Outlaw's Angel

by Colleen Quinn

  “The MacKenzies?”

  “A neighboring clan,” Marisa explained. “I spotted them while painting this morning. Apparently, they are going to attack, and Kyle’s men plan to fight. I’ve seen them battle, Devon. It isn’t like England, where there are rules, twenty paces and a clean pistol. They use swords. People get cut, lose limbs, bleed….”

  “I can picture the rest,” Devon said quickly, more amazed by the moment. “You mean you actually saw?…”

  “I want to be gone before it happens,” Marisa said abruptly. “I don’t think I can bear it.”

  “Sure, Marisa, if that’s what you want.” Silently, Devon regretted that he hadn’t eaten more at dinner. And that feather bed…“Are you certain they’ll be here that quickly?”

  Marisa nodded. “They had approached the Carron pass when I saw them. Even Duncan said they’ll be here tomorrow.”

  “That settles it. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

  “Thank you,” Marisa replied softly. The frantic urgency left her and she smiled gratefully.

  Poor Marisa, Devon thought, she really is afraid. He felt a surge of protectiveness toward her as she walked to the door, her shoulders squared, her chin up. He followed, wondering what else had happened during her captivity, what other terrible things she had witnessed. Yet, to see her, clad in a cool muslin gown, her hair knotted in the back with a single tendril artfully arranged about her face, one would never think anything disturbed her at all.

  Suddenly Marisa’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why, Devon, you’re not dressed! You really should put something on before inviting a lady to your room.” With that, she disappeared, leaving behind a bemused Devon.

  The castle was a frenzy of activity come dawn. The Highlanders, eager for battle, assembled below even as the mist burned from the heather and the morning sun failed to warm a man’s knees. The MacLeod tartan flashed a brilliant saffron and black, blinding in the sun and gorgeous against the green of the hills. Bagpipes wailed; the ocean sobbed against the rocks, the air blew chill with the promise of battle.

  The men stirred as one, the anxiety throbbing through them becoming anticipation as Kyle appeared, then a dull roar. Seated on his black stallion, his own tartan a vivid splash of color against his mount, his sword sheathed at his side, he looked every inch the part of the Angel. The Avenger, the men whispered, recalling the days when most of Scotia was theirs and the MacKenzies, with their government contracts, a weak underling. The Angel of death. The stir became deafening as Kyle joined the ranks with Duncan at his side.

  The pipes wailed, crying for Scotland, for the hills beyond, the lochs, the lands and the people who were slowly trickling away. It has come, Kyle thought, wondering if it would be the way he had envisioned for so long. So many things were not. Even without the jewels in his possession, he felt invincible, as if the gods had gifted him in some secret way. Or maybe not the gods. Maybe he had sold his soul….The thought came out of nowhere, and he deliberately dismissed it, concentrating on his men instead.

  Roarke saluted him, his handsome face rising above the men. He patted his sword, then indicated Ryan and Brannock, who argued among themselves as always. Mac was there, the other clansmen, and the rest of the MacLeods. Kyle made a mental calculation and frowned. Scarcely a hundred. Surely the other clans would meet them—the MacDonalds, the Camerons, the MacLeans. They had promised support when the time was ripe, and Douglass had hastened to alert them during the night.

  The MacKenzies were less than five miles away.

  “Follow me!” Kyle said when the wild and discordant music had died. “We fight the MacKenzies today! Tomorrow, we fight to free out homeland!”

  “Aye!” the men shouted as one. They began to move; one horde of Scotsmen, joined in a common cause, united by the golden-haired man before them. It was as if one heart beat among them, one joint breath inhaled, then exhaled, one tense muscle expanded in the flick of a sword hand. Kyle felt it, and his men knew it.

  Dropping to the rear, the mountains rising like a newly awakened monster before them and Loch Morar shimmering like a drop of liquid mercury behind, Kyle could not suppress the wild joy that flooded through him. It was happening. Now. Years of waiting, planning, now culminated in the battle that was about to begin. Glancing up at the castle, Kyle was startled to see a woman’s form pressed against the glass, watching them leave.

  The wind caught a tendril of her black hair and Kyle knew. Marisa. The name caught at his heart with a fresh pain. She was gone from his sight, only to reappear at the carriage waiting outside. Frowning, Kyle reined up his horse, then stopped cold as Devon joined her, along with the Irish girl.

  Devon. Marisa apparently didn’t see fit to bid him farewell. An icy rage exploded within Kyle, one that held no logic or reason. Can you bear the thought of her in Devon’s bed? Duncan’s taunt returned, making his hand tighten against the hilt of his sword, aching to kill.

  Kyle almost turned around when Roarke shouted back, “Are we losing ye, Angel?” His men glanced about, reassured when they saw him take up the lead again, his eyes deadly, his body leaning forward in a determined manner.

  “No, you’re not losing me,” Kyle replied. “Let us be off.”

  * * *

  “Marisa?”

  Devon touched her shoulder lightly, helping her into the carriage. Marisa complied, allowing Shannon to drape a lap robe over her legs, though her gaze never left the window. For the briefest moment, she thought he was going to stop, that he would realize, as the heroes did in all of their romantic novels, and return for her. Then, Kyle was gone, leading his men, his mind as lost to her as if she never existed.

  A cold wind blew and Marisa could not repress a shudder. Shannon pushed more of the robe toward her friend. “Here, take some of mine. Marisa, are you all right?”

  “Fine,” Marisa said, refusing to meet Devon’s eyes. The carriage jolted, then rattled into life as the MacLeod castle disappeared behind them.

  Neil MacKenzie saw the carriage in the distance and gestured to Colin. “Ye don’t think that Kyle…”

  “The Angel?” Colin snorted. “Hardly. Kyle MacLeod is the last man to run from a battle. Most likely, ’tis his Lordship. The Sassenach can’t stand the sight of blood nor battle, unless ’tis themselves, in some heathen country.”

  “They would make a good ransom,” Neil said hopefully.

  Colin paused, then shrugged. “Aye, and that they would. But we’ve our own battle to fight, one far more important than a ransom.” Flexing his weapon, Colin grinned like a fox teaching his cub his tricks. “And with this, we are sure to win.”

  His men were listening now, most of them on foot. Only a few of the leaders, Colin and Neil among them, were mounted on horseback. Yet they had a distinct advantage alien to the usual clan brawls—bayonets. Neil balanced his own weapon, sunlight glinting from the deadly blade.

  “Men! We are almost there! We’ve had proof of the MacLeods’ treachery, and ’tis time we ended the threat to our land!” Dismounting, Colin surveyed his men, pleased to count over three hundred in number. They were all garbed in green tartan, a color that proved useful in battle as camouflage and even more important as a uniting factor. Scooping up a handful of the rocky soil, Colin let it dribble through his fingers as the men nodded to each other.

  “This land! This is what we fight for today, what we defend! The MacLeods want not just this territory, but all of Scotland! The Angel must be stopped before it is too late!”

  “Aye!” the men shouted, the blood rising within them, blood of the true Celts mixed with that of their Viking ancestors. It was that heritage that made their muscles flex in anticipation of a fight, their adrenaline flow to stiff arms and legs, flooding them with a desire to kill. It was for the land beneath them and their love for the clan—the clan that was being threatened—that they were driven on. Each man nodded and grinned to his neighbor, wiping his mouth in the cold noonday sun.

  “Angel,” they said.
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  Kyle reached the MacKenzies within the hour. At first, when the clan was just within sight, he could not believe his eyes. Muttering a curse, Kyle reined up his mount, drawing back to where Douglass stared in disbelief at the flash of silver ahead.

  “Do you see it, Douglass?”

  The old soldier nodded, then swore out loud. “Sweet Jesus! Those damned MacKenzies have bayonets!”

  Confusion mingled with panic and surged through his men. Kyle felt their outrage, their fear. His mind worked frantically. Bayonets. Where in God’s name could they have gotten such a weapon?

  “What do ye say now?” Duncan shouted, urging his mount through the melee to join Kyle and Douglass. “They’ve got us outnumbered at least twice. And with those weapons…”

  “We can’t stop,” Kyle decided quickly, ignoring the horror that sprang up in Duncan’s eyes.

  “Are ye mad? This is sheer suicide! Our men have naught but swords and dirks. Bayonets will fire them down before we can even reach them! Then those blades! I’ve seen them kill a man five feet away, as easily as slicing through a ripe peach. We cannot fight that! I’ll not stand for it!”

  “They’re not your men now,” Kyle replied caustically. Then, with more diplomacy, “Duncan, it is too late. They’ll never make it back to the castle. Our only chance is to stand and fight.”

  Duncan nodded, his horse whirling sharply, his voice distinct above the commotion. “Come along, lads! For Scotia, we fight!”

  “Angel, Angel, Angel!”

  Following Kyle’s signal, the men marched into the MacKenzies. The first volley from the bayonets brought a line of MacLeods down like so many crushed flowers beneath the enemy’s feet. Kyle cursed, fighting to subdue Damien as the huge stallion pawed the ground restlessly, excited by the smoke and stench of blood. The sun rose higher, bathing the scene in stark painful light as a second volley fired. This time, more Highlanders dropped, some clad in green as Kyle’s men struck home, most clad in yellow.

  Colin pushed forth through his men, searching through the smoke, the blood, and the dust. He was looking for one man in particular, one man he’d known since childhood and hated as long. Relentless, he perused each face, searching for the man who would lead the clan. Swords connected in a raspy, metallic rage, a body severed in two dropped before him, a bayonet pierced a shield and killed its owner before the cry could leave his throat. Colin smiled. The blood lust ran through him, making him immune to almost anything except the sweet, almost sexual urge that possessed him at this moment.

  It was then he saw Kyle. The Angel. Fighting from the ground with his men, his sword flashing furiously, Colin stepped forth with a raised bayonet. It would take but a moment, the Angel would die, and the rebellion with him.

  Kyle saw the bayonet and knew in an instant it was intended for him. Furious, he fought with renewed energy, outraged that this man, Colin MacKenzie, meant to snuff out his life with the same insignificance that he would dampen his taper before bedtime. Strange thoughts flashed through his mind as he saw the smile on Colin’s face, the utter satisfaction of killing. He did not think of the battle or Scotland or his clan. He thought of Marisa. Her name and face came unbidden. An aching regret ate through him like acid. He would never see her again, never know the joy of having her love him or seeing his children born from her laboring body….Swearing silently, Kyle renewed his efforts to break free. He couldn’t die now, he couldn’t let this man destroy him, not yet….A swollen-faced MacKenzie refused to relent, engaging Kyle’s sword arm and fighting for his life. Kyle could not escape, even as he saw Colin’s blade thrust.

  Duncan saw the bayonet, saw Kyle’s expression, and his own fury erupted. Kyle, their legend, about to be killed. He forgot in an instant that he and Kyle had disagreed, forgot that he was against this battle and that Kyle had usurped both his power and popularity. Well-trained in fighting, Duncan reacted purely on instinct and challenged Colin MacKenzie. His sword clashed insultingly on Colin’s weapon, forcing the man’s attention from Kyle. Colin, seeing another prey before him, one equally meaningful, smiled and approached, his bayonet glinting evilly. For the briefest moment, their eyes locked, each man remembering the other as a wee bairn. Colin’s eyes grew cold at the thought, and he thrust his blade home. He did not count on Duncan’s agility, however, and as he moved, committed to his blade’s deadly path, Duncan swerved and buried his blade in Colin’s throat.

  Colin felt the rush of pain and knew instantly he was about to die. Roaring like a wounded bear, his voice choked with blood and he staggered across the field. Blood spilled in a tangled scarlet web across his cambric shirt as he garnered all of his resources and thrust his bayonet into Duncan, who seemed to expect it. After all, Colin had shown no mercy as a child, fighting the others with a ferocity that was as appalling as it was enviable. Together they slumped to the dust, unnoticed by most of the men except one.

  Horror sprang up in Kyle, cold, deadly horror that immobilized him even as he sent the MacKenzie to his God. Numbly, he stepped across Colin’s body and reached for Duncan. A hand caught his arm and he looked up into Douglass’s face.

  “Help us, Angel. The men need you now. There’s nothing ye can do for him.”

  “Duncan…” Kyle glanced down at the prone figure, observing the way his fingers loosened and his sword dropped free. Duncan, who didn’t want to fight, who felt this thing wrong….

  “There’s no time, lad. We need help! Now man, or we’ll all be corpses!”

  Reacting only physically, Kyle forced himself to go to Roarke’s aid. A sturdy shepherd had backed Roarke against a tree, pointing the bayonet at his throat with a crude lust. Kyle saw his joy, and hatred sprang up within him. Bringing his sword through the air quickly, down onto the man’s arm, Kyle severed the limb, ignoring the man’s scream and sending him fleeing for his life.

  Swords clashed with bayonets, shields dropped, men fell like sacks, their bodies mutilated, unrecognizable. Kyle’s sword arm ached from the effort, and he glanced repeatedly toward the east, hoping against hope that help would be forthcoming. It wasn’t. His men fought valiantly for him, Kyle realized, long after they should have. It was only when the dirt flowed with blood and the grass grew slippery with the life flow of his clansmen that Kyle cried out, “Retreat! Come, men, retreat! I order you!”

  Douglass nodded, gesturing to the men, helping those who could be helped, leaving those who had already died. The MacKenzies, observing their withdrawal, cried out triumphantly and redoubled their efforts. Falling back behind a briar hedge, Douglass wiped the blood from his forehead and gazed at Kyle.

  “Well, Angel, now what?”

  Kyle, their leader, stared numbly ahead, completely without knowledge of how to counsel his men.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Kyle stared straight ahead, past the carnage that lay around him, past the blood of his friends that soaked into the soil, the harsh Highland dirt that refused to yield drops. Purpose…What was his purpose? It seemed as if he had known a moment ago. Why wouldn’t it come?

  The smell of death came to him in a fetid breath and he choked, unable to stand the stench. The bog. They had evidently wandered several miles and were now on the border of the great moor. Dying vegetation added to the smells of dry blood and death, making the men cough and choke, while the creeping grip of the oncoming night threatened annihilation. If only he could think of something…

  Impatiently shaking the mire from his boots, his mind turned back to the bog. The footstep filled in as quickly as he withdrew his boot, reminding him with a macabre warning that they would all become mummified specimens for the gods if he didn’t think of something fast. The MacKenzies, sensing victory, now fought with a ferocity that appalled even him. The bog…

  “Douglass, lead the men this way!” Kyle sprang to life, his body surging forward with an ambition that the older Highlander decried.

  “Are ye mad? ’Tis the moor! Why, if the men fall in…”

  “Just do as I say! Dou
glass, we can’t just stand and die! For the love of God, man, do as I say!”

  Nodding, Douglass delivered the instructions, bidding the men to obey without question. One by one they slipped back toward the bog, fighting to stay alive, fighting the muck that threatened to destroy them from below. The MacKenzies followed. The smell of death was everywhere—dying plants, dying men, water that had long ago become useless and was now a River Styx, threatening to claim them all as her own….

  Twilight approached, rendering the place the color of slate. A raven cawed, and the sounds of swords mingled with muttered curses as the Scotsmen found themselves knee-deep in mud. The MacKenzies, although superstitiously afraid of the swamp, pressed on, wanting to kill and end the thing, their desire to win obliterating all thoughts except one.

  “Do you see it, Douglass?” Kyle called, urging his men forward, holding his shield in one hand, pointing with the other. “Do you see it?”

  A silence followed, grim and ghastly, filled with horror as the men stared where Kyle pointed. There, ahead in the bogs, was a light, but not as many men had seen before. It glimmered with shades of scarlet and gold, chartreuse and pale yellow, radiating a cold warmth that made each man there cross himself and mutter a prayer. Douglass nodded in recognition, and his clan, benefitting from his tale, knew the thing for what it was and refused to follow it. But the MacKenzies panicked. Fear, primitive and more powerful than even a bayonet, rose up in the men, and they ran, fighting to get out of the mire that held them.

  A dozen splashings rent the night as MacKenzies fell into the moor, disappearing with horrible cries into the floating green morass beyond. A few, compelled by the light, moved toward it, walking trancelike deeper and deeper into the bog, never to be seen again.

  Kyle took full advantage of the situation. “The Wisp!” he murmured to his men, helping them out, leading them to safety while the MacKenzies fought their own fears and the deadly grip of the swamp. By the time darkness had fully descended, the MacLeods that survived the battle were safe, their worn and muddy bodies draped on the grass above the bog, their eyes tearing from the strange shimmering light that beckoned within. Like a goddess, it enticed in the most primal way, calling to them with its odd shape and fading brilliance, until many of the men forced their eyes closed to rid themselves of the Circean spell. Only Kyle lay awake, watching the Wisp, thinking of Duncan lying out in the carnage beyond.