“Shannon, don’t push me,” Devon said coldly. “I’ve been up all night, waiting for that bloody scoundrel to show up, and he slips right through my trap. I’m not thrilled about it, either, but there’s nothing we can do. The men will report to me as soon as they learn anything. Until then, we’d best wait.”
“Wait? This man, the Angel, will not hang around and allow you a second chance, just because you’re Lord Sutcliffe! He’ll be riding hell-for-leather out of here as soon as he can! Devon, every minute we waste lessens the chance of ever finding Marisa again! And if he gets up to the Highlands…”
“Those Highlanders are murderers and cutthroats. They don’t carry dirks because they look nice with a kilt, my dear. They mean business.”
“Is that the real reason?” Shannon rose from her chair, all hell in her eyes. “Or is it because you can’t be bothered? After all, this is just your fiancée, the woman you intended to love for the rest of your days.”
“Shannon.” Devon’s eyes locked with hers, his voice definitely threatening.
“Or perhaps it’s because there’s no talcum powder for your hair in the Highlands, nor maids to iron your lace shirts!”
“That does it!” Devon got to his feet, slamming the table with his fist. “I’ve had it with your impudence. I’d advise you to get yourself back to Ireland, marry some plowboy the way you’re intended, and have sixteen brats. And leave Marisa to me.”
“Aye, seeing as how you’re doing such a bloody good job at it,” Shannon sneered. “Good-bye, milord. I can’t say I’ll take your advice. If you won’t go for her, then I will.”
“Shannon! Get back here!” Devon started across the room just as the Irish girl pulled open the door. The knob slipped and the panel struck the wall, creating a loud bang in the quiet house.
Marisa huddled closer to Kyle in the saddle, hardly aware of what she was doing. Her head ached unbearably, her stomach roiled, and her mouth felt like dry sandpaper. She was too proud to ask Kyle to stop, and he seemed preoccupied with getting his men as far away from London as possible.
The road they took zigzagged peculiarly. Marisa realized that Kyle took all precautions against being followed. He never took the main street if a side path would do as well, and he avoided the little English villages in favor of the woods. At another time Marisa would have enjoyed the scenery, the wonderful summer flowers, the soft grey-black bark of the beeches. But today all she felt was misery.
Even the men were strangely quiet and taciturn. Douglass, who had refilled Marisa’s glass repeatedly the previous night, opened his mouth to say something, then thought the better of it and closed it. Roarke, who had flirted with her outrageously and demonstrated the Highland fling on a scarred table top, was silent and thoughtful. Even Mac avoided her, though Marisa could well understand his reasons. She tried to smile at him, but he quickly shook his head and glanced at Kyle, who stared straight ahead, silent and forbidding.
The woods grew deeper. Shards of sunlight penetrated the trees, making Marisa blink painfully. She wished she were home, in her familiar bed, Nanny taking care of her with cool cloths and softly murmured comforts. Her mind wandered back to the previous night and she winced, recalling Kyle’s smug words. If it weren’t for the whiskey, it wouldn’t have happened. Even now her head wasn’t clear of it, as the leaves ahead shimmered with odd shades of green.
Kyle shifted behind her, in response to her squirming. A hot rush of color came to her cheeks as she realized the source of his discomfort. Glancing at his men, for once she was grateful for their Highland stoicism. Not a one looked at her or acknowledged her embarrassment. It was easier, then, to pretend nothing had happened. Marisa couldn’t think of it now, when her head pounded and her stomach threatened violence. She groaned, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun, fighting the gorge that threatened to rise.
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 outsi
de 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 de
ny 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.”
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