Outlaw's Angel (21 page)

“Fool!” the duke railed at Devon from his bedchamber, his feverish eyes glazed, the color of Wedgwood china. “You let Marisa go! Disappeared, her father said. No one knows where.”

Devon did not respond. He toyed with his brandy glass, tossing back half of its contents before looking up. His father had aged since he last saw him. The fever, inexplicable but real and acute, plagued the duke continually, wearing down even his iron resistance. Devon saw that his father’s face was like the parched red earth, cracked and lifeless, though vitality blazed from his eyes. Placing the glass aside, Devon smiled calmly at the duke, bracing himself for what was to come.

“Yes, Marisa is gone. To Ireland, her mother thinks. She left with Shannon.”

“The Irish girl.” The duke coughed, an acrid sound in the room. Devon waited. “So, your affianced barely returns from Scotland, then she runs to Ireland, of all places. Do you think you might manage to secure her return and hold onto that chit until you are wed?”

This was it, Devon thought. Surprised that he felt little fear or regret, Devon shrugged. “We are not getting married.”

“What?” The duke’s eyes burned, searing into Devon as if they were two hot poker points. “Did I hear you correctly?”

“Yes, I’m afraid you did.” Devon smiled a charming grin. It felt wonderful to hold the trump card, for however long it lasted. Knowing his father, there was an ace in his cravat, but ah, it was sweet. “Marisa does not want to marry me. I know this now, and I see no reason to ruin both our lives. I plan to release her from her vow as soon as she returns. I’m sure she’ll be relieved. Is there anything else you wish to see me about?” Devon got up, knowing when to make an exit, but his father stopped him cold.

“Have you lost her to the Scotsman, then?”

Devon froze, hating the anger that rose in him. Dammit, how did his father do it? How did this sick old man know where his Achilles’ heel lay, where the most painful place to strike him would be? Forcing a grin, Devon turned back to his father’s bed.

“I never really had her, Your Grace. Though that is something you would know little about, feeling as you did about my mother. Marisa agreed to this marriage for the same reason I did. It was expected, and it was the right thing to do. Or so we thought. Blaming the Scotsman is oversimplistic. The only one who will be disappointed about my decision will be yourself and Alastair Travers. And I can’t say I’ll lose sleep over either of you.”

The duke laughed shortly, a harsh sound that degenerated into a cough. When he could speak, he stared at Devon, compelling him to remain.

“So you think you have all the answers? How little you know of any of it. Do you truly think I know nothing of love, nor of the pain of loving someone you cannot have? Marisa will do as she is told, Devon, as will you.”

“You cannot force either of us….”

“Can’t I?” The duke smiled, his webbed face resembling a spider’s lacy artistry. “You have considerable gaming debts, dear son. Unless you are prepared to take sole responsibility for them, I suggest you reconsider.”

“Damn you!” Devon glared, forcing his fists into the pocket of his robe, trying to stop the rage that flooded through him. “Why does it mean so much to you? Alastair Travers has been haunting the house since the engagement was announced, determined to see us married. And you…” Suddenly, part of it made sense, like finding the jigsaw piece with the blue edge of sky and the purple mountain peak. “That’s it!” Devon said in wonder. “It isn’t you at all, it’s him! What hold does he have on you, anyway?”

“Get out,” the duke snarled, a wounded lion threatened, never more dangerous than at this moment. “Now.”

“All right,” Devon said, too curious to smirk. What in the hell did Marisa’s father have to do with their marriage? Devon didn’t have the faintest idea, but he was determined to find out.

“Excuse me.” Saunders entered the room with a trepidation that made it clear he’d been listening.

“That’s all right, old friend,” Devon said with a jauntiness he didn’t feel. “Come on in. It’s nothing you haven’t heard before.”

Strangely enough, Saunders gave Devon a sympathetic glance before handing a sealed missive to the duke. “An Irish lad delivered it just now. He’s waiting outside for a response and refused to leave without one. I thought I should disturb you.”

“You’re right, Saunders. Bring me that taper.” Forcing himself to sit upright, the duke opened the letter, holding a trembling hand to the light. His face changed instantly; Devon, who’d been about to leave, sat back down, amazed at the play of emotions on his father’s face. Grief, remorse, outrage, and something else indefinable, but which seemed to light something within the duke like a candle that’s been ignited, then snuffed out within seconds. If Devon blinked, he would have missed it.

“I would like to be alone,” the duke said, his voice like iron but with a strange undertone. “Tell the boy yes, I agree to the meeting. That will be all.”

It was as if they were gone already. The duke stared at the letter, rereading each line as if trying to see between them. Devon and Saunders left the room together.

The MacKenzie clan was gathered in the great hall of their castle, close to where the sea crashed against the rocks and divided Scotland from Ireland. A fire burned, crackling in the cold afternoon, a protection against the snow that had fallen the night before.

Neil strode into the hall, his face flushed with color, his cheeks the same brick hue as his hair. The room was so cold his breath expelled in a silver fog, and he stamped his feet in an attempt to get warm.

“What ho, Neil?” Melville, son of Colin MacKenzie, yawned from his perch by the fire. It was the warmest place in the castle, and not to be taken lightly on such a day. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Aye, and a fairer one I ne’er saw.” Warming to his subject, Neil stood before the fire, his beard dipping toward his chest. “The young lassie waits for the ferry even now. Mind, if we take her, we could wrest a good ransom from the Sassenach and have our revenge upon Kyle MacLeod.”

At the hated name, the men murmured, the emotion running through them like a wind through supple grain.

“Ach, the MacLeod!”

“Divils they are! D’ya recall that night in the swamp?”

“ ’Twas a ghost, I’ll be thinking. Duncan MacLeod, nay doubt, coming to avenge his men!”

The uneasiness was shared by all, along with the superstitious horror of the Wisp. That incandescent light, responsible for the loss of the battle and the lives of their clansmen, was something the MacKenzies were unlikely to forget. And the association of that occult-like figure with the MacLeods would forever be impressed upon their minds.

“We don’t need the girl,” Nigel remarked, his hand unconsciously massaging a bandaged limb, sliced from a MacLeod sword.

“Aye, and the Angel is still aboot!”

“The Angel!” Nigel spat, hating the appellation almost as much as the man it represented. “He is nay immortal! Kyle is just a man, a man to be killed. Though I’ll be thinking my own clan not up to the task. Our ancestors, buried on Skye, must be crying in their graves to see such a sight! Are we not the MacKenzies? Did we not defeat the MacDonalds of old? Are we not the clan that took Lochalash from the MacDonells?”

“Aye!” the men responded. Their wounds ached less with the promise of revenge. It was only Melville who frowned, drinking of his ale and thinking of the comforts of the fire when he protested.

“The seer saw this,” he reminded the men, watching their grins fade. “The house of Seaforth would eventually die. It was in this very castle that the seer saw the truth.”

A grim silence fell over the men. The prophecy was chilling to every man there. Fathers looked to their sons, mothers to their daughters. It was like fighting the Wisp, something one could not maim or kill.

“The prophecy!” Neil snorted. “Are we to sit back like lambs for slaughter and not defend ourselves? The prediction will come to pass! I am ashamed of you, men of MacKenzie! Think of the Druid spirits this night!”

The men shuddered, afraid of the images evoked in their minds and of the fears that plagued them. Suddenly, capturing one small woman seemed worth it, to redeem themselves against that nameless something whose presence they felt when alone in a misty glen. Aye, it would be worth it, to feel whole again, to cleanse themselves of the sense of futility.

“Are you with me?”

“Aye,” the men responded. Ale jars clinked in unison.

“When is this boat leaving?” Shannon muttered, her breath silvered by the cold.

Marisa stared in silence at the ocean, the unforgiving Atlantic that crashed with monstrous cruelty below. Beyond that pewter plane, a movement had caught her eye. Ships. There seemed to be hundreds, tiny fishing vessels that unnerved her illogically. Or was it illogical? Frowning, Marisa strained to see, relieved when the ferryboat finally sliced through the water toward Ireland.

“What is it?” Sensing her mood, Shannon joined Marisa at the rail, noticing the small fleet that gathered with amazing speed. “Oh, those. Fishing boats, they are. Scots clan, I suppose.”

“Scots…” Inevitably, Marisa was reminded of that day when the MacKenzies crept over the landscape, their kilts blending into the dark green-black of the glens. “Shannon, you don’t suppose—”

“—that they could be MacKenzies!” Shannon hooted at that. “Why would they be here? Although, now that you mention it, is that a green kilt?”

Their eyes met, certain in the discovery, but even then it was too late. The ship slowed, caught in a net of fishing boats. The ferry was being boarded by clansmen, their kilts and flashing red beards an odd sight in the colorless water.

“I am sorry, my lady.” The Scotsman who’d spoken to her earlier stood before Marisa now, garbed in full wartime regalia. “You must come with me.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Kyle stood outside the stone gate of the Sutcliffe mansion, staring thoughtfully at the twisted ironwork above the fence and the huge lion’s head door knocker. Repressing a stirring within of recognition, Kyle’s gaze swung from the mansion house to the gardens, then to the path. There was the place where he’d seen Marisa bathing. That clump of trees was where he’d found her, kissed her. Had he known even then?

Reaching for the knocker, he heard the loud clang before it resounded inside, and his sense of wonder continued. Would Devon be inside? Would perhaps Marisa be living here, as Devon’s wife, surrounded by servants and silver tea trays? The thought tortured him. For the briefest moment, even as Saunders opened the door and stood gaping in surprise at the handsome young Scotsman adorning the stoop, Kyle acknowledged the real reason he’d come.

“May I help you, sir?”

“I’ve come to see the duke,” Kyle responded quickly, breaking out of his reverie. Saunders eyed him suspiciously.

“I wasn’t informed that the duke expected a visitor.”

“Ask him,” Kyle said calmly.

A sudden knowledge came to the butler and he opened the door, studying the Scotsman with a mixture of dread and open curiosity. “Your name?” Saunders’s voice quavered.

“Kyle. MacLeod.” He had little need for his alias here.

The butler’s eyes widened in shock. “I shall inform His Grace of your presence,” Saunders said, his manner changing completely. “Will you wait here?”

Kyle nodded, taking a horsehair chair. It seemed hours later when Saunders returned, though it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes.

“The duke will see you now.”

Following the butler through the twisting corridor, Kyle had vague impressions of dark rooms, dust, little sunlight, and emptiness. Marisa couldn’t be here. Her presence would surely have changed all this, brought a light to this manse.

“Come in,” the duke croaked, waving a clawlike hand at Saunders. “That will do. You may leave now.”

Saunders glanced uncertainly from the sick old man in the poster bed to the radiant godlike being that had entered. He nodded, closing the doors with a hush, resisting the temptation to listen outside.

“You may approach my bed.”

Stepping forward, Kyle could not repress the wave of hatred that struck him when his eyes fell upon the duke, followed by that same odd sense of reality. Their eyes met and clashed, duel swords fought in the same battle, on opposite sides. A vision came to Kyle, that of his mother lying bleeding on the floor, her hand clutching an emerald. A man fleeing the hut, a nobleman, judging from his clothes…

A boy’s memory residing in a man’s body. Kyle knew, with awful clarity, that it was the Duke of Sutcliffe, that this man lying helpless before him was the same man he’d seen that day….

“So you know me.” The duke finally spoke, his voice cracking in the moldy room. “Do you know how long I’ve waited for this day, dreaded it ever happening?”

“You killed her!” Kyle spat, his voice like a flash of lightning, painful and bright.

The duke shook his head. “Not by my hand, I did not. But I may as well have. I am as guilty as if I plunged the knife into her myself.”

Kyle physically restrained himself from falling on the man in the bed, choking the very life from his throat as one would a plump fowl, ready to be cooked. “I should kill you,” Kyle said quietly, when he could speak. “For my mother, I should see you dead.”

“Yes,” the duke agreed.

His response startled Kyle, who expected denials and pleas for his life. The man lying on the bed, a frail corpse of a human, offered neither.

“Sit down, Kyle MacLeod. You wish to know what had happened. I will tell you. I’ve waited a long time for this, knowing that the jewels would bring you, if nothing else. But even at that I failed as a man, for I had not the courage to release them! It was only when my son lost the gems in a card game that you were able to find me.”

Kyle stared with unblinking hatred at the duke. “I do not wish to converse with you,” he said coldly. “Since you want to explain, please do so. My patience wears thin.”

“You are right.” The duke coughed, then, as the spasm passed, he indicated a locked drawer in the nightstand beside him. “The key,” he croaked. “In the pitcher.”

Understanding, Kyle fetched the key, slipping it into the lock and opening the spring. Inside, papers lined the drawer, dozens of sheets of parchment, scrawled with the same wavery writing. Withdrawing the documents, Kyle glanced at the duke, who nodded grimly.

“That explains all, except for the very last, which I dared not pen yet! Men more ill than myself have recovered, and I have no wish to place too many weapons in your hands. Pray take a seat by the fire and read. You may not leave the room with them.” Then, seeing Kyle’s expression, the duke chuckled coldly, “I have but to ring a bell and Saunders will come running, the sheriff will come, and the legendary Angel will be jailed once more. Do not be foolish, Kyle. Take a seat and learn what you must.”

Kyle obeyed, albeit reluctantly. The pages were in order, and he withdrew the first, reading the document with increasing amazement. The duke was so silent Kyle thought that he slept, though when he glanced at the bed, he felt those keen eyes watching with a passion that unnerved even himself. Ignoring the man’s presence, Kyle read.

“I can’t believe this!” Shannon complained as they sat in the wintry tower room above the channel “Kidnapped by Kyle, now by the MacKenzies! You’re dangerous company, Marisa.”

Marisa attempted a smile, though the very effort caused her pain. They had been forced into a boat the size of Marisa’s bathtub in London and rowed, without regard for the crashing waves, to the eastern shore. Gratefully, it was a short trip, for both women nearly expelled the remnants of their last meal under such gentle treatment. Then, to make matters worse, two of the MacKenzies slung them, as if they were kittens, over their shoulders and carried them up into the Highland castle that loomed ahead like a grinning troll.

“And you always thought I was dull,” Marisa managed, ignoring the nerve endings that singed like hot iron tongs.

“I could use a little dullness,” Shannon continued. Her wrists, like Marisa’s, were bound, and she stood with difficulty, bracing her feet against the rungs of a chair. “What is this place, anyway? There’s got to be a way out.”

“It’s the north tower of the MacKenzies’ castle,” Marisa recited thoughtfully. “Kyle told me about it once. The tower is over forty feet from the ground and not in the best repair. The MacKenzies have certainly taken every precaution against a rescue.”

“Pooh,” Shannon replied, “Who would know we were here to rescue us? Unless we can think of a way out, we’re stuck until your father coughs up the ransom.” Remembering Alastair’s tightness with a coin, Shannon turned back, her eyes widening at the thought. “Mari, he will pay…”

“Of course he will,” Marisa said. “That’s the least of our worries. Foremost is, can we escape? I, for one, don’t relish the thought of being a prisoner here for too long.”

“Can’t say I blame you,” Shannon responded. “I saw the way that Neil MacKenzie was staring at you. He’s no Angel, that’s for certain.” Clambering to the window, Shannon peeked down, then plastered herself against the wall.

“Can you see the ground?”

“Aye,” Shannon nodded, refusing to look back. “ ’Tis like the end of the earth down there. Hard black rocks, people the size of grasshoppers, sheep that look like gnats.” Why did it have to be so high?

“We have to try,” Marisa said determinedly. “I’ll think of something. If we could just cut these ropes…”

“Right,” Shannon agreed, amazed at Marisa’s daring. Herself more comfortable with a plan of action, she indicated the chunks of granite scattered nearby from the crumbling walls. “Look for a jagged rock or something.” Joining Marisa in the search, Shannon steadfastly avoided peering down from the window again. Why did it have to be a tower window?

Sitting back in his chair before the fire, Kyle thoughtfully folded the parchment back into its original shape, hardly aware of what he was doing. He stared into the flames, mesmerized by his own thoughts, then finally broke the silence.

“Why?”

“Ah.” The duke smiled, pulling himself upright in the bed and smoothing a quilt over his weak frame. “You are intelligent as well as persistent. The facts are not enough for you.” Suppressing a cough, the duke indicated for Kyle to come closer. When the Scotsman took a seat beside the bed, the duke nodded to the missive.

“The information is all accurate. You may verify it, if you wish. As I have stated, there was a time when the Sutcliffe name was in danger of dying out. The family lost their funds through a series of ill-suited heirs, culminating with my father. He lived the life of an aristocratic pauper, maintaining a facade of wealth when he could scarcely make ends meet. By the time I was a young man, he had lost everything except this estate and a few scattered investments that brought in next to nothing.”

Kyle nodded. More than one English family of noble birth had suffered the same fate, each successive heir losing more of the family inheritance than the one before.

“Naturally, I was urged to make a good marriage and secure a wife with a dowry. Catherine Shrewsbury was suggested; I had little choice. Marry the woman and live out my days in comfort, or lose everything.

“There was nothing to be done. I did what I perceived was my duty. I became Catherine’s husband, and within two years, she bore me a son.”

The fire crackled in the room, throwing ghosts upon the walls and dancing fairies on the floor. The duke reached for a glass of water and Kyle brought him a cup, watching him bathe his heated throat, then gratefully put the drink aside.

“I did not know then what I know now, that the greatest violence would come not of battle, but of love. You see, although I respected the duchess, I neither liked nor admired her. I daresay, she felt the same way about me. I was glad to be gone from her, when the king sent a letter, requesting an investigation of an insurrection at Culloden. It seemed the bloody Scots were at it again, trying to put a Stuart back on the throne. I went off with my men, glad of the opportunity to escape the prison my own house had become.

“Years before that, I had loved a woman, a Scotswoman with a face that a man would dream of. She was a bonnie lass, but more than that, she was as pure of spirit as she was of countenance. I met her in my youth, while serving as an officer in the Royal Forces. The match was unsuitable; it was apparent to both of us, though a woman’s heart is ever a secret. She married a local man—a Scots merchant—whilst I returned to England and my finance. I often wonder what might have been….”

Coughing harshly, the duke regained his breath and nodded, his eyes tearing. “This blasted fever! At any rate, I went to Culloden, as I was assigned. The rest is stated in that document. I found her husband, the man she married. He was left on the battlefield, his coat filled with the jewels of the Scottish clans. In one moment, I saw a way for happiness. I could take the jewels, leave her husband to die, and we could begin a new life. I hastened to tell her the news, without realizing that I had been watched. Alastair Travers was there, at Culloden. He had seen me and used what he knew against me later, though that matters little now….

“I’ll never forget the look on her face when I found her. She said nothing as I spoke, but only picked up one of the gems and held it in her hand. She smiled at me sadly, then plunged a knife into her breast. As she fell to the floor, she told me that she loved her husband, not me, and that I had taken the very life from her!

“You can imagine my thoughts. I held her head in my lap, trying to help her, to force life back into her, but her will to exist was gone. It occurred to me that if I were found there, in this peasant woman’s hut with a dead body, it would go badly for me. I did the cowardly thing. I turned and ran. I vaguely remember seeing a young lad in the road, though I did not know until later that you were accused of the crime.”

“My mother,” Kyle rasped. “Why did you not speak out? Why didn’t you do the decent thing even then?”

“I could not.” The duke fell back onto his sheets, his voice weakened from the effort. “To do so would have implicated myself and perhaps injured my own family. When I heard that you were unjustly accused, I did what I could. It was not accidental that you were not hanged but taken to the colonies. I arranged that. But I had no way of knowing how to find you once you left England. I thought you might return, and that the gems would bring you to me. I was right in that respect.”

“You are a coward,” Kyle said coldly. “There is no excuse for your actions, nor your treatment of my mother, whom you said you have loved. You let her family bear the burden of your own guilt, when you could have spoken out. I will never forget that.”

The duke smiled. “You are so like your father, my boy. In any case, the gems are in that box, on top of my dressing table. I placed them there for you, knowing that they were your legacy. Take them, Kyle MacLeod. And may they bring you more peace than they have me.”

Kyle reached for the box, holding the precious casket, feeling the heavy weight of the wood and the treasure within. Carved and hinged in leather, the box was a fitting resting place for the hope and wealth of the clans. For years this treasure has held me, Kyle thought in wonder, filling my thoughts and capturing my mind. His fingers actually trembled as he opened the lid, the room silent except for the creak of the hinge. Bringing a taper closer, Kyle opened the lid entirely, then gazed inside. The box was empty.

The MacKenzies, well filled with meat and ale, were beginning to get restless. Neil’s eyes shifted impatiently more than once during the meal, toward the stairway that led to the tower. Though a solitary man by nature and a warrior by heart, Neil could not deny the fascination Marisa Travers held for him. It was like the time he’d found a cultured rose, planted outside of a crumbling estate, left to fend for itself in the brutal Highland climate. He’d held the blood-colored blossom with the same awe that Marisa inspired, unable to resist plucking it from its thorny roost, knowing even as he did so that the flower would die. But greater was his need to possess it, to hold its perfect beauty in his grasp even for a short while….