Outlaw's Angel

by Colleen Quinn

  “Let us hope she remains that way,” Alastair grunted. “I grow weary with the wait. I would hate to have to confess my mind now, when Marisa has such a brilliant future before her.”

  “You have little to fear,” the duke said wearily. “Now go, man. I wish some time to myself.”

  Magically, Saunders appeared with Alastair’s hat and cane. The merchant departed, leaving the duke alone.

  Sobbing. A woman was crying somewhere in the castle. It was a plaintive sound, resonant and disturbing. It rose with the wind, sighing through the great antechambers, ending in a tragic cry somewhere below. Marisa tried to follow the noise, looking behind oak-panelled doors, thick granite walls, secret chambers and passageways. But the cry was as elusive as yarn to a kitten. Each time she thought she drew nearer, the cry came from farther away….

  She was running, fog smothering her steps in a horrid milk-white blanket. Somehow, she was below the great house, down near the dungeon where rusted iron turrets once housed recalcitrant clansmen. Drawing nearer to that ill-omened room, Marisa heard the cry more clearly. It was definitely a woman; the sobs were those of a broken heart, of a pain so tormenting it no longer belonged to this earth. The iron gate felt cold and unrelenting in her hands. Frozen in fear, Marisa stared, transfixed, into the interior of the chamber.

  Blood. Puddles of blood ran over the flagstones, beneath her feet, out into the hallway. A silent scream came from her lips as a woman looked up, her eyes pleading, her dress scarlet. A knife clattered to the floor and the woman joined it, sinking down to the stones in a heap.

  “No!” Marisa screamed, waking to sunlight, sharp reflected crystals of it dancing on the rose-colored carpet with the sway of the trees outside. A dream. It was all a dream. But something was very wrong. A maid stood in the corner, pouring out water. She seemed to fade in and out of her vision the way the sunlight did. Marisa tried to sit up, but her arms collapsed like a soft rag doll’s. Why was she so warm? Tongues of flame licked her skin, penetrating like a warm summer sun. Her bones felt brittle, her stomach, never the strongest, tumbled like a joker at a fair. She could see the maid coming toward her in a watercolor wash, her calico dress trailing behind her in a wispy train of scarlet and yellow. The woman was calling for someone…Kyle, Marisa realized. She tried to protest, but the maid gently forced her back to bed, soothing her with whispered words of comfort.

  “We’ll get help for ye right away, ye puir lassie. Taken about the country as if ye were little mair than an old satchel! Don’t ye worry none, Aggie will take guid care of ye.”

  Marisa had a vision of swirling skirts, cries for help, and pots of water carried to and fro. A fire was built, the hot mass of it stinging Marisa’s eyes until salty tears dropped to the bedcovers. Why were they building a fire? Didn’t they know she was too hot? Marisa tried to tell them, but her voice, even in her own ears, was nothing more than a hoarse croak. She ignored Aggie’s comforts, determined to get out of bed and stop this raging dragon. Firm hands gripped her shoulders, holding her in an embrace she would never mistake. It was Kyle.

  “All right, sweet, lie down. I’m here now. Don’t fight me, Marisa, let me help you. What is it?”

  “Gibberish,” Agatha said piteously. “The puir lass hae the fever. She’s saying ought aboot dragons and murder.”

  Kyle saw the sweat clinging to Marisa’s forehead, droplets beading there like a crystal band. Her legs fought pathetically with the covers, trying to fling them off while she moaned quietly with the effort. Indignantly, Kyle doused the flames, ignoring Agatha’s outrage.

  “She’ll catch a chill! ’Tis bad enough the lass is ill with the consumption. Nae wonder she doesn’t get the chest sickness. Fair freezing she was when ye brought her in! What possessed ye to take sich a fair flower from her hothouse?”

  Kyle looked at the maid closely, his eyes holding all the warmth of the Atlantic before a storm. “She will not be chilled,” he said slowly. “She’s burning with the fever now. Fetch some cold water and ice if you want to do your mistress any good.”

  “Ice!” Agatha nearly choked. “Isna’ enough ye barely killed her already? Fll fetch a doctor.” She was gone before Kyle could stop her, leaving him swearing behind her.

  “Kyle?” Marisa questioned softly, the fever slipping away for one reclusive moment, only to return with a vengeance. He was beside her instantly, his hands holding her, his eyes containing a warmth that spoke of emotion rather than desire.

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “I had a dream.” All at once she was too frightened to tell him. The visions swirled up again in her mind like shadows at night, the horrid images making her feel ill again.

  “It’s just a nightmare,” Kyle said soothingly. “When I was small, my mother used to tell me nice stories to get my mind off such things. I’ll see if I can remember.”

  The tale he spun was enchanting, from what Marisa understood. She drifted between wakefulness and slumber, hearing of faeries and knights, ladies and kings. It was like entering another world, a place of mystical people, one that was so beguiling she never wanted to leave. She could even see the faeries now, laughing in the wind. They were dressed in autumn leaves, the brilliant crimson and citron of the maples, the modest brown of the oaks, the perennial green of the hollies.

  A doctor had come. Marisa woke long enough to see him peering mercilessly into her eyes and to feel him thumping painfully across her ribs. “She’ll have to be bled,” he said matter-of-factly. Metal instruments jostled each other on Marisa’s night stand.

  “No,” Kyle stated.

  “But she must!” Even in her delirium, Kyle could hear the doctor’s frustration. “The poison’s in her blood! If it is not released, she will die.”

  “I am not convinced,” Kyle said flatly.

  “Listen to the mon, laddie.” Duncan’s voice came from far away, the sounds muted through the shimmering phases of heat but intelligible through the force of his personality. “She needs help.”

  “Not that kind,” Kyle said. “I’ve seen too many die from a surgeon’s blade. On the prison ship, our doctor killed more men than scurvy. And when he was taken ill, he refused to let a knife near himself. I’ll take care of Marisa, but I will not have her dead through lack of skill.”

  The physician assembled his ghastly tools in a huff. “Then her death will be on your head. A murderer of women, they will call you.”

  “I believe they already do,” Kyle responded.

  The doctor’s lips tightened. Blessing himself, he departed the great castle, eager to be home.

  Duncan watched patiently as Kyle doused another cloth in ice water, bathing Marisa’s resisting body. She shivered beneath his touch, crying out as the chill liquid cooled on her heated flesh. Duncan waited until Kyle collapsed beside the young girl before commenting.

  “Wishing won’t save her, lad. It’s up to fate.”

  “Then I’ll control fate,” Kyle said.

  Travelling through England by carriage during a downpour was unpleasant; on horseback, it was extraordinarily uncomfortable. At first, Shannon tried to cheer Devon up, but after the first few days, she wisely kept her own counsel. There were times that discretion served her well; her own bawdy and sometimes violent family demonstrated that. But when Devon took a detour toward an established gaming hall, Shannon protested.

  “The Angel’s got enough of a lead as is. If we stop now, we’re liable to lose him completely.”

  “It’s only one night, dammit!” Devon shouted through the sheeting deluge. “We’re not going to be any help dead of consumption! You do what you want, my dear. I choose to spend one night warm and dry.”

  Shannon finally gave in when she realized that the air had turned chill and that her rain-sodden coat offered little protection. Devon did have a point. He sneezed as if in response to her thoughts, sending her an accusing glare.

  After days on the road, the gaming hall felt like a palace. Shannon sighed in pure luxury as a disgruntled maid
led her to a room and lit a fire. It seemed ages since she had been warm and dry. Centuries. Tossing aside the cloak, she went straight to the fire, reveling in the warmth of the flames.

  The door slowly opened and Devon walked in. Shannon whirled about, startled, then stared in confusion as he tossed aside his own coat and waistcoat. Ruffling a hand through his wet hair, he sat down and poured himself a drink, making himself at home. Shannon quickly found her tongue.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?”

  “Give it a rest, Shannon, all right?” Devon responded wearily. “I’ll let you have the room first, to wash up or whatever. Then I’ll take it for a while. I’ll be downstairs most of the night; there’s a game going. With luck, I can win back a bit of what this trip’s cost me.”

  Normally, the last sentence would have alarmed Shannon completely. Now she hardly heard it in context with the rest.

  “We’re sharing this room?”

  “There’s only one room available. And, after all, we’ve been sharing accommodations for over a week. You don’t think—” Understanding finally dawned as Shannon stared at the bed uncertainly—“that I…I mean, you and I…”

  The situation struck him as amusing. Without meaning to, he burst into laughter, especially recalling the old woman’s reaction the previous night.

  Shannon face got hot. “And what is so funny?”

  Devon forced down a grin, realizing the implication of his mirth. She looked so damned vulnerable, he suddenly thought. And hurt by his obvious amusement. His chivalrous instincts were aroused and he extended his hand.

  “I’m sorry, Shannon. I didn’t mean you weren’t…attractive. I just don’t think of you that way. You’re more of a sisterly figure to me.” Congratulating himself on his tact, Devon gave her a dazzling smile, one intending to charm away any ill feelings.

  Shannon smiled sweetly with an expression Marisa would have recognized instantly. She had seen it the day they had buttered Devon’s saddle; now Shannon sauntered innocently beside the young lord, idly fingering the pitcher.

  “Devon, I’m so glad you think of me as family. I feel the same way about you. In fact, if you were me own dear brother, I would do this.” Without further warning, she dumped the pitcher on top of his Lordship’s head, leaving him gasping in shock and surprise. “I’ll be going now, since you’ve decided to bathe first. Good night, dear brother. And please, don’t wait up for me.”

  Devon started to get up from the chair and Shannon dashed from the room. Even she knew when to make an escape, and from the look in Devon’s eyes, it wasn’t a moment too soon.

  The sweet summer air was tinged with a hint of autumn as it whispered through the velvet draperies into Marisa’s room. The breeze brought little coolness; instead, it seemed as if a dragon snarled from the dungeon below, sending its foul breath skyward.

  Marisa lay tossing and writhing on the bed. Clad only in a light sheet, at Kyle’s insistence, she nevertheless bore the unmistakable signs of fever. Her beautiful skin was flushed, her lips parched. She moaned, clutching the sheet to her breasts, unaware of the man who watched her and bathed her in cool liquids. The dream was returning. This time the woman pleaded with Marisa, her huge grey eyes imploring. But Marisa could not understand what she wanted. The knife clattered to the floor and the woman slipped away again, lost in wreaths of mist and fog.

  “No!” Marisa cried, reaching out to her. There was nothing. The dungeon was empty where the woman once stood, the walls staring back at her in silent rebuttal. Only the flagstones, stained from the woman’s blood, confirmed that someone had been there….

  “You won’t help her by staying here morning and night.”

  Kyle did not look up as Duncan spoke, his burr thick with concern. “Ye’ve done everything ye could for the wee lass. Perhaps ye should have listened to the doctor.”

  “No,” Kyle said quietly, his voice betraying his fatigue. “I won’t let him kill her.”

  “But ye cannot do this, lad.” Duncan lost all pretense of patience. “Ye cannot bring her back this way.”

  “Stop speaking of Marisa in the past tense,” Kyle said sternly. “She’s not dead and will not die. Not while I breathe.”

  “And why is that? Because ye declare it?” Duncan asked incredulously. “Think of what you’re saying! And I wasna’ speaking of Marisa just then.”

  Kyle sank wearily into a chair and stared out the window. Already, he could see the tinge of winter in the greying of the heather and the softening green of the oaks. Why was everything dying?

  “I will say my piece.” Duncan seated himself across from Kyle, unobtrusively pouring the younger man a stiff drink. “First this.” He handed Kyle the glass.

  “I don’t…”

  “Drink it.”

  Kyle resisted a smile and obeyed. It was only when the glass was drained that Duncan relaxed.

  “Is the lass improved at all?” the chieftain began cautiously.

  “No.” Kyle fought to keep his frustration from his voice and failed miserably. “I’ve tried everything! I’ve poured liquids down her throat. I’ve bathed her over and over. She wrestles with nightmares, one that seems to return repeatedly, something so horrifying she cries out. I swear, it’s making her worse.” Dropping his face in his hands, Kyle did not know that Duncan’s expression was full of understanding.

  “I see. Mayhap we should contact her family. If the lass won’t get well…”

  “She will get well.” Kyle looked up, his grey eyes like the steel of an uplifted sword. “If I have to sell my soul to the devil, that girl will get well.”

  “Hush, mon, don’t talk like that. Ye cannot control the lass’s life, nor can ye bring Flora back by caring for Marisa now.”

  For a moment, Duncan didn’t think Kyle had heard him. The Angel appeared to be staring at nothing, lost in his own private dungeon of pain. But finally he lifted his head, his eyes looking through the chieftain.

  “Is that what I’m doing? Trying to resurrect my mother through Marisa?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No. Don’t I have the right to feel responsible and a damned bit guilty? I abducted her.”

  “Then this is merely to assuage your guilt?”

  “Dammit, Duncan, don’t play priest with me. I have no other confessions.”

  “Save that you care for the lass.”

  The room fell silent, except for Marisa’s tortured breathing. Kyle threw his glass into the empty fireplace with an unexpectedly violent gesture, then stalked across the room to stand at the foot of Marisa’s bed. She looked like a princess from a fairy tale, gone to sleep, waiting for the magic spell that would awaken her. Her black hair, damp from the water Kyle had used to bathe her, clung to her cheeks in loose strands. Her closed eyelashes lay like thick black fans against her cheeks, and her lips bloomed unnaturally red from where she’d bitten them. She was murmuring again. Kyle held her hand, fighting the sense of helplessness that raged within him.

  “Duncan,” Kyle finally spoke. “Help me. Please.”

  “Aye, lad,” the older man said. “I’ll do all I can.”

  Shannon awoke with a start. Marisa. The name leaped unbidden to her lips. Sitting up in bed, she tried to still the trembling of her dream-sodden body. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. She had felt this way once before, when she and Marisa had climbed the huge apple tree, laden with creamy white blossoms. The scene from atop the tree—Ireland clustered with flowers—had been spectacular. Marisa’s artistic instincts were fully aroused, and she had tried to get a better view. Her foot had slipped, terror taking the cry from Shannon’s breath as Marisa tumbled helplessly down, past the safe branches, toward the treacherous ground below. Fortunately, Marisa had managed to grab a blossom-crusted branch, then pulled herself to safety with a corner of Shannon’s shawl. Neither of them had spoke of the incident for a long time, almost afraid to tempt the laughing witch called fate.

  Shannon shuddered, pushing the dreaded thoughts from he
r mind. Marisa was in danger. Some terrible cloud hung over her friend; Shannon could feel it. Devon would dismiss her premonition as ridiculous, she realized, but that mattered little. She would convince him and resume their journey quickly. Whatever trouble surrounded Marisa, it was deadly, Shannon was certain. But where was Devon?

  The room was still empty. Shannon had returned just a few hours previously, leaving Devon in the gaming hall, scowling at her over a hand of cards. Deciding that a tactful retreat was in order after dousing him with the pitcher, Shannon was only too glad to retire early and get a good night’s rest, in a real bed. She had assumed that Devon would return sometime during the night. Then an awful thought came to her: Could she have pushed him too far? Perhaps he had decided to end his involvement in their journey and return to England?

  Hurriedly donning her dress, Shannon tore a brush through her hair, then raced downstairs. Her heart pounded until she saw a familiar figure slumped in an ungentlemanly posture across the hall. Catching her breath, she walked slowly across the room, trying not to awaken the two other noblemen who slept in their brandy.

  Devon’s half-covered body was slumped across a satin sofa beneath a portrait of the Scots queen. Relief replaced by disgust, Shannon nudged the inert body the way one would a sleeping mastiff, ready to make a run for it if the beast suddenly lunged into life. Devon did not move. A crystal tumbler rolled from his hand across the floor, the twinkling sound incongruous with the still morning.

  “Devon!” Shannon’s righteous anger flared. She shook him violently. Devon looked up, managed a half-drunken smile, then slumped to the floor. Cards floated around him like black and white butterflies, settling to the floor beside the Lord of Sutcliffe. Enraged, Shannon called for help, finding only a whiskey-scented groom.

  “Help me with him.” The groom started to argue, but at the look in Shannon’s eyes, he changed his mind. Grumbling, he lifted Devon by the shoulders while Shannon got his feet.