Outlaw's Angel

by Colleen Quinn

  “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.”

  “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 cau
ght 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.