Outlaw's Angel (24 page)

He had to be, Marisa thought. Somehow, the fabric of their being had slowly been knit together. She could feel his presence, know that he was not too far. She could almost feel his thoughts. Smiling in relief, Marisa crawled beneath a tree, the only possible shelter, and slept, dreaming of Kyle.

Outside, Neil stormed impatiently at Robert, the MacKenzie scout. His wrist still bandaged from the battle with the MacLeods, the former warrior nevertheless appeared shaken and more than a bit bewildered.

“Speak, man! Don’t stand there quaking. What is it?”

“He’s come, sir. The Angel.”

Neil’s mouth dropped, first in surprise, then in amusement. “The Angel? Are ye daft, man? Kyle MacLeod could never have found out so quickly, and by the time he did, it would take days for him to get here.”

“Not if he had a change of mounts ready,” Melville said. “And being the Angel, I’m certain he had. How else could he have gotten in and out of the country so many times without discovery?”

“But still, he couldn’t have been spotted from here yet….”

“That’s not what the villagers said.” Robert shuddered, then helped himself to a whiskey, drinking a good amount of the fiery brew.

“What did they say?” His curiosity aroused, Neil couldn’t help but ask.

“They said they saw Lucifer himself, riding on a night-black horse with smoke coming from its mouth and a horrible glitter in his eyes.” A hush followed his words, and the men looked to each other, wanting to see a disbelieving grin and finding only their own fears reflected in the face beside them.

“Go on,” Neil said disdainfully, though some of his bravado had disappeared.

“Each man that saw it blessed himself, unable to forget the apparition. He should be approaching by dawn, God rue the day.”

No one spoke. Melville stopped smiling; the other men stared directly into the fire, unable to share what they felt. Fighting a MacLeod was one thing; fighting a supernatural force, another.

“I declare, he conjured that ghost in the swamp….” one man whispered quietly.

“Aye, and brought his leader back from the grave,” said another.

“Seaforth!” whispered a third.

“That’s enough!” Neil’s eyes blazed at the men. “I will go and look for myself!”

The night was moist black velvet. The rapidly retreating moon shone like thin ice, changing the streets to rivers and the rivers to gleaming ore beds. The Sound of Sleat glimmered in the distance, the unrelenting waves crying in misery, like a lost lover. The familiar oak trees rattled in the night wind, the few remaining leaves shaking like bats. Neil crossed himself, thinking of the tales of old, of other, more primitive men that would have understood all this. The prophecy came back to haunt him and he pushed the thought from his mind, aware that he could be as easily defeated from his fears as a man, and yet…

He saw nothing. But he could see without eyes, sense Kyle’s presence somewhere out in that blackness, a blackness made for demons and witches and things that went bump in the night. Turning fearfully back inside, he posed a brave front and chastised the men.

“ ’Tis naught but the rustle of oak leaves. And ye call yourself MacKenzies?”

The men grinned in unison, touching a cup to their neighbors’, trying to force a cheerfulness they no longer felt. Aye, it was oak leaves, they told each other, wishing the dread would leave their souls.

A shepherd’s hut. Shannon nearly fainted in relief when she found the tiny door, long since rotted from wind and foul weather, but an entranceway nevertheless. Kicking the remains of the oak panel with her boot, she managed to make an opening large enough to permit her slender body to slip through, into the hut.

It was worse than she’d imagined. An icy wind blasted her from a window, the opening barely discernible so obscured was it by dying weeds and creeping vines. Blocking the portal with the plentiful hay, Shannon thankfully found a tinderbox placed near a pile of cinders that served as a fireplace. Striking a spark, she ignited a generous portion of hay and from that made a fire.

The room seemed instantly friendlier. Glancing about in the lemon firelight, Shannon noticed a table and a chair, a filthy mattress filled with straw, a kettle, and the rotted remains of a shepherd’s meal. Squirrels rustled indignantly from the cupboard, and other woodland creatures protested noisily at her intrusion. But to Shannon, the place was a godsend. Marisa could stay warm and rest her leg until they found help.

Stuffing some straw beneath her cloak for warmth, Shannon climbed back out of the hut, her heart lighter. One part of the problem had been solved; they’d found shelter. As if hearing her thoughts, a wolf cried mournfully, the sound echoing over the frozen land like a death toll. Forcing the thought from her mind, Shannon hurried through the darkness, looking for Marisa. But the moonlight had disappeared. The sky was a menacing grey-black, the land an opaque void that yielded no direction. Shaking, Shannon fought the panic that rose within her. Marisa was alone out there with an injury. Praying silently, Shannon called to her friend, wondering how in God’s name they would get help out of this one.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The approach of dawn was barely noticeable as the snow fell, the thick, feathery flakes successfully hiding even the waxy sheen of a morning sun. Kyle sat mounted on Damien, just on the west side of Loch Goil, directly across from Carrick Castle. Already frosted with snow and painted with ice crystals, the place looked more like a sugar castle in a child’s fairy story than a dungeon harboring some of the most vicious men in Scotland. A silence hung around the place, emphasized by the drifting snowfall and the muffled quiet of the lake. Marisa was somewhere within those walls. Studying the structure carefully, Kyleb noted each gable and turret, accounting for every room according to his memory. It had been years since he’d last set foot inside the MacKenzie stronghold; in fact, he had been less than nine years old when his father had sought to procure a hunting agreement with the MacKenzies. A sword cut was his response, a humiliation that Kyle never forgot, which induced him years later to learn everything he could about fencing.

The main hall was directly before him. Instinctively, Kyle’s eye shifted to the tower; it was old and crumbling, a tribute to the Vikings who had wreaked as much havoc upon the MacKenzies as they could before eventually intermarrying and producing the race that resided here now. The tower…

Wasting no further time, Kyle urged Damien forward. His mount pawed restlessly, snorting and tossing its head. Kyle wondered at this strange behavior until he saw a movement in the brush ahead. A scout. Kyle smiled coldly, amazed he had not thought of it before. Even in peacetime, the MacKenzies expected war and prepared for it. Slipping quietly from his mount, Kyle slammed the lad over the head with the blunt end of his blade and watched him slump to the ground. He was a young lad, sixteen if a day, and slender. But his height was that of a man. Thoughtfully, Kyle removed his garments and replaced them with the hated green tartan. He couldn’t expect his disguise to succeed if he came too close to any of the MacKenzies, but from a distance and with the snowfall, it just might help….

“What ho, lad!” Melville saw his approach and shouted from the door. Instantly, Kyle froze, uncertain of his course of action. He could risk an attack and have the entire clan upon him, or he could brazen it out. Waving a hand disgruntledly, Kyle muttered a reply.

“Nay, ’twas nothing. A pheasant, perhaps.”

“Aye, the woods are full of ’em this time of year. Stay warm in the snow, lad!” Uneager to chill his own body by checking any further, Melville was more than content to withdraw and take his place by the fire. Let the young lads hold guard duty in such weather.

Kyle’s body relaxed as the man retreated, his full red beard disappearing from sight as quickly as it had come. The clan was not flawless, then. Smiling at his good luck, Kyle hastened through the cover of snow to the tower.

No one approached. No one questioned him or ran for help. Standing beneath the great cylindrical wall, Kyle could see but one solution: to scale it. Ice clung to every foothold and snow rapidly filled in every crevice, making a fall likely and deadly. The water crashed below, reminding him of the result should he slip. Bracing his knee against the wall, he stepped into the first foothold he could find and slowly began to ascend the tower.

Shannon finally found her. After hours of walking in what had to be circles, brushing away the stinging snow and listening to the horrible sound of a wolf baying, Shannon found Marisa huddled beneath an oak grove. Already a thin coverlet of snow obscured Marisa’s cloak and frosted her hair like sparkling jewels. Sighing in relief, Shannon shook Marisa awake, mentally calculating the distance back to the hut.

“Mari, come on, it’s starting to snow. Are you all right?” Alarmed, Shannon noticed the disoriented look in Marisa’s eyes, the confused way she surveyed the landscape.

“I don’t know.” Puzzled, Marisa looked up through gently sifting snowflakes, wondering what she had dreamed and what was real. She almost resented returning to reality, a reality that became painful as soon as she tried to stand.

“Mari!” Grasping Marisa’s waist, Shannon wrapped Marisa’s arm around her shoulders and braced her slender body against her own.

“Shannon, I can’t.” Nearly sobbing in pain and frustration, Marisa gasped as her ankle throbbed uncontrollably. Each step brought a new threshold of agony and she bit her lip, fighting to control her tears. “Leave me here. I’ll only slow you down, I cant walk.”

“It’s not that far,” Shannon said, trying to remain optimistic. “I’ve found a hut just a few feet away. There’s a fire inside. At least you can stay warm.” Until what, Shannon wasn’t sure. They were lost, somewhere in the wilds of Scotland, alone and defenseless. Without food or water they might last a few days, but not much more. Silently, Shannon worried, although for once she said little.

“A hut?” Marisa grimaced as a fresh pain lanced through her. “Shannon, I’m not sure…”

“You once walked all the way from my house to yours after scraping half the skin from your knees. Remember? You were climbing that old cherry tree, I think.”

“Yes.” Marisa smiled, stumbling beside Shannon. “That was when you decided to look in old lady Fallon’s bedroom window.”

“How was I to know she was watching?” Shannon shrugged. “Scared the life from you.”

“And you,” Marisa said, blinking away the snow that now stung her eyes. “You wouldn’t go back for weeks.”

“Could you blame me? When my mother heard about that…well, it was enough to convince me the woman was a witch.”

“It took a month before my leg healed properly. I thought my own mother would have apoplexy.”

“Scrapes are good for little girls,” Shannon said philosophically. “It makes them more interesting people, although I could stand you being more boring these days.”

“You’re never content,” Marisa replied. They continued in the same manner, Shannon distracting Marisa when the pain got bad, Marisa raising Shannon’s spirits when her friend was faltering. Neither of them mentioned the snow, the wolves, nor the sundry other things that might have caused them to give up. Unbelievably, just when Marisa felt she couldn’t take another step, a slender column of smoke appeared like a welcome landmark on a map.

“There it is!” Shannon said, amazed herself. “See! And you didn’t think I knew where I was going.”

“That’s because you didn’t,” Marisa replied.

Blissfully, the hut closed around her, welcoming her within its warm embrace, and she collapsed onto the straw mattress.

The tower was empty. Kyle scanned the room in confusion, ignoring his palms that still bled from scaling the wall and the hot, painful burning in his lungs. Marisa was gone. How could he have been wrong? Of all the rooms in the castle, this one was the most likely to contain prisoners, and yet…

Striding across the crumbling granite floor, Kyle picked up a remnant of rope. The edge was frayed, as if someone had rubbed it repeatedly against a dull object, like a chunk of rock. Searching through the rubble, he found another such rope and quickly pieced together the rest. Marisa had escaped. Somehow, she had managed to cut through her bindings and disappear. Had she been successful, or had the MacKenzies found her, perhaps taking her elsewhere?

The heavy sound of footsteps echoed outside, followed by the squeaking protest of an opening door. Instinctively, Kyle pressed close to the wall, his hand caressing the hilt of his sword. Even if he were to die now, he would take one of Marisa’s tormentors with him.

A man entered, carrying a tray of food. At first Kyle thought him to be some sort of lackey, but when he slammed the tray down with an enraged roar and turned around quickly, Kyle recognized him instantly.

Neil MacKenzie. Kyle experienced a strange satisfaction that it should be him and not some paltry servant. The Scotsman’s eyes widened in the darkness as he recognized the man in the shadows. The fading moonlight touched Kyle’s hair, bringing out his Celtic past, making him appear angelic in a deadly way. Neil took in the green tartan he wore—obviously the way he had slipped past the guard—and the sword that glimmered with a sickening promise from his thigh.

“Kyle MacLeod.” A shudder passed through Neil as Kyle stepped from the shadows, framed in silvered moonlight. The Angel. It couldn’t be, and yet…Glancing about the room, Neil growled menacingly. “Where is she? What have you done with her?”

“That was my question to you,” Kyle said, his manner like ice, his face implacable. Neil fought to keep from crossing himself. The man he feared above all others stood across from him now, his grey eyes glittering coldly, reminding him of a feral beast. Neil was not one to fear easily, but when he looked into those eyes, he did not see a human expression. He saw death.

“You’ve taken her, haven’t you?” Neil grumbled, reaching for his sword. There was nothing to do but to strike out, and hope to strike first.

Kyle smiled; Neil was chilled to the bone. In a smooth, fluid motion, he reached for his own weapon, balancing it in his hand like an offering. For a moment, Neil experienced a panic he had not felt in years, since the first time he’d ever faced another man’s sword. His Celtic instincts were fully aroused, and he was overwhelmingly aware that this was no mere Scotsman he fought. For the first time in his life, Neil believed the legends. He almost regretted capturing Marisa and bringing this scourge down upon his head.

With a startling cry, Neil fought his fears, summoning the primitive war instinct inbred in all the MacKenzies, the sweet sensual flow of blood that precipitated a battle. Charging Kyle, Neil brought his sword down in a thick arc that sang a death song in the air.

Kyle saw him coming and parried, fending off the attack with all of his strength. Neil was taller and heavier than himself, but for every advantage of one’s opponent, there was an equal disadvantage. Douglass had taught him that, as a lad. So while size was in Neil’s favor, agility and intelligence were not. Bringing his sword back up, Kyle deftly fended off a blow and neatly cut Neil’s shoulder.

It was a warning and he knew it. Neil barely felt the cold kiss on his shoulder as his outrage exploded. “Damn you, MacLeod!” he shouted, thrusting toward Kyle with a ferocity that was appalling.

They were within arm’s reach now, Kyle’s sword deflecting Neil’s through sheer willpower. Sweat beaded on Neil’s forehead and he struggled to release his blade, his own fear welling anew. Kyle would kill him. It was as simple as that. Suddenly, Neil knew the outcome, and although he fought with renewed energy and panic, he gasped as Kyle’s sword escaped his grip and slid neatly into his throat. Blood spilled down the front of his shirt, Neil noticed with detachment, a warm wetness that took his life force from him. The last thing he saw in this life was the Angel, standing over him with the expression he’d seen so often in his dreams.

It was over. Wiping the blood from his sword, Kyle watched as the last great leader of the MacKenzies died, his spirit taking the house of Seaforth with him. Although he had not called out as other men had done on the battlefield, losing all pride as their life hung in balance, somehow the clan had been alerted. It was as if they could sense the presence of their leader gone, the way sheep sometimes panicked when their shepherd disappeared. Footsteps resounded outside and the door burst open with a golden flood of torchlights.

The MacKenzies stared in horror at the sight that met their eyes. Marisa was gone, the room devoid of any living human except Kyle MacLeod. He stared them down, his eyes glittering strangely the way a predator does in the darkness, carefully watching his prey. They saw his sword dripping with blood, his hands awash with it, Neil bathed in it. “Seaforth!” Melville whispered, aghast. Their primitive instincts aroused, not a man made a move to stop Kyle as he backed away from them and out the window, leaving a bloody print on the snow-covered sill. They did not follow him as he scaled the wall once more, then dropped to the earth like a prehistoric bat, his cloak flapping behind him, his face the spectre of death.

So they are afraid, Kyle realized, of me. The thought was puzzling, yet exhilarating at the same time. It is all in the mind, Kyle thought in amazement. Neil went into battle, expecting to die, and I went in, expecting to succeed. Is it at once so simple and yet so complex?

He slipped through the darkness before the MacKenzies had time to rally. Mounting Damien, Kyle rode off into the darkness to find Marisa.

Dawn burst through the holes in the tiny hut with shafts of dust-spangled sunlight. Shannon counted innumerable crescents of gold on the walls and the floor, amazed that the hut had provided any protection at all. But the fire still burned, lending a meager warmth to the dirt-floored cottage, and a few rusted utensils decorated the table, offering usable vessels. Now, if they could just find food and water…

“Morning,” Shannon said brightly as Marisa opened her eyes, gazing about the room. The sunlight blinded her and the wind blew with a cold chill, but the straw that made up the bed was warm and provided a surprising amount of comfort. “How’s the foot?”

“Better,” Marisa said truthfully, testing the injured ankle. Prickles of pain still danced along her nerve endings, but it wasn’t as bad as the night before.

“The swelling seems better,” Shannon remarked. “Looks like the bandage did some good.”

“Where are we?” Marisa attempted to sit up, ignoring the stabbing sensation in her joints.

“I haven’t the faintest idea. But at least we have some shelter. We’re somewhere in the Highlands, but other than that, I haven’t a clue.”

“I dreamed Kyle was coming,” Marisa said, smiling softly. “Something has happened, something terrible. I dreamed that Kyle had to kill someone, and that a light had gone out in the world like a candle at a window. You think I’m silly, I know.”

“No, I don’t.” Shannon shivered. Marisa had had premonitions in the past and they had always had an eerie reality to them. There was the time she’d dreamed that Shannon was coming, when Shannon had thought to surprise her. Marisa had answered the door with a calm expectation of her presence, which was frightening as well as reassuring.