Outlaw's Angel (6 page)

A wooden door was visible in the brickwork. The old Earl of Sutcliffe had been a noted connoisseur; it was probably himself that had placed the tiny alcove in such a spot. Whoever, Devon didn’t care. He only cared that the box still remained….

The door squeaked open as Devon pulled mercilessly on the iron rung. Gradually, the flickering candle revealed a small brass box. With a grin, the young lord snatched up the container and quickly pried open the lid.

It was empty. Devon’s face was a mask of astonishment, shock, and regret as he examined the interior, first with his eyes, then with his fingers. He turned it upside down, unable to believe what he was seeing. Gone. All of it gone. The emeralds. The necklace, with its thirteen lights twinkling brilliantly. He could see them as they were just a few short weeks ago, winking at him, teasing him with a seductive promise of wealth….

“There’s nothing in the box.”

A voice came from behind him. The box clattered to the floor as Devon turned abruptly. An audible sigh of relief came from him as he saw Saunders standing on the stairs, his expression that of bland insouciance.

“Saunders, you scared the life from me,” Devon said. “What are you doing down here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” the butler replied. “I thought I heard rats in the basement, so I came to investigate. It appears I was right.”

“That’s nice.” Devon shoved the empty box back into its hiding place and slammed the door. He stood up, facing Saunders, his face a mask of chagrin. “Well, since you seem to know so much about it, what happened to it?”

“What happened to what?”

“Dammit, you know. The necklace!” The young lord lost all pretense of patience. “Don’t look at me like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You know everything that goes on in this house.”

“If you seem to have misplaced something, I am very sorry,” Saunders said, obviously enjoying himself. “A necklace, did you say?”

“Saunders.” Devon took a deep breath, forcing down his anger. “It’s important. I need to get that necklace. Now where is it?”

“How important?” the butler asked coldly. “Another gaming expense? Young fool! Do you plan to squander your entire inheritance…what’s left of it? If you think I will help you in any abortive attempts to pay your debts, you are very much mistaken. Get yourself out of trouble. That’s what your father should have done years ago.”

“No, not for gambling!” Devon snapped. “Christ, are you joking? It would take
me
even more than one night to lose the worth of that necklace. No, Saunders, it’s much worse than that.” Gloomily, Devon sank down to sit on the steps, his face buried in his hands.

The butler’s attitude changed instantly. Resting a hand uncomfortably on Devon’s shoulder, he spoke quietly. “Some other trouble? Tell me, then. As long as it is not of your own making, I will do what I can.”

The young lord’s face lifted in gratitude. “Saunders, it’s Marisa. That damned highwayman’s got her, all right. The Angel. I met with an emissary of his tonight. They will release Marisa for ransom of that necklace. The emerald choker that was in this box.”

Saunders said nothing for a moment, his wizened face surprised at this intelligence. “The necklace! How very odd. How did this Angel even know of its existence?”

“How the hell do I know?” Devon said. “It seems like everyone knows more than me about it. I only found that damned box a few months ago, when I was looking for a good bottle of port.”

“I know,” Saunders said thoughtfully. “Then you lost one of the jewels to Lord Woodruff.”

“How?…”

The butler waved his hand dismissingly. “As a servant, I am privy to certain conversations. Often, men of more noble birth speak around me as if I were a table or chair. It is most enlightening.”

“Well then, dammit, where’s the necklace?” Devon snapped, recalling a few times when he’d imbibed too much and forgotten that the butler was present.

“There is but one place it could be,” Saunders said, his gaze levelling and meeting Devon’s. “I don’t have it. You don’t have it…or haven’t lost it yet. That leaves but one possibility.”

“My father,” Devon groaned. Saunders nodded.

“I’m afraid so. The duke must have the necklace. It appears you must go to him, should you wish to see the young lady freed.”

Marisa stared helplessly as Kyle approached. She wanted to run, to cry out, but could only stand frozen, her feet like lead.

“I…” Marisa thought frantically for some plausible explanations. “I was afraid and alone. I didn’t know if you were coming back.”

He let his hand slide behind her hair, caressing the silken length of it. His eyes bore into hers as he smiled. “I should be flattered by your desire for my company. Do not try to escape again. I have no intention of letting you go so soon.”

He took her arm and led her firmly back to the tavern. Marisa winced as the men cheered upon their arrival, some of them claiming bets as to the length of her escape time.

“I told ye no more than fifteen minutes. I wouldn’t let her out of my sight if’n she was mine.”

Taking her upstairs, Kyle closed the door to their room and studied her quietly. Marisa fought to keep her face from showing her apprehension, but as he picked up a length of rope and approached her, she panicked. Rushing past him, she struggled with the door, not surprised to find it was locked.

“It’s no use,” Kyle said softly. “I’m afraid you are my prisoner.”

“Please,” she whispered as he reached for her wrists. She opened her eyes and stared at him, huge green pools betraying her fear and dread. “Please don’t do this.”

He returned her gaze thoughtfully, his hand reaching out and cupping her chin, forcing her to look at him. He searched her eyes.

“If you will give me your word that you won’t try to escape again, I won’t tie you.”

Marisa gazed up at him, astonished. “I promise,” she nodded.

“Good.” Kyle tossed the rope aside, his hand sliding down to her shoulder in one hot, liquid caress. “I will believe you, but do not abuse my trust. Once squandered, it is not easily given. I have no reason to see you harmed nor frightened unduly. You may be going home sooner than either of us wish.”

“Home?” Marisa questioned, her voice shaking as his hand toyed casually with the buttons of Mac’s shirt. His fingers brushed her breast before his hand returned to her shoulder, his eyes like the shimmering surface of a winter lake.

“Back to your fiancé,” Kyle continued. “I met with the man this night. I think he will pay me what I ask.”

“But Devon is not wealthy,” Marisa said, puzzled. “He has a title and some money, but surely not any large amount….Mostly he has an inheritance.”

“The Lord of Sutcliffe has something I want,” Kyle said coldly. His smile returned as he gazed at Marisa and saw the concern in her lovely face. “He will pay for you. We haven’t much time left.”

“Time?” Marisa asked. Blood rushed through her veins, a hot, mesmerizing wave of fire that left her weak and astonished as his hand undid a button and slid inside Mac’s shirt. Oh, God, Marisa thought. It’s happening again. Why can’t I make this stop? His smile grew charming, compelling, his hands rough and gentle at the same time as he touched her soft skin. One finger traced the opulence of her breast, luxuriating in the curve where the satiny fullness pressed into his hand. He lifted his hand slightly and cupped it, capturing the ripe fruit, his thumb languidly caressing the nipple into a hard, excited peak.

“Time for this,” Kyle continued. Before Marisa could voice a protest, his mouth possessed hers. The kiss was intoxicating, more heady than any wine. Marisa attempted to struggle, but his hand slid behind the shirt to her bare back, his fingers beginning a sensuous caress that was as captivating in its strength as it was in its seduction.

Marisa lost all willpower to resist. Her arms crept up around his neck, seemingly of their own accord. The shirt gaped completely away in the front, and her breasts rubbed against the coarse linen of his shirt. She could feel the hard muscles of his chest beneath her own soft flesh, could feel the ragged heartbeat that matched her own. The burnished gold curls at the nape of his neck crushed beneath her fingers, and a frightening loss of control took hold of her. She was spinning on a drunken dream, helpless in the arms of a handsome highwayman who claimed her for his own.

His mouth lifted from hers. His hand still supported her back; otherwise she might have collapsed. Slowly, sensuously, he slid the shirt from her shoulders, seeming to see it for the first time.

“Mac. Damned nice of him to lend you his clothes, though they never did for him what they do for you. We don’t need this shirt, do we?” The soft linen dropped to the floor, its descent aided by his hands. Marisa felt as if she were being consumed by fire. Burning embers ignited when he knelt before her, his tongue teasing her nipple. She could only press his head closer as his mouth closed around the peak, sending delicious little shivers through her. No, she never dreamed it could feel as wonderful as this. An ache started in the pit of her belly and her head swam. His lips left her for the briefest moment, only to return to the other breast, to torture it in the same sensuous fashion. One of his hands toyed with the waist of Mac’s pants, while the other began a teasing caress of her belly and thighs. Marisa nearly shook with desire. Devon seemed a lifetime away. It didn’t matter that Kyle was a murderer, a highwayman, a rogue. None of it mattered, only that the feeling go on. She heard a light whimper, astonished to realize that it was herself. Dimly, she became aware of a rapping sound, something sharp and intruding. Kyle cursed, then rose, his hands resting lightly around her waist.

“Yes, dammit, what is it?”

“Kyle, it’s me. Douglass.”

The Scotsman muttered an imprecation, then snatched up the shirt, reluctantly slipping it back onto Marisa. “I’m afraid this will have to be postponed.”

Marisa stared at him in confusion. She tried to button the shirt, but her fingers were clumsy. He brushed them aside and fastened the shirt himself, giving her a smile that nearly melted her knees. Sinking into a chair, she was dimly aware that another Scotsman had entered the room and was talking quietly with Kyle. It hardly seemed believable. She, Marisa Travers, wealthy heiress, daughter of Alastair and Sara, had almost brazenly made love to her outlaw captor. She shook her head, trying to make sense of it all, and worse, trying to rid herself of the feeling that she should still be in his arms.

“…should hear by tomorrow,” Kyle was saying.

Marisa forced herself to pay attention. Kyle was talking to the older highwayman, the one who had followed her last night. He noticed her interest and inclined his leonine head toward her.

“Sorry about that, Angel. Who’d have thought the wench would have so much spirit to try and escape?”

“I was wondering that myself. Especially when she manages to do it with fifteen of my men below. ’Tis a good thing she didn’t have her maid with her. She might have done it.”

“The men are asking for you downstairs,” Douglass said. “They want to know when we are riding to the Highlands. Being so close to town is making us all a wee bit anxious.”

“Aye, I can understand that,” Kyle replied. “I should have spoken to them sooner. Let us be off.”

“Don’t you think you should be locking her in?” Douglass asked dubiously. “The lass almost got away from you once.”

“We have an agreement,” Kyle answered in a voice that would send shivers up the spine of a corpse. “Don’t we, my lady?”

Marisa nodded. Satisfied with what he saw, he stepped from the room.

Chapter Six

The room was deathly silent after Kyle left. Marisa sat near the window, breathing in the soft summer-scented air, staring at the moist black-velvet sky. What was happening to her? Even now, with Kyle just downstairs, she longed for him. She wanted him with a hunger that seemed to grow each time he kissed her.

How long could she keep fighting this? If it were just himself, if she were coolly indifferent to him, she would have more hope. But when she turned to jelly at the mere brush of his hand, she knew it was simply a matter of time before she surrendered.

Marisa Travers didn’t feel things like this. Marisa didn’t find herself in the midst of adventures that she couldn’t stop, nor did she experience passion in the arms of an outlaw, a murderer. Slowly, inexorably, she could feel herself drawing toward Kyle, longing for that joining with him. If it transpired, Marisa was not at all certain that she could return to polite society, forget all that happened, and continue with life as she had a scarce week ago.

So preoccupied was she with her thoughts that she didn’t notice Mac enter, nor did she hear him light a fire and place food on the table. It was only when he touched her, lightly brushing a stray black curl from her shoulder, that she started.

“Relax,” he said lightly, grinning at her expression. “It’s only me. I’ve brought supper.”

“I don’t want it.” Marisa’s voice was not argumentative; it was dispassionate and preoccupied. Frowning, Mac sat down beside her, glancing out through the window at nothing.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing,” Marisa said sharply. “I’m kidnapped on my wedding day, locked into this room, stripped of my gown, and ravaged by an outlaw. My family is probably worried sick. Other than that, everything is wonderful.”

Mac said nothing, knowing that it would do little good. He waited until she visibly relaxed, her head resting against the window, before he smiled softly.

“Ravaged?”

Marisa threw him a haughty look, pulling her dignity about her with an effort, like a sodden cloak. “Well, maybe not totally. I can’t just wait here and let this happen.”

“You’ve got to eat.”

“Mac, do you think you can talk to him? Do you think you could persuade him to release me now? I can’t stay here! What do you think Devon will say when I’m returned to him, the worse for wear?”

“But if Kyle hasn’t—”

“I’m still here!” Marisa turned suddenly, her English composure breaking like cracked ice. “Don’t you see? I’m afraid—” Her voice cut off, horrified at what she almost said. She couldn’t confess this particular weakness to anyone. No one except maybe Shannon would understand, and she was miles from here.

As if reading her mind, the teenage Highland boy frowned, his harsh Celtic face softening unaccountably. “Do you think if you…I mean, you must promise never to tell….” He chewed his lip and eyed her, squinting measuredly then shrugged and plunged recklessly forth. “I will take a letter. Just one. You must swear not to describe this place or do anything that would endanger the men. Especially Kyle.”

“Yes! I promise!” Marisa nearly hugged him in her relief.

“And you’ll eat?”

“Anything,” she vowed.

“Good.” The boy got to his feet, embarrassed by her display of gratitude, his logical mind already regretting the impulsive offer. “I’ll bring you a quill and parchment. You must finish it quickly. I have to take it tonight, before Kyle finds out.”

“All right,” Marisa said, though when he returned with the writing implements, she lingered over the letter. She had decided already not to write to her parents; Lord knows how they’d react. They might make the situation worse, especially her father. Her mother would worry to death. Marisa couldn’t even trust Devon; he might be thinking anything by now, might not even want to marry her with her damaged reputation. No, better to write to someone else, someone who could explain it to them and head off any impulsive actions or misunderstandings, someone she could trust implicitly….

Shannon. Marisa scribbled eagerly, pouring more into the letter than she intended. It was a catharsis. On paper she could say things she wouldn’t say out loud, even to herself. Forgetting she was writing, Marisa imagined the Irish girl here now, seated on the bed, her gown thrust awkwardly aside and her elbows propped on the pillows as she listened wide-eyed to this adventure. Marisa could almost hear Shannon’s exclamation of surprise, then curiosity, as she described Kyle, the outlaw, the same man who had kissed her in the garden.

Slipping the letter into a roll, she obediently started on her dinner, feeling much more lighthearted. Mac shoved the note into his jacket and started for the door.

“Aren’t you going to read it?” Marisa half dreaded that he would. To her utter relief, he shook his head.

“I can’t read. It’s only rich men’s sons who go to school.” Patting his pocket, Mac was inexplicably glad to see her devour the meal. “You know, it’s none of my concern, but”—Mac struggled to find the right words—“I don’t think Kyle would force you. You know what I mean.”

“I know,” Marisa said, noting the relief on his face. When he left the room, she thought ironically that those very words he’d intended as comfort had made it that much worse.

“Come in!” the duke shouted from his bed, his voice a hoarse croak in the silence of the room. Devon entered at once, ignoring the odor of the illness that permeated the room in spite of the bundle of fresh lavender the maid had placed near the bedside. The duke had developed a fever since the earl’s visit, though he had lost none of his wits to the infirmity. His eyes, hawklike and burning with intensity, followed Devon as he stepped nearer the bed.

“Well?” The duke broke the silence, his patience limited by his health. “You obviously didn’t come to my bedside to wish me well. What do you want? Money? How much did you lose?”

“I didn’t come for money.” Devon wished he could act indignant, but it was senseless. He’d come often enough for exactly that reason. Silently, he played with the fringe of the curtain, his back turned cautiously against the moonlight.

“What then?” The duke rose on one elbow, his expression a mask as Devon reached behind him and plumped up the pillow. “I’ve never known you to seek out my company unless you wanted something, nor are you the pillar of charity you are pretending to be this evening. I would find this entertaining, except that I wish to sleep. So tell me what you want and leave me in peace.”

“I’ve never known you to exert yourself on my behalf, either,” Devon said coldly, not missing the flash of anger that hit him like an arctic wind. “But you are right. I do want something.”

“Ah.” The duke almost smiled. “It does an old man good to be proven right so many times. This once I would have wished otherwise, but my son never disappoints me. In that sense, you are just like your mother.”

“Whatever did the duchess do, Father, to deserve your undying hatred?” For a second, Devon’s voice lost its cool irony.

“Your mother did nothing,” the duke said, sounding tired. “Nothing. She just wasn’t—” He stared at the fire, forgetting Devon, the conversation, even the day. He was looking at something in his past, something that was far too painful to ever discuss. Hating himself for even the momentary weakness, he glanced up, scowling at his son.

“My relationship with Catherine little concerns you, and this conversation is tiring me. I will ask you again. What is it you want?”

He did sound weary. Surprised, Devon weighed his answer. The duke usually loved verbal jousts. It was not like him to decline one, especially where his son was concerned. Judiciously, he tossed the ransom letter onto the bed, waiting until his father was distracted to continue talking.

“I got that yesterday. It seems they have Marisa. They gave me proof—a piece of her gown. They want jewels for ransom.”

“Jewels?” The duke glanced up sharply. His eyes burned like twin coals in the dim room, fever making their intensity even brighter.

“Emeralds,” Devon said. “A necklace. The outlaw described it to me—thirteen stones, set in gold. He will return Marisa for the necklace.”

“Thirteen…” The duke’s voice drifted into silence. The tension became unbearable. A log cracked and hissed. The room steamed. Devon moved uncomfortably in his chair, hating this place, reminded of when he was a boy and the duke would bring him here, making him sit in this very chair for punishment.

Finally, he spoke. “Tell me, then, how all this happened. What became of the first gem?”

Devon’s breath caught in his throat. He knew. Dammit, the game was all for nothing. Just like when he was little and his father had let him play it out, giving him just enough rope to tie his own noose. But the duke wasn’t smiling this time. He stared at Devon with an awful expression, one that chilled him even more than his words.

“Lord Woodruff,” Devon said, almost relieved. When someone trumps your hand, you can do nothing but pay. “I found the cache of jewels a few weeks ago, in the basement. I didn’t think anyone would care if I took one. They must have been there for ages. Somehow this Angel got hold of the emerald. Probably robbed Woodruff…”

“Gambling,” the duke said quietly. “The fool lost it the same way you did.”

“I see.” Devon smothered a curse. So the old man knew all about it. His cynical nature should have warned him of this possibility. Dammit, how did his father manage it all the time? “Anyway, they want the necklace. Then they will release the girl.”

“No.”

Devon glanced up. “You are jesting, of course.”

“I am not,” the duke said simply. “You got yourself into this mess. Get yourself out. I am not Saunders, and I don’t plan to coddle you forever, rescuing you from one scrape after another. This one you’ll have to solve on your own. And if you don’t…”

“What?” Devon asked, unable to help himself.

The duke smiled cruelly. “You are not exactly prepared to make your own way in this world, are you? To work for a living, like the son of a miller or farmer? I thought not. Get that girl back, my boy. Or you will dearly wish you had.”

The tavern was even noisier than the first night they arrived. Kyle sat with his men, sipping his ale, listening to the flow of conversation around him. Taller and lighter than the other Highlanders, he stood out among his own men. His hair, shining like burnished flax in the firelight, was tied back in a queue, revealing all the splendor of his cheekbones and his intensely masculine profile. The barmaids smiled at him, bringing him his meal and trying to coax a grin from him.

Although normally he would have enjoyed their attention, tonight his thoughts were with the girl upstairs….Woman, he amended, thinking of the previous night when he’d forcibly stripped her of her gown. She was beautiful, he thought, recalling all too well the soft texture of her skin under his hands, the luscious symmetry of her limbs, the sparkling black hair that fell around her like a cloud. His manhood rose to betray him and he silently cursed, grateful that he was seated behind the table.

Why hadn’t he just taken her by force and been done with it? True, his injury would have robbed him of some of the pleasure but would not have prevented him from having her. Yet there was something about the idea that was distasteful to him. He frowned, hating this revelation about himself, something he considered a weakness. He never liked to see a woman hurt, and Marisa especially. Idly, he noticed Mac enter the tavern, then slip out into the rain-drenched night. His eyes narrowed speculatively. What was the young boy doing out at this hour, in such weather?

“What’ll you think, Angel?”

Kyle glanced up, startled. Douglass and the Highlanders broke into laughter.

“Don’t worry, lad. If I had a wench upstairs like yourself, I’d be dreaming about the chit, too.”

Kyle smiled wryly, forgetting about Mac. “I should hear something in the next twenty-four hours from Lord Sutcliffe. Once we have the necklace, we can return the girl and head back to the Highlands. We could be home as early as Tuesday.”

“And what of the gems?” a rough Highlander called Brannock asked, his taciturn face brimming with excitement. “Do you think we could lure the prince back with them? Do you think it will be enough?”

“I think we have a good chance,” Kyle said cautiously. “The total treasure will ensure the financial support the prince needs. But the necklace will entice him in a way no mere fortune could.”

“How so, Angel?” Brannock asked.

“That piece has more than mere monetary value,” Kyle said softly. “The jewels were passed down through the nobles’ families. They’ve been kept by the aristocratic clans, guarded for the day Scotland would have her own king once more. The Camerons gave them to Charles as a token of their faith.”

“Then they were lost at Culloden,” Douglass said cautiously.

“At the time my father disappeared.”

The men said nothing. They had heard this story enough times before, though not from Kyle. Everyone knew that the MacLeod name was in disgrace, that Kyle’s father was accused of absconding with the gems for his own purposes. Awkwardly, Brannock broke the silence.

“Well, you know none of us believe that.”

“Aye.”

“ ’Tis madness.”

The Highlanders concurred and Kyle relaxed, the tension leaving his face. “Aye, ’tis madness. The necklace will prove that. More importantly to us all, I think it will be the enticement that the prince cannot resist. When he sees the jewels, he will know the support of the clans is behind him.”

“Do you mean to go tonight, then?” Douglass asked.

Kyle nodded. “I was going to wait, but I think I should leave. It will be better to travel by nightfall, especially since Devon has seen me.”

“But he doesn’t know you’re the Angel,” Douglass said.

“Yes, but he could be looking for me, as the Angel’s emissary. As it is, I’ve put my London identity into jeopardy.”

“Aye, Laird Murdoch, Scottish nobleman and English gambler,” Roarke, a dark-haired Highlander with a classically beautiful face, interrupted. He smiled at his own jest. “Popular with the ladies, a favorite with the gentlemen—except those who owe him money.”