drank in the scenery, relieved when they finally stopped for the night at an inn.

The Two Penny Inn boasted a chambermaid, bedwarmers, hot towels, and cold beer. Marisa moved like a sleepwalker, thanking the maid for her kindness and pretending to eat of the cold supper laid out for them. It was only when she and Shannon were abed that her pain finally surfaced. Shannon winced upon feeling the mattress shake with Marisa’s sobs, longing to comfort her but knowing better. When Marisa was ready, she would talk. Until then…

Winter seemed to come overnight. The glass panes in the room ran with melting frost as the maid stoked the fire, and a cold chill rattled the eaves. They departed after a good breakfast, and Devon joined the coachman on top, reluctant to face another day of Marisa’s silence. The coach passed sparkling frozen fields, trees coated with jewels, and a sky the color of ice.

Devon’s absence was a relief to Marisa, however slight. Shannon observed the relaxed posture of her friend, the way she seemed a bit more animated today.

“It’s bothering you, Mari, isn’t it? Leaving him?”

“Actually, I’m eager to be home,” Marisa said. “I hope my mother wasn’t too worried. We have so much to do, with the wedding plans changed. I’ll have to send out new invitations, reorder everything….” But even for Marisa, the pain was too fresh. Kyle. The name tore at her, reminding her of this farce. Yesterday, she had scarcely been able to look at Devon and had to fight to keep from wondering why he was sitting across from her with that curious stare. Oddly enough, Marisa almost expected Kyle to be there, imagining that if she closed her eyes long enough, the past twenty-four hours would be merely a bad dream. But the dream was an all too clear reality, and the hurt unbearable. Her face remained serene, but her eyes betrayed her, reflecting the turmoil within.

Shannon saw that expression and frowned. “Rubbish! I cannot believe you mean to go through with this….Oh, all right, I’ll shut up if you want. I still think you were out of your mind….” At the piercing look Marisa sent her, Shannon shrugged and complied, stilling her opinions.

The next day passed in the same manner, as did the following. Inns all seemed the same, as did the days melting into grey nights, freezing into unwelcome dawns. By the time they reached London, Marisa was so cold and numb both inside and out that she literally had to force her body out of the coach and into the house that waited.

Strange, she thought as she passed through the same door she must have walked through hundreds of times. There it all was: the horrid gargoyle door knocker her father had insisted upon, her mother’s delicate roses blackened by the sudden frost, the hallway shining with beeswax and polish. Quiet murmurs of people came to her, and her own name was mentioned in tones that befitted a funeral more than a homecoming. It all seemed alien to her, as if she no longer truly belonged.

“Marisa!” Sara Travers burst free of the group of people surrounding her, smothering her daughter in a warm embrace. Feeling some of the pain lessen in that familiar comfort, Marisa wrapped herself in the embrace. Her mother smelled like lavender and roses, a scent she always wore and one that always reminded Marisa of home. Tears stung her eyes as Sara trembled fearfully, whispering over and over, “I never thought to see you again! I was so afraid, but it’s over. It’s finally over! You’re home.”

Marisa smiled, patting her mother’s back, disengaging herself when she heard her father’s gruff voice.

“Marisa. He didn’t hurt you? He didn’t?…”

“I’m fine,” Marisa insisted, hating the silence that followed. She managed a smile, seeing the genuine concern in her father’s eyes, eyes like shiny black buttons that glanced quickly over her with a certain knowledge. Blushing profusely, Marisa thanked God for Shannon when the Irish girl interrupted without preamble.

“Yes, well, we’ve had a rough reunion, and Marisa’s dead tired. I’m thinking a hot bath and a brick might be in order. The roads, you know. And those inns.” Shannon shook her head in disgust, indicating Marisa’s damp shoes.

As she expected, Sara took control, ushering Marisa past the gaggle of questioning relatives and neighbors, past the sheriff who listened to all accounts of the kidnapping with shrewd understanding, and past the maids who patted Marisa reassuringly as she slipped by. Within an hour, Marisa was fed, had a hot bath and a warm brick heated, and was in bed. The thick and familiar rose-colored quilt seemed like an old friend as Marisa closed her eyes, feeling something like peace for the first time in days. But even then, with her feet warm and her hair brushed to a shining perfection, her dreams were troubled by the appearance of an Angel, and she awoke to a world that was sweating and cold.

Night had fallen. Strange, Kyle thought, his eyes scanning the fetid bog, eyes that still stung from viewing the Wisp. Night didn’t seem to matter here. Days blended into evening, barely noticed in this twilight world of death, the gray places where the living became the dying and the dying became something else….

“Kyle. Are you all right?”

Kyle glanced up, seeing Douglass’s concern. The older man’s face was wrinkled, like the roots of a tree, his thoughts apparent. “It’ll do you no good to stay here. Let us go back to the castle.”

“I’m fine,” Kyle said, understanding more than he revealed.

“None the less…” Douglass glanced furtively about the moor, unable to dispel the horror that seized him here nor the memory of that mystical light. The Wisp changed men, lured them to death, wrapped them in glowing fingers, only to choke the breath from them in a foul coffin of muck.

Kyle rose to his feet, more to allay Douglass’s anxieties than any desire to return to the castle. Together they walked along the rocky path, staying well away from the mud and the floating green death traps. Once Kyle paused to inspect a bayonet that was lying nearby; he sank to his knees, and had Douglass not been there, he might have joined the MacKenzies who slept beneath the slimy surface. Douglass hefted Kyle out of the bog as if he were a mere child, setting him back on the path.

“You might not have lived to see the sun,” Douglass said, his own heart pounding in terror.

“Nor have many others.” The pain Kyle felt increased with each step. Blood. It ran in rivers, streams, rivulets. Kyle struggled to breathe, hating the sudden weakness that assailed him now when he walked amid the dying and dead. Bodies of friends, relatives, people whose smiles he’d seen since childhood, lay scattered about him like used burlap sacks at a port. Grief came to Kyle, weighted down with responsibility and guilt. He had caused this. His own ruthless ambition stared him in the face with a dozen lifeless eyes.

Unable to bear it a moment longer, Kyle turned, when a familiar form caught his attention. Duncan. The man lay prone, his eyes closed, his expression peaceful, as if he had merely fallen asleep. Without hesitation, Kyle reached for him, wrapped his arms around his body, and struggled to bring it to his horse.

“Are you mad?” Douglass said, astonished. “The man’s dead! There’s naught you can do for him now….”

“I can give him a decent burial,” Kyle snarled, hoisting the body upward where Damien waited patiently.

“But…”

“It’s the least I can do,” Kyle said flatly.

“All right, if you won’t listen to reason, I will help you. Mayhap at the castle we could find a priest.”

Together they managed to place Duncan across the horse’s back. Kyle secured him with a ripped and bloody shirt, tying it neatly around his hands and feet to keep him from slipping off. Silently, they led Damien back to the castle, where the sorrowful strains of bagpipes rent the stillness with a painful clarity. It was over.

Marisa stared at the garden outside, leaning against the cold glass pane. Snow fell silently, tiny ice flakes that sifted through trees and settled like crystallized sugar on the hard brown earth. The stand of holly trees just outside the window glistened with borrowed splendor like a poor woman at a party, bedecking herself with her neighbor’s jewels. The privet hedge lost its aloofness and became a mystery of white-encrusted labyrinths, the trees a fairyland of lacy branches and secret webs. A raven strode about the yard like a solemn gentleman, his glossy plumage dusted with frosted prisms. Smiling at his indignant expression, Marisa rubbed the glass with her lace handkerchief, wishing she had a few crumbs to toss.

“Mistress, I am ver’ sorry, but we must fineesh this dress today. The lace is lovely, is it not? If you could pleeze just give us your attention one more minute, Miss Travers, I am certain we could be done quickly….”

Marisa turned back to the dressmaker with a sigh, her dream world melting quickly like the condensation on the windowpanes. Lifting up her arms, she winced as Mimi inserted a pin from between her teeth into the sleeve of the dress.

“It is too tight,” Marisa protested, unable to move her arm. Mimi chattered excitedly to her two assistants, chastising them in French.

“What do you think you do? The lady’s dress must be perfection,
magnifique
. Nothing less will do. This is to be her wedding dress!”

The two young girls nodded, bustling about with scissors and thread, basting hems and pinning ruffles. Marisa tried to be patient, but finally, after being stabbed with another pin and nearly sewn into the dress, she removed the lace and satin gown, ignoring the protests of the dressmaker.

“I am sorry, Mimi. I just cannot abide another minute of this! Take the dress away. I’ll arrange for another fitting tomorrow.”

“But Miss Travers…” Mimi sputtered frantically, her sharp blue eyes blinking as she thought of the money she would lose if Marisa sought another dressmaker. The Traverses spared no expense when it came to their daughter, and the wedding dress alone was worth a handsome commission.