Outlaw's Angel (26 page)

Kyle grinned. “Then you indeed have little to fear. It is obvious she has extremely good judgment about important matters. Although I think I knew from the first that things would turn out this way. I used every excuse I could think of not to let you go, long after it became expedient to do so. Then, when you became ill, Duncan used to say I was sinking in my own guilt.”

“You? Guilty?”

“Of course, my love. After all, I brought you from your home in London to this wild and forbidding place. I kept you for my own selfish reasons, ones which I could not face, even when Duncan tried to force me. You see, I wanted you more than revenge, more than the jewels, more than the myth. I spent weeks trying to eradicate you from my thoughts, but you crept back, like a determined kitten, nuzzling at my heart. I never could have let you go, Marisa. Even the duke knew I had come back to London, not for the jewels, but for you.”

“What did the duke—”

“In good time,” Kyle said, reluctant to speak about a man he’d hated for so long. “I can only say this. The duke wants to make amends for his life. He’s offered to help us in any way he can, for all the trouble he’s caused. I am able to think more kindly of him now, being in love myself.”

Marisa shivered, thinking of the Duke of Sutcliffe. It was hard to believe that Devon’s cold, hard parent would ever change. Keeping her opinions to herself, Marisa folded into Kyle’s protective embrace, forgetting everything but the overwhelming love she felt for this man.

The dimly lit windows of the houses glimmered in the night like the cast-off jewels of a tired harlot. I will not miss any of this, Marisa thought, watching as the carriage rolled past the iron-railed gate into the seaport. Rats squealed from the docks and gruff boatmen carried streaming sacks of shellfish through the wharves, ignoring the damp and dirty seawater that soaked their coats in the brittle night.

America. Marisa could imagine the place across the ocean, the land of savages and wilderness, where a man could build a fortune or die from the elements. Would she survive in the new land? For a brief moment, she thought of her parents. She would miss them so far away. Her eyes misted as she thought of herself as a little girl, her father holding her fondly on his knee, her mother bringing her sweets. But she had Kyle, she reminded herself. He was worth the risk, and he was worth the pain.

As if sensing her mood, Kyle gave her a reassuring kiss, then dismounted the coach and hastened to a large sea shack along the port. Wrapping her cloak more firmly about her, Marisa missed Kyle’s warmth. Outside, she heard someone call for Black Peter. A full-bearded sailor grumbled up from the alehouse, swallowing from a whiskey flask as he walked. He ignored the coach and went to the hut, disappearing into the dark interior.

Marisa wasn’t sure exactly when she knew something was wrong. But long before she saw the first gleam of a horrible bayonet, before she saw the flash of a scarlet jacket in the dismal light from the shack, she felt a premonition of disaster….

“No!” she cried, wrenching the door open and nearly tumbling as her ankle gave out. Redcoats. Dozens of them. They surrounded the hut. Stifling a sob, Marisa saw Kyle led out in irons.

“It’s him all right. The Angel,” one of the redcoats said in satisfaction. “We have a warrant here of treason, signed by the Earl of Argyll himself. Take him.”

“Kyle!” Marisa cried, fighting the officer who tried to help her from the carriage. There was nothing she could do as Kyle was taken away. She whirled toward the redcoat who still held her, her eyes sparkling with pain.

“Let him go! You can’t be certain! What if you have the wrong man?”

“We have a description,” the officer said soothingly. “And the earl seemed to know his every move. He said Kyle MacLeod would try to escape, and that he would have a lovely young woman with him. Do not be afraid, Miss Travers. Your father has been notified and has arranged transportation for you. It was all just a matter of time.”

Gaping at him, Marisa pieced the scene together in her own mind. Suddenly, it all became insultingly clear. They had trapped him, using the most foolproof bait possible—herself.

Chapter Twenty-Five

When she finally returned home, Marisa put up a fight that Shannon was forced to admire. Storming through the great house, barely taking the time to toss her bag at the maid and nod a greeting to her mother, Marisa slammed the door to the sitting room and confronted her father. A vase crashed against a wall and Sara Travers shuddered in apprehension. Shannon gave her a reassuring grin.

“Don’t worry. I’m certain everything’s all right. ’Tis just that Marisa’s upset about Kyle’s capture.”

Sara wrung her hands on a linen handkerchief. “She was always such an obedient daughter! I was not entirely in favor of her marriage to Devon. Mari did not love the man. As her mother, I could see that. I wanted her to be happy, to have love in her life….”

“She loves Kyle,” Shannon said. They were sipping tea in the kitchen, and Shannon saw the maid hide a sympathetic smile. “Mari won’t rest until he’s released.”

“I know. But an outlaw!” Sara couldn’t hide her fear. “Would she ever know peace wed to this Angel?”

“Would she know it without him?” Shannon asked, then winced as the door banged open. The lid of a silver teapot sailed through the room like a shining missile and Alastair retreated with as much cold dignity as he could muster. Astonished, Sara stared at her daughter, who emerged looking as if nothing had happened. Marisa could have been leaving a garden party for all that the argument disturbed her demeanor.

“Well done,” Shannon said, whistling in admiration and accompanying her up the stairs. “I suppose he refused to help?”

“Worse,” Marisa said. “He refused to lift a finger. Then he had the nerve to claim it was all for my own good.” Trembling with frustration, Marisa slumped into a chair in her room and flung her slippers across the floor. “He is so determined that I marry a title that nothing else matters, certainly not my happiness. He’s offered to send me on tour to forget Kyle while he hangs.”

“Sweet of him. What did you say?”

“That’s when I threw the tea tray,” Marisa replied with smooth satisfaction, like a cat who’s just finished a bowl of rich cream. “He decided to beat a hasty retreat when I reached for the coffee pot.”

“So, what are we going to do? We can’t simply let him hang!”

“I’m thinking,” Marisa said sharply. “There has to be a way out of this! My father won’t help.”

“Hell and damnation,” Shannon swore. “That’s what we need. Someone with money, influence. Someone who could persuade the courts…” As if realizing what she had just said, Shannon turned openmouthed to Marisa, seeing recognition in her own eyes.

“The duke!” Marisa nearly leaped from the bed in excitement, recalling that dream she had had when she was ill. Kyle’s mother, holding the emerald. Remember. And Kyle assuring her the duke would always be there to help. “Somehow, he is tied into all of this! If anyone can convince the authorities to free Kyle, it’s His Grace! Quickly, hand me my gown. That’s good, and the cloak.”

“How can we get out tonight? After all, with your ankle, the excitement…”

“I’ll tell my father I want to make it right with Devon.” Marisa shrugged. “Mother is too upset to interfere. You are coming with me?”

“Surely you jest,” Shannon replied. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. There, you look fine. Stop fussing with that gown. Are you sure you want to do this?” Shannon’s nose wrinkled in concern, her gray-green eyes penetrating Marisa’s sharply. “The Duke of Sutcliffe is not the most pleasant person I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.”

“If it would help Kyle, then I care little,” Marisa responded. “Let’s get the coach before I lose my nerve.”

The drive to the Sutcliffe mansion was blissfully short. Marisa forced herself to keep an open mind, to refuse entrance to the thousands of objections that tried to penetrate her brain. Instead, she studied the cobblestones, the gray veil of a cloud that obscured the stars overhead, the bare branches of trees that reached across the road like the outstretched arms of a lost love.

Crushing the physical longing that arose in her, Marisa could not repress the ache that seemed to well up from the pit of her stomach. She had not thought herself capable of caring for a man this much; it was disconcerting to discover the truth now. But the idea was not entirely unpleasant and not without as much joy as pain. Kyle could not die. They had come so far….

Saunders answered the door, surprise and pleasure registering on his normally impassive face. “Miss Travers! Miss O’Hara! I am very glad that you returned unharmed. Unfortunately, Lord Sutcliffe is retired, but if you wish an escort back…”

“I haven’t come to see Devon.” Marisa smiled charmingly before striding into the hall and purposefully handing Saunders her cloak. “I’ve come to see His Grace.”

“The duke?” Saunders looked at the cloak in bemusement, then to Shannon, who smiled sweetly in response. “I’m afraid that is impossible. You see, His Grace has been ill for several weeks and is not receiving visitors. I would be happy to tell him you called and to take any message you wish to give him.”

Their eyes met, Marisa’s pleading and urgent, Saunders’s torn by duty and his own misgivings. Before the dilemma proceeded further, Marisa was startled by a gruff voice in the adjoining library, and the scrape of a door against the hardwood floor.

“Let the chit in, Saunders. It’s obvious that she will embarrass you into doing so eventually, and I’d like to save you some small scrap of dignity.”

Coughing to cover the amused silence that followed, Saunders led the two women into the library, then assumed his most formal air.

“Would you care for tea? Then I will take my leave.” Hushing the door closed behind him, Saunders left Marisa and Shannon.

The duke returned to a huge leather chair that seemed to absorb heat from the fire and reflect it back to the walls. Taking the chair exactly opposite, Marisa studied the face that she’d known since childhood, amazed to discover she knew nothing about this man except that he was Devon’s father. His skin was etched tightly on a face that artistically interested her, for all its prurient imperfection. His cheekbones were gaunt from illness, but his eyes! They gleamed with intelligence and perception, framed in a leather casing that suddenly seemed totally appropriate. Startled, Marisa realized that the duke was studying her as closely as she was him.

“Well, well,” he spoke at last. “So you’ve come. I must say, my life gets more interesting all the time. If you wish to ask about Devon, save your breath. I know nothing of his habits and do not wish to be enlightened.”

“I have not come about Devon.” Marisa’s voice remained firm, much to Shannon’s admiration. “I think you’ve done Devon as much harm as humanly possible in one lifetime; I have no desire to add to his problems.”

“So this is to be an honest discussion?” Rather than being insulted, the duke seemed genuinely intrigued. “Interesting. I had thought—from my own observation, of course—that you had little regard for my son. I am surprised, therefore, to see you rush to his defense.”

“Devon and I have somehow managed to remain friends, in spite of you and my father,” Marisa said softly. “But I have not come to talk of any of that. I need your help. Kyle MacLeod has been arrested.”

The change in his face was so slight that without keen perception, it would have passed unnoticed. Later, Shannon would not recall the shadow of pain, the slight tightening of the flesh around the duke’s face, the brittle, almost glasslike quality that glazed his eyes. But Marisa noticed, though it lasted only a moment. The emotion fled, to be replaced by the familiar, cold demeanor that she’d known since childhood.

“What concern is that of mine?” the duke asked, his voice arrogant. “The man is a traitor, a Scots insurgent, is he not? Hanging is the best of what he deserves.”

“Why, you filthy…”

“Shannon!” Marisa cut the Irish girl short, then forced a polite smile. “Your Grace, I realize that this matters little to you. I can only beg that you reconsider. For the sake of our past relationship, if nothing else.”

“I am sorry,” the duke said. “I would like to help, but I cannot. I no longer involve myself in political matters, and my power is not what it used to be. Out of bland curiosity, however, I would like to know something. How came the lad to be captured?”

“They used me,” Marisa answered. “It seems Kyle has an enemy who has had him followed: the Earl of Argyll. He apparently incited the MacKenzie clan against the MacLeods, hoping to destroy Kyle.”

“I know,” the duke said pensively. “The murder charge is largely circumstantial, especially after all this time. But the British take a dim view of rebels. The earl will have to withdraw his complaint and must testify that he was mistaken about Kyle’s identity.”

“That is impossible,” Marisa said softly. “The earl is afraid of Kyle. He even supplied the MacKenzie clan with bayonets to see that they defeated the MacLeods. He’ll never listen to reason.”

The duke smiled, but this time the smile was cold and oddly calculating. “ ’Tis well the other clans don’t know of this.”

Marisa looked up, alarmed by his tone, as if the matter were merely an afterthought. “But what difference—”

“Do you know nothing of Scotsmen?” the duke asked. “Seeing as you are in love with one, I suggest you study them closely. The clans would rise against the Campbells should they find out about the earl’s involvement.”

“Then you think there is hope?”

“I am sorry, Miss Travers. I cannot help you. I would advise you to forget this man. Now, will you please go? My health is not the best these days.” Waving a webbed claw dismissingly, the duke turned back toward the fire.

Before Shannon could brandish the brandy bottle she was eyeing, Saunders appeared with their cloaks. Summoning all her dignity, Marisa took her coat and gracefully exited, refusing to allow the duke to see the crystalline tears that sparkled from her lashes. She stepped into the coach with a presence Shannon was forced to admire, though she was all for throttling the man and to hell with convention. The doors of the hall closed behind them, and with that, their last hope.

Devon waited until the women had gone before approaching the library. Toying with the curtain, he stoked up the fire and paced the room until the duke interrupted him irritably.

“What is it, Devon? Ask me, for the love of God, and stop this endless puttering!”

Ignoring his outburst, Devon stared out the window before answering. The fire snapped; an owl hooted somewhere on the estate; the sounds of withdrawing horses crunched on the gravel. When the coach retreated, Devon spoke casually.

“Why didn’t you tell her?”

“That’s an interesting question.” In a voice strangely charged with emotion, one that would have been unrecognizable to the rest of London, the duke smiled coldly. “Why didn’t I take the chit into my confidence, tell her that I have already made inquiries and that I will do my damnedest to get Kyle MacLeod freed?” The duke laughed shortly. “It didn’t suit me to do so, that’s why.”

Devon did not smile. “No, perhaps not. But then, doing the decent thing never does.”

“The decent thing,” the duke smiled. “You are one to talk of decency. What is it, Devon? Did the gaming hall turn unlucky or did your latest trollop give you more than a kiss?”

“Damn you!” Devon tossed his glass in a futile gesture that seemed even less impressive as the vessel rolled back, intact, to his feet. “Jesus,” he swore, nudging the crystal glass with his toe.

“That is why I did not confess”—the duke indicated the glass—“because it would have helped nothing. You forget, Alastair Travers has a vested interest in keeping this man behind bars. To tell Marisa might accidentally give Alastair information, though the chit has more intelligence than most. As it is, the matter will be taken care of. The earl, a reasonable man when the argument is presented well, has already sent me a letter exonerating Kyle. My own testimony about the murder will finish the case before it ever gets to court.” The duke raised cold eyes to his son, inspecting him as thoroughly as a shopkeeper would a flawed silk. “I am, however, confused by your own interest in this matter. Why do you wish to help the girl? She rejected you.”

Devon grinned. His father, like this, he could deal with. Sometimes. “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you? Marisa and I are friends. I know, it’s something you don’t understand. It’s not sexual; it doesn’t involve money, nor power.”

“I am amazed you managed not to sleep through it, then,” the duke said, raising his glass to his lips with shaking hands.

“Perhaps it’s a cause,” Devon smirked. “We all need one, and apparently Kyle MacLeod is yours. I’d like to know why, and if hell freezes over, I plan to find out.”

“Be careful when you talk about hell,” the duke replied, placing the glass aside with a satisfied air. “You may find your own little hell, my boy, in the least likely place. Now hand me that brandy bottle before it, too, goes to waste. I have an errand to run this night.”

The carriage had scarcely cleared the driveway when Marisa called out to the coachman, “Newgate, and hurry! I wish to get there this night!”

“Newgate?” Shannon looked at Marisa as if doubting her sanity. “We can’t go to the prison, alone and unescorted! What on earth are you thinking?”

“Shannon, I have to do something. I can’t just let him die!”

“And what are we going to do about it?” Shannon questioned impatiently. “Mary, Mother of God! Newgate! Mari, I’d like to help you, but this is too much!”

“It’s not impossible.” Marisa drew nearer to Shannon in the coach, her eyes sparkling with intelligence. “Shannon, do you remember when that Irish rebel escaped from jail last summer?”

“Aye,” Shannon responded, her voice suspicious. “When the man’s sisters entered the cell, overtook the guards, and helped him out?”

“Right,” Marisa nodded. “Well?”

“Oh, no.” Shannon’s mouth dropped when she realized Marisa was serious. “There’s no way we’re going to do anything like that! Are you mad? British prisons are not something I wish to be intimately acquainted with!”

“You don’t have to come,” Marisa said. “You could wait here….”