Outlaw's Angel (4 page)

Marisa stiffened, facing him abruptly, her body turned backward in the saddle.

“What do you plan to do with me?”

She had meant her voice to sound scathing, but whether it was fatigue or dread that changed it to a soft whisper, she couldn’t tell. Kyle traced a finger along her chin in a subtle caress.

“Are you so eager to discover your fate? You make me wonder you aren’t more afraid. Or perhaps you are still curious?” His smile grew wider as Marisa gasped, then before she could respond, he kicked up the horse. Marisa grabbed the mane, feeling his laughter behind her, even as she silently cursed him.

They rode more slowly and confidently now, the intensity of the previous day gone. The sun had set when they reached a small village. The sea lay just beyond, a black and silver plane mottled with starlight. Brighton? Marisa thought in wonder. It couldn’t be; they’d been riding for two days. Unless he’d turned back…But why wouldn’t he get as far from London as he could?

The Scotsman led the troop through the town, not pausing until he came to a tavern. Light and noise spilled out into the street, a strange contrast to the silence of the sleeping town. Kyle swung down from his horse, tossing the reins to a red whiskered groom. Reluctant, Marisa hesitated.

“I should think the tavern more comfortable than the stables, my lady,” Kyle said. “However, if you don’t agree, you are welcome to join Damien.”

Ignoring the light laughter about her, Marisa could do nothing but slide from the saddle with as much dignity as she could muster. Inside, the walls stretched to accommodate the crowd. Pirates and miscreants, gamblers and thieves made up the group. Well-endowed barmaids carried huge tankards of ale, moving with well-practiced rhythm between the tables and chairs. All eyes fell on Marisa as she entered, making her aware of her appearance. Her ivory gown now appeared a dank yellow, the rain having long since ruined the satin material. Her hair lay scattered about her shoulders, in spite of her attempts to knot it, and her face was pale from the rain and chill. She lifted her head and faced them, refusing to look away, until Kyle placed her behind him. The barmaids shrugged to each other; then one, a buxom redhead, sauntered over to Kyle.

“Wot can I do for ye?”

Flushing as the woman perused her curiously, Marisa heard the invitation in her voice as the wench smiled at Kyle. The Scotsman smiled back, then gestured to a table in the far corner.

“That will do. Bring us a meal and some drink.”

“Surely. But, there is one thing. We have to get payment first. Sorry, love.” She shrugged apologetically, and Kyle nodded.

“Here. There’s enough for the food and for the night. You can tell your innkeeper to prepare rooms for us while we wait.”

The barmaid took the pouch he tossed her, astonished as she surveyed the contents. She tucked it into her blouse and nodded, returning a moment later with several large tankards of ale. Ignoring the one placed before her, Marisa’s eyes flitted quickly around the room. There was little possibility for escape; the tavern had but one door and one window. Realistically, she had no idea where they were nor where she could go for help. Her eyes met Kyle’s and he grinned.

“There is no help for it; you can’t escape. And if you are thinking of asking one of these noble gents for help, please reconsider. That one lad over there…see him, the one with the red scarf?”

“That young boy?” Marisa saw a youth leaning against the bar, his face still unshaven.

Kyle nodded. “He escaped from jail just a few weeks ago. The charge was murder. He says he didn’t mean to kill that trollop, but she overcharged him for the night.”

If he meant to frighten her, he succeeded. Drawing a quick breath, Marisa studied the young boy, amazed to see him finish off an ale, then pull a plump tavern wench into his arms. Wincing, she reached for her ale and drank deeply of the strong brew.

“The others have an equally quaint history. I do not wish to bore you with the details, only to warn you that such men aren’t to be trusted.”

“And what of you?” Marisa couldn’t help but ask. She suddenly remembered the story about the Angel….He’d been wanted for murder, for the killing of his own mother.

“Me?” Kyle laughed. “I’m to be trusted least of all.”

“Why have you brought me here?”

“Come now, miss. Show me some of that intelligence that you so foolishly displayed earlier. Why would I bring you here?”

“Because…no one here would turn you in…for kidnapping me. You are safe.”

“Precisely,” Kyle nodded. “And because you show an alarming propensity for trouble. As it is, we shall have to take our meal upstairs. Bedraggled as you are, these men haven’t seen a real woman in quite some time. I believe you are close to creating a scene.”

Marisa glanced up, amazed to see that he was right. Several burly sailors stared bluntly in her direction, while a gambler tried to attract her attention from the card table. Kyle pulled her to her feet, not giving her time enough to think or even attempt to flee, if she had such a thought. He hesitated only long enough to press some sort of a message into the hands of one of his men, a bold Scotsman who seemed more of a friend than merely a follower. Reading the note, the man nodded and slipped out again into the night.

Kyle led her, without incident, upstairs. Marisa could do nothing except follow him to a dark and unclean room. The chamber boasted a fire, small though it was, and a table set with smoking dishes. Food, real food. Forgetting her pride, she fell upon it, opening the cream-colored dishes and revealing pink slices of ham, the perpetual potatoes, some summer vegetables, and even a carafe of wine. The pouch must have contained quite a bit of money, Marisa thought, ignoring Kyle’s mocking smile as she ate. He joined her, and subconsciously he imitated the neat way she held the utensils, making Marisa wonder again about this outlaw. Only now, when they were alone, did she notice him give favor to his injured shoulder. He absently rubbed at the wound, wincing as a fresh spot of blood soaked through the white linen of his shirt. Feeling his eyes on her, she finished the food, placing her fork self-consciously on the table.

He was drinking wine, filling her glass and admonishing her to join him. Marisa complied, wondering if the wine would make it easier. She hadn’t been able to ignore the bed; it occupied much of the room, reminding her that she was alone with him and completely in his power. Her eyes averted quickly when they met his. Marisa heard his light chuckle as he leaned back in his chair, and she sensed this time of waiting was at its end.

“Aren’t you going to get out of those wet clothes?”

Marisa’s head flew up, her green eyes wide. He shrugged and gestured to the fire.

“I don’t know when you’ll have another chance to get warm and comfortable. You can hang that dress there, on that quilt rack, and it might just dry by morning.”

Summoning all the dignity she could muster, Marisa pushed away from the table and stood up. The wine made her feel slightly dizzy; she shouldn’t have drunk so much of it so fast. But even as she steadied herself, her hand gripping the chair, she managed to answer him quite coolly.

“Thank you for your concern, but I’m certain I’ll be quite comfortable. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll just take this chair here and try to get some sleep.”

His laughter unnerved her. That, and the sound that followed, the click of his trigger as he laid the horse pistol on the table beside him. Casually, he watched her, his eyes never leaving hers. They were fringed by black lashes, pools of sparkling gray.

“You have a choice,” he said, his voice cool and remote. “You can take off the dress by yourself, or I can assist you. Which do you prefer?”

Too much wine, Marisa realized. She was unable to think clearly. But she had enough presence of mind to brazen it out. “I am not your whore, and I will not strip for you.” She lifted her chin, returning his stare, her courage weakening when she saw the determined expression he wore.

“Not for me, but you will for a duke or a lord.” He spoke as if sorting facts for himself. “Then I take it you require help.” He lifted himself from the chair, taking a step toward her.

“Don’t you come any closer!” Marisa said, panicking. She reached for the gun, made a quick grab for it, and was amazed when she managed to grip the weapon. Balancing the heavy piece in both hands, she aimed it directly at his heart.

“Dear me,” he grinned, enjoying the spectacle. “Does this mean what I think it does? Delightful family. First your father shoots me, now his daughter. I can’t wait to meet the rest of the Traverses.”

“Don’t move,” Marisa said, edging toward the door.

“Believe me, I have no intention of it. I shouldn’t want you to get nervous and blow a hole through me. Especially since I’m your best bet here tonight.”

“What do you mean?” Marisa paused at the door, the gun precariously weaving at her handsome target.

He smiled. “I think I explained what sort of company we have below. Do you wish to join them? You may find it more interesting than only myself, it’s true, but you’d discover it difficult to escape, lying on your back.”

Marisa hadn’t thought of that, but it was true. Those men below who leered at her…She shuddered, refusing to complete the thought. Facing him directly, she indicated the chair.

“Sit back down there. I still have the gun.”

“Do you mean to hold it on me all night? You may get tired after the first five or six hours. I’m incredibly lazy, you know. I plan to enjoy a full night’s sleep.” He smiled, his face unfairly handsome and charming, robbing her of any sense of pride. “Now be a good girl and give me back the gun.”

“No.” Marisa wondered whence this courage; from the wine, no doubt. That, and fear.

“Give me the gun.” His voice was seductive, entrancing. He walked toward her, absolutely no hesitancy in his step, not even as moist blood appeared from his wound. Her hands shaking, Marisa lifted the gun higher, drawing back the trigger. He was three feet away, then two….She couldn’t force her fingers closed, couldn’t make herself do it. Her teeth clenched in frustration, she could do nothing as he peeled the weapon from her hand and put it safely away on the side table. She was trapped, his legs on either side of her, his arms enfolding lightly around her shoulders, gently caressing the smooth satiny slopes. Huge green eyes stared up at him and he smiled, his finger tracing the outline of her cheekbones, now washed with color.

“Would you have killed me, my English rose? ’Tis good that I thought not; otherwise it would do me well to see to your end. You’ve been much braver and smarter than most other women. What has frightened you so much now? I only wished to see to your comfort.” He grinned as she struggled, obviously excited by her feeble maneuvers. “You keep that up and I will forget myself. Relax, my conceited beauty. I do not lie with every pretty girl I kiss, even if she kisses me back.”

“You!…” Gasping, Marisa tried to break free, but she only succeeded in trapping herself more. Her skirts wrapped tightly about her legs in a damp, satin cage. She shivered as he undid the hooks, feeling cold air along her back and spine. The dress fell to the floor with her shift, a sodden weight released from her body. She reached for it, but with a swift kick of his polished boot, the garment landed close to the fire. Nearly sobbing, Marisa crossed her arms over her breasts as he released her, stepping back a bit.

“You are lovely.” He gazed at her with open admiration. Marisa blushed as his eyes travelled freely over her naked body, lingering in an intoxicating caress where she crossed her arms, and lower. He reached for the wine bottle, his eyes never leaving her, his gaze drinking fully of her charms. In the dim firelight, her skin seemed like ivory, perfectly carved, flawless. Her small breasts looked fuller with her attempts to conceal them, and her slender legs were wonderfully shaped, a masterpiece of petal-like skin and muscle. His hand reached out and touched her, a soft gentle caress as it followed a curl of her disheveled hair down to her shoulders, then onto her breast.

To her intense shame, Marisa felt a rising spark, somewhere deep within her, in response to his touch. Even before he bent his head and kissed her, the blood flowed more quickly through her veins, burning her, making her aware of the rough surface of his hands, the buttons of his shirt as he embraced her, the perfect meld of her body with his as they fitted together. His mouth took hers with unrestrained desire. It was almost as if he transferred the passion within himself to her. Another woman possessed her, making her writhe in his embrace, she who was to be wed this very night to another man….

The thought was like an icy bucket of water. The wine cleared from Marisa’s head. She tore away from him, panting, astonished and furious at herself. He had but to touch her and she was like an animal, forgetting her vows, forgetting everything except the sensual promise that lay in his arms.

“Murderer!” she blurted.

Chapter Four

Kyle’s puzzlement changed to cold anger as he stared at her. For a second, Marisa thought she glimpsed pain as well. Then something glasslike hardened in his eyes, gone when she looked again.

“Well, well. Then you believe the tale.”

“I’ve only heard—”

“—of Kyle MacLeod, the Avenging Angel. Murderer of his own mother.” He finished the horrible thought for her, then allowed a sickening silence to follow. He did nothing to defend himself. Wearily, he sank down into a chair, a grim smile playing about his lips, making her suddenly remember her own nakedness. She tried to cover herself with her hands, blushing furiously as his smile turned wicked.

“There’s no sense in doing that. We’ll have no more secrets between us now.” He laughed, then tossed one of his shirts at her, hitting her in the face. Marisa quickly put it on, her skin hot as he stared at her, not making any attempt to look away. When she finished, Marisa glanced up, aware of the drowsy shuddering of his eyelids. He rubbed at his wound, staunching the fresh flow of blood with a clean cloth. Absently, he tied up the bandage, then lifted himself with an effort and walked across the floor to his bed. Almost as if he were alone, he removed his boots, then his breeches. Marisa averted her eyes, hearing his light laughter as he sank into the bed.

“Good night, my dear.”

He blew out the taper, and within a few moments, she heard his light breathing. He was asleep.

Devon flinched in agony as the door banged.

“Come in, dammit!” He winced, the sound of his own voice echoing in his brain. Skillfully, he mixed a whiskey and water, placing the cool crystal glass against his aching forehead. When Saunders entered, he found his master slumped in a winged chair before the fire, his face partially concealed behind the amber liquid.

“Sorry, sir.” Saunders discreetly placed a cool cloth upon the silver tray at Devon’s elbow, then beside it a mixture of mustard and water. Devon’s one eyebrow lifted sardonically, and he drank deeply of the noisome stuff. Saunders proffered a chamber pot for the second phase of the cure, his expression schooled to show nothing as his Lordship expelled half of the previous night’s liquor.

“Are you feeling better, sir?”

“No, I’m feeling like pure hell,” Devon said abruptly, not fooled by Saunders’s crisp tone. He was well aware of the butler’s opinion of his behavior, having heard it voiced on many previous occasions. Since the duke was often away and preoccupied with business, Saunders was the one who looked after the young lord, encouraging his virtues and deploring his vices.

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” Saunders continued. “The mustard remedy usually helps. It did last week, did it not?”

“Dammit, do you have to start in on me now, when my head feels like twenty foot soldiers have marched across it?” He eyed Saunders with a pleading look, one that the butler ignored.

“Someone had better, you young rapscallion! You were raised as a lord, not some ignoble peasant, drinking and gambling with the town sots!”

“T’d hardly call Lord Salford and the Earl of Chester town sots,” Devon said dryly, bracing himself for the lecture to come.

“Then what would you call them?” Saunders asked, refusing to be distracted. “And how much have you lost to those good gentlemen this week? You are as foolhardy with the deal as you have been with your inheritance.”

“I won,” Devon smirked, glad to win a point. “Those noble gents will be paying me several hundred pounds.”

“This time!” Saunders lost his temper for the briefest moment, his face turning an interesting shade of scarlet. “Your father will discover what you are up to. It grieves me to think how close you came to marriage. I was hoping the young lady would have a settling effect upon you. Now…”

“Now she is gone, and there is no wedding.” Devon finished the sentence for him. “So what would you have me do? For God’s sake, man, no one is sorrier than me that it happened. But it did! Am I supposed to mourn, spend the rest of my days grieving like some star-crossed lover, just to appease your sense of conscience?”

“If you were younger, I’d give you a good hiding,” Saunders said, his eyes impervious.

Something about his stern expression affected Devon. The young lord rose from his seat, placing his drink aside. “I’m sorry, Saunders,” he said slowly, extending a hand, lace dripping from his sleeve. “I’m in the devil’s own mood this morning. You are right. About all of it. I don’t know what made me speak to you like that.”

“Apology is not accepted,” Saunders replied, though his voice was lighter. “You’ve manipulated me before. The reason I disturbed you this morning was not to chastise you. It seems to do little good. I came in to deliver this message.” He placed a scrawled parchment in Devon’s hand.

“What the hell does this mean?” Frowning, Devon reread the contents. It was written in English, though not in a nobleman’s hand, and it ran:

“Should you wish to see your fiancée alive, meet me at Croftons. Come at nine. Alone.”

“Where did this come from?” Devon’s sharp-featured face seemed even more roughly chiseled as he stared at the butler.

“A young lad delivered it to the kitchen maid this morning. He did not wait for an answer. When I questioned him, he would only say it came from a Scotsman.”

“Scotsman!” Devon said. “So it is the Angel, just as Travers claimed.”

Saunders nodded. “His description was accurate, compared with the other accounts of the highwaymen.”

“So this is a ransom. How fortunate for the Scots! I get to pay a fortune to recover my bride, and they finance another damned rebellion.”

“I should think your concern for the young lady would be a trifle more evident, especially since she was to be your bride,” Saunders said coldly.

“It just galls me to see these Scots rewarded for their kidnapping,” Devon said sharply. “There’s nothing I can do about it, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to this place alone. Are you familiar with it? Croftons?”

“I’m surprised that you are not.” Saunders replied. “It is a gaming hall, located just outside of Bayham. This whole thing strikes me as very odd. Did these highwaymen ever abduct a lady before?”

“No,” Devon said, his own face perplexed. “They only take jewelry. This is the first abduction.”

“Strange,” the servant remarked. “It isn’t like the outlaw to take such a risk.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Saunders said. “But I would suggest you obey the notice. Alastair Travers is determined to see his daughter safely returned and wed. Should you do anything to endanger her, he would go to your father. And I don’t think you wish to risk the duke’s attention.”

Surprised, Devon stared at the butler, wondering just how much he knew. The servant revealed nothing, however; he simply picked up the glasses and hesitated formally at the door.

“If there will be nothing else, sir? Bayham is a good drive from here. I should think you will begin preparation for the journey immediately. I will lay out your travelling clothes.”

Before Devon could reply, the servant disappeared through the door, with what Devon was certain was a wicked grin.

Marisa awoke, idly staring at the empty wine cup before she realized where she was. The chair in which she had spent the night was not the most comfortable resting place she’d ever enjoyed. Her back ached, her neck was stiff; even her legs were cramped beneath her. Slowly, she unfolded from the chair, letting her eyes wander to the bed.

The Avenging Angel. He was beautiful, Marisa realized. More interesting than the polished beauties of court, more intriguing than the rough highwaymen that accompanied him, Kyle MacLeod was fascinating to look at. Even asleep, his chiseled face lost none of its harsh Celtic appeal. His eyes closed, she had the opportunity to explore his other features, the slightly flared nose that blended to sheer perfection with the intensely sensual mouth.

Marisa shivered as she recalled the way he had held her last night, the thousand sparks that had burst just beneath her skin where he had touched. Her body slowly wakened, clothed only in the shirt he had thrown at her with a mocking grin, a shirt that smelled of the outdoors, the way he did.

He was awake before she realized it, his smirk fighting to keep from appearing on his face. After a moment he gave it up and grinned, causing Marisa intense embarrassment as his eyelids fluttered open. His eyes, plates of filigreed silver, stared into hers, making her squirm beneath the quilts.

“Good morning, my lady. Please don’t look away now. I must confess I find it inspiring to have you examining me so carefully in the morning light.” He rose on one elbow, delighting in the blush on her high cheekbones. “Did you enjoy your rest? There was no need for you to sleep in the chair. It could hardly have been comfortable.”

“I wasn’t concerned about my comfort,” Marisa said, trying to look away from him. The sight of his body as he rose from the bed, the sensual promise of the hard, muscled flesh made her more than a little uneasy.

“Ah. The lady shall defend her virtue to the end, is that correct?” His eyes sparkled with mirth. “You forget, my lady, I now have the gun.”

Marisa winced, recalling the way he’d easily disarmed her. “I should have—”

“—shot me when you had the chance?” Kyle helpfully supplied. His hand fell almost absently on her throat, idly caressing a stray lock of hair. The pulse beat beneath his fingers was wildly evident. A thousand other things gave her away, even as his hand moved to nuzzle the soft lobe of her ear. Marisa’s eyes dilated before she intuitively shut them, and her breath quickened. Even her voice broke as she pleaded with him.

“Please.”

“I would like to please you,” Kyle said in a soft whisper. “I should like to kiss you again and have you prove just how much you detest me. Unfortunately, there isn’t time for that this morning.”

“Where are you going?” Her voice betrayed her relief when he slid on his trousers, then his boots. His eyes lifted to hers, his expression unreadable.

“Don’t sound so overjoyed, my lady. I am not finished with you yet, nor with this.” His smile grew as her mouth dropped, understanding his gesture toward the bed. “But for now, I’ll be satisfied with a few answers.”

“Answers?”

“Yes. For instance how long have you known Lord Sutcliffe? The truth, please. My patience is not my strong point.”

“I’ve known Devon most of my life, as well as the duke.” She saw his eyes harden like pieces of flint, and she remembered his violent response the previous night when she had so innocently mentioned Sutcliffe. He obviously hated the duke, and perhaps Devon as well.

“All your life, all eighteen years of it,” he mocked. “Have you ever seen a necklace, one made of emeralds? You would not mistake it; there isn’t another like it in the world.”

“Necklace?” Marisa repeated. There was a strange edge to his voice, as if everything weighed upon her answer. “No, I’ve never seen anything like that. His Grace does have family heirlooms, but not emeralds.”

“Are you sure? It’s important, Marisa.”

He spoke her name like a caress. She nodded quickly, her hair tumbling over her ivory shoulders. “Yes, I am certain. They have sapphires and diamonds, but I have never seen an emerald.”

“Well, then, one more question please. Did your future father-in-law ever mention the word Culloden in your hearing?”

“The Highland battle? For Bonnie Prince Charlie?” Marisa shook her head. “No. Why should he?”

“Yes, whyever should he?” Kyle said conversationally to himself. He appeared to be looking into some deep and awful world to which she was not privy. The mood did not last, however. He glanced up and, seeing her curious look, smiled, his expression languid and seductive. Marisa could feel the veins in her body collapsing as he stepped closer to her, one hand sliding behind her neck, turning her face up to his.

Liquid lights danced in his eyes as his lips touched hers in a brief kiss, and his finger found and stroked a soft earlobe. Sparks ignited where he caressed her, and even the slightest brush of his fingers left a trail of fire hotter than a sunburn. Reluctantly, his mouth parted from hers.

“That,” he smiled gently, “was for your help. You get the rest later, I promise. My arm feels much better.”

Before Marisa could recover, the door opened. Kyle cursed softly, then moved a few feet away, his legs braced apart. A young boy entered. Marisa recognized him as one of Kyle’s band of Highlanders.

“Are you off already?”

“Yes,” Kyle said. “Take care of her, Mac. Get the lady anything she wishes, with the exception of a weapon. Anything else? Good day to you then, my lady. And stay out of trouble.”

Kyle entered the gaming hall, his quick glance taking in the dusty blue drapes, the crowded hallway, the lightly sanded floor. Bewigged gentlemen sat at the tables, their clay pipes puffing blue clouds into the air, which competed with the smoke from the fireplaces. A sharp summer rain tapped at the windows with staccato notes, the sound drowning inside as he entered the room.

“Whiskey,” he ordered, leaning against the polished mahogany bar. His eyes ran over the crowd, a welter of gentlemen, workingmen, even peasants. Whoever could afford a bet was welcome. A cockfight began with a squawk and a puff of feathers. Immediately, the crowd gathered around, tossing coins into the center, cheering on one scraggly bird over the other. It was then he spotted Lord Sutcliffe.

Young Devon lounged in a chair before the fire, his feet up on a table, a pretty bar wench in his lap. Haphazardly, he tossed a card, grinning as he won, then he scooped up his winnings with a flourish. He was obviously at home here, a brandy in one hand, a card tucked inside the lace of his sleeve. He frowned as he glanced up in Kyle’s direction.

The Scotsman would have attracted notice under any circumstances, but especially tonight. He stood framed in the doorway, the firelight playing upon his burnished hair, throwing sinister shadows along his chiseled cheekbones. But his eyes particularly attracted Devon’s attention; they seemed to bore a hole right through him. The skin grew tight around Lord Sutcliffe’s throat. He threw down the cards and helped the barmaid off his lap, standing as the Scotsman approached.