Outlaw's Angel

by Colleen Quinn

  “Aye, ye should have seen the Angel as a boy,” Douglass told her, amusing her with one story after another. “He could shoot a hawk faster than a bird could sh—well, you know, on a man’s shoulders.”

  “Don’t you be listening to him, darling,” Roarke said. Though recovering from his injury, he was losing weight, and his face was still pale. Marisa knew Kyle was worried about him, as were the rest of the men. “If you wanted to see Kyle in action, you should have seen him as a pirate.”

  “Pirate?” Marisa’s attention was caught by this last statement.

  Roarke nodded. “Aye. He escaped hanging and was sent to the colonies. But there they wanted the convicts for little more than slaves. Angel found himself on board a prison ship. Mutiny broke out and he was impressed as a pirate.”

  “How terrible!” Marisa shuddered.

  “What are you telling her this for?” Mac reined up his horse, alarmed at the conversation that drifted up to him. “what are you trying to do, scare her to death? Next you’ll be telling her about the time they nearly hung him.”

  “I’m sorry, lassie,” Douglass said. “Instead I’ll tell you about the time we found old Mac here. Left in a crate in the forests to die, he was. That’s why we named him Mac. Didn’t know who the hell he was. Kyle insisted we bring him, though the young lad might have held us back. Got a first-rate education, he did.”

  “Aye, from the likes of you,” Mac said, while Roarke and Brannock broke into laughter.

  Marisa looked at him curiously, his harsh planed face a mystery. Like Kyle, the boy held shadings of things she couldn’t imagine, yet there was a kindness about him, too. Strange for a boy left in a crate.

  Roarke caught Mac offering Marisa a piece of cheese. “Ho, Angel, looks like you have some competition for the lass. The boy thinks he found a kitten.”

  They laughed good-naturedly, while Mac sent Roarke a disparaging glance. “ ’Tis the first decent company we’ve had in ages,” Mac said, ignoring their chortles. “And didn’t I catch you giving her your blanket last night? I should have warned her about what she might have caught.”

  “Ha!” Roarke snorted. “ ’Tis less than she’ll catch from those clothes of yours. Like the clap. Did Mac ever tell you about that barmaid in Brussels?”

  “And what would you have him tell her?”

  The laughter became chokes as Kyle drew up beside them. Roarke flushed red, but Mac stared straight at Kyle, reluctantly giving up his post beside Marisa.

  “ ’Tis nothing, Angel. We were just teasing the lass.”

  “Kyle, what’s the clap?” Marisa asked innocently. The men dissolved into laughter while Kyle flinched painfully. His explanation came much later, at a private moment, without the benefit of the Highlanders’ advice.

  Chapter Ten

  The sweet smell of peat mingled with the damp thick air of the pub. It was a small town tavern, with a creaking sign that had long since faded. The men within knew it as the King’s Pub, but for what king the place had been dedicated they’d long since forgotten or cared.

  A nobleman sat amidst the farmers and merchants, his lordly air as out of place in the rustic scene as lace on a shirt of homespun. He ignored the men around him, sipping delicately at a much-watered punch, hiding the repugnance he felt at having to endure such a place at all. A shepherd, clothed in coarse linen and dung, slumped into the opposite seat.

  “It’s him, ail right. I saw him.”

  The nobleman smiled, and a strange gleam came into his eyes. “Are you certain? The Angel?”

  “Aye, sir,” the shepherd said indignantly, brushing aside the shock of hair that fell into his eyes. “Didn’t I know Kyle from the time he was a lad? The MacDonalds have always hated the MacLeods, as ye know. Even your own clan—”

  “—feels nothing but disgust at the mention of his name. MacLeod is a curse to the Campbells as well as MacDonalds,” the earl agreed. “So he is returning home.”

  “Crossed the border less than an hour ago,” the lad smirked. “And guess what else? He has a wench with him. I saw her with my own two eyes.”

  “A woman?” The noble earl dropped his pretense of assurance, swirling his punch thoughtfully. “So, Marisa is still with him. Intelligent, on his part.”

  “How so? Wouldn’t the wench slow him down?”

  “Not necessarily,” the earl said. “The girl brings another aspect to this situation. Her father is Alastair Travers. She is an heiress, not someone to be taken lightly. Kyle is obviously using her as a shield.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, Gov. But the Angel, he is a tricky one. Look how he got himself away, headed for a hanging like he was.”

  “Yes, I recall. But he isn’t quite so clever now. He’s fighting for a lost cause, and the man doesn’t even know it.” The earl withdrew a gold coin from his pocket, placing the warm metal disk into the palm of the shepherd. “You’ve done well, lad. Now don’t let them out of your sight. I want to know every move that Kyle MacLeod makes.”

  “Right, sir.” Pocketing the coin, the lad sped out of the room, leaving the nobleman alone in the tavern.

  “Wonderful.” Devon’s voice rang out sarcastically as they approached the outlaw’s tavern. In the first light of morning, it appeared as an unrepentant sinner. Drunken vagrants snored on the stairs while anonymous boarders paid for their lodgings with undiscussed monies. Every wretch that had ever graced London’s prisons seemed crammed into the large serving room, and a dozen unfriendly eyes turned their way as they entered.

  “Let me take care of this. It never hurts to turn on the charm,” Devon said, stepping in front of Shannon. Ignoring the toothless outlaw beside him, Devon took a seat at the bar, ordering Shannon into the next one. The barmaid sauntered up, a tray in her hands, as she surveyed them suspiciously.

  “What’ll ye have? Ale, a pence, brandy two.”

  “Give me a brandy, and one for yourself. And tea for the lady,” Devon added in afterthought. Shannon opened her mouth to protest, but Devon shot her a warning look. Turning a charming smile onto the well-endowed barmaid, he took the glass, waiting until she drank her own and wiped her lips.

  “Thanks, lovey. Now I’ll best be off.”

  “What’s your hurry? You can spend a moment, miss. I’d like to talk to you.”

  The barmaid’s eyes went from the well-dressed lord to the Irish girl, then back again. “Say, what are you, a redcoat? I don’t have to talk with you.”

  “No, I’m not the law,” Devon smiled painfully. “I just wanted to ask you a question. Did you see a group of Highlanders pass through here, one of them a tall blond with deep-set eyes? They had a woman with them.”

  “I ain’t seen nothing,” the barmaid said petulantly, her lips sliding out. “And I don’t like the looks of you. You look like a ’coat to me.”

  “What’s the trouble, Nancy?” A burly man strode over, his arms crossed like tree trunks intertwining. Shannon got up from her seat.

  “Devon, I think we should leave….”

  “I’ll handle this.” Devon smiled at the man, putting on his most impressive air. “How do you do? I merely asked the lady here if she knew of any Highlanders in the area. I’m sure, as a businessman, you understand that information is valuable. I can make it worth your while.” Devon displayed a coin. It flashed in the room like a stray sun.

  The innkeeper smiled back. “Get out.”

  “But…”

  “Before I throw you out.”

  “Right.” Taking Shannon by the elbow, Devon backed out of the room, suddenly noticing that the men had gathered, one by one, around him at the bar. He could almost feel them fingering the weapons inside their coats.

  “Just stopping by, no need to get up. We’re leaving.” They barely cleared the door when they broke into a run, Devon dragging Shannon with him. A piece of lead whizzed by as they slammed inside the carriage, Shannon glaring at him as the coach jolted off.

  “A fine mess you made of that!” she snapped. “
What would you want me to do? Stay there and let us get killed?” Devon snarled back, ignoring the sweat that broke out around his throat.

  “What we should have done in the first place. Drive around the back.”

  “Are you mad? Let’s get out of here!” Devon said, incredulous.

  Shannon stepped over him, out into the tavern yard beyond. Devon opened his mouth, then closed it abruptly. Let her hang herself. It would serve her right. She returned a few moments later, and he gave her a smug smile.

  “What happened?”

  “They were here,” Shannon said. “The Angel is with about fifteen men; he still has Marisa. They’re headed for the Highlands, but they’re taking the shore route. If we go straight ahead, we might be able to make up for lost time.”

  Devon stared at her, openmouthed. Shannon smiled.

  “Charm, Devon. Works every time. Especially when one offers a drunken groom a bottle of port for an answer. Tell you everything you want to know. One of my brothers is a groom in Ireland, you know.”

  “Driver, head north.” Devon turned to stare out the window, forcing himself to keep his mouth closed. It was an exercise he would never forget.

  The Cheviot Hills rose from the earth like a row of sleeping giants. Passing through them, Marisa felt as if she were irrevocably crossing the seam that held the two lands together. The river Nith laughed in the sunlight, carrying forth secrets from England, whispering them to the lochs and hills beyond. Even the landscape was different. Gone was the cool green velvet of Wales, the sophisticated architecture of England. This was a harsh land. Rust-colored rock broke through the ragged patches of soil like the bloody skin of a beggar through his clothes. Thousands of small silver lakes glimmered in the distance like scattered jewels, reflecting sheep and dour-faced shepherds.

  Marisa knew she would not be seeing the cities, not Edinburgh, certainly. “Be thankful for that,” Douglass assured her. “Edinburgh is like being at a tavern house in the summer, with no one having taken a bath. Stinks like a painted whore. Sorry, Angel,” Douglass quickly amended, catching Kyle’s sharp glance.

  “It is not safe for us at any rate,” Kyle said. “We will know a small measure of security in the Highlands alone. I’ll be glad to see the last of England, as well as these Lowlands.”

  “Aye,” Roarke stated. “I can smell a Ferguson if he’s within a mile. White-faced fools! They are so eager to be Englishmen they think it a compliment to be mistaken for one. Be damned to them.”

  “Gregory Ferguson owns a boarding house just a few miles ahead,” Kyle said casually, noting Marisa’s interest. “I think our lady here could use a hot meal and a bath.”

  Marisa ignored the interested glances that fell her way, and she self-consciously smoothed a curl. She had knotted her hair and tried to keep clean when they stopped at trickling streams to water the horses, but there was no substitute for the comforts of a real home. Douglass saw her silent plea and reluctantly conceded.

  “I suppose one night won’t hurt anything.”

  “I thought you’d see it my way. When it comes to this wench, you’re all a pouch of pudding.”

  The men offered nothing in their own defense. Marisa had managed to wriggle her way into their lives. Not a one cared to see her any more unhappy or miserable than absolutely necessary. If an inn would make Marisa comfortable, then an inn it would be, even if owned by a hated Ferguson.

  The house appeared by dusk, occupying a long stretch of the roadside. Gregory Ferguson had made a fortune as a tea merchant. With the shrewdness of a Lowlander, he had done without for many years and reinvested the money into various ventures, one of which stood before them. The inn, a broad framed house with two stories, a barn, and an ice house, provided a decent income in and of itself. The men waited outside as Kyle approached, making spurious comments under their breath as the pasty-faced merchant appeared at the door.

  “Yes? What is it, man?” Glancing up, he saw more than a dozen Highlanders at the door, their larcenous kilts flying about chapped knees, their dirks plainly visible, their faces as hard and as red as the land around them. Ferguson was a city man, his girth attesting to his wealth, his waistcoat bulging from ample food and whiskey. He looked like a frightened mouse as he surveyed the group, then attempted to close the door.

  “I don’t want any trouble. Take what you want and leave. I won’t tell anyone.”

  “I think the man doesn’t want us,” Kyle said. “We need to spend the night, Ferguson. You remember me, don’t you?”

  The fat little merchant stared at the tall blond Scotsman on his doorstep and scratched his cheek thoughtfully. “MacLeod?”

  “Good boy,” Kyle said enthusiastically. “And your family owes mine a favor.”

  “Aye, I recall,” the merchant said belligerently. “For taking our side against the Geddes. But that was nigh on thirty years ago….”

  “And a Scotsman never forgets. Nor refuses a friend hospitality, does he?” Kyle said, a threat underlying his words. The merchant quivered in fright.

  “No, but the cost—”

  “I’m sure this will be adequate.” Disdainfully, Kyle tossed a burlap sack of gold coins onto the marble step. Gregory Ferguson nearly scrambled in his haste to snatch up the sack, his deep-set eyes protruding at the sight of the money within. A female voice, strident and harsh, rang out from behind him.

  “What’s going on here, Greggie? Who are these men, cluttering up the step?”

  “Why, it’s an old friend, Agnes. Kyle MacLeod. He’s come to spend the night. He’s paid for it.” Tremulously, the merchant held out the sack, allowing his equally stout wife to peer into the bag and count the coins. She peered back up, her frizzled hair and long neck lending her the appearance of a wood bird.

  “There’s but three beds upstairs. You’ll have to share. And mutton stew for supper.”

  “That’s perfectly adequate,” Kyle said graciously, ignoring the ribald comments that came from behind him. “We accept. Now do you think you could provide a bath and some hot food for our lady?”

  Both Lowlanders’ eyes fell on Marisa curiously. She had never felt so conscious of her appearance before, as they took in her boy’s clothes, her disheveled hair, and her position astride a horse amidst Kyle’s gang. There was something about Marisa, a ladylike air that superseded such simple trappings as clothes.

  “I suppose,” Agnes said in a surly voice. “Though it’ll cost you a bit more.”

  “Fine,” Kyle replied. “We’ll see to the horses and allow her some privacy. The men will take their meal when she’s finished.”

  Marisa was led into the house by a grumbling Agnes. “The man thinks he owns the place, coming in here and shouting orders. He’ll get his. I hope they hang him.”

  “I beg pardon?” Marisa asked politely, not bothering to hide the icy tone in her voice. Agnes stared at her shrewdly.

  “I suppose he abducted you. He’s a handsome gent, all right. If he doesn’t slit your throat first.”

  “Kyle is not what you think.” Marisa surprised herself by defending him. Even the older woman glanced back as she dragged out a tub, her eyes narrowing at Marisa.

  “So you like the bloke, do you? He’s a murderer, you know. I don’t guess that he told you the story. His own mother.” Talking to herself, she poured water into the tub, adding a bucket of cold to each hot until it was just right. “There’s your tub, though why you want to bother when you’re consorting with his type, I don’t know.”

  “Thank you,” Marisa said regally, looking at the door. The woman seemed to have no intention of leaving until Marisa continued, “If you don’t mind…” “Touchy, ain’t ye?” Agnes sniffed. “I wouldn’t be, bedding down with the Highlanders. But there’s no accounting for tastes.”

  “No, there isn’t,” Marisa said coldly. “I believe your husband is calling.”

  Scuffling outside, the woman helped her husband prepare food for the impatient men. Marisa waited until Agnes was gone before undr
essing, then she slipped into the water. After so many days riding, the warm water felt like the softest silk on her skin. Marisa sank down until it nearly touched her chin, enjoying every moment of this bliss.

  The door closed quietly behind her. Marisa jumped up, grabbing frantically for a towel. Holding it before her, her heart ceased pounding as she saw Kyle leaning against the door, his eyes caressing her more warmly than the tub water.

  “I didn’t mean to intrude.” His voice rang out quietly in the tiny room, and a slow smile came to his lips. “But I can’t say I’m sorry.”

  “What are you doing here?” Marisa questioned furiously.

  “I don’t entirely trust our innkeeper,” Kyle said simply. “I thought it best for me to return and make sure you have no unpleasant company.”

  “How kind,” Marisa said brittlely, not certain whether to believe him or not. Agnes Ferguson’s cutting remarks had made Marisa all too aware of her position as Kyle’s captive. “Would you turn around?” she asked primly.

  “No,” Kyle said with a smile, drawing up a chair. “You’ll have to get used to my company, Marisa. I plan to keep you for as long as I need to. And I intend to enjoy your company to the fullest.”

  Marisa could do little else except ignore him, continuing her bath, aware of his eyes watching her. Strangely enough, she found the experience not totally without pleasure. In fact, it was Kyle who wore a pained expression when she reached for the soap, exposing full round breasts, the tips of which gleamed with tiny rivulets of water. Marisa looked up, seeing the smoky darkness of his eyes and the intensity of his stare. Fighting the delightful flush that raced through her, she indicated the table.

  “A towel. Can you hand me another?”

  Kyle leaped up to do something, anything. He felt like a man who had ordered his own torture, his own desires sorely tested as Marisa reached for the linen square and obligingly stepped out of the tub. The towel was a mockery, barely covering her slender thighs and exposing more than a generous amount of cleavage. Kyle groaned loudly, collapsing into the chair while Marisa questioned him innocently.