Outlaw's Angel

by Colleen Quinn

  “Marisa is alive,” Kyle said, enjoying Devon’s outrage at the familiar use of her name. “And she will continue to survive if you cooperate. I have no desire to kill her…yet.” He emphasized the last word.

  Devon nodded. “What assurance do I have that you captured Marisa? Although everyone knows the word of a Highlander is sacred, I believe in something more tangible.”

  The Scotsman pulled a tattered piece of ivory satin from his pocket and smoothed it between his fingers. “Do you recognize this?”

  “Marisa’s gown.” Devon took the fabric, examining it closely. It could be no other. Marisa had ordered the cloth from Paris, showing it to him weeks before the wedding. He could even see the place where the seed pearls had been sewn, the tiny row of pinpricks left by a seamstress. He thrust the piece into his coat.

  “All right, so you have her. How much? That’s the big question here, money.”

  Kyle stared at him long and hard, his eyes glittering strangely. “I am not interested in any of your money.”

  “Not interested in money!” Devon laughed. “Then you’re willing to just return her?”

  “I am willing to bring her back, but not for gold,” Kyle continued.

  “What then?”

  “I want something returned to me.” The intensity in his voice grew. “I want an emerald necklace. Do you recognize this?” He opened his hand.

  Devon choked on his brandy, then gestured quickly. “Put that damned thing away! Of course I recognize it! What I want to know is, how the hell did you get it?”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Kyle said. “I want the necklace that matches. Do you know the one? Thirteen emeralds, set in brushed gold, with an emerald clasp.”

  “Thirteen.” Devon’s mouth went dry as he stared at the Scotsman before him. The man’s face did not change. It was not possible….“How did you know?” Devon questioned in a small voice. “How could you possibly know?”

  Kyle smiled coldly. “I know. The jewels don’t belong to your family. But I will not argue. I wish the gems back…in return for Marisa.”

  “How do I know you’ll return her?” Devon asked. The Scotsman was already getting up.

  “I give you my word.” With that, the Scotsman strode from the room like a ghost fading into the mists, leaving Lord Sutcliffe to stare after him.

  Marisa started as the door banged shut. Her relief became evident when she faced young Mac, not the stern and seductive Scotsman who had disappeared so covertly that morning.

  “No need to be so skittish,” the boy said, pouring a bucketful of steaming water into the pitcher. “You don’t have anything to fear. I’ve never seen Kyle hurt a woman. In fact, they seem to hang on him like bats from a tree.”

  “What about his mother?” Marisa whispered, the words coming unbidden from her throat.

  Mac stared at her coldly, and Marisa wished she could retract the words. But the fear that the story generated, the horror of the very word matricide, would not leave her. Not when she was in the hands of the very man who’d done such a deed.

  “You can believe what you want, miss. I don’t give a blessed damn. All I can say is I never saw Kyle force a woman or hurt one in any way. Not like some of the others…” He gestured with his thumb toward the door.

  “I’m sorry,” Marisa said sincerely. “I didn’t mean to give offense. It’s just that I’m tired and afraid.” She wrapped herself tightly in the shirt she wore, unaware that the innocence of her gesture convinced the young boy.

  “Here.” He softened his words. “I brought water for you to wash. I’ll see what I can do about finding you a dress.” Curiously, his eye marked the satin gown that lay in a yellowed puddle on the floor. The damage to the garment was evident even from here. “Although a pair of my breeches might suit you better. I think Kyle plans to ride again soon.”

  “Ride again?” Marisa’s head flew up, her huge green eyes a picture of dismay. “Mac, does he plan to keep me longer? Will he return me soon?”

  The boy looked hesitant to answer, but seeing the terror in her expression, he shook his head. “I don’t know. I think he’s holding you for reasons of his own. Ransom maybe. Your father is wealthy, I take it.”

  “He would pay, if need be.” Marisa nodded. “But why would Kyle want ransom money? I thought the Angel only stole jewels. Does he really use them to finance a rebellion?”

  “Don’t ask me such things,” the lad said sternly, frightening Marisa with a scathing glance. In that instant he was nothing like the carefree boys she knew, boys born with silver spoons in their mouths. There was another side to him, a subtle shading that reminded her of Kyle. “You are English, though you are young and unlucky,” he continued. “If you are smart, you’ll stay out of things that don’t concern you. Now take your bath. I’ll come back with the clothes.”

  “Mac?” Marisa spoke as he strode toward the door. The young boy turned to stare at her, the harsh planes of his face impatient. “Mac, my father would pay for my freedom,” she said carefully. “Anyone. Even you, if I told him you helped me escape.”

  The boy said nothing. He gave her a cold stare, then turned from the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  Chapter Five

  The Duke of Sutcliffe sat alone in his library, idly toying with a crystal glass of port. In many ways, he resembled a sun-drowsy lion, the energy and power in his aging body merely suppressed for the moment. He stared into the dancing flames of the fire, his body cold in a way that no external force would warm. Cautiously, Saunders tapped on the door, then discreetly entered, bearing a card on a tray.

  “What is it, man? And where is Devon? I heard his carriage leave this morning, and he hasn’t returned even yet. Gambling, I suppose.” The duke scarcely looked up, his eyes secretive and hooded beneath heavy lids.

  “I don’t know where the young lord is now,” Saunders said truthfully. He’d expected Devon hours ago and was just beginning to worry. “There’s a man waiting to see you, Your Grace. It seems important.”

  “I see the card,” the duke said impatiently. “Dammit, who would disturb me at this hour?” He snatched up the missive, staring incredulously at the scrawled handwriting, the ivory paper, the gold lettering. “What does this mean?”

  “I have no idea,” Saunders replied stiffly. “However, the Earl of Argyll is waiting in the hall. Are you at home?”

  “Yes, of course,” the duke answered thoughtfully. It wasn’t often that the most powerful man in Scotland came calling past ten at night. Landlord of over five hundred square miles, superior of the chiefs in Argyllshire and Western Inverness, lord lieutenant of the West Highlands, the earl was a very capable man who was both admired and feared. Unlike his countrymen, Archibald Campbell allied himself with the Hanoverian king, an alliance that proved beneficial to himself and deadly to his enemies.

  “Your Grace.” The earl entered the library, allowing a brief smile to crease his face. He accepted a glass of wine and seated himself across from the fire, his face hidden in the shadows.

  A cold man, the duke thought, sipping his wine and surveying the earl. From his English dress—the brocade satin of his coat to the black polished tips of his boots—the earl was the representation of the new Scotsman, leaving the ancient Gaelic chieftain to perish among the hills.

  “To what do I owe the honor of this visit? Surely something of supreme importance must have prompted you to seek my company at this hour.”

  “Yes,” the earl agreed. “Although I was not dismayed at the opportunity to call upon you. Surely we have seen very little of you these past years, since the unfortunate death of the duchess. Except for the engagement party for Devon.”

  The duke said nothing. He did not smile, nor by any slight movement betray his thoughts. Far better to allow your adversary to reveal his own motives. The earl was beginning to pick nervously at a loose thread on his sleeve. He is uncertain about the outcome of this meeting then, the duke surmised. But why?

  “As I have r
emarked,” the earl continued, “you have not been seen at court recently. One might think you do not fully support our king.”

  “Is that why you have come?” the duke asked patiently, playing with the earl like a lion with a shrewd and clever mouse. “To question my loyalty to his highness?”

  “Should it be questioned?”

  The Duke of Sutcliffe smiled. “I should think not. I have given my unstinting support to the Hanoverian dynasty. My mere presence at court or lack of it indicates nothing. You are aware that my family is presently involved in our own difficulties?”

  “I heard,” the earl nodded. “I wish to extend my sympathy. Your son’s fiancée was abducted by the Angel?”

  “It appears that way,” the duke said. “Her family has given a description of the man involved. It coincides with that of this Angel.”

  “It is unfortunate that the man wears a mask,” the earl said thoughtfully. “We would have him in a minute if we knew what he looked like. No doubt, he mingles among the very men he robs. He may be at my elbow tomorrow evening, at Almacks. I may pass him at the gaming halls this week. I may even sup with him this very night, at the club.”

  “The Outlaw Angel,” the duke continued, seeing the lines tighten around the earl’s eyes at the mere mention of the name. “You would stand to lose everything if this man succeeds, would you not? Your lands, your following. Even your title and connection with the king would offer little protection should this man succeed in garnering the Highlanders’ support.”

  “He will not succeed!” the earl spat, losing his temper. His face flushed, he glared at the English duke, regretting his emotions the moment they became evident. “He will not succeed,” he repeated, calming himself. “He will be caught, and hanged at Tyburn. If I have to destroy the entire MacLeod clan, Kyle will be stopped.”

  “I see,” the duke said, inwardly delighted. One always had the edge when one’s opponent was forced to reveal his hand prematurely. “So what does all this have to do with me? Other than my involvement with Miss Travers’s abduction?”

  “Why, it has everything to do with you,” the earl said, smirking. “No doubt this Angel will contact you shortly, for ransom purposes. I assume you will report such an event as soon as it occurs?”

  “Of course.”

  “And nothing has happened to date?”

  “Not that I am aware of.”

  “Good.” The earl smiled, his pale face stretching across fragile cheekbones. “I had an interesting visit from Lord Woodruff last night. Do you know him?”

  “I believe he is an acquaintance of my son’s,” the duke answered. “Stupid lad, with a penchant for whist.”

  “Nevertheless, the man came to me with a curious story. One having to do with gaming debts and a payment in emeralds.”

  The duke’s face was reflected clearly in the fire, yet showed nothing. He simply shrugged and refilled his glass with a steady hand.

  “And what of it? I know nothing of emeralds or debts.”

  “Perhaps you don’t, but your son does.”

  “What has Devon to do with this?”

  “Everything. It seems he gave Lord Woodruff an emerald in payment for debts. An emerald that milord lost soon after. A curious gem. Lord Woodruff couldn’t forget it.”

  “Curious? How so? One gem looks like the next,” the duke said.

  “Not if it was the stone I am thinking of,” the earl said, barely containing his glee. “The noble’s jewels, a fortune that once adorned the lovely throat of Lady MacDonald. The gems were unlike any other; every shade of green was represented there, from the palest lime in the base of the gem to the darkest emerald at the center. They reminded milady of the glens in Scotland. Fanciful, I know.”

  “You seem an authority,” the duke said quietly. “Whence this wonderful knowledge?”

  “I saw them.” There was a wistful note in the earl’s voice, gone in a moment like a sparrow’s song. “And Lord Woodruffs description of this gem was so singularly impressive that I had to look into this. Especially since he obtained the emerald from your son.”

  “Devon.” The duke toyed with his glass, staring into the flames. “My son has finances of his own, moneys that I do not keep track of. Most likely he purchased the gem for some lady, as a token for favor, and later had little use for it, especially with his pending marriage. I will question him about it.”

  “Why not do so now?”

  “He isn’t here.” The duke smiled coldly. “We weren’t informed of your arrival, or certainly Devon would have stayed to visit with you.”

  “I am sorry.” The earl rose, taking the duke’s cold hand into his own. “Perhaps the next time. I intend to investigate this matter fully. We don’t want those gems falling into the wrong hands.”

  “Like the Angel’s?” the duke questioned softly. “Should a MacLeod obtain them, he could possibly entice Bonnie Charlie back to his homeland.”

  “Aye.” The earl stared at the nobleman before him, his naked rage blazing from his eyes. He is not far from his countrymen, the duke thought, in spite of his linens and ruffles. The blood cries out the same. “I think we both have much to lose should that happen.”

  The earl quit the room, leaving the duke alone. The Duke of Sutcliffe stared into the fire for a long moment, then reached into the pocket of his coat and opened a watch. The cameo of a woman stared back at him, her liquid eyes beseeching him silently. “Flora,” he whispered. Slowly he closed the case and drank quickly of his port, stilling the ever-present ache inside of him.

  The window was locked. Marisa sank into a slump beneath the crystal panes, her hands still aching from trying to force them open. Fear, anticipation, and despair began to build within her, threatening her sanity. She could see the star-encrusted sky, and Marisa knew that only a few hours had passed; yet already it seemed like days since she’d left her old life. Dismally she sank down onto the bed, thinking of her home, her parents, Devon. She would have been married, would have been in Devon’s arms.

  Her eyes strayed to her gown, and she thought of Kyle’s enforced stripping of her. A strange shiver went through her and she rose from the bed, pacing about the floor. Her mind wandered to the way he had kissed her before he left, that soft brush of his lips that had the power to ignite something within her. And when he returned…

  A woman giggled from the next room, every sound painfully obvious through the walls.

  “Ye want ta see something, lovey?” Marisa shuddered at the swish of taffeta, then heard the man’s appreciative laugh.

  “Come here, wench,” he chortled, his voice thick with rum. The woman laughed shrilly, then came the sound of bedropes creaking with their weight. The awkward rocking became rhythmic. Marisa tried to ignore the other sounds that followed, grunts and cries of pleasure. She put her hands over her ears, forcing herself to think.

  The noises finally stopped. Marisa listened carefully, hearing the coarse snoring of the man, the woman’s tottering step as she edged out of bed.

  “Here’s my money, lovey, right here.” The woman laughed. A jingle of coins followed. “Ye can’t say Annie’s a cheat, no matter what. I said three shillings and I’ll take three. Now if I could just get this blooming dress on…”

  The door slowly creaked open and a plan took shape in Marisa’s mind. Cautiously, she crept to her own door and tapped gingerly. “Please,” she called out, trying to stop her voice from shaking. “Miss, if you please.”

  “Wot’s going on?” the woman asked from the hall.

  Marisa swallowed her fear and spoke normally. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but it seems I’ve locked myself in. Would you mind opening the door for me?”

  “I don’t know,” the woman said suspiciously. “I don’t know you.”

  “Yes you do, Annie,” Marisa declared, grateful for the opportunity to eavesdrop. “I met you last night, downstairs. I was with the Highlanders.”

  “Oh, the big chap with the gold ’air? I recall now.” Marisa breat
hed a sigh of relief as the key grated slowly in the door. “Damned good-looking bloke, ’e is. I wouldn’t mind a bit of that. Better than wot I just left, I can tell ye that.”

  The door flung open. Marisa faced the gaudily dressed young woman she’d seen the night before in the tavern. Grinning, Annie pocketed the key and winked perversely.

  “Like I said, miss, if that Scots bloke tires ye out, tell ’im to send for me. A man like that could last all night, he could. And I would charge him only two shillings.”

  “Thank you.” Marisa managed a smile. Annie’s eyes dropped to the breeches she wore, and her eyes widened.

  “Does he make you dress up in those? Men! You’ll never knows what they’ll take into their heads!”

  Her gown swished as she started for the stairs, shaking her red hair.

  Marisa wasted no time after the tavern wench’s departure. Hushing the door closed behind her, she slipped down the narrow hallway, grateful for the lack of candles. As she neared the tavern room, she paused, hearing her own heartbeat. The noise below assured her that the tavern was full. No doubt the Highlanders would be fully present, drinking their fill and wenching. Marisa stood torn for a moment, wondering whether it might be better to return to her room. Instinctively, she knew this might be her last chance to escape. And if they were near Brighton, Lady Ashton had lodgings not too far away. Help could be as close as the next carriage….

  Summoning all the bravado she could, Marisa walked slowly toward the door, trying not to attract attention. She saw Annie’s curious look, then felt the heated stares of the men.

  “Hey, who is she? Ain’t she a new one? You’re a pretty little lady, even in those trousers….” A sneering chuckle followed, coupled with bets as to who could take them off her.

  A Scotsman dropped his ale and stared at her, slowly rising from the table. Panicking, Marisa recognized him as the man who rode beside Kyle, an elderly Scotsman who spoke little except to qualify their plans. He stared across the room, seeming to guess her motives. Frowning, he replaced his ale and came toward her, his eyes peering out of a face swathed in hair, his full beard flowing well past his chin.