Outlaw's Angel

by Colleen Quinn

  Landscapes meant nothing to Marisa on the way home. Staring dissolutely from the carriage window, she did not see the grandeur of the Highlands fade behind her, the craggy cliffs, the secret, mist-shrouded glens, the silver rivers that passed beneath her. It all seemed a vague grey blur, one that she would scarce remember upon returning home.

  Shannon chattered brightly, disturbed by Marisa’s silence. Relating points of interest and tales about the trip, her voice slowly trailed off as she realized that Marisa wasn’t even remotely listening. Giving Devon an accusing frown, Shannon wrapped the lap robe about her legs and drank in the scenery, relieved when they finally stopped for the night at an inn.

  The Two Penny Inn boasted a chambermaid, bedwarmers, hot towels, and cold beer. Marisa moved like a sleepwalker, thanking the maid for her kindness and pretending to eat of the cold supper laid out for them. It was only when she and Shannon were abed that her pain finally surfaced. Shannon winced upon feeling the mattress shake with Marisa’s sobs, longing to comfort her but knowing better. When Marisa was ready, she would talk. Until then…

  Winter seemed to come overnight. The glass panes in the room ran with melting frost as the maid stoked the fire, and a cold chill rattled the eaves. They departed after a good breakfast, and Devon joined the coachman on top, reluctant to face another day of Marisa’s silence. The coach passed sparkling frozen fields, trees coated with jewels, and a sky the color of ice.

  Devon’s absence was a relief to Marisa, however slight. Shannon observed the relaxed posture of her friend, the way she seemed a bit more animated today.

  “It’s bothering you, Mari, isn’t it? Leaving him?”

  “Actually, I’m eager to be home,” Marisa said. “I hope my mother wasn’t too worried. We have so much to do, with the wedding plans changed. I’ll have to send out new invitations, reorder everything….” But even for Marisa, the pain was too fresh. Kyle. The name tore at her, reminding her of this farce. Yesterday, she had scarcely been able to look at Devon and had to fight to keep from wondering why he was sitting across from her with that curious stare. Oddly enough, Marisa almost expected Kyle to be there, imagining that if she closed her eyes long enough, the past twenty-four hours would be merely a bad dream. But the dream was an all too clear reality, and the hurt unbearable. Her face remained serene, but her eyes betrayed her, reflecting the turmoil within.

  Shannon saw that expression and frowned. “Rubbish! I cannot believe you mean to go through with this….Oh, all right, I’ll shut up if you want. I still think you were out of your mind….” At the piercing look Marisa sent her, Shannon shrugged and complied, stilling her opinions.

  The next day passed in the same manner, as did the following. Inns all seemed the same, as did the days melting into grey nights, freezing into unwelcome dawns. By the time they reached London, Marisa was so cold and numb both inside and out that she literally had to force her body out of the coach and into the house that waited.

  Strange, she thought as she passed through the same door she must have walked through hundreds of times. There it all was: the horrid gargoyle door knocker her father had insisted upon, her mother’s delicate roses blackened by the sudden frost, the hallway shining with beeswax and polish. Quiet murmurs of people came to her, and her own name was mentioned in tones that befitted a funeral more than a homecoming. It all seemed alien to her, as if she no longer truly belonged.

  “Marisa!” Sara Travers burst free of the group of people surrounding her, smothering her daughter in a warm embrace. Feeling some of the pain lessen in that familiar comfort, Marisa wrapped herself in the embrace. Her mother smelled like lavender and roses, a scent she always wore and one that always reminded Marisa of home. Tears stung her eyes as Sara trembled fearfully, whispering over and over, “I never thought to see you again! I was so afraid, but it’s over. It’s finally over! You’re home.”

  Marisa smiled, patting her mother’s back, disengaging herself when she heard her father’s gruff voice.

  “Marisa. He didn’t hurt you? He didn’t?…”

  “I’m fine,” Marisa insisted, hating the silence that followed. She managed a smile, seeing the genuine concern in her father’s eyes, eyes like shiny black buttons that glanced quickly over her with a certain knowledge. Blushing profusely, Marisa thanked God for Shannon when the Irish girl interrupted without preamble.

  “Yes, well, we’ve had a rough reunion, and Marisa’s dead tired. I’m thinking a hot bath and a brick might be in order. The roads, you know. And those inns.” Shannon shook her head in disgust, indicating Marisa’s damp shoes.

  As she expected, Sara took control, ushering Marisa past the gaggle of questioning relatives and neighbors, past the sheriff who listened to all accounts of the kidnapping with shrewd understanding, and past the maids who patted Marisa reassuringly as she slipped by. Within an hour, Marisa was fed, had a hot bath and a warm brick heated, and was in bed. The thick and familiar rose-colored quilt seemed like an old friend as Marisa closed her eyes, feeling something like peace for the first time in days. But even then, with her feet warm and her hair brushed to a shining perfection, her dreams were troubled by the appearance of an Angel, and she awoke to a world that was sweating and cold.

  Night had fallen. Strange, Kyle thought, his eyes scanning the fetid bog, eyes that still stung from viewing the Wisp. Night didn’t seem to matter here. Days blended into evening, barely noticed in this twilight world of death, the gray places where the living became the dying and the dying became something else….

  “Kyle. Are you all right?”

  Kyle glanced up, seeing Douglass’s concern. The older man’s face was wrinkled, like the roots of a tree, his thoughts apparent. “It’ll do you no good to stay here. Let us go back to the castle.”

  “I’m fine,” Kyle said, understanding more than he revealed.

  “None the less…” Douglass glanced furtively about the moor, unable to dispel the horror that seized him here nor the memory of that mystical light. The Wisp changed men, lured them to death, wrapped them in glowing fingers, only to choke the breath from them in a foul coffin of muck.

  Kyle rose to his feet, more to allay Douglass’s anxieties than any desire to return to the castle. Together they walked along the rocky path, staying well away from the mud and the floating green death traps. Once Kyle paused to inspect a bayonet that was lying nearby; he sank to his knees, and had Douglass not been there, he might have joined the MacKenzies who slept beneath the slimy surface. Douglass hefted Kyle out of the bog as if he were a mere child, setting him back on the path.

  “You might not have lived to see the sun,” Douglass said, his own heart pounding in terror.

  “Nor have many others.” The pain Kyle felt increased with each step. Blood. It ran in rivers, streams, rivulets. Kyle struggled to breathe, hating the sudden weakness that assailed him now when he walked amid the dying and dead. Bodies of friends, relatives, people whose smiles he’d seen since childhood, lay scattered about him like used burlap sacks at a port. Grief came to Kyle, weighted down with responsibility and guilt. He had caused this. His own ruthless ambition stared him in the face with a dozen lifeless eyes.

  Unable to bear it a moment longer, Kyle turned, when a familiar form caught his attention. Duncan. The man lay prone, his eyes closed, his expression peaceful, as if he had merely fallen asleep. Without hesitation, Kyle reached for him, wrapped his arms around his body, and struggled to bring it to his horse.

  “Are you mad?” Douglass said, astonished. “The man’s dead! There’s naught you can do for him now….”

  “I can give him a decent burial,” Kyle snarled, hoisting the body upward where Damien waited patiently.

  “But…”

  “It’s the least I can do,” Kyle said flatly.

  “All right, if you won’t listen to reason, I will help you. Mayhap at the castle we could find a priest.”

  Together they managed to place Duncan across the horse’s back. Kyle secured him with a r
ipped and bloody shirt, tying it neatly around his hands and feet to keep him from slipping off. Silently, they led Damien back to the castle, where the sorrowful strains of bagpipes rent the stillness with a painful clarity. It was over.

  Marisa stared at the garden outside, leaning against the cold glass pane. Snow fell silently, tiny ice flakes that sifted through trees and settled like crystallized sugar on the hard brown earth. The stand of holly trees just outside the window glistened with borrowed splendor like a poor woman at a party, bedecking herself with her neighbor’s jewels. The privet hedge lost its aloofness and became a mystery of white-encrusted labyrinths, the trees a fairyland of lacy branches and secret webs. A raven strode about the yard like a solemn gentleman, his glossy plumage dusted with frosted prisms. Smiling at his indignant expression, Marisa rubbed the glass with her lace handkerchief, wishing she had a few crumbs to toss.

  “Mistress, I am ver’ sorry, but we must fineesh this dress today. The lace is lovely, is it not? If you could pleeze just give us your attention one more minute, Miss Travers, I am certain we could be done quickly….”

  Marisa turned back to the dressmaker with a sigh, her dream world melting quickly like the condensation on the windowpanes. Lifting up her arms, she winced as Mimi inserted a pin from between her teeth into the sleeve of the dress.

  “It is too tight,” Marisa protested, unable to move her arm. Mimi chattered excitedly to her two assistants, chastising them in French.

  “What do you think you do? The lady’s dress must be perfection, magnifique. Nothing less will do. This is to be her wedding dress!”

  The two young girls nodded, bustling about with scissors and thread, basting hems and pinning ruffles. Marisa tried to be patient, but finally, after being stabbed with another pin and nearly sewn into the dress, she removed the lace and satin gown, ignoring the protests of the dressmaker.

  “I am sorry, Mimi. I just cannot abide another minute of this! Take the dress away. I’ll arrange for another fitting tomorrow.”

  “But Miss Travers…” Mimi sputtered frantically, her sharp blue eyes blinking as she thought of the money she would lose if Marisa sought another dressmaker. The Traverses spared no expense when it came to their daughter, and the wedding dress alone was worth a handsome commission.

  “Miss Travers, we will not have much time! The wedding is within the month, and the dress is not nearly fineeshed! We want the gown to be perfection. You will look wonderful, elegant!”

  “I can’t,” Marisa said simply, wrapping her robe more tightly about her and standing at the door. The sight of the gown disturbed her greatly, though she refused to probe too deeply into her feelings. “I will try tomorrow. I am sorry. Here, take this for your trouble.” She pressed a gold coin into the dressmaker’s hand. Mimi pocketed the money quickly. Realizing there was no use in arguing, she clapped her hands.

  “Come, girls! We will work on the dress at home and complete the fitting later.” Carrying the bolts of satin and lace, the dressmaker peered over her shoulder. “Tomorrow, then, mademoiselle!”

  Taking a cup of tea, Marisa sat down by the fire, wondering why she couldn’t get warm.

  The door flung open and Alastair Travers strode in. Nodding abruptly to Marisa, he stood by the fire to warm his hands, forcing his gaze away from his daughter.

  “Cold day.” Alastair stamped his feet, staring straight ahead.

  “Yes.”

  A long silence followed, broken abruptly when Alastair spoke again. “I saw Mimi on the way out. She seemed very upset that you cancelled the fitting.”

  “The session was too tedious,” Marisa responded. “I rescheduled for tomorrow. The dress will be ready in time.”

  “Do you know when this wedding is?” Alastair’s voice cracked like a horsewhip. “You are to be married in less than a month, and you have no gown! I do not wish to see my daughter wed like a pauper! If that rogue in Scotland hadn’t ruined your dress, I wouldn’t need to bear the expense of another!”

  “Kyle,” Marisa said quietly.

  “What?”

  “The rogue. His name is Kyle.”

  Her father looked at her as if seriously doubting her sanity. “I don’t care what the villain’s name is or if he even has one! He should be hanged! Kyle MacLeod. If I never hear that man’s name again, it will be too soon!”

  “Is something wrong?” Sara entered the room with fresh tea, her face webbed with anxiety, her eyes darting from her daughter with a look Marisa had seen hundreds of times.

  “The blasted girl sent the dressmaker away! Without a gown, there can be no wedding! Mayhap you can talk some sense into her!”

  “I will try.” Sara waited until Alastair stormed out before approaching Marisa. “Marisa, I can’t help but worry. You don’t seem at all interested in the gown, nor the arrangements. ’Tis odd that just a few short months ago, nothing else occupied your thoughts.”

  A few short months. Marisa smiled ruefully. She felt centuries older, as if time had somehow distorted, giving her the mind of an old spinster in the body of a young woman.

  “I know,” Marisa replied. A sudden urge compelled her to spill forth her feelings and reveal the secrets locked inside. “I just don’t know what I’m thinking! Didn’t that ever happen to you? Did you ever feel something, knowing that it’s illogical and makes no sense? I know Devon is right for me….He’s titled, a gentleman. But still…” Marisa stopped as her mother’s eyes widened in alarm.

  “Dear, I only want what’s best for you, you know that. Whether or not you marry Devon little matters. But you can’t be thinking of this Kyle, this outlaw!”

  “You don’t understand….”

  “I understand that you are tired,” Sara said. “You’ve had a terrible experience and you’ve been under a lot of pressure from this wedding. Rest a while, dear, and we’ll talk later.”

  Furious, Marisa stormed up the stairs, her robe sweeping behind her in one cool line of pale aqua. She didn’t hear a word I said! Marisa fumed silently. There had been other times in her life that her parents seemed unable to comprehend what she felt, though never in a situation this serious.

  A movement caught her attention and she stood outside Shannon’s door, watching as the Irish girl packed her things. Shannon was returning to Ireland. She had reluctantly promised to stay for the wedding, her hesitation puzzling. No one loved a party more than Shannon, but she seemed uninterested in the upcoming event. Closing the door behind her, Marisa entered the room and indicated the bags.

  “So you really are going.” It was a statement more than a question. Shannon shrugged.

  “Aye, and I think it a good idea. You have much to do, with the wedding and all, and I’d just get in the way.”

  “Never. You know that.”

  “I think it better I go. My mother hasn’t seen me in weeks. You never know what is going on there, what with the drink and that.” Shannon frowned, observing the way Marisa paced the room. “Say, I thought you were having a fitting today. For the wedding dress?”

  “Yes.” Marisa seated herself on Shannon’s bed. Plucking at the seams of the elaborate satin quilt in a simple gesture that told Shannon more than volumes, Marisa gazed at the bags as if visually unpacking them.

  “I never should have come for you.” Shannon tossed a wrinkled gown into the valise, then sat on the floor. “I should have left you in Scotland, with that handsome Angel. Whatever happened between you two? Why did you leave?”

  “There was no room in Kyle’s life for anything other than his cause,” Marisa said softly. “I couldn’t stay there. It was good that you came. But now that I’m back, the only thing left for me is marrying Devon. And I can’t face it.”

  “Then don’t marry him! You don’t have to, you know.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Marisa replied, though her green velvet gaze met Shannon’s, answering with an urgency that belied her cool deportment.

  “Aye, and why not?” Shannon said, one brow cocked. “After al
l, you’ve been through a rough time. You’re allowed a little eccentricity….”

  “I know.” Marisa frowned in disgust, then suddenly her face brightened. “Why don’t I go with you?”

  “What?” Shannon’s head snapped up as if pulled on a marionette’s string. “Are you jesting with me?”

  “No!” Her eyes sparkling with excitement, Marisa leaned closer, barely able to contain her joy. “Why, it’s perfect! Think, Shannon! By the time they know I’m gone, it will be too late! Oh, we could have a grand time! We could ride horses through the hills, skate with your brothers on the lake, and build bonfires. We could enjoy an ale without a dozen old biddies raising their eyes and sniffing. It could be just like when we were children.”

  Shannon’s smile broadened, her nose, like a plover’s egg, freckled and crinkling with excitement. “What a great idea! This city’s starting to close in on me, anyway. It will be good to go home with you. Then if you want to come back and marry his Lordship, you will be more certain. Come, Mari. Let’s throw a few gowns into the case. We can leave tomorrow.”

  “I’ll go into town and hire a hack. That will take us as far as the bay. From there we can get the ferry.”

  “This is grand!” Shannon hugged Marisa exuberantly.

  Marisa nodded, flushing with excitement and a sense of reprieve. Ireland offered escape. Whistling softly, she hastened to get her cloak and make the arrangements in town.

  Chapter Twenty