Outlaw's Angel

by Colleen Quinn

  “No, and that is the frustrating thing,” the earl snapped. “The king is concerned that this Angel is a supporter of Bonnie Prince Charlie. Perhaps he is trying to round up support for the Prince’s claim to the throne. You know how these bloody clans can be.”

  “Excepting your own, which we all know is loyal to the Crown,” Devon said. Marisa glanced up at him, hearing a hint of sarcasm, but Devon continued smoothly. “I know what you mean, though. The Highlanders are as violent as ever. I still hear the pipes when hunting in the North.”

  “They say this marauding band is led by the MacLeod.”

  “MacLeod!” Devon whistled softly. “I thought they all died out or emigrated from Raassay.”

  “They did,” the earl concurred. “All except the central clan, including Kyle. They have no description of him, for he wears a black silk mask and his family tartan. The peasants say he has the face of a Lucifer. Hence his nickname.” The earl shrugged, a condescending smile spreading across his face. “He is a dangerous man, however. He is still wanted for matricide.”

  “He murdered his mother?”

  Marisa gasped. “I’m sorry, Marisa,” Devon said. “This conversation is not fit for a lady’s ears.”

  “Don’t mind me,” Marisa said. “Finish what you are saying. But I think I’ll walk outside. It’s too hot in here anyway.”

  Devon agreed, watching Marisa disappear through the French doors before resuming his conversation.

  Outside, the moon was full, painting the landscape with a soft silver sheen. A sadness filled Marisa, though she could not name the cause. The scent of larkspur and tearoses filled her head, making it ache, while the heat seemed even more oppressive than inside. Taking a seat in a hidden alcove of beeches, Marisa thought back to the tale of the Angel. A Scottish clansman robbing and inciting rebellion. The idea unnerved her, even more in this lonely garden.

  A door opened, and a splash of golden candlelight fell upon the lawn. Marisa jumped, then sighed in relief as Shannon approached, hefting a wine bottle in one hand and a tea sandwich in the other.

  “What’s the matter, Mari? I saw you rush out.”

  Pressing cool fingers to her head, Marisa sighed, “ ’Tis nothing. Devon and the earl were talking about a highwayman who raided a carriage tonight. MacLeod, they said.”

  “MacLeod.” Shannon repeated the name, tasting the sound of it. “I’ve heard of him, the outlaw Angel. He stole from a carriage coming here?”

  Marisa nodded. “They’ve been unable to catch him for years. The king thinks he means to start a rebellion.”

  “Didn’t the MacLeods have something to do with Bonnie Charlie’s escape to France?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Neither am I,” Shannon shrugged. “So Devon sent you out here alone while he discusses rebel Scotsmen,” Shannon guessed. “Good old Devon. I think the fall in the stable taught him nothing. Here, drink some of this. It will help your head.”

  Handing Marisa the bottle, Shannon fanned herself, glancing up at the moon. The heat seemed to close in like a soft wet blanket and Shannon lifted her gown, exposing her ankles and hoping to catch a stray breeze.

  “You know, it’s nights like this I wish we could wade in the stream. You know, the one that borders Devon’s land with yours?”

  “Shannon,” Marisa said reprovingly, although the idea was enticing. One night of freedom…

  Shannon’s eyes sparkled. “Whyever not? This might be our last chance to have fun before you’re married to his stuffy Lordship. Come on.”

  “Oh, all right!” Marisa agreed.

  They fled to the woods, feeling young and carefree. The water gurgled, its surface black and mottled with starlight. The polished liquid seemed to call to them, like a young naiad, reaching from the surface to entice mere mortals. Tossing aside her slippers, Marisa hesitated, then seeing Shannon throw off her gown and abandon all propriety, she did the same. The velvet slid to the ground, its weight a welcome loss as the cool night air caressed her hot skin. Slipping into the water wearing nothing but a shift, Marisa sighed in contentment.

  “What a wonderful idea!” Marisa said. The wine made her feel giddy, the water lightweight and buoyant, like a down feather floating through the sultry air.

  Shannon giggled in agreement, tossing handfuls of liquid crystals at the stars. “Of course it is; I thought of it! I fell through this stream one time, ice skating, I think.”

  “It was a good thing Devon was here to pull you out. You could have been killed.”

  “It might have been pleasanter,” Shannon said crisply. “As it was, I had to listen to his Lordship’s lecture on ladylike behavior for the rest of the afternoon.”

  “Devon worries about you,” Marisa said gently. “You do sometimes take chances….”

  “Oh, fiddle!” Shannon laughed. “I just like to have fun, and so do you. I’m glad I dripped all over his rug. Mari, they’re lighting the extra candles. Does that mean you have to go in for the waltz?”

  Marisa frowned. “Yes, Devon and I are expected to dance. Where are you going?”

  “I’ll hold them off. Stay a few more minutes—consider it a wedding gift.”

  Smiling, Marisa sank down into the water, grateful for the momentary respite.

  Shannon donned her gown, squeezing the water from her shift, then hastened toward the house.

  A man sat on horseback a short distance away, the moonlight glinting silver on his blond hair. His face was intense, the shadows of the woods lending him a sinister cast to his profile, making him appear as some vengeful wraith sprung from the sod beneath him. His hand rested idly on the hilt of a sword, while his narrow gray eyes studied the scene before him. His mount chafed restlessly, stilled by the slightest tensing of his knees.

  He waited, silently watching as the young woman rose from the water. She raised her arms, allowing the water to drip like liquid pearls down into the pool below. Reluctantly, she stepped gracefully onto the moss, reaching for her gown. Then, as if sensing his presence, she turned quickly around.

  The laurel bushes hid him from her, but she stood frozen as some startled animal, knowing with a sixth sense that he was there. The wind rose, molding the filmy garment to her slender body, leaving nothing to his imagination. Her hair, as dark as a raven’s wing, curled wantonly about her face, and her eyes stared catlike in the dark. He was irresistibly reminded of a sorceress, interrupted from her chanting by a force of nature. She picked up her gown, affording him a view of slender white limbs, intending to dash toward the house. She gave one glance back to the glade and their eyes met, clashing like two swords in a duel.

  Marisa wasn’t sure if it was a wolf she saw or another nocturnal animal. Those clear gray eyes seemed to penetrate to her soul. Shivering, fear coursing down her spine, she was transfixed. Somehow, she managed to don her gown, wondering at the warmth that filled her, unrelated to the elements and far from reassuring. That thought brought life to her limbs. Fleeing toward the house, she felt compelled to place as much distance as she could between herself and whatever lurked in the garden. A raven crossed the path of the moon, cutting the silver web with a shard of black. Trembling, Marisa screamed as a man stepped out from the shadows.

  He was still standing in the thicket, his body swathed in black that seemed to drape from him like a cape. Marisa instinctively took a step backward, though he did not move. He watched her intently, his gray eyes locking with hers, holding her hypnotized. Later she would recall his high sculpted cheekbones, the startling sensuality of his mouth, the stern tightness of his jaw, and his burnished blond hair. But now, all she could think of was flight.

  “Don’t,” he said softly.

  Chapter Two

  “Who are you?” Marisa whispered, reacting slowly.

  He smiled, and instantly his face changed. The sternness left, along with the tension. He appeared much younger, with an innocent, rakish charm. “I could ask you the same thing. It’s not often that ladies entertain themse
lves by bathing outside at night,” he said with a wicked smile.

  “You were watching me!” Marisa blushed, a vague remembrance of those eyes coming back to her. Her pulse racing, she glared at him, her blood rushing through her veins. “Have you no shame? Spying on me! What kind of gentleman are you?”

  “None at all, in a manner of speaking,” he said, amused at her outburst. He stepped closer to her, and Marisa stared at him in confusion. She knew she should cry out, sound the alarm, but she couldn’t. He was within a few inches of her now, close enough that she could reach out and touch him. His hand lightly brushed the satin skin of her neck as he picked up a stray curl, lightly toying with the silky texture.

  “Let go of me,” Marisa whispered.

  He smiled. “I haven’t even touched you.” He continued to stare down at her, his eyes like shining mercury pools. “You interest me, milady. I find you nearly naked, playing in the stream with all the abandon of a water nymph. Yet your gown is costly and your jewels expensive.” Glancing up at the house, his expression changed, as if in answer to his own question. “Ah, the duke. His appetites are well-known. You must have cost him a pretty pence.” Idly, his eyes played upon the diamonds she wore. He gently fingered a bauble dangling from her ear. “Does he pay you with these glittery toys?”

  Marisa breathed in sharply. “Unhand me or I’ll scream!”

  “Oh no, my dear. If you were going to scream, you would have long before this. I grow more curious by the moment. Perhaps you feel a little curious, too?”

  His voice finished in a whisper. The sound of a step in the garden startled them both. Before Marisa could react, his hand slid behind her neck to turn her face up to his. Startled, her mouth parted to give the scream she threatened, but his lips possessed hers, taking her cries with a kiss. Shuddering, Marisa strained against him, her hands meeting a chest that felt like well-hewn steel. His free arm slipped about her waist, pulling her more closely against him.

  The effect of the kiss was mesmerizing. Every inch of her body seemed to touch his. She was trapped against him in the most intimate way. Marisa tried to struggle but she couldn’t move, and her feeble attempts only excited him more. A strange feverish pounding started in her ears. Her blood flowed hotter, racing to the surface of her skin. Her breasts grew full and heavy, pressing against his chest, the nipples suddenly and inexplicably sensitive to the linen shirt he wore. He smelled of the outdoors, of crystal lakes and freshly cut grass and something else, something vaguely musky and full of erotic promise.

  Helpless, Marisa let him have his way, lost to the magic of his insistent touch. His mouth eased from hers, his tongue lightly tracing the contours of her own soft lips, teasing, enticing, then plunging within to possess her once more. A longing grew within her, voiced as a whimper when his mouth finally left hers again to place tiny kisses on her throat and between her breasts.

  “Please! Let me go,” she pleaded, her voice sounding far away.

  He smiled, a grin that was rakish and knowing, probing and intense at the same time. “You don’t want me to let you go.” His finger stroked her mouth, softly brushing the place where his lips had just been. Marisa stared up at him, her eyes wide and confused, her mouth trembling. Something like puzzlement and uncertainty came into his face, but it left just as quickly. Marisa leaped from his arms, turning guiltily around.

  “Shannon!”

  “There you are, Mari. Where have you been all this time?” Shannon’s mouth dropped as she spied Marisa’s companion. “Who?…”

  “I’m afraid I must be going. Good evening, ladies.” The man gave them both a mocking bow. Without waiting for a reaction, he slipped into the garden.

  Shannon watched him disappear, a frown crinkling her nose. “Who is he? Handsome as could be, I’ll give you that. And what was he doing here with you?”

  “One of the guests,” Marisa said, her face a strange mixture of embarrassment, fear, and a touch of regret. Shannon pressed her hand to Marisa’s forehead, amazed to find it hot and flushed.

  “Marisa! What happened? Did he hurt you? I’m going to call for help.”

  “No! He kissed me, that’s all.”

  “He kissed you! How shocking!” A smile grew on Shannon’s face and a teasing quality entered her voice. “How did it happen? What was it like?”

  “It was…it was quite wonderful!” Marisa blurted out, then immediately wished she’d kept silent.

  But it was too late, for Shannon was now determined to have the whole story.

  Reluctantly, Marisa described what had happened, leaving out only one detail, her own passionate response to the kiss.

  “Just like those penny novels. The rogue’s kiss!” She sighed. “Oh well, Mari. It will give you something to think about on your wedding night should Devon prove disappointing.”

  “I shouldn’t have let it happen,” Marisa said. The picture of herself in his arms would not leave her. She wondered if it ever would.

  Shannon laughed. “It was only a kiss. Devon need never know. Come on now, before Devon starts looking for you and you have to explain.” Marisa followed Shannon inside.

  The horse galloped off into the night, carrying his caped rider through the tiny winding streets into the main thoroughfare of London. Pausing only when he was far from the duke’s home, the rider’s breath expelled in a fog as he listened. Silence ensued. He could hear his own ragged heartbeat and the quickened breathing of his mount.

  Patting the horse affectionately, he cantered quietly through the town until he came to the King’s Tavern. The horse picked its way through the acrid gutter, down through an alley, and into a stable that lay behind the inn. A sleepy groom sauntered out, his whiskeyed face brightening.

  “Oh, it’s you, Gov. Old Higgins is in bed, ’e is. I’ll take care of your horse for ye.”

  “My thanks.” The man’s voice rang out, the harsh Scottish burr softened in the night air. He tossed a coin to the groom, then turned and walked slowly toward the tavern, his determined manner a sharp contrast to the frivolity that spilled from the windows of the inn. Stepping inside, he quickly scanned the room, passing through the gamblers and card sharks. A serving girl sauntered up to him, her painted lips curved into a broad smile.

  “Well, if it ain’t Scotty. What’ll it be, love?” She leaned closer to him, allowing him to enjoy the cheap perfume she wore and the view of exposed cleavage that her tight gown afforded.

  “Whiskey,” he said quietly. She winked and sashayed off, returning with the drink before he could obtain a seat.

  “Here ye are, love.” She slipped him the glass, allowing her fingers to subtly caress his. “Is there anything else I can do for ye?”

  Her meaning was clear, and the Scotsman gazed at her thoughtfully. But the wench’s hopes were dashed. “Just information. Do you remember the man I gamed with last week, a nobleman’s son?”

  “You mean Lord Woodruff? Tall man, with black hair and a roving hand?”

  “The very one,” the Scotsman said, satisfied. “Is he here tonight?”

  “Aye,” the bar wench said, pouting at his interest. “He’s in the back room, losing his shirt again. Do ye want me to fetch him?”

  “No, I think I’ll surprise him. Thanks.” He gave her a slow smile and started for the rear gaming room. The wench watched him walk across the floor with that peculiar grace, his muscles flexing casually in his legs. She sighed audibly, returning to her work with reluctance.

  The Scotsman paused inside the door. His Lordship was obviously the worse for drink; his lace jabot was askew, his coat dangled from the back of his chair, and his wig was at an odd angle on his head. He tossed down his cards at the call with a grunt, watching his pile of coins diminish even further. Before he could beg another hand, he looked up and paled at the sight of the man in the doorway.

  The Scotsman placed a finger to his lips and gestured upstairs. Without acknowledging the motion, Lord Woodruff calmly excused himself, scooping up his meager winnings, and
casually strode up the narrow staircase of the inn. He turned into the first bedroom, well acquainted with these rooms where one could conduct business or amorous activity with a degree of privacy.

  “I didn’t think we had anything to discuss, laird,” Lord Woodruff said, his brow beaded with perspiration.

  “Calm yourself, milord.” The Scotsman smiled, a charming and innocent grin. “I merely want to ask you a few questions.”

  “Well, this is damned inconvenient,” the nobleman huffed, his whiskeyed breath spraying the room. “I don’t like to have my…er…accounts bandied about.”

  “That’s why I thought you might be more comfortable here. This is less public than the gaming hall below.”

  “Well then, done. What is it you want?” With the air of one who is used to being obeyed, Lord Woodruff sank back into his seat, watching the man before him.

  “I want to ask you about this.” The laird’s hand unfolded. The light of a single taper ignited the emerald in his hand; it twinkled in the room, as if containing a life of its own.

  Lord Woodruff shuddered to look at the piece, waving his hand. “Put it away! That’s the one I gave you in return for my losses. There is no damage. You’ve been well paid.”

  “ ’Tis not that I doubt.” Somehow the room became tense; there was an atmosphere of danger, emanating from the composed Scotsman. His eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch, hiding the intensity of those strange, glittering pools. “I want to know where you got the gem.”

  “It is not stolen, I assure you!” his Lordship protested, indignant. “I obtained it from a friend!”

  “I did not accuse you of stealing. I merely wish to be sure. Call it a personal interest. Last week you claimed it was a gift from Lord Sutcliffe, in return for debts to you. Is that correct?”

  “Yes!” Lord Woodruff’s pale face flushed. The sweat streaked the powder that sprinkled from his wig onto his forehead. “The emerald was from Devon. He owed me a great deal from whist. Rather than be dishonored, he paid me with the jewel. It is worth quite a bit, Devon assured me. You aren’t questioning that?”