Outlaw's Angel (28 page)

Douglass was seated at the castle table, a mug of ale in one hand, a pretty wench in the other. In all, things were going well. The MacKenzie clan, incited by fears that the mystical Angel might materialize again, were momentarily leaving the MacLeods in peace, affording Douglass time to reinvest the meager earnings from the previous year in the hopes of the next. The other clans, weakened by emigration and the new alliance with England, had their own troubles, and had little time to clash dirks with the MacLeods or any other clan.

The Highlands, resplendent with a sparkling white coverlet of snow, seemed to be waiting, watching, giving the Scots time to renew. It was, after all, winter. A time of hibernation and waiting, when hope was at its lowest ebb. Sighing loudly, Douglass released the castle maid, indulging in drink and thinking of the days of old, when Kyle had wrested jewels from the hands of British ladies.

As if hearing his thoughts, Mac spoke out loud. “He will come back. Kyle is still the Angel, married or not married, colonies or no colonies. The land is in his blood.”

“Ha!” Douglass snorted, blowing the chaff from his beer. “Ye know little of men, lad. There is nothing for Kyle here. In the colonies, a man could get rich, could put down roots. If ye have half a brain, you’ll go there with him. Kyle could help ye get a start.”

“I will not go,” Mac said sullenly, his adolescent face painfully drawn. “Someone has to try to fight the battles.” Staring silently out the castle window at the vast emptiness beyond, Mac continued quietly. “How long did you know?”

“About his parentage?” Douglass shrugged. “Since he was a babe. His mother—a soft pretty little thing, all cotton down and cherry cheeks—she told me when he was still in nappies. Someone had to look out for the lad. Flora knew he’d have enemies; he still does. While the earl lives, Kyle will never be completely free. Fortunately, he is made of sterner stuff than his mother.”

“Flora was weak?” Mac turned to look at Douglass, his eyes far too worldly for his years, and far too afraid. Douglass smiled.

“No, she wasn’t weak in the general sense. In some ways, she was wonderfully strong. Imagine keeping such a secret so many years! She took care of the child alone, refused charity, raised him until she could no longer bear it.”

“But why you? What did she want you to do?”

“To protect him as best I could,” Douglass said. “You see, she knew Kyle, knew that he had much of his father in him. The lad would search his entire life for vengeance and never find happiness. Flora did not want that for him. He needed to learn that only through loving someone else could he ever be at peace.”

Mac was about to protest, but then he remembered Marisa and the way she looked at Kyle, as if nothing else in the world existed. And Kyle would return that look, like two candles exchanging a secret light, one that strengthened and fortified them. A thousand pictures flooded his mind to reassure him, from Marisa’s happy smile to Kyle’s hidden contentment. Was it really at once so simple and yet so complicated?

Douglass saw his expression and nodded. “Have ye noticed anything different?”

Rousing from his thoughts, Mac eyes Douglass critically. Beer stained his shirt, his belly expanded in a firm roll over his trousers as always, his eyes sparkled with the same black essence that they always did. His mouth was curved in a droll smile, as if guarding some unfathomable secret, but otherwise, Douglass was Douglass.

“No.”

“Listen.”

The wind blew, rustling through the heather and ending in a cacophony amid the trees overhead. Mac could hear the Highlanders arguing, the maids talking quietly, the clatter of dishes and the slamming of ale cups. Otherwise, nothing.

“She’s going, lad. The crying.”

She was indeed. Mac’s hand tightened on his cup as the familiar wail diminished, then disappeared forever. The hallways became silent, the clansmen stopped their drinking to listen, one of the maids dropped a plate. The sudden cessation of a sound they’d heard so often they no longer paid it heed was more dramatic than a crash.

“Here’s to you, lady.” Douglass lifted his cup. “May ye rest in peace.”