Devon did not smile. “No, perhaps not. But then, doing the decent thing never does.”
“The decent thing,” the duke smiled. “You are one to talk of decency. What is it, Devon? Did the gaming hall turn unlucky or did your latest trollop give you more than a kiss?”
“Damn you!” Devon tossed his glass in a futile gesture that seemed even less impressive as the vessel rolled back, intact, to his feet. “Jesus,” he swore, nudging the crystal glass with his toe.
“That is why I did not confess”—the duke indicated the glass—“because it would have helped nothing. You forget, Alastair Travers has a vested interest in keeping this man behind bars. To tell Marisa might accidentally give Alastair information, though the chit has more intelligence than most. As it is, the matter will be taken care of. The earl, a reasonable man when the argument is presented well, has already sent me a letter exonerating Kyle. My own testimony about the murder will finish the case before it ever gets to court.” The duke raised cold eyes to his son, inspecting him as thoroughly as a shopkeeper would a flawed silk. “I am, however, confused by your own interest in this matter. Why do you wish to help the girl? She rejected you.”
Devon grinned. His father, like this, he could deal with. Sometimes. “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you? Marisa and I are friends. I know, it’s something you don’t understand. It’s not sexual; it doesn’t involve money, nor power.”
“I am amazed you managed not to sleep through it, then,” the duke said, raising his glass to his lips with shaking hands.
“Perhaps it’s a cause,” Devon smirked. “We all need one, and apparently Kyle MacLeod is yours. I’d like to know why, and if hell freezes over, I plan to find out.”
“Be careful when you talk about hell,” the duke replied, placing the glass aside with a satisfied air. “You may find your own little hell, my boy, in the least likely place. Now hand me that brandy bottle before it, too, goes to waste. I have an errand to run this night.”
The carriage had scarcely cleared the driveway when Marisa called out to the coachman, “Newgate, and hurry! I wish to get there this night!”
“Newgate?” Shannon looked at Marisa as if doubting her sanity. “We can’t go to the prison, alone and unescorted! What on earth are you thinking?”
“Shannon, I have to do something. I can’t just let him die!”
“And what are we going to do about it?” Shannon questioned impatiently. “Mary, Mother of God! Newgate! Mari, I’d like to help you, but this is too much!”
“It’s not impossible.” Marisa drew nearer to Shannon in the coach, her eyes sparkling with intelligence. “Shannon, do you remember when that Irish rebel escaped from jail last summer?”
“Aye,” Shannon responded, her voice suspicious. “When the man’s sisters entered the cell, overtook the guards, and helped him out?”
“Right,” Marisa nodded. “Well?”
“Oh, no.” Shannon’s mouth dropped when she realized Marisa was serious. “There’s no way we’re going to do anything like that! Are you mad? British prisons are not something I wish to be intimately acquainted with!”
“You don’t have to come,” Marisa said. “You could wait here….”
“You’re damned right I’ll come,” Shannon said irately. “There’s no way you’re going alone.”
“Then it’s settled.” Marisa sat back in her seat, a cool smile playing about her mouth. Shannon looked at her strangely, wondering what had just happened, while Marisa plotted the rest of the details in her mind. If it had worked before, it would work again. Surely they could get Kyle free. Even if she couldn’t be with him immediately, she could still face the future, knowing he was alive and waiting for her.
Newgate prison rose before them in the night like a mausoleum for lost souls. Both women lost courage as the carriage rolled down the gravel drive and slowed to a stop. Murmurs of prisoners, cries of the unjustly accused or the insane, rent the still air, causing Marisa to shiver. Glancing up, she saw doubt written all over Shannon’s face, mingled with fear and loathing.
“You don’t have to come if you’ve changed your mind,” Marisa murmured, gathering up her gown. “I’ll understand.”
“I’m not afraid,” Shannon replied, though her voice bore little of the cool courage of her words. “Besides, you need me to help.”
“Then you’ll see it through to the end?”
“Aye,” Shannon remarked. “If you’re going, then I’m going.”
Marisa smiled, gratitude sparkling with tears in her eyes. “All right, then. Now let’s pray nothing goes wrong.”
“What could possibly go wrong?” Shannon muttered as they dismounted, ignoring the quizzical stare of the driver. “We could get caught, we could get imprisoned ourselves, we could get beaten or worse….”
“I think that’s the turnkey.” Ignoring Shannon’s doleful prophecy, Marisa indicated a sullen-faced old man with hair the color of turnips, who waited at the door. Placing Shannon well behind her, Marisa forced a smile and nearly choked on the fetid smell that greeted her upon entrance to the prison.
The turnkey seemed even more uneasy than the two women. Apparently, young and obviously well-to-do young ladies did not often grace his doorstep, especially at night. Frowning at the driver who shrugged, the turnkey gestured to a filthy room that lay just behind the door, then joined them.
“Wot can I do for you ladies?” His eyes raced up and down Marisa like two black cockroaches, surveying the rich quality of her gown, her obvious beauty. Smiling sweetly, Marisa indicated Shannon and held a handkerchief to her face to hide her expression and to mask the noxious odor.
“We’ve come to see Kyle MacLeod. A Scotsman, I believe he was arrested a short time ago.”
“The Angel?” At once the turnkey lost his casual curiosity and his brows rushed together in suspicion. “And wot would you be wanting to see him about? We just brought the lad in, less than a week ago.”
“I know,” Marisa said. “But his sister here hasn’t seen him in ages! She simply couldn’t let him go to the gallows without seeing him one last time! Have pity, man.”
Catching on quickly, Shannon forced her eyes to tear by swallowing a sneeze. Giving the man what she hoped was a pleading glance, she buried her face in her arms and pretended to sob.
“Oh, my poor Kyle!” she cried, managing a Scottish burr. “They took him away afore I could give him my love! They’ll hang him this time for sure! Please, sir, if I could just wish him well! For old times’ sake!”
“You can have but a few minutes. Old Sikes be out within the hour, for some sort of meeting or what not. I don’t wish to get in trouble for the likes of you two.”
“Don’t worry,” Marisa reassured him. “We just want to say good-bye to the Scotsman.”
The hallway was worse than the main room. Hiding her repulsion at the moans that rang through the stone walls and the water that ran like a fetid snake through the corridors, Marisa shuddered as she imagined Kyle here as a child. It explained much of his anger, of his desire to clear his name at any cost. It was said that the gaol alone was enough to drive a man mad; from what she’d seen already, Marisa could believe it.
“There is the bloke.” Stopping at one of the cells, the turnkey scraped a key into the lock and opened the door. “Just a few minutes, don’t forget,” he warned, then withdrew to the light to more fully examine the ring.
“Kyle?” Marisa spoke softly, stepping into the cell, followed by Shannon. He looked up from his mattress as she approached, and Marisa couldn’t suppress a little cry of pain. Red and purple bruises mottled his face, and a neat cut, as if done with a blade, ran from his temple to his hairline. In spite of his injuries, in spite of his surroundings, there was no mistaking him. Somehow, he maintained a cool dignity that was more than a facade, a strength that explained his ability to rise above all this and survive.
“Marisa? My God, Marisa! What are you doing here, of all places? Is that Shannon with you?”
“It’s me all right,” Shannon said, embarrassed when Kyle took Marisa exuberantly into his arms, his embrace returned with a passion she little guessed her friend capable of. For all that Kyle had taken note of her presence, he now could not resist the opportunity to touch Marisa, to run his fingers over her face as if to memorize every detail. Laughing and crying at the same time, Marisa clung to him, as if by her will alone, she could prevent his tragic sentence.
“Would you two want me to wait outside?” Exasperated, Shannon started for the door, but Marisa stopped her.
“No, we couldn’t have Kyle’s sister waiting out there, now could we?”
“My sister?” Kyle smiled, then looked down at Marisa. “You shouldn’t have come,” he said, concern washing over his initial feelings of relief and love. “It’s too dangerous.”
“We haven’t much time,” Marisa said, remembering their plan. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”
“Out?” Kyle threw back his head and laughed. “You have as much chance of getting George III in here. No, sweet, I appreciate your concern, but there is little that can be done.”
“But there is a way!” Marisa said impatiently. “Shannon and I have it all planned! We can help you overtake the guards, then we can slip out the way we came.”
“I can’t, Marisa,” Kyle said firmly. “It’s too risky. I won’t allow your life to be put into jeopardy just to save myself. I admire your courage and I love you all the more for what you wish to do, but I must refuse.”
“We have to try! Otherwise, they’ll hang you!” Marisa said frantically.
“Can we get on with this?” Shannon heard the heavy scrape of the turnkey’s boots. “He’s coming back.”
“Shannon is absolutely right,” Kyle said. “All right, then, since you both are so determined, I can hardly disappoint you. But if anything goes wrong, you both are to bolt and not return under any circumstances. Understood?”
“Aye,” Marisa nodded with an eager smile.
“Good. Now continue this charade and I will thank my lovely sister for coming.”
The turnkey sauntered to the cell in time to see Shannon’s tearful melodrama and Marisa’s sad weeping.
“All right, enough you two. Time’s up. Now we’ll get the liedies out of this nasty place.”
Kyle patted Shannon’s back consolingly, then glared at the turnkey. “My sister is too upset. Do you mind if I escort her out?”
Bursting into guffaws, the turnkey stared at Kyle with bulging eyes. “You think me a slacker, do ye? Ye help her to the door, all right, and help yourself right out. I ain’t no fool. Angel or no Angel. I’ll help the little liedy.”
The turnkey stepped into the cell and took Shannon’s arm. “ ’Ere ye go. Just lean on me….” Then with a look of stunned surprise, he melted onto the floor in a soft slump.
“Nice trick,” Shannon said, admiring the body that adorned the floor. “Remind me not to turn my back on you.”
“Let’s get out of here.” Closing the cell door and locking it securely, Kyle whisked Marisa and Shannon out through the fetid and stinking hallway, through the outer cells, to the main door. A shout rang out from behind, and Marisa heard Kyle swear as a second guard appeared from nowhere. A bell clanged like a death knell, and the narrow hallway suddenly became alive with activity. Men appeared as if sprung from the walls, and the cell echoed with the report of a gun. Marisa screamed, barely able to see the blur of a weapon in the guard’s hand. Kyle slumped to the floor, his shirt stained with a spidery web of scarlet, his face the color of chalk.
“Run,” he commanded, grasping his stomach, his eyes tight with pain. “Marisa, go. You can’t help me now.”
Sobbing, Marisa fell beside him, hearing Shannon’s voice from far away. She held Kyle, ignoring the guard who tried to forcibly remove her, futilely trying to staunch the flow of blood with her hands. The noise around her seemed to rise in an echo of staccato notes, then gradually diminished in stunned surprise. Marisa barely had enough presence of mind to notice that someone else had entered, someone of evident importance. Then, a familiar voice broke through the clamor that surrounded her.
“Miss Travers? Let go of that girl at once. And what has happened to Laird MacLeod? If he dies, you men will answer to me.”
“Wot’s it to you?” the turnkey asked between heated breaths.
“He is my son.”
Marisa gazed up in cloudy disbelief. There, on the doorstep of the gaol, was the Duke of Sutcliffe.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Being in gaol as a Scottish rebel was entirely different from being in prison as the firstborn son of the Duke of Sutcliffe, Marisa noted. A wry smile curved her lips as she stood just inside the bedroom doorway of the Sutcliffe mansion. Producing a few scrawled documents, including one incredible letter from the Earl of Argyll, who miraculously concluded that he was mistaken and Kyle could not possibly be the Angel, the duke had Kyle freed within the hour. All that remained was to get him well.
And that seemed a foregone conclusion. Saunders clucked over him like an old hen, bandaging his wound and announcing, with suppressed astonishment, that the injury was superficial. Kyle would be up and about in no time.
Waiting until the room cleared, Marisa tended Kyle herself. He looked definitely angelic, she thought in amusement. His eyes closed, his lashes like dusted gold gilt against his skin, he appeared innocent and charming. But the sensual curve of his mouth gave him away. Unable to help herself, Marisa traced the contours of his profile, then paused at his throat to readjust the bandage on his arm. She thought of the time she’d held a gun to him and the time her father had shot him. A scar remained from that injury; Marisa traced the white weblike pattern, hoping this one would heal just as well.
The sheet fell from his legs as he absently kicked the bed in reaction. Startled, Marisa replaced it, aware of the heat that stained her face and her own admiration for the muscular limbs that his motion revealed. Running a hand along his chest, she realized that she loved him beyond reason, whether lord or laird, outlaw or angel.
A sudden motion in his face startled her, and she nearly gasped in surprise when his eyes flickered open and she realized he was watching her. She tried to withdraw her hand, blushing furiously, but he captured it with his own, pressing a kiss to her palm.
“Cad!” Marisa said, though her voice melted with laughter. “How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough,” Kyle said, giving her a smile that would have melted the Antarctic. “I could get precious little sleep, with you…uh…asserting your domestic rights like that.”
“Domestic?” An enchanting smile curved Marisa’s lips. “But we aren’t married! Need I remind you, milord?”
Kyle’s face changed slightly. Marisa saw the flash of pain, the slight aversion, replaced by a warmth and compassion when his eyes returned to hers.
“I remember. Strange that I did not piece it all together before, though perhaps I knew. I’d like to think that is part of the reason I pursued the gems to such a degree. Somehow, someone made me look for them, knowing the truth I would find at the end of the journey.”
Remember. A strange shiver passed through Marisa as she thought of that cryptic message from Kyle’s mother. She was about to tell him, but the peaceful look on his face stopped her. Kyle had his answers now; there was no need for further explanation.
“So I think this marriage should be accomplished as soon as possible,” Kyle continued. “Even though you aren’t marrying the Lord of Sutcliffe, you will wed the son of a duke.”
“I have no regrets,” Marisa said. “Without the duke’s assistance, we might never have gotten you out of prison. Perhaps being related to a powerful duke does mean something, especially when it’s the man you love.”
Giggling, Marisa allowed herself to be drawn into Kyle’s embrace, taking care not to injure his arm. Nestled against his muscular chest, she pressed a soft kiss on the lightly furred surface, pleased to see his smile t
urn seductive.
“You know, there is only one person I worry about.” Stroking her hair, he sank his fingers into the silky mass of bluish lights that gleamed from her curls. At Marisa’s questioning look, he continued. “Devon. He is the only one who will lose much by this, though learning that I am the son of a man I once hated will take a bit of adjustment.”
“I know. I thought of Devon, too,” Marisa said. “Do you know where he is?”
“No. He hasn’t returned home since he heard the news. I would like to reassure him that I have no intentions of replacing him in his father’s eyes.”
“Perhaps when Devon sees that he isn’t about to be displaced, everything will be all right,” Marisa said optimistically, though she, too, had doubts.
“You know, it’s strange to think that our children will be related to both Devon and his father. With the duke as their grandfather and Devon as their half uncle…”
“Not to mention the rest of the MacLeods,” Marisa said happily. “They will have an interesting lineage, that’s for certain.” Her smile turned mischievous as she traced a finger along the burnished gold hair on Kyle’s chest. “Why all this discussion about children? Have you something on your mind?”
“Wench,” Kyle said, his breath stopping as her finger traced lower, playing seductively with the waistband of his trousers. “If I wasn’t injured…”
“You wouldn’t be completely within my power.”
“My love. I’ve been that since the day we’ve met. Just what are your intentions?” Pulling her against him, his hand swept back the cascade of ebony hair that teased him with all the finesse of an artist’s brush. His fingers searched through her foaming curls, finding the secret surprise of a delicately shaped earlobe. Skillfully, he traced its contours, delighted at her husky shiver, at the sensual flush that stained her cheeks a bright scarlet. Her eyes brightened, twin emeralds that were far more enchanting than the real gems, shifting and swirling with the marvelous emotions that were distinctly woman.
Outlaw's Angel Page 33
