Outlaw's Angel

by Colleen Quinn

  “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 Dev
on 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.

  “My lord,” Kyle spoke softly, but nothing could hide the intensity of his voice. Devon nodded, then cleared his throat.

  “There is a room just beyond that we can use. The owner has assured me of privacy.”

  Kyle smiled; Devon was chilled to the bone. “I think not,” he said quietly. “Your owner will certainly have the law waiting just beyond, hidden in the curtains, ready to drag me out to Triple Tree. I’ve had enough of the English, my nobleman. We will conduct business right here, in public. That is, if you wish Miss Travers to remain alive.”

  Devon returned the smile, though he was far from feeling friendly. “Well, it seems you hold all the aces. Will this do?” Lazily, he dropped into a chair, watching as the Scotsman did the same.

  “I assume this is a ransom,” Devon continued, trying to sound jaunty. “Just what price do you plan to extract for the safe return of my bride? That is, if she still lives?”