Outlaw's Angel (7 page)

“Aye,” said Kyle, smiling. “A pity I can no longer number Lord Woodruff among the former.”

“Can’t say you’ll miss him,” Douglass laughed, then his grin died abruptly. “Kyle, maybe you shouldn’t be the one to go. One of us could get the necklace.”

“No,” Kyle said. Something in his voice prevented further discussion of the issue. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his men, nor that he wanted the glory for himself. There was the personal reason behind his insistence, the absolute in his own mind. No one else could get the necklace first; Kyle simply had to be the one. After a moment, Douglass agreed.

“Aye. You will go then. But be careful, my boy.”

Kyle nodded, then got to his feet. For selfish reasons, including Marisa, he would have preferred to leave tomorrow, but the wait was making him uneasy. The thought of the jewels so close to possession was unbearable. Tossing some coins on the table, he strode out to the stables and ordered his horse saddled. It was then that he noticed the Highland boy returning, his clothes soaked from the rain.

“Mac,” Kyle said quietly, immediately suspicious of the startled way the boy glanced up. His face was frozen with guilt, his youth disallowing the experience of masking his feelings.

“You decided to leave tonight. For town?” Mac’s voice was steady, though he stared at the street instead of Kyle.

“Yes,” Kyle said slowly. “You would have known about our plans had you been in the tavern tonight. Which leads me to wonder, where were you?”

“Look at ’im,” the groom chuckled. “He’s trembling like a weed in the wind. What’s he done that he’s so afraid of you?”

“I haven’t done anything,” Mac snapped. He looked up at Kyle, brushing the wet hair from his face. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I just went out, that’s all.”

“Just went out.” Kyle looked at the boy’s sodden clothing, at his plastered hair, and at his still-chapped cheeks. The groom laughed again.

“I hope she was worth it, laddie. I wouldn’t venture out tonight for God nor money.”

“She was worth it,” the boy answered, still staring at Kyle.

“Tell Marisa I’ll return tomorrow,” Kyle said softly. “And Mac?”

“Yes?” The relief in the boy’s eyes was evident. Kyle smiled.

“Don’t get too involved with the girl. You know we’re returning her shortly.”

Mac’s mouth dropped as the Scotsman strode from the stable, disappearing into a violent curtain of wind and rain. Sinking down into a pillow of hay, he struggled to stop the racing of his heart.

Shannon brushed aside a stray lock of flaming red hair, tucking it carelessly behind one ear. The mare gleamed before her like a ripe chestnut, showing the result of the Irish girl’s grooming. Without waiting for Evan, the stableboy, Shannon hoisted the saddle onto the mare and fastened the straps. Swinging up onto the horse, she urged the animal forward, glad to be free of the dark confines of the stable.

Outside, the dew lay on the grass like a sparkling silver mantle. The countryside beckoned, green and softly seductive. Sweat beaded on the young girl’s forehead and chin. She did not wipe it away, little caring what the rough exercise did to her appearance.

It was only here, with the wind at her back and her body one with the graceful animal beneath her, that Shannon could find any ease. Longing for home, she could not bring herself to leave England until she heard something of her friend’s fate. Marisa’s parents had insisted she stay, her mother turning to her again and again each day with the same ceaseless questions.

“Do you think we’ll hear today? Do you think she’ll come back? I hear something outside, a coach….” But her face would quiet into disappointment as the carriage turned out to be a curious neighbor or a routine delivery.

Her father was worse, hiding his concern beneath his outrage. “Damned thieves! We should have rid the countryside of them long before this! Highlanders! Hanging’s too good for them. You let them get away with one thing, and this is the result. They should have been exterminated after ’45. Culloden taught us nothing.”

Shannon frowned, leaning forward and making the horse run faster. For Sara’s sake, she tried to remain strong. She encouraged Marisa’s mother, assuring her that her daughter was all right. After all, didn’t the Irish fortune teller predict that Marisa would be a great lady and that she would find much happiness in marriage? Surely no such fate could have been determined if Marisa were never to return. But even Shannon’s optimism was beginning to fail.

The horse stopped, lathered from exertion. Her heart thumping, Shannon dismounted, her hands holding tightly onto the reins as she walked the animal. Kicking at the broken pieces of coal beneath her feet, she ignored the black stains upon her boots and refused to think of Sara’s horrified expression when she returned.

She missed Marisa far more than she could express. She could talk to her friend about things that made her mother frown impatiently and that her brothers dismissed as ridiculous. There was a bond between them, stronger than blood. Marisa helped her decide when the time came to wear a chemise instead of cotton shirts, and she shared with her friend the joy of staying up late at night, next to a turf fire, telling stories that would raise the dead.

This bond told her that Marisa was alive. Surely she would sense otherwise. But the feeling of inaction was killing her. To do something! She fumed inwardly. Where was Marisa now? Was she hurt? Was she afraid?…

Shannon didn’t see the stableboy until he was beside her, his breath rushing from his tiny frame.

“There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you. I’ve got something for you.”

“You don’t have anything I want,” Shannon said rudely, plopping down on the green earth, her skirts tucked beneath her.

In spite of himself, the stableboy smiled. Shannon wasn’t like the other ladies he knew, those powdered and coiffed dames who sipped tea delicately and ignored him as if he were a fixture in the barn. No, she treated him with all the harsh affection of a sister, one moment chiding him, the next laughing at some teasing trick.

“I think you’ll want this.” He thrust the letter forth. “It’s in Marisa’s handwriting. You know her mother will have the vapors when she sees you like that.”

“Marisa!” Shannon snatched up the letter, tearing it eagerly apart. It was indeed Marisa’s writing—she wouldn’t mistake that precise, controlled hand anywhere. Her breath caught as she quickly scanned the note. Her friend was safe. Rereading the part about the highwayman, Shannon’s mouth sagged open.

Kyle MacLeod. Good Lord, the same man who had kissed Marisa the night of the party! Shannon did not need to read the next lines; she knew exactly what he looked like. Who could forget? The Angel, they called him, and Shannon cursed her own stupidity for not realizing it before. Kyle had the face of an angel, a Lucifer incarnate, and the body of a…

“What’s it say? I promise, I won’t tell.” Evan leaned closer.

Shannon pushed him away. “Be still.” Thoughtfully, she scanned the letter again.

I don’t know what’s the matter with me. He touches me and I cannot resist him. I’m afraid I will dishonor my vows, that I won’t be able to hold myself from him. It’s frightening, Shannon. As if he can control me with little more than a glance. He promises that I shall be returned, for a ransom, something that Devon can give him. But I am afraid it will be too late
….

“Let me think,” Shannon snapped, seeing Evan’s curious glance. She leaned back, closing her eyes against the sunshine. “I cannot resist him….” Mother of God, was it possible? Marisa, falling in love with Kyle, the Outlaw Angel?

It was not only possible, it was probable. Especially after seeing him, Shannon did understand. There were people in this world who were magnetic, compelling, who could make one forget vows, loved ones, promises. Kyle was one of them. Curiously, so was Marisa. She had seen the effect Marisa could have in a roomful of men, the way she would lift her lashes and peer straight into the heart of a man. Unnerved, he would gather up his courage and dare to approach, only to find out she was not interested. Yes, they were alike in that respect and, in other circumstances, would have made a wonderful couple. But Kyle was wanted for murder; he was an outlaw, a rogue. What kind of existence would he offer any woman, Marisa in particular?

“Where are you going?” Evan asked, disappointed as Shannon climbed onto the mare. Offering an arm, she lifted the boy onto the saddle behind her.

“To Sutcliffe’s,”

Chapter Seven

The afternoon sunlight was already fading from the room when Mac returned. Marisa glared at him from her post near the window, grimacing as he placed a steaming dish on the table.

“Porridge again. I can’t wait.”

“Now what’s the matter?” Mac’s normally stern expression changed to exasperation. “I took the damned letter for you. Nearly got caught, too. If Kyle wasn’t so preoccupied with where he was going, he would have questioned me further.”

“Going?” Marisa faced him eagerly, the intensity of her green eyes impaling him. “Where? When will Kyle return?”

“Sometime soon, I think,” the Highland boy said before thinking, cursing himself for his weakness. But there was something about Marisa that made him feel protective. “He went to find out about the ransom. Maybe you’ll be going home soon.”

“Maybe,” Marisa said thoughtfully.
Devon has something I want
, Kyle had told her, his gray eyes mocking.
Something only he can give me
.

“I don’t want it.” Marisa pushed the sticky bowl aside as Mac attempted to take advantage of her moodiness and place the dish beneath her hand.

“Milady, we’ve been through this before. Look, I brought you clothes; you have a fire, food….”

“Mac, I am tired of being imprisoned up here!” she said emphatically. “Do you know what it’s like to be cooped up in this tiny room all day and night, day after day? Waiting for—”

“—Kyle to return,” Mac guessed.

Silently, Marisa nodded.

“All right.” Mac got to his feet. “I’ll ask Douglass if you can come down. But you have to promise to be more cooperative.”

“I will,” Marisa nodded. The thought of freedom, even this small concession, was worth a bowl of porridge.

Douglass agreed. Without any coaxing from Mac, he indicated that the boy should bring her down immediately. “Don’t know what Kyle’s thinking about, leaving the little lass alone up there, like a bird in a cage. Bring her down, lad.”

“I don’t think Kyle will like it,” Roarke objected. “I’d keep her locked up myself if I were the Angel.”

“But you aren’t,” Douglass said quietly. “And Kyle asked me to keep the lady happy. Is there any objection?”

The men fell silent, remembering Douglass’s dexterity with the sword and the dirk. All of the MacLeods possessed the talent to skewer a man where he stood, without a second glance.

“Good,” Douglass said. “Bring her down.”

Marisa entered the room, mindful of the hush her presence generated. Douglass dispelled her apprehension, however, by drawing up a chair beside him and patting it roughly.

“Sit here, lass. Don’t worry none about them.” He gestured to the Highlanders, who watched her with none too friendly faces. “They know you’re under the Angel’s protection. Not a one would trouble you.”

A mug was placed before her. Cautiously, Marisa lifted it to her lips, aware that all eyes were on her. Bravely, she drank deeply of the liquid, gasping as the liquor bolted its way to her belly. Tears came to her eyes and the men broke into appreciative laughter.

“Highland whiskey,” Douglass beamed. “Best there is, don’t you agree, lass?”

“Smooth,” Marisa choked in agreement. Somehow, the ice had been broken. Marisa found herself relaxing in this group of rough and coarse men, men who would have scared her out of her wits just a fortnight ago. I’m not afraid, she thought in wonder, listening to the melancholy Gaelic of their voices, a tongue that had been outlawed. Some of them wore kilts, and she took the opportunity to admire the gorgeous blue of the MacBeth clan, the raucous greens of the Morrisons, the burgeoning yellow of MacMillan. These were outlawed, too, but in this hovel of thieves, the Highlanders had little to fear. The law was the enemy here, not the clans nor the Scots.

Marisa found if she sipped the whiskey, it did not burn but instead travelled warmly to the tips of her fingers and toes. She saw Mac nod his head and she followed his lead, taking coarse chunks of bread from the tray and passing them to the next man. Unlike English gentlemen, the Scotsmen admired her appetite, remarking that she was a healthy lass after all.

“ ’Tis good,” Douglass said when she had finished a meal of venison, something she wouldn’t have touched under other circumstances. “Aye, you’ll be fit when Kyle returns…for whatever he has in mind.”

When Kyle returns. Marisa fought the giddy sense of panic and anticipation that phrase held, wishing she could accept it as casually as his men. She sipped more of the whiskey, hoping it would steady her nerves. Her eyes lifted and met Douglass’s. Understanding gleamed there, mingled with pity. So she cares for our Angel, does she? He opened his mouth to offer some encouragement, but closed it abruptly. After all, who knew what Kyle thought? For as long as he’d known the lad, he’d been driven toward one goal: the necklace. Clearing his family name, avenging his mother’s death, and fighting for Scotland: All three were tied up in one glittering piece of jewelry.

There was no room in Kyle’s life for love—not for this English lady, at any rate. She was merely a pawn to be used toward his end. Yet Kyle seemed loathe to part with her, keeping her at his side in a way he’d never done before. Douglass wished she could stay with them, if only for a while. Kyle needed something else in his life, Douglass thought quietly, for the most ambitious plans of men were often not enough. And when the rebellion was over, what would Kyle be left with? A hero’s name, but little else.

Pouring out another whiskey, he handed Marisa the cup. “Drink up, lass. To victory, no matter the battle.”

Marisa drank with the men.

*      *      *

Devon wasn’t there. Saunders came to the door, formal and apologetic, telling Shannon that milord had ventured out for the evening and wouldn’t return until a very late hour indeed. But something about Shannon’s crestfallen face made him lose his professional discretion. Glancing obliquely to the side, he whispered under his breath,

“An enterprising young lady might find him at the gaming hall. Fourth table, center.”

“Oh, thank you!” Shannon threw her arms about the staid butler, embarrassing him beyond words. He coughed and gently disengaged himself. “I’ll go right now,” Shannon said, ignoring his horrified expression.

“But you should change. Your dress—”

“There isn’t time!” Shannon said, jumping onto her mount. The English! she thought. Always worried about the most inconsequential things. Who cared about a dress when Marisa needed help?

Surprisingly, no one stopped her at the door. Shannon found she had only to walk through the throng of gamblers with a confident air, and no one questioned her presence. She spied Devon exactly where Saunders had predicted, at the fourth table, tossing a coin into the pile.

Lord Sutcliffe looked swaggeringly handsome this night. Clad in silver-gray satin and sparkling white lace, he was attractive in a devilish way. He was leaning back in his chair, smoking, his smile bordering on arrogance. The nobleman across the table looked worried as he scanned his own hand, correctly assuming that milord had something more than a matched pair. Sweat beaded on his brow and Devon grinned, tossing down a drink. He didn’t notice Shannon until she was directly beside him, her chastising voice startling him.

“I thought I’d find you here. Gambling, at a time like this.”

“Shannon!” Devon said, surprised. “This is no place for a lady. Run along now.”

“I’m sorry, but I’ll not be running along anywhere. I came out here to speak with you, and you’d best make the time.”

Devon forced a smile through clenched teeth. “I’m in the middle of a gentleman’s game, and you are disturbing Lord Woodruff.”

His Lordship was giving Shannon a curious perusal, wondering what her relationship with Devon was. A mistress, no doubt. Irish women were known to live on love.

“Oh, I am sorry if I’m disturbing you, milord,” Shannon said sarcastically. “I can see how busy you are.”

“Shannon, I’m not going to tell you again,” Devon said, his voice threatening.

“Since you give me no other choice, I’ll say what I have to here,” Shannon said, leaning closer to him. “I stopped at your house before coming. Your father found out about your gambling and has threatened to cut you off without a cent. He said your debts tonight are no longer protected.”

Silence. It was almost tangible. One could feel the ears stretching, longing for another tidbit of this juicy scandal. Lord Woodruff choked in his drink, then looked everywhere but at Devon.

Lord Sutcliffe rose to his feet, gathering up Shannon by the elbow. “Would you excuse me? I shall be right back. I’m certain this misunderstanding will take but a moment.”

His voice was murderous. He half dragged, half carried Shannon across the floor while the Irish girl waved gaily to Lord Woodruff. It was only when Devon found a private room and slammed the door that Shannon lost a bit of her bravado.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I was only trying to get your attention,” Shannon said, backing away as the glint in Devon’s eyes turned menacing. She had seen that look too often before not to know what it meant.

“You’ve got it! You’re lucky I don’t throttle you after what you just did!”

Shannon gulped as he climbed over the couch between them, eliminating the barrier effortlessly. “It would be just like you to strike a defenseless woman!”

“Defenseless!” Devon grabbed her shoulders, forcing himself to keep from shaking her. “A man doesn’t stand a chance against your temper! Damned Irish!”

“Don’t you be damning me!” Shannon said hotly. “To think I came to you with Marisa’s letter! I should have known better. I’ll take care of it myself, thank you very much. Now if you’ll just take your hands off me…”

Devon let go of her instantly. “What letter?”

“Never mind.” Shannon tried to brush past him, but he grabbed her wrist.

“Look, you ruined my evening. It’ll take me all night to explain away this one. The least you could do is tell me why.”

Grudgingly, Shannon told him of the letter, extracting the parts she thought he should know. When she finished, he stared at her in disbelief.

“Then it was the Angel,” Devon whistled softly to himself. “It had to be him. He didn’t send an emissary, he came himself. Why didn’t Marisa tell me he was in the garden?”

“I guess she didn’t want to make you jealous,” Shannon shrugged.

“Jealous?” Devon laughed shortly. “Of him?”

“You’re right,” Shannon agreed. “Just because he’s blonde and gorgeous is no reason to think—”

“Think what?” Devon demanded.

“Nothing!” Shannon said, sorry she had brought it up. But Devon wasn’t about to let her off that easily.

“Let me see that letter.”

“I don’t have it,” Shannon said quickly, wanting to change the subject to something less volatile. “I think we should go after her. We know what the Angel looks like, and it would be much easier for us to find him.”

“Are you mad? The man’s a murderer!” Devon said. “And those Highlanders would slit your throat quick as look at you! I’m not going anywhere near them, and neither are you. I have a plan.”

“Aye, I’ll wager that,” Shannon sneered. “Anything to keep from soiling your lace cuffs.”

“I’m supposed to meet with him again, to bring the ransom,” Devon said, ignoring her tone. “I’ll set up the meeting, then trap him in his own net.”

“And if it doesn’t work?” Shannon asked derisively.

“It’ll work,” Devon said smugly. “After all, it’s my plan, isn’t it?”

“That’s what has me worried.”

The gaming hall was even more crowded this night than the last time Kyle had met Lord Sutcliffe. Standing in a shadowy hallway, the outlaw avoided scrutiny as much as possible. He still drew attention, however. More than one man passing the tall Scotsman gave him a second glance before shrugging and returning to his vices.

Kyle ignored them, concentrating without seeming to on the doorway. One by one he noted who entered, waiting for the moment when Lord Sutcliffe came in. That Devon would bring the jewels he did not doubt After all,
he
still had Marisa.

His mind strayed to the raven-haired beauty that awaited him at the tavern, and he felt a painful tightening in his groin. It was strange that she had the capacity to arouse him so strongly, even when she wasn’t present. A slow smile came to his lips as he thought of her response in his arms. He would have her…tonight, if he could manage it. Revenge no longer figured in his desire for her. Marisa is innocent of all this, Kyle reaffirmed in his own thoughts. No, it was something else that drew him to her, making him want to experience the full measure of his passion before she was taken from him. In exchange for the necklace.

The emeralds. When Devon brought the gems, it would prove but one thing: The duke was connected to Kyle’s mother’s death. How else would she have obtained the matching jewel, the one he had found in her hand? The misty memories of voices, of a gentleman disappearing into the woods behind the house, then finding his mother…Kyle forced the thoughts from his mind, unable to bear the emotions that followed them.

“Hello there, handsome. I remember you.” The barmaid winked. “Me name’s Dolly. Want the same as last time?”

“No, thanks.” Kyle managed a polite smile, then turned his perusal back to the door. Wasn’t that man standing there a moment ago? Almost as if he were some sort of guard.

“Oh, but ye have to have a drink,” Dolly said urgently, pressing her full bosom against him as she leaned closer. “My boss will think I’m not doing my job. Same as last time?”

“Fine.” Disinclined to argue, Kyle agreed, relieved when the woman sashayed off to fetch him a whiskey. His gaze wandered back to the door Gone. The man was gone now. Funny, there was something familiar about him. He reminded Kyle of prison, that wretched time he had spent behind bars, accused of his mother’s murder and awaiting his hanging. Thank God the colonies needed men more than England needed another hanging, or he wouldn’t be standing here today.

“Here ye are, Gov. That’ll be two pence.”

Tossing her the coins, Kyle absently put the glass to his lips, downing the liquid in one shot. Instantly, he fought to keep from spitting it out, choking on the sickly sweet stuff. What in the hell had she put in his drink? Shooting her a furious glance, Kyle’s anger faded as she met his eyes with a furtive look, then continued placing mugs before a table of gamblers.