Outlaw's Angel

by Colleen Quinn

  “My mother,” Kyle rasped. “Why did you not speak out? Why didn’t you do the decent thing even then?”

  “I could not.” The duke fell back onto his sheets, his voice weakened from the effort. “To do so would have implicated myself and perhaps injured my own family. When I heard that you were unjustly accused, I did what I could. It was not accidental that you were not hanged but taken to the colonies. I arranged that. But I had no way of knowing how to find you once you left England. I thought you might return, and that the gems would bring you to me. I was right in that respect.”

  “You are a coward,” Kyle said coldly. “There is no excuse for your actions, nor your treatment of my mother, whom you said you have loved. You let her family bear the burden of your own guilt, when you could have spoken out. I will never forget that.”

  The duke smiled. “You are so like your father, my boy. In any case, the gems are in that box, on top of my dressing table. I placed them there for you, knowing that they were your legacy. Take them, Kyle MacLeod. And may they bring you more peace than they have me.”

  Kyle reached for the box, holding the precious casket, feeling the heavy weight of the wood and the treasure within. Carved and hinged in leather, the box was a fitting resting place for the hope and wealth of the clans. For years this treasure has held me, Kyle thought in wonder, filling my thoughts and capturing my mind. His fingers actually trembled as he opened the lid, the room silent except for the creak of the hinge. Bringing a taper closer, Kyle opened the lid entirely, then gazed inside. The box was empty.

  The MacKenzies, well filled with meat and ale, were beginning to get restless. Neil’s eyes shifted impatiently more than once during the meal, toward the stairway that led to the tower. Though a solitary man by nature and a warrior by heart, Neil could not deny the fascination Marisa Travers held for him. It was like the time he’d found a cultured rose, planted outside of a crumbling estate, left to fend for itself in the brutal Highland climate. He’d held the blood-colored blossom with the same awe that Marisa inspired, unable to resist plucking it from its thorny roost, knowing even as he did so that the flower would die. But greater was his need to possess it, to hold its perfect beauty in his grasp even for a short while….

  “Ho, man!” Malcolm read his expression correctly and slammed Neil on his back, spilling most of his ale. “I’ll be thinking the lass lonely for company. What say we join her and her friend?”

  Neil stared imperviously at Malcolm, watching the man’s laughter sputter into death. A grin forced itself to his face nevertheless, his own mind unable to deny the implication.

  “The lass is mine for tonight. When I tire of her, you may have her. But as the new laird, I go first.”

  The men muttered, disgruntled. But none of them wished to face Neil’s blade point, especially now, when that strange insanity seemed to lie watching just behind his eyes. A battle frenzy was useful during war; however, it was equally deadly whether turned upon a clansman or a foe.

  “He’s right,” Melville said calmly, smiling at the wench who brought him a fresh cup. “We will have the girl for some time. There’s no sense fighting among ourselves for her now.”

  Neil nodded, eyeing each man for a challenge. Sensing none, he rose to his feet, slamming down his cup and turning toward the stairway. It occurred to him that Marisa might be hungry. Hailing a passing maid, he took a tray of meat and bread, wondering if the offering might soften her heart toward him. His body seemed bursting with fluids, the tiny cells swimming through heated liquids that rushed impatiently toward his groin in a sweet sensation called desire. He saw in his mind Marisa rising before him, her mouth curved in a secret, welcoming smile, her eyes devoid of the coldness he’d seen earlier. Snatching up an ale tankard, Neil hurried toward the tower, quelling the impatience that rose anew with each step.

  He wanted Marisa, and tonight he would have her.

  Marisa struggled with a chipped piece of flint, trying to saw through the ropes that bound her. Shannon slept across from her, her body dimly outlined in the moonlight. Exhaustion threatened Marisa as well, but she couldn’t give up. The rope had just begun to fray when a step outside alarmed her, followed by the door slamming open. Light spilled into the room, and Marisa froze as Neil MacKenzie entered, closing the door behind him.

  “Lassies,” Neil said. “ ’Tis a braw nicht. I thought I’d see to your comfort.”

  “We’re fine,” Marisa said quickly, hiding the flint beneath her skirts.

  Neil glanced at Shannon, and observing that she slept, he deliberately lowered his voice and placed the tray beside Marisa.

  “Aye, the castle is tight, mair warm than most. I’ve brought ye a meal.”

  “Thank you, that was kind,” Marisa said quickly. Trembling as Neil approached, she tucked her wrists into the folds of her dress. If he should notice the frayed ropes…

  “I want ye to know I feel bad about all this,” Neil said, dropping down beside Marisa. “If it was not necessary to keep ye here, I would bring ye down. I could not do that, not with the men. They might get ideas, with such a lovely lady as yourself….”

  “Neil,” Marisa said, fighting the fear that began to send icy chills up her back, “I think I would like a bite. I am hungry.”

  Neil took a piece of bread and placed it at Marisa’s mouth. Unable to use her hands for fear he’d see the rope, Marisa allowed him to feed her. Fascinated by the smoothness of her mouth, the pearly sparkle of her teeth, the sensual way she licked her lips, Neil felt his flesh hardening beneath his kilt. Her breasts rose and fell with her breath, and her body tapered to a waist that was impossibly small. Placing a piece of meat between those ripe red lips, Neil could no longer resist the desire that raged within him.

  “Marisa.” His voice was ragged and hoarse. Marisa looked up at him, her mouth parting in surprise. Before she could speak, Neil’s lips covered her own, his tongue thrusting through in a rough, bruising kiss. Struggling, Marisa thrust him away, her bound hands pushing uselessly against his chest.

  “Ah, my lady is a vixen!” Chuckling, Neil reached for her dress, his hands greedily lifting her breasts from the confines of the muslin. Gasping in outrage, Marisa struggled helplessly as he moved the candle closer, admiring her round bare breasts, the pink nipples that hardened from the cold. The rope chafed her hands as she fought like a cornered tigress, while Neil laughed in amusement.

  “I like a lass with spirit.” Neil’s rough hands caressed her breasts, leaving Marisa to sob breathlessly each time his mouth took hers. Then his hand was on her knee, grasping her skirt, lifting it well past her thighs. The flint fell to the floor splintering into a thousand pieces. Neil paused, the lust still heavy in his eyes. Something had broken, but the floor was too dark to see clearly. Moving the candle, he fumbled on the slates, then cursed as someone banged on the door.

  “Aye, come in then.” Barely allowing Marisa time to tug her dress in place, Neil pulled open the heavy panel. Shannon blinked sleepily, dimly becoming aware that they were not alone. She glanced at Marisa, confused by her disheveled appearance, then to Neil, who stood scowling at the door.

  “What is it, then?”

  “The scout comes,” one of the men said, his curious glance falling on Marisa with a knowing grin. “He has a message for you. He should be here shortly.”

  “Bah!” Neil took one last regretful look at Marisa. “I shall return, lass, fear ye not,” he said, his eyes promising to fulfill his threat. Banging the door shut, he did not see Marisa’s shudder as he strode down the hall.

  “It’s empty.” Closing the box, Kyle placed the casket back onto the bureau, amazed at the sense of relief he felt. It was as if an albatross had been lifted from his neck, freeing him from the dreadful past that had haunted his life. For the first time ever, Kyle understood what liberation meant. The gems were gone, it was as simple as that.

  “What!” The duke sprang from the bed, his racked and feeble body regaining irrational energy. Grasping the cask
et, he opened the box, feeling about inside as if unable to believe what his eyes told him. “This couldn’t have happened! They were there but a day ago! I saw them!”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Kyle said, feeling the blood flow through him like a cleansing agent. Turning a grin upon the duke, Kyle shrugged, gesturing to the casket.

  “They are gone, as is everything else. It matters little. The gems were not mine; they did not belong to my family. They belonged to the clans, most of whom are gone, either to the colonies or to their graves.”

  “Devon,” the duke said, his voice rumbling dangerously. “If my son stole those jewels…”

  “ ’Tis not likely,” Kyle said, astonished. For a moment he felt a glimmer of compassion for Devon, living with such a man for a father. “Devon would know he would be suspected. ’Tis more likely a servant.”

  “I will call for the sheriff,” the duke said thoughtfully. “Those gems will be recovered, I promise you that.”

  “The only thing I want from you now is an answer. Where is Marisa?”

  “She isn’t here.” The duke took a chair, his illness weakening him once more. “My son’s fiancée is gone.” Staring pointedly at Kyle, the duke gestured to the door. “She is not for you, Kyle MacLeod. She is to wed Devon.”

  “I think the lady should have some say in that. You will not tell me?” Kyle smiled coldly, his eyes reflecting firelight and something more dangerous that burned within. “I shall find out myself, then. Good day, Your Grace. I wish you all the luck in finding the lost jewels. May they bring you the same satisfaction that they have me.”

  He was gone that quickly. One minute he was standing there, a magnificent archangel, beautiful, unattainable, and ruthless. The next moment he was gone, his aura seeming to evaporate slowly in his absence, a ghostlike reminder of the man who filled the space so recently. The duke stared at the apparition, watching it dissipate, wishing he could call the Scotsman back. There was so much more he wanted to tell him, and yet…

  Falling back onto the cushion of his chair, the duke closed his eyes, allowing the fever to consume him.

  “Did you get it?” Shannon asked, delighted when Marisa stood up, her ropes falling to the floor. There was enough of the flint left to cut through Shannon’s bindings, the rock even sharper after breaking on the floor.

  “Thank God, Neil didn’t see this,” Marisa said, sawing through the ropes that bound Shannon’s wrists. It only took a few minutes, and Shannon too was free. Standing up, she rubbed her aching wrists.

  “Now to get out of here.” Shannon looked again to the window, the horrible dizzying view nearly taking the breath from her. “Have you any ideas?”

  “No,” Marisa replied thoughtfully.

  Shannon’s face fell. “No? You’re the smart one, Mari. For the love of God, think of something. We haven’t got much time. When I last looked, Neil had come pretty close to doing permanent damage, and I don’t imagine he’s forgotten. Think!”

  “I am thinking.”

  “Well, do it faster.” Shannon paced the tower floor like a caged lioness. It was still very dark, except for the moon. Nightfall would give them an advantage, would cloak them in darkness, but it would also prevent them from putting distance between themselves and the MacKenzies. If they could just find a way out…

  Stepping lightly across the room, Marisa gazed out the window to the hillside below. She could see the ocean from here, the fulminating waves pounding the coast in an unrelenting fury.

  “There is a foothold,” Marisa said. “Just below the window, on that slate ledge.”

  “Oh no.” Shannon stopped her pacing, correctly reading Marisa’s thoughts. Her own eyes widened with horror as she gazed painfully out the window to the scene below. “You don’t mean…”

  “Yes, I do,” Marisa responded quickly, before her own courage flagged. “Shannon, it’s the only way! I can’t see us staying here, allowing the MacKenzies to do their worst without even trying!” The MacLeods had taught Marisa something about that. Sometimes the effort is worth the risk, even if one doesn’t always succeed.

  “But it’s at least forty feet!”

  “Well, if you’re afraid…”

  “You’re damned right I’m afraid!” Shannon protested indignantly. “We’re not talking about jumping from my bedroom window, although you recall what happened when I did?”

  “You broke your ankle,” Marisa supplied helpfully. “Shannon, that was years ago. Have you a better plan?”

  Shannon didn’t, and both of them knew it. Without hesitation, Marisa climbed to the sill, trying not to look at the rocks looming below like the jaws of a starving dragon. Placing one foot into the first solid footbrace, Marisa turned backward and slowly began to descend.

  He found Devon on the way out. Hearing his light step through the musty corridors, Kyle waited until Devon entered the library before following. The Lord of Sutcliffe looked pensive. Devon stared into the fire, his Hessian boots reflecting shimmering lights like small black pools, his handsome face drawn and tired. He scarcely moved when Kyle entered, and his eyes fell upon the Scotsman’s with little surprise or friendship. A dry smile curved his mouth, and he gestured to a chair, apparently intending to enjoy this odd visit for whatever it meant.

  “So, you’ve come. Took you long enough, I’ll say. What happened? Did the MacKenzies wear out their welcome?”

  Kyle studied the man before him, amazed at his audacity. Devon had courage. Not his own more calculating, intelligent risk taking, but an almost childlike bravado that no doubt had seen him through more than one scrape. That, coupled with an ingratiating charm, made him infinitely dangerous.

  “The MacKenzies fled,” Kyle said simply, taking the proffered chair but refusing the brandy. “They saw something in the swamp that unnerved them.”

  “Wasn’t that convenient,” Devon smirked. “I’ll wager you took advantage of it.”

  “Perhaps,” Kyle agreed seriously. “Although using a situation is the essence of survival. The MacKenzies had bayonets. I am only grateful that more men did not die.”

  “Where would a Scots clan get bayonets?” Devon asked, genuinely interested. “I didn’t think you could find one of them farther north than Manchester.”

  “I don’t know,” Kyle said seriously. “But it little matters now. The battle is over. You know the reason I’ve come.”

  “For the jewels?” Devon grinned, unable to resist the taunt. “I can’t say I blame you. Worth a king’s ransom, I hear.”

  “Or a lady’s,” Kyle responded, tired of the game. “Where is she?”

  “Marisa is gone.” Devon waved a hand, his smirk evident. “She left, Laird MacLeod. No one knows where.”

  “You know.” Kyle stood up and approached Devon, his patience slowly worn thin like the fabric of cotton trousers. Grasping Devon’s brocade jacket, he pulled the man close to his face, his eyes bearing into the Englishman’s like multifaceted crystals. “I want to know where she is. Now.”

  “I don’t know,” Devon snarled. “And I don’t think I’d tell you, anyway. Who the hell do you think you are? You may be a hero in Scotland, but you’re in England now. You abducted Marisa. You dragged her from one end of the country to the other, and for what? A tumble in your bed?” Devon laughed shortly. “Don’t look at me like that, Angel. I’m not talking from personal experience, but I know the girl. Get your hands off my coat.”

  Kyle released him, allowing Devon to fall gracefully back into his chair, and waited until he caught his breath.

  “So your own feelings toward Marisa are purely altruistic?” Kyle smiled coldly. “You want her as much as I do, but for her money. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Not quite.” Devon swallowed a brandy, then replaced his glass, smoothing the satin lapels of his coat before looking up once more. “I’ve already told my father that I won’t marry Marisa. He’s threatened to disinherit me, which does not exactly break my heart. The estate has little money, many debts, and needs
repair. There isn’t much left he can do to me, except refuse my own debts.” Devon winced. Those last few games…

  Amazed, Kyle watched Devon closely for signs of falsehood. Finding none, he began softly. “I didn’t know. I thought…”

  “I know, I know,” Devon said. “To tell you the truth, if I hadn’t seen the change in Marisa, I would have married her. But she doesn’t love me, and I like her too much to take advantage of that.”

  “So, you have principles,” Kyle said, more surprised by the moment

  “Don’t remind me,” Devon stated. “Principles don’t pay bills. And I don’t like to think of myself as the hero. I leave that for men like you.” Grinning, Devon stretched catlike before the fire, like a man without a conscious problem in the world. “So tell me, Angel. Why do you want her? You’re free now, you’ve got your damned emeralds. Why don’t you just go to the colonies and forget the whole thing?”

  “Because I love her,” Kyle responded.

  It was Devon’s turn to look shocked, Devon who had studied human nature of necessity since he’d been a child, and a precocious one at that. He knew how to judge a man’s hand by his expression, by the way he tugged at a mustache or scratched a powdered wig. Kyle was not the type to reveal his most intimate feelings easily, and yet he had little doubt that what the Scotsman said was true.

  “Well, well. So you aren’t completely made of steel after all. That you would admit such to me is apparent proof. Marisa is with Shannon; that means she is on her way to Ireland and, most likely, in trouble. That damned Irish wench has a way of falling into misfortune with amazing regularity. They left a few days ago and would probably be just crossing the sea at the ferry near Skye.”