Outlaw's Angel

by Colleen Quinn

  “No, I am not.” The Scotsman smiled dryly. “It is worth everything to me. I want to make certain of the origin of the jewel before I attempt to sell it. A gem cannot be easily cut and converted to gold, as a chain, for example.”

  “Yes, you are right.” Relieved, his Lordship stood up. “We are beginning another game, Murdoch. Perhaps you’d care to join us?” Hope flickered in his eyes. This damned Scotsman couldn’t win like that forever. Perhaps he could even win the emerald back. His mistress had taken a fancy to it the night he showed it to her.

  The Scotsman declined impatiently. He waved a hand to the door, studying the jewel in his hand, his Lordship already forgotten.

  Lord Woodruff slammed the door, returning downstairs with a huff. Bloody Highlanders! Jacobites, every one of them. The king should see them all hanged. He returned to his game, abruptly calling for more cards.

  The Scotsman remained in the room, staring thoughtfully at the emerald. Reaching into his waistcoat, he pulled out a packet of velvet, spilling forth the contents. Another emerald dropped into his palm, identical to the one already warm from his grip. They winked at him like the eyes of a harlot, teasing, glittering, superficially beautiful. They were a strange shape, like teardrops, each facet lovingly and expertly cut to show off the intricate shadings of the gems.

  The first he’d carried for almost fifteen years now, the only clue he had to his mother’s murderer. The night Lord Woodruff had innocently paid him with its match had set his heart pounding. But tonight’s exploration of the duke’s room had proved unrewarding. The only thing he’d discovered was a packet of letters.

  Unwittingly, his thoughts went back to that woman in the garden. Beautiful, exotic, passionate, and arousing. The Scotsman wondered who she was. Grimly, he wrapped up the jewels, replacing them in his pocket. His first attempt might have proved futile, but there would be other opportunities.

  Thoughts know no boundaries of time and space. As the Scotsman thought of Marisa, her own mind was filled with the image of his eyes, those startling silvery gray eyes that stared into hers.

  Annoyed with herself, Marisa tossed and turned on the bed, hearing Shannon’s untroubled breathing beside her. She had met him just for a moment and allowed him to kiss her! A perfect stranger! Worse, she had enjoyed it.

  Devon had known nothing of the blond Scotsman when she’d questioned him earlier. It was simply her imagination, Marisa thought, but his image would not leave her. That, and the delicious feelings that he’d aroused in her when he took her in his arms…

  Furious with herself, she forced her eyes closed. But even in her dreams, a presence invaded her thoughts and her rest was uneasy.

  The morning of Marisa’s wedding broke with a thunderstorm and a roar of activity. Maids scurried from the cellar to the kitchen, carting huge bottles of wine, ale, and port. Cooks stirred pots of steaming soups, while servants rushed to spread pure white cloths on the tables and arrange fresh bouquets of summer flowers. Every inch of the house was dusted and swept spotless in preparation for the celebration to come.

  Marisa held in her breath as her two giggling maids tied the sash of her ivory gown. Her hair was done up, each glistening black curl piled against the next until they cascaded down her back in a shining onyx fall. Her mother stepped back, her face a mixture of pride and worry as she draped her own pearl necklace around Marisa’s throat, fastening the gold clasp beneath her hair.

  “You look lovely.” Sara Travers smiled. The worry left her for the briefest moment, and for that second she looked young and carefree. The lines settled back, however, as if by an elastic pull as she frowned nervously.

  “Marisa,” she said softly. “I know your father has his heart set on this wedding. But I want you to know it’s never too late if you change your mind.”

  “Why, Mother—” Marisa began, surprised. But her mother went on as if she hadn’t spoken.

  “Devon is a fine man, and I’m sure he’ll make a good husband. But I don’t want you to feel forced into anything. Your happiness comes first.”

  Marisa knew that Sara’s marriage to Alastair had not always been good. In recent years, the strain of his illness and the disappointments of his past had tarnished their chances of a peaceful life together. Marisa rarely saw her mother smile and even more rarely heard her parents talking softly together, laughing, or enjoying the simple pleasures of living. She pressed her mother’s hand, responding with all the certainty of youth.

  “Mother, I will be happy. Please don’t worry. Now if I could just manage this dress, we’d better be off.”

  Her mother nodded, wiping her eyes with a lace handkerchief before gesturing to the servants to assist her daughter.

  The ride to the church was long and tedious. Marisa’s parents sat across from her in the carriage, so as not to crush her gown. They were both quiet this morning, Alastair smug in his happiness, her mother thoughtful. Even Shannon was strangely subdued. She sat next to Marisa, her eyes staring out at the countryside, her dress shoved beneath her knees to keep it in place. Again and again she turned to Marisa, as if to say something; then she would shrug and turn back to the window.

  Marisa peered out at the tiny houses and shops that grew more frequent as they neared town. Bells tolled in the darkness, and thunder cracked overhead. The rain pelted down with a violent force, and villagers scurried for their homes, leaving only sheep to face nature’s elements. Marisa’s thoughts turned toward the wedding and what lay ahead.

  Devon. Like any young woman about to be wed, Marisa wondered about their wedding night. She was aware of what to expect, not through her mother’s tutoring, for Sara Travers would blush and stammer at the most innocent questions, but rather through some of the books she’d found in her father’s library. One particularly explicit passage was saved and read to Shannon. The Irish girl was able to confirm what the book left out, her own knowledge a result of the confines of an Irish cottage and two very Catholic parents. Devon was experienced with women, the scandalmongers had made sure she was aware of that. Yet he had never tried to take any liberties with her other than a rather chaste kiss when leaving her at night.

  So engrossed was she in her thoughts that Marisa hardly realized they’d stopped. Puzzled, she peered outside, unable to see anything in the curtain of rain. Someone outside was shouting, and she could hear James, the coachman, answering in a subdued voice.

  “What is it?” Shannon asked.

  Alastair shook his head. “I don’t know. A rut, perhaps.” His lips pursed disapprovingly. It would not do for the bride to be late to her own wedding. The commotion grew louder, followed by a scuffle. The door was flung open, revealing a gray and wet world of wind and rain. It took a second for the occupants of the carriage to realize that the man staring inside was not James but a stranger, a huge grin crossing his face.

  “Well, Angel, if the carriage ain’t full to the brim this morning! What luck, mates! Seems we’ve struck it rich this time.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” Alastair started up, but a coarse hand pushed him back against the wall of the carriage.

  “Don’t move, old man. We don’t want to have to kill ye for the sake of a few jewels.”

  Horrified, Marisa’s hand went instinctively to her mother’s pearls. Highwaymen! She’d heard Devon speak of them the night of the party, and now they were attacking her coach! She peered outside, counting at least six of them, her eyes searching frantically for James. Finally she spotted him, lying on the ground in the rain. Her eyes grew wide with fear as she glanced up, staring down the barrel of a horse pistol.

  “Your man is quite alive, milady.” The highwayman spoke quietly, in a voice that was strangely familiar. Thunder cracked overhead. She glanced up to see Shannon staring wide-eyed at the masked stranger and at the inert body lying on the dank earth. Marisa forced herself to calm the violent trembling of her limbs. Her mother’s face whitened, but Marisa spoke quietly.

  “We will cooperate. Don’t hurt anyone e
lse.”

  “The lady is sensible. There is no need for violence. Despite what you may think, we are not all killers.” This came from the one called Angel, who seemed to be the leader. He sat a few feet away, enclothed in a cloak of rain. His voice rang out crisply, intelligent and fully in control.

  Alastair growled angrily, “You won’t get away with this! On my daughter’s wedding day! I’ll go to the sheriff!” He pulled out a small pistol. The gun exploded, taking everyone by surprise, including Alastair. Horrified, Marisa saw the leader, the Angel, curse, then grasp his shoulder. Blood trickled between his fingers.

  Terrified, her mother took the gun from Alastair and threw it to the ground. “Here. Take the necklaces and our bracelets.”

  The Angel signaled to her father with his pistol, ruthlessly reaching inside and pulling him out when he did not comply. What would they do with them? Didn’t Devon say these thieves merely stole jewelry? Why was the Angel still staring at her, even as he tossed her mother’s pearls to his men?

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to step outside, ladies.”

  Marisa stared at him in dismay. “But I can’t! Today is my wedding….”

  “Get the horses! Come, lads, we haven’t much time!”

  His voice rang out in harsh Scottish tones, English mingled with a curiously ancient Gaelic. Marisa, her mother, and Shannon stepped out into the rain, shuddering as the crude highwaymen yanked their arms behind them and tied them securely. It was worse than any nightmare. Shannon struggled and cursed, kicking at the man who held her, while Marisa glanced quickly about, trying to identify her assailants. The leader wore a silk mask that was becoming sodden in the rain. Something about him was familiar, too familiar….She studied him intently, her love of painting having taught her to look past disguises to the basic facial structure. Suddenly she knew him. He glanced back at her, tiny crinkles springing up around his eyes when he saw her expression.

  “Well, well,” the Scotsman spoke as his men quickly divested the captives of their riches. His eyes seemed to smile, as if she had decided something for him. Somehow he seemed to have delved into her brain and read her thoughts. Marisa’s eyes widened as he reached out and hauled her ignominiously onto the saddle before him. Life seemed to spring back into her veins; she struggled violently, trying to break free. A thousand horrifying visions appeared in her mind, spurred on by an all-too-vivid imagination. Ruthlessly, his arm wrapped about her waist, in spite of his injury, while his other hand jerked her wrists behind her.

  “Easy, lady. I apologize, but you leave me no other choice. Do as you’re told and everything will be fine. You don’t want your family hurt, do you?”

  Marisa saw her father’s choking rage, heard his threats for revenge while her mother pleaded not to get them all killed. Shannon glared her hatred at them all, her elfin face a mask of fury.

  “Filthy swine, all of you! Taking advantage of innocent people!”

  Marisa felt the highwayman’s hesitation. Frantic, lest he change his mind and kill them all, she spoke calmly, turning to face her captor to divert him from Shannon.

  “Take me, if you must. But please don’t hurt anyone else.”

  He chuckled, and Marisa longed to slap him. She could feel the sodden length of him against her, the warmth of his body penetrating the rain-soaked gown she wore, no longer recognizable as a wedding dress. Her hair whipped about her face, stinging her as the wind blew. The horse started at the pressure from the Scotsman’s knees.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to be our insurance, for the present time. Fear not, old man. Only your stupidity or that hellcat’s tongue will harm your daughter. Keep silent and when we’ve had time to escape, she will be returned to you. Otherwise…”

  His men’s laughter drowned out her father’s vehement curse, and the horse galloped forward. Shuddering, Marisa clung to the wet mane of the animal as they turned into the woods, leaving the carriage and her world far behind.

  Chapter Three

  Marisa felt as if she’d been riding forever. The woods transformed into an unfamiliar world of harsh craggy mountains and glens. She couldn’t tell if it was night or day, the rain blending all of the landscape into one silvery gray blur, the sky meeting the earth in one foul plane of mud and water. She could not even tell where reality began and fantasy left off. All sense of awareness left her. Her teeth chattered, and she gratefully snuggled into the cloak the Scotsman tossed over her shoulders, hardly aware that she was pressed up closer against him beneath the thick woolen garment.

  It was him. Marisa hated her own stupidity for not reporting the entire incident to Devon in the first place. To think she had assumed he was a guest! Lord knows what the man was doing in the garden. Worse, she had kissed him, had let him hold her and responded….Surely he had known, and it had to be part of the reason for his swaggering confidence now. She shuddered as she thought of her fate and pictured her mother and father, still waiting at the carriage. Perhaps her father had even roused James by now; perhaps they could come looking for her. Marisa glanced at the forbidding countryside and all hope waned. There was no way they could have gone through the forest and followed them, certainly not in this weather; nor could her father, with his infirmity, follow alone. No, it was only when they were discovered that help would be sent, and by then it would be far too late.

  But how long would he hold her? Marisa glanced up, trying to see his face in the sheeting rain, then shivering when she accomplished the task. He stared directly ahead. His eyes…how could she mistake those eyes! They gazed unflinchingly at the rugged land ahead, as if one with it, knowing its secrets and completely unafraid of the elements. He felt her gaze and looked down, his smile short and fierce as he silently answered her questions. There was no reason for him to release her any time soon. He could make his escape, without fear of harm with her as a hostage. He could later ransom her, when he tired of carting her around with him; or worse, he could…

  Marisa refused to complete the thought. If he meant her harm, there was little she could do about it now, and hysteria would only make matters worse. There was something so coldly forbidding about him, so completely in control, that Marisa could only reign in her own emotions and wait for a chance to escape.

  The rain ceased as suddenly as it began, the cool Highland winds blowing about her cloak and threatening to rob her of any warmth. Yet still they rode, placing as much distance between them and any possible pursuers as they could. It was almost twilight when they reached a tiny cottage hidden in the glen. Marisa didn’t even see the thatched roof until the horse had stopped, sweat streaming from his sides from the exertion.

  “D’ya think we’re far enough, Kyle? The old man was a might steamed, he was.”

  The Scotsman did not answer but stared at the distant mountains, looking for any sign of approaching riders. The silence reassured him, as did the undisturbed landscape behind him, the mesmerizing meld of hills blending one into another like the curves of a woman lying in her sleep. He stared thoughtfully down at Marisa, his eyes taking in the hair that lay about her shoulders, wild and disheveled, the wetness of her skin, the chill of her limbs even as they pressed close to his for warmth. Something close to understanding shone in his eyes, and he gestured to the hut.

  “A few hours won’t make much of a difference. Let’s get the lass warm and dry, and rest the horse. We can reach the islands more safely if we ride at night.”

  “I don’t know,” a young Highlander spat, staring at Marisa without kindness. “Her father would just as soon as see us hanged. I say we ride on.”

  Marisa felt him stiffen behind her, but his voice remained smooth. “And if she dies? Would you like to add murder to our deeds? As a ransom, she will prove useful. As a corpse, she is worth nothing but our necks.”

  The men fell silent, their nods agreeing with his logic. Marisa was swept from the saddle without preamble, and carried to the hut. She no longer struggled, nor did she attempt any resistance. The Scotsman’s concern fo
r her safety was her only present hope, and she dared not jeopardize that.

  Inside, the place was deserted. Marisa wondered how often it was used for a hideout. Her question was answered by the availability of supplies. There was dry wood for a fire, fresh containers of water, even food. Jacobite supporters, she thought bitterly, now quite certain these were no common thieves. No, their plans were too cleverly conceived. There were even munitions, dry gunpowder in a horn. Marisa stared numbly at the Angel, no longer caring. He led her firmly to the fire, plunking her down in an old, scarred chair.

  “Not as comfortable as you are used to, my lady,” he smiled. “But I will not have your death on my hands. ’Tis a pity you so openly recognized me. My disguise has been well preserved, and I could not risk your betrayal.”

  With a jerk of her head, Marisa refused the dried beef he offered. Anguish and frustration welled up inside her, followed by confusion when he untied her hands, rubbing the chafed flesh until her circulation returned.

  “Do not anger me,” he warned, speaking softly as his men crowded into the hut, jostling each other for a position beside the fire. “You have showed considerable restraint so far, more than most females. I do not wish to harm you. Don’t force me.”

  Startled, Marisa stared up at him, hatred gleaming in her eyes. He removed the cloak, then hung it before the fire. Ignoring the interested looks of his men, he knelt before her, removing her shoes and rubbing her aching feet. She tried to pull away, but something in his gaze warned her not to and she suffered his administrations in silence.

  “Marisa Travers,” he continued conversationally, smiling coldly at the surprise she couldn’t hide. “Bride-to-be of Lord Sutcliffe. I must apologize for interrupting your wedding day, my lady. Had there been another way, I surely would have taken it.”

  Marisa stared at him thoughtfully, wondering if the robbery was simply by chance. Everyone knew of her wedding; it had been talked of for weeks. Was it a coincidence that he had waylaid their carriage on the very day when it was common knowledge she would be going to town?