Outlaw's Angel (9 page)

At once Kyle stopped. Gradually, Marisa became aware of a dozen pairs of eyes on her. She shivered uncomfortably, then glanced up at Kyle.

“I’m sorry. I am ill.”

A glimmer of a smile played about Kyle’s face and he gestured to the men. “ ’Twould seem our lady is not feeling well from last night. None of you would know anything about that, would you?”

They shuffled and glanced away, offering suggestions and denying that Marisa had had more than a few drops of the whiskey.

“Aye, ’twas less than a mouthful,” offered Roarke. “It couldn’t be that. Perhaps the sun.”

“She had a glass or two, nay more,” Douglass protested. “Hardly enough—”

“—to put you under the table, but more than enough for her,” Kyle said sternly. Swinging down from his mount, he slung Marisa—as if she were a sack of potatoes, she later remembered furiously—over his arm.

The motion did it. Without warning, she coughed, then choked, then spilled forth most of the previous night’s evils, shuddering with embarrassment as she did so. Fortunately, Kyle seemed to expect it, for he held her head gently, smoothing back her hair. When she finished, she glanced up at him, mortified. But he wasn’t at all shocked by what she considered her humiliation. Instead, his voice was kind.

“Better now?”

Marisa nodded, choking down the raspiness in her throat.

“I’m afraid you have what is commonly known as a hangover.”

“I do not!” Marisa glared at him.

“Do you think you can ride?” he questioned, already lifting Marisa’s inert form onto the horse. “I’d like to reach Zachary’s hut by nightfall.”

“Yes,” Marisa answered. “I happen to be an accomplished equestrienne.”

Kyle smiled warmly. “ ’Twould seem there is much about you I don’t know.”

As the horse gained speed, there was little opportunity for any more conversation. Marisa struggled to remain awake, hoping to figure out their location by some familiar landmark. Identical trees whizzed by, each looking more nondescript than the next. The sea glimmered in the distance, never disappearing entirely, reminding her that they were taking a circuitous route. Bluebells forced their cheerful heads up through the grasses, the blend of colors reminding Marisa of the blue-green kilt that Douglass wore. Black shapes of rock and jackdaw jutted from the water beyond like waiting sentinels, allowing them to pass into a strange and haunted land.

The farther they went, the less Marisa recognized, until at last it seemed they were not in England at all. Yet they had travelled less than a day, due west, Marisa calculated. But where that dainty sophisticated world of silver tea trays and roses left off and this world began was something she couldn’t judge.

She awoke nestled in Kyle’s arms, a not entirely unpleasant place to be, she realized dreamily. The grey cloudiness disappeared sometime earlier, and stars twinkled brilliantly overhead like crushed crystal. She could barely discern the outline of a hut, so completely did its stone lines blend into the surrounding scenery. A curl of smoke gave it away, obscuring the starlight behind a slender grey column.

“It looks like he’s expecting us,” Douglass remarked.

Kyle grunted in agreement. “He usually is. Zachary seems to hear everything, go everywhere. It makes him invaluable to me.”

“I like the smell of that roast pig,” Douglass said, climbing eagerly down from his mount. “I feel like I could eat his house.”

“Save the shelter for the rest of us,” Kyle responded. “We’ll need it. Are you coming, my lady?”

Disdainfully, Marisa allowed him to help her to the ground, removing herself from the warmth of his embrace as soon as possible. She stiffened at his light chuckle.

Marisa let Kyle lead her into the hut. Inside, the place was even more rustic than it appeared from the road. Maps lined the walls, crudely lettered and scrawled, but accurate. The wind blew, rustling in the eaves, which were surprisingly inhabited by birds. A feather drifted softly to the earth floor, dropped by one of the plump inhabitants who peered inquisitively from the roof. Squirrels raced along the window, dashing outside through a crack, only to return through the open door.

“You’ve come. I knew you would. Told Aesop you would come today. Bah, birds! Come pestlings, we have guests.” A short man clothed in baggy fisherman’s garb, his head balding and wreathed in white hair, scuffled over to Kyle with a platter of hot food. A raccoon peeked from a sack on the table, his hands still inside the bag, searching for food. “Get out of there, that’s not for you. I have news for you, Angel.”

Kyle took the plate, giving Marisa a generous portion before taking his place beside her at the crude table. “What news?”

“The Duke of Sutcliffe. He has sent men after you. But not just him. ’Tis someone else, but I canna’ be sure. Powerful man, is he. Dangerous enemy. As is the duke.”

“Who can that be?” Kyle gave the raccoon a bit of meat, watching in amusement at the animal smelled it suspiciously, then waved it back and forth as if washing it. Only then did he plop the offering in his mouth.

Roarke laughed. “He likes you, Angel. If the wench gives you too much trouble, you’ve got some comfort there.”

The others laughed softly. Only Mac stayed his distance, bringing in Kyle’s equipment and neatly sorting out the things they’d need for the night. He sat cross-legged before the fire, dexterously cleaning the pistols, ignoring the talk that swirled gently around him. Kyle watched him without comment, then turned back to Zachary.

“Do you have any idea how many men?”

“At least ten were in town, asking for you. More were searching the countryside.”

“Ten!” Kyle whistled softly. “And more in the countryside? Whoever is after us is determined, to say the least.”

“Probably wants to catch us before we reach the Highlands,” Roarke surmised, drinking greedily of the ale. “These Londoners don’t like to be out of their cities.”

“All the more reason for us to move quickly,” Kyle said. “I don’t think any of us is eager to dance on a gibbet, for their amusement.”

“You can say that again,” Douglass smirked. “I have a fancy to keep my neck, I’ve had it for as long as I can remember.”

“Agreed then. We’ll take a few hours sleep, then be off again. We should be in Wales by tomorrow night, perhaps even as far as Shrewsbury. How do the signs portend?”

To Marisa’s amazement, all of the men stopped eating to listen to Zachary. The wizened old man shook his head sadly, gesturing to the night sky.

“Not well. Stay far from the towns. A shape is behind you, one that you knew briefly at another time and place.” Kyle shrugged in bemusement, and the old man gestured to the table, where the raccoon played with a bright stone. “Aesop does not know the difference. To him, an agate and a diamond have the same value. ’Tis us that makes one worth dying for and one worth tossing into the river.”

“Enough,” Douglass said, annoyed. He brushed away at the birds, who hopped about the table, searching for crumbs.

But they were disturbed by the prophecy, Marisa could see that. Strange. In her milieu, such things were comical, remote superstitions to be ridiculed. The Scots were fey, more than one lord remarked, wiping his lips with a linen cloth and coughing from snuff. They believed the most whimsical things, much like the Irish. Zachary shrugged, scampering off to the corner where a fire warmed his bones. One by one the men drifted off to sleep, Roarke beside the fire, Douglass right in his chair. The others scattered about the floor, grateful for the respite and a roof over their heads.

Mac finished cleaning the arms and packing their goods for the journey. He felt Kyle’s eyes on him and looked up, their gaze meeting for the first time all evening. Marisa felt a tremor of anticipation, burdened by guilt. It was her fault Mac was in trouble, and she owed it to the young Scots lad to try and get him out.

“Mac, come here,” Kyle said, placing his ale cup aside and moving out from the table. Mac flinched at the Scotchman’s tone, but otherwise did not betray his thoughts. He rose to his feet, coming to stand before the outlaw as if this were any other summons. Firelight played across Kyle’s face, masking his expression in orange flames and shadows, making it impossible to determine his mood.

“I had an interesting talk with a barmaid in town,” Kyle said softly. “She told me I was betrayed by a letter.”

“Did she?” Mac asked, his voice uneven. He remained characteristically expressionless, the taut planes of his cheekbones still firm, the haunted look in his eyes remaining.

“Kyle, will you let me explain….” Marisa tried.

“A letter that described me so fully, my disguise would be useless anywhere in London. It seems my lady is the author of that letter. She has already confessed, so there’s no use in that. I wrung an admittance from her lips, in an ageless way.”

Mac’s eyes flitted quickly to Marisa. One did not know how much to accept from Kyle as the truth. In spite of his lack of formal education, the man was as clever with words as he was with a sword. But for all the ugly meaning behind his statement, Marisa seemed relatively unscathed. Was she perhaps content with their arrangement, whatever it was? She was passionate, Mac had no doubt. And there was something between her and Kyle, something as tangible as the lightning that cracked the night sky. It was all Mac could do to shrug carelessly.

“So what has all that to do with me?”

“Plenty,” Kyle said, his mouth curving in harsh amusement. “Especially since you’ve nominated yourself as the girl’s protector. What happens to her tonight largely depends upon the next few minutes.”

Marisa opened her mouth to protest, but Kyle sent her a quelling glance that she dared not disobey. Mac saw the glance, misinterpreted it, and seemed to collapse like a boned chicken.

“I took the letter, Angel. Don’t hurt the girl. I suggested it. She was lonely and afraid. I thought if she at least told her family she was safe, the lass would feel better. I don’t think she meant to betray you, nor did I. That’s the whole truth. If you mean to punish anyone, it should be me.”

“That’s not so,” Marisa interjected. “I won’t let you take the blame for doing something decent. My family must have been mindless with worry. I only wrote to Shannon, to reassure them that I was alive.”

“Touching,” Kyle said coolly. “It would be interesting to remain awake for the rest of the night, to see how long both of you would rush to the other’s defense. Unfortunately. I have neither the time nor the patience.” He stared at Mac. “Your act could have cost me my life. In any other case, I would have your back bared and lashed. This time, I will make an exception. Tomorrow you will ride behind me, instead of at your normal place. You will take care of the packs and saddles, and perform all the disagreeable chores that no one else wants. Ryan will perform your duties, until I decide otherwise. Understood?”

Mac nodded, his relief emanating from him like an emotional wave. He almost smiled, his face relaxing that much.

“You can go.” Kyle indicated a corner near the fire. “Get some rest, for tomorrow you will need it.”

Turning to Marisa, he saw the warm glow in her eyes, mingled with relief. “I take it you agree?”

“Yes,” Marisa said. “I am very grateful.” She looked directly at him, her expression soft.

“My decision had nothing to do with you, other than that I understand the lad’s infatuation. I saw no reason to whip him for becoming entangled in a woman’s doings, though I will not be so lenient again. Pray keep that in mind the next time you enlist support from one of my men. Come then. We have need of rest before resuming the journey.”

Marisa saw the smoldering sensuality in his eyes. Knowing that his offer had little to do with sleep, she resisted, feigning an interest in the food.

“I’ve scarce finished the meat,” she protested.

Kyle smiled. “You can eat later, if you so desire. I’ve watched you devour a full meal with my men, so I think hunger little assails you. Come, wench. We may not have a chance to share a warm bed for a few days.”

Marisa sought to deny the heat that rushed through her at his words. Glancing about, she saw that most of the men slept. There was no distraction she could offer, no excuse that Kyle would not see through. He was already leading her past the table to a corner where Zachary had hung a makeshift curtain, concealing his bedchamber from the rest of the room.

Inside, it was warm and quiet. Firelight threw ghosts upon the walls, barely reflected shadows of spirits gone beyond. Without pause, Kyle lifted his shirt from his body, tossing it carefully onto a chair where he could find it readily in the morning. He looked wonderful, his chest a symmetry of rippling muscle and uncontrived grace. Marisa found it difficult to look away as he approached. Seated in a chair, her face framed by the polished ebony of her hair, her eyes brilliant and green, sparkling with reflected light from the fire, she appeared much like the sorceress of Kyle’s dreams. Even now she did not offer her arms to him, though he sensed that she wanted him physically as much as he did her. With one finger, he traced her profile. Marisa sighed shakily, lifting toward him, her voice a soft whisper.

“Doesn’t it matter that I don’t want this?”

“If that were true, it would,” Kyle said quietly. One hand slid around her waist, then lower, cupping her gently toward him, making her aware of how much he wanted her. “Kiss me, Marisa, and tell me later how much you despise me.”

Chapter Nine

Marisa fought to stem the flood of emotions that his kiss aroused. Her youthful body seemed to have a will of its own, ignoring her protests and responding to him. “I was to be wed,” Marisa said. “I should be another man’s wife this night.”

“But you aren’t,” Kyle stated.

“Does that make a difference?” she persisted. “What will become of all this? Of me?”

“You are no longer a virgin,” Kyle said, moving back a slight bit, enough to see her face. “Why deny yourself? What difference one night or many?”

“And make me nothing more than a whore?” She laughed bitterly. “ ’Twould be an ironic fate, having denied so many noble’s sons.”

Kyle chuckled. “Do you care so much for convention? Come, little Marisa. Let me see more of the woman I saw that night, bathing in a stream. She is hidden within you, beneath layers of respectability. Shall I show you?”

His mouth took hers roughly. He sensed her surrender before she did so herself, carrying her to the bed and gently undressing her. Marisa blushed as he arranged her hair around her, then stood up, ridding himself of his breeches and admiring her beauty. She felt little embarrassment as excitement rushed through her. Odd that, of all the men who courted her, none aroused in her the sensations that this man did. He returned to the bed, pressing her full into the bedclothes, his mouth tracing delicious patterns over her breasts and thighs. She tensed that first moment when he pressed within her, her body unaccustomed to this intrusion.

Then she was lost in her own rapture, in a white hot world of passion and need. He thrust deep within her, commanding a response, forcing her to answer in kind. Marisa did. A sharp, sweet flowing warmth like hot honey filled her, making her cry out his name. Only later did she recall that he kissed her quickly, stifling the sound, while he took his own pleasure from her soft and supple flesh. When it was done, Marisa curled within his arms, listening to his quiet breathing.

The cool night air did little to assuage Shannon’s anger. She rode down the streets of town, hardly aware of the loud clatter of her mount’s hooves on the cobbles. She kept well away from the stately buildings that hovered over her like a brick canopy, recalling Londoners’ predisposition toward dumping slops out the windows. Her wisdom was realized as a stream of offal spewed just inches away from her, and a nightcapped maid slammed the shutters indignantly.

Damn Devon! Shannon swore, her outrage burning brighter by the moment. She knew that it would be next to impossible to track Marisa alone. Yet having seen the Angel, she would have an advantage that the redcoats wouldn’t. The enormity of the situation struck her fully as her eye met row upon row of imposing buildings. Marisa could be in any one of them. How could she, a woman alone, hope to find her? She might be halfway to the Highlands by now, and once sheltered by the clans, Kyle could hold her forever. No matter what the Highlanders thought of Kyle’s sins, they would not betray one of their own to the British. Not after Culloden.

Shannon reined up her horse, prepared to return to Marisa’s parents. The sense of inaction made her furious, but she could see little else to do. Unfortunately, even as the wisdom of this decision prevailed, a group of roughs accosted her, their poverty-hardened faces smiling with mischief in the moonlight.

“Oh, it’s a liedy,” the closest grinned, a brawny lad all of sixteen. “Might ye have a few coppers for the poor, miss?”

“Ask ’er for a kiss, Jimmy,” one of his mates urged. Their eyes glittered like wolves. “Or better yet, take ’er down from that horse. She’s likely got money in ’er dress.”

“Aye, I’ll wager she does,” the ringleader smiled, his white teeth a sparkling contrast to his grimy face. “Come on down, miss. We ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

“You’re damned right you ain’t,” Shannon said, her brogue becoming thicker as she struggled to break free. Fear gripped her as one of the boys grabbed her reins, preventing her escape.

“That’s it, miss. Ye ain’t going nowhere,” Jimmy sneered.

A carriage clattered down the cobbles, coming around the bend with great speed. Instantly the boys vanished, disappearing into darkened holes and gutters like rats. Shannon expelled a sigh of relief as the carriage stopped beside her.

“Sir, I want to thank you…” Her words dropped off as she saw Devon’s sardonic face in the window, his “I told you so” expression easily interpreted.

“Get in. I’ll give you one fortnight to find her. And that’s only because my father threatened to cut me off, so don’t get flattered, sweetheart.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Shannon said. Dutifully, she climbed down from her mount, tying her horse to the coach, then she tumbled inside with Lord Sutcliffe.

Marisa slowly became aware of an odd sound, that of horses—dozens of them—galloping down the deserted road in the early hours of the morning. She struggled to speak but found she could not. A hand held her mouth closed and she fought indignantly, only to realize it was Kyle who held her.

“Shh,” he whispered. “I don’t like the sound of that. Zachary, Douglass, wake the men.”

Marisa heard the confused groans and murmurs of the Highlanders as they became fully awake. They assembled with astonishing speed despite the hour. Marisa could only surmise it wasn’t the first time they’d been roused under such circumstances. Zachary climbed up into a loft, spewing hay down onto the Highlanders below.

“It’s them, Angel. Redcoats. I saw it in the sky last night.”

“All right, we have to hide. Zach, is there enough room for the men upstairs?”

“Aye, and then some.”

“Good. I’ll tend to that, you take care of the horses.”

The pressure finally left Marisa’s mouth as Kyle released her, only to be replaced by a linen gag. “I apologize, my lady, but I cannot take the risk. Not even for you.” He carried her into the hayloft, his wound remarkably improved, Marisa thought angrily, as he sprawled her down into a mountain of straw and bound her wrists.

No sooner had they settled in than the door burst open. Marisa lay beneath Kyle, his arm wrapped tightly about her waist to prevent any possible movement. She could hear Zachary’s squawking, the birds’ rustling motions as the redcoats entered, the men clumsily overturning tables and looking into cupboards.

“You don’t happen to have some Highlanders hidden here?” one of them asked, his voice ringing sharply throughout the house. “Or seen them go by?”

“No, no Highlanders,” Zachary said indignantly. “Please, you are ruining everything! I made that table from the oak that stood outside. My house!”

“This dump?” One of the men laughed. “I apologize. I can see what it’s worth.”

“Nothing to you, but it’s my home,” Zachary said with quiet dignity.

“Check outside in the barn.”

“Aye. Anything to get out of this pit.” Footsteps receded, along with the noise.

“Pit? My home he calls a pit!” Zachary spoke to a wren, who chirped in response.

“Calm yourself, old man. We have traced the Angel this far. We have no intention of harming you.”

“Why do you want this man?” Marisa could almost see Zachary’s quizzical expression, so similar to Aesop’s. “He has harmed you?”

“No,” the soldier responded. “He is wanted for murder and for the abduction of a lady, Marisa Travers. We have been sent by the Earl of Argyll and the Duke of Sutcliffe to secure her safe return.”

“ ’Tis strange, is it not, that so many are interested in one small lass?”

“What do you mean?” the soldier asked, puzzled.

“Nothing,” Zachary chuckled.

Just then, Douglass sneezed. The hay had been annoying his nose for some time, and although he had tried to repress it, the sound came out nevertheless. A small dusting of hay sifted down from the loft.

“What was that?” the redcoat questioned abruptly.

“Sneeze. The summer fever,” Zachary said, wiping his nose. But the redcoat was not convinced. Leaning out through the door, he called sharply to his men, indicating the loft overhead.

“I think they’re upstairs. Use caution. These damned Highlanders are usually armed.”

His warning was the last thing he said. Even as the man lifted his head upward, Douglass dropped down onto him like a dead weight, taking him to the floor. The redcoats fumbled awkwardly with horse pistols and swords, cursing as the Highlander brandished a dirk and slit their leader’s throat faster than a man could spit. More men were dropping from the loft, arms raised with blades, each prepared to do battle. A gun exploded and Roarke fell, his body collapsing like a sack of turnips. The soldier smiled and approached his mark, preparing to finish him off. Instead, he found himself face to face with Kyle.

The Angel. The soldier knew him as soon as he saw him, and he quickly changed his plans. To kill this fabled leader would be a feather in his cap indeed. Aiming the pistol, he sought to pull the trigger, astonished at the blur where Kyle once stood and the sharp, numbing pain in his arm. Aghast, he saw the blood spurt forth. Panicking, he fled, wrapping his shirt about his arm like a tourniquet.

“Your left!” Douglass shouted. Kyle barely had time to swerve as a soldier sliced a sword through the air, the sound a familiar metallic whine that never failed to chill his blood. Grasping a chair, Kyle deflected the next blow long enough to bury his dirk in the man’s belly. The soldier’s expression changed from surety to shock, then he joined his companions on the floor.

One by one the British soldiers sought retreat. The Highlanders fought without finesse, but with the fierceness that was legendary. For them, this was not just the king’s command, but their lives. A frenzy whispered through them, intensified by the thought of their cause. The soldiers, with their bright red jackets and pistols, were living examples of what they opposed. More than one man muttered, “For Culloden!” as his dirk sliced through his enemy’s breast.

Marisa, still bound and gagged, could do nothing as the horrid sounds penetrated to the loft. She closed her eyes, trying futilely to block out the sounds. Who was hurt? Was it the Highlanders?…The British?…Kyle?…

Finally, the last of the men fled, his pistol clattering uselessly to the floor behind him. Kyle picked up the instrument, studying it with interest, then slipped the gun into his coat. Only then did he turn his attention to the floor littered with bodies.

“Mac, take care of the girl. Zachary, get some water and whiskey. Douglass, bring me the dirk.”

A nightmare, Marisa would recall later, was the sight that met her eyes. Mac had thankfully released her bonds so that she climbed down unfettered, but she still wasn’t prepared for the chaos of blood and violence that greeted her below. Frantically, she scanned the room, not knowing whether to be relieved or angry at the Highlanders’ success. Forcing her into a seat, Mac cautioned her to remain silent, indicating the gag. Marisa understood at once. If she got in the way or interfered, Kyle would have no compunction about ordering it to be replaced.

“We’ll put him here.” Emptying the table of refuse, Kyle lifted Roarke’s limp body and placed it on the oaken surface. Marisa gasped as she recognized the handsome Scotsman, his eyes closed to the scene around him. Kyle glanced up and gave her a searching stare.

“Your countrymen’s handiwork,” he said softly, cutting through Roarke’s breeches with a knife.

“ ’Twould seem your men can inflict as much damage,” Marisa said, ignoring Mac’s plea. “I count three redcoats to one Scotsman.”

“We had the element of surprise,” Kyle replied. “We were fortunate, as were you, my lady. Had they come a few hours later, they would have no doubt murdered us whilst we slept. You, then, would have provided the entertainment for the rest of the evening, until they saw fit to return you home.”

“They would not have…”

“You are wrong. I cannot discuss it with you now. I must see to Roarke.” Marisa watched, horrified, as Kyle inspected the wound, then called for Brannock. “Help Douglass hold him. He’ll fight, no doubt.”

Brannock obeyed, taking Roarke’s legs while Douglass took his shoulders. Kyle probed with his fingers for the lead ball, ignoring Roarke’s cries. Securing the bit of metal at last, he tossed it aside, then drowned the wound with whiskey. Marisa bit her lip as Kyle drew a white hot dirk from the fire along the wound. The stench of scorched flesh, blood, and sweat made Marisa choke. Snatching up her cloak, she went outside and breathed deeply of the night air.

A few minutes passed like an hour. Sensing his presence before she actually heard him, Marisa glanced up curiously. Kyle stood beside her, his expression relieved, the tension visibly draining from his face. Marisa marvelled that one minute he could be swinging a sword, and the next he could be kind and gentle. The thought of his mother’s death flitted through her mind. He was capable of killing, she realized fully now.

“Did you think I had left you?” she questioned quietly.

Kyle shrugged. “I forget sometimes that this is new to you. It must be difficult for you to accept.”

“What?” Marisa asked. “That I made love to you, then watched you fight my own people? Heaven help me! These men tonight were no doubt sent to find me! Now they are dead—three of them—because of me!”

“Marisa…”

“No, let me finish.” The horror of the past hour swept through her mind, making her terribly aware of the shadows she tried to ignore. “What would you have me say? That I am grateful you did not die? I should be thankful that they are not dishonoring me, so that you can?”

“I do not dishonor you,” Kyle said simply.

“Release me,” she demanded.

“I cannot,” Kyle said angrily, pulling back his hand from her shoulder as if he’d been burnt. “Surely after tonight you know why. You are my only hope to get those jewels. I’m sorry, Marisa, but I really have no other choice.”

“Then you want me for revenge?”

“Revenge?” Kyle smiled. “Is that all you think you mean to me? Sometimes I wonder who will have the final revenge, my lady. Myself or you.” He laughed at her puzzled face. “Come, Marisa. Let us return. We have much to do before leaving this place. It is no longer safe to remain.”