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, prepari
ng 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.”
Marisa wondered if she would ever feel safe again.
The Duke of Sutcliffe stared motionlessly into the fire. The sound of hot tea being poured into a delicate china cup mingled with the crackle of the logs, lending a homey atmosphere to the great manor house. The duke absently accepted the cup, scarcely moving from his repose. Saunders took the silver tray and started for the door, pausing only when his master spoke.
“You needn’t run from my side. I am not a monster.”
“Beg pardon, sir.” Saunders obediently returned to the fire, standing bathed in the lemon light, his expression carefully schooled to show nothing. “You wanted me, sir?”
“Yes, damn you. The house is terribly quiet tonight.”
Saunders cautiously ventured a reply. “You miss the boy.”
“Of course I miss him. How could I not? Has there been any word yet? Have all the king’s men uncovered anything?”
“I believe they’ve discovered a trail, Your Grace. A tavern keeper claims that a group of Highlanders stayed with him for hence on three days. They may be taking the coastal route to avoid detection in the towns. He’s been warned, sir.”
“MacLeod?”
“Yes. A barmaid informed him of the letter. The lad knows his identity has been discovered.”
“Pity,” the duke said, sipping the hot tea. “It should have been insultingly easy to apprehend MacLeod. Intriguing fellow, I understand. Plays a deadly game of whist, has all the ladies aflutter, yet bothers with few of them. His skill with a sword is legend, with the dirk, fatal.”
“Lack of formal education,” Saunders added. “If I may say so, sir, you seem very interested in this young MacLeod.”
“I am always curious about such romantic figures,” the duke said evenly. “Devon met with him?”
“Yes,” Saunders said slowly. “To discuss the ransom, I think. Strange that he should know of the existence of the emeralds.” Saunders remained emotionless as the duke raised an eyebrow, studying the butler closely.
“Aye, ’tis strange, and perhaps ’tis not so strange. Young MacLeod hopes to entice the prince back from France. He sees the jewels as a way to do that.”
“I think, sir, he also has a personal motive.”
“His name. And his mother’s death.” The duke nodded, placing his cup aside and staring into the fire. “The existence of the gems would prove him innocent, as well as lead to his mother’s murderer. Pity the lad will never get those jewels, that he i
s wasting his considerable talents in such a foolish endeavor.”
Saunders said nothing. Picking up the discarded cup, he started for the door, hearing the duke behind him.
“Saunders, did you ever make a mistake in your life, one that colored the rest of your existence? And you felt that no matter what else you accomplished, that mistake would prove your undoing?”
“I can’t say that I have, sir.” Silently, the butler closed the door, leaving the duke to stare into the fire.
Marisa was more than happy to see Zachary’s hut disappear behind them the following day. The horror of the previous night seemed like a bad dream in the sharp reflected light of the morning. The air was crisp and pure, and a pristine sparkling of dew bedecked the grass and trees. They were entering Wales, Kyle told her, indicating the lush green countryside and the rising mountains in the west. Castles rose in the distance, their towers enshrouded with fleecy clouds. A faery land, Marisa thought, wondering at the secret violence that lay hidden beneath the slumbering surface.
The Highlanders sought to entertain her during the journey, which was, at best, an adventure and, at worst, damned uncomfortable. The first time they got caught in the rain Marisa found herself the recipient of a dozen proffered cloaks. Kyle watched the Scotsmen engage in mock chivalry with her, understanding the fascination she held for them. Her English manners were irresistible to them, her obvious breeding and sophistication a revelation. But it was Kyle who, with one quelling glance, forced them aside and covered her with his own coat.
She had been given her own horse, a gift from Zachary. Marisa found, to her dismay, that she missed riding with Kyle, his arms holding her and guiding the horse with an effortless ease. But he could now more easily scout ahead and search the innocent countryside for danger, all the while keeping his men as secluded as possible. Marisa began to understand how he managed to stay alive so long, when so many wanted the claim of having his head.
Outlaw's Angel Page 12
