Outlaw's Angel

by Colleen Quinn

  A certainty sprung within her, aided by her observation of him, the precise way he dealt with his men. Even now as he talked softly with them, drawing a crude map upon the dirt floor, Marisa was impressed with his manner. He turned to her, offering a crust of hard bread, his expression demanding that she take it. She did so; after all it would do her no good to starve.

  “Good,” he said, his face relaxing. “Drink this. We shall be travelling again in a few hours. I suggest you sleep now. There will be little enough time for that later, and several days until we reach safety.”

  “Please.” Marisa choked down the harsh Highland whiskey he gave her, ignoring the drowsiness that threatened to immobilize her. “Can’t you release me? My father is not well; he cannot easily pursue you. And I will keep my silence about you and this place.”

  “Would you?” His eyes caressed her, making her shiver in spite of the cold. Her thoughts went back to the night he’d kissed her, knowing, without understanding why, that he was thinking of the same thing. “I cannot release you, and you well know it. I have more than my own life to think about. Finish that up and sleep.”

  His coldly commanding voice was the last thing Marisa heard, for her weariness left her little choice. She dozed, aware of him beside her, his body protecting her from the gazes of his men, his voice quietly going over their plans.

  Alastair Travers sat in the library of the duke’s house, warming himself before the fire. He was still chilled to the bone. Fortunately, a passing carriage had stopped to help him; otherwise he might still be stranded in the road, left helpless by those highwaymen. He drank deeply of the brandy a servant brought, shuddering as he thought of the effect this might have on his heart.

  The duke entered the room, pausing when he saw his uninvited guest lounging at the hearth. He froze, his aging face caught in an expression of hatred and self-disgust before he masked it with a congenial smile. He extended a hand, which was ignored, then coughed gently, joining Alastair in a drink.

  “I’m certain Marisa will be found,” the duke said formally. “I was very sorry to hear about this mishap. Damned highwaymen!”

  “I appreciate your concern,” Alastair said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “I would like to know what you are doing to see that she is returned.”

  “I’ve already sent a few of my men,” the duke said slowly. “They are combing the area even as we speak. They cannot have gotten far. I am puzzled as to why they would take Marisa with them. This is surely the work of the Angel. One would think that the presence of a young girl would merely be a hindrance to these outlaws….”

  “My daughter is no man’s hindrance!” Alastair spat, his face turning a curious shade of red. He stared grimly at the duke, fighting to regain control, reminding himself that his heart couldn’t stand the strain. “They obviously plan to ransom Marisa. I shall expect your full help in raising any monetary demands as well as men to run these hoodlums down.”

  “I shall help in any way I can,” the duke said. “However, my finances are tight. I shall be glad to advance a small sum, perhaps to persuade them to release her without delay. But you cannot expect me…”

  “I expect your full cooperation,” Alastair said calmly. “My health is not good, Your Grace. I will not rest until I see Marisa duly settled. Yet, at this time in my life, things weigh upon my conscience. I feel the need for a priest, to confess some of the deeds that trouble me. They say such confession does the soul good.”

  The duke’s placid face flushed. His hands clenched tightly around the glass he held, spilling the brandy absently over his wrist. His black eyes, like polished stones, locked with Alastair Travers’s, and he seemed about to strike him. A grim smile came to his face, one that did not reach his eyes, and he nodded.

  “You shall have your money and your men. Now leave me in peace, and let Culloden ever be sealed within your lips.”

  With a satisfied smirk, Alastair departed, leaving the duke to stare into his fire.

  It seemed that Marisa had hardly fallen asleep when she was being shaken roughly awake again. Clambering to her feet, she stared in astonishment at the night-blackened sky. “What time is it?”

  The Scotsman threw her an impatient glance. “Midnight. We have to get started again.”

  “But why?…”

  “We cannot take the risk,” Kyle said simply. “At night our chances are much better. I’m certain we’re being followed.”

  “Followed?”

  “Yes.” The outlaw smiled, his face becoming more harsh and cold as he gazed at her. “Our scout noticed a search party in the moor below. We’ve a decent head start, but it will be for naught if we lose time now.”

  A search party! Marisa’s heart quickened. “Please, can’t you let me go? I can convince them not to follow you! You don’t need me; you can travel much more quickly without me!” She hated to plead with him, but the thought of help so close by was intoxicating.

  The Scotsman’s eyes did not change during her impassioned plea.

  “I’m sorry, my lady, but I have no other choice. Your countrymen may pursue us more readily with you as hostage, but they will not try anything rash. Your life will mean something to them.”

  “Please,” Marisa tried. “My fiancé, Lord Sutcliffe, has influence in court. He may help you. Or his father, the duke…” Marisa’s voice trailed off as his expression changed from impatience to cold fury. She winced as he approached, his eyes like the cold steel of a sword—ruthless, hateful, and without conscience.

  “Do not speak to me of the duke,” he spat. “Nor of his offspring. My patience has its limits.” His rage subsided even as Marisa stared at him, though it continued to smolder beneath his cold exterior. “Do not waste your breath by questioning me again.”

  She could do nothing as he led her outside, hauling her onto his horse once again. His men followed single file as they travelled through a heather moor, along a path that Marisa could barely see. Moonlight bathed the scene in silver, tipping the flowers with an iridescent gleam that seemed eerie and magical, not of this world. Fear grew within her, festered by her own helplessness and the urgings of her maddened mind. She fought the hysteria that threatened as a wolf howled somewhere in the distance. Night noises closed in all around her. Strange black lakes glimmered in the hills, reflecting a velvet sky and tiny pinpricks of stars. They were climbing higher now, and Marisa dared not look down, the moonlight entirely too accommodating. Gentle hills gave way to crags and cliffs. The horrible sobbing of the ocean grew nearer. Marisa shut out the noise, forcing herself to remain calm.

  Night faded into morning, the pale gray of the eastern sky brightening as long shards of sunlight cut through to the land below. Marisa slumped wearily against the Scotsman, no longer aware that he held her tightly, his arm preventing her from slipping to the ground. Her legs ached; her body throbbed with a dull pain. Her gown, now ragged and ruined from the rain, clung about her knees like a sodden blanket. Through dull eyes, she watched Kyle dismount and gaze down onto the road below.

  “We’ve lost them.”

  A boisterous cheer arose as the highwaymen clamped each other on the back, applauding their cleverness in evading the law. Kyle smiled, his face relaxing into something boyish and devilishly attractive as he accepted the accolades of his comrades. Yet somehow he managed to remain aloof from it all. Marisa thought hatefully that he probably had women chasing him from one end of London to the other, women who had no idea that this arrogant Scotsman was none other than the notorious Angel.

  As if hearing her thoughts, Kyle’s eyes met hers, his expression unfathomable. His smile deepened, however. He turned to his men, swinging up behind Marisa once more.

  “Time for that later, lads. ’Twould seem our guest is not as enchanted as ourselves with the news. We’ll save our celebration.”

  Marisa stiffened, facing him abruptly, her body turned backward in the saddle.

  “What do you plan to do with me?”

  She had meant her voi
ce to sound scathing, but whether it was fatigue or dread that changed it to a soft whisper, she couldn’t tell. Kyle traced a finger along her chin in a subtle caress.

  “Are you so eager to discover your fate? You make me wonder you aren’t more afraid. Or perhaps you are still curious?” His smile grew wider as Marisa gasped, then before she could respond, he kicked up the horse. Marisa grabbed the mane, feeling his laughter behind her, even as she silently cursed him.

  They rode more slowly and confidently now, the intensity of the previous day gone. The sun had set when they reached a small village. The sea lay just beyond, a black and silver plane mottled with starlight. Brighton? Marisa thought in wonder. It couldn’t be; they’d been riding for two days. Unless he’d turned back…But why wouldn’t he get as far from London as he could?

  The Scotsman led the troop through the town, not pausing until he came to a tavern. Light and noise spilled out into the street, a strange contrast to the silence of the sleeping town. Kyle swung down from his horse, tossing the reins to a red whiskered groom. Reluctant, Marisa hesitated.

  “I should think the tavern more comfortable than the stables, my lady,” Kyle said. “However, if you don’t agree, you are welcome to join Damien.”

  Ignoring the light laughter about her, Marisa could do nothing but slide from the saddle with as much dignity as she could muster. Inside, the walls stretched to accommodate the crowd. Pirates and miscreants, gamblers and thieves made up the group. Well-endowed barmaids carried huge tankards of ale, moving with well-practiced rhythm between the tables and chairs. All eyes fell on Marisa as she entered, making her aware of her appearance. Her ivory gown now appeared a dank yellow, the rain having long since ruined the satin material. Her hair lay scattered about her shoulders, in spite of her attempts to knot it, and her face was pale from the rain and chill. She lifted her head and faced them, refusing to look away, until Kyle placed her behind him. The barmaids shrugged to each other; then one, a buxom redhead, sauntered over to Kyle.

  “Wot can I do for ye?”

  Flushing as the woman perused her curiously, Marisa heard the invitation in her voice as the wench smiled at Kyle. The Scotsman smiled back, then gestured to a table in the far corner.

  “That will do. Bring us a meal and some drink.”

  “Surely. But, there is one thing. We have to get payment first. Sorry, love.” She shrugged apologetically, and Kyle nodded.

  “Here. There’s enough for the food and for the night. You can tell your innkeeper to prepare rooms for us while we wait.”

  The barmaid took the pouch he tossed her, astonished as she surveyed the contents. She tucked it into her blouse and nodded, returning a moment later with several large tankards of ale. Ignoring the one placed before her, Marisa’s eyes flitted quickly around the room. There was little possibility for escape; the tavern had but one door and one window. Realistically, she had no idea where they were nor where she could go for help. Her eyes met Kyle’s and he grinned.

  “There is no help for it; you can’t escape. And if you are thinking of asking one of these noble gents for help, please reconsider. That one lad over there…see him, the one with the red scarf?”

  “That young boy?” Marisa saw a youth leaning against the bar, his face still unshaven.

  Kyle nodded. “He escaped from jail just a few weeks ago. The charge was murder. He says he didn’t mean to kill that trollop, but she overcharged him for the night.”

  If he meant to frighten her, he succeeded. Drawing a quick breath, Marisa studied the young boy, amazed to see him finish off an ale, then pull a plump tavern wench into his arms. Wincing, she reached for her ale and drank deeply of the strong brew.

  “The others have an equally quaint history. I do not wish to bore you with the details, only to warn you that such men aren’t to be trusted.”

  “And what of you?” Marisa couldn’t help but ask. She suddenly remembered the story about the Angel….He’d been wanted for murder, for the killing of his own mother.

  “Me?” Kyle laughed. “I’m to be trusted least of all.”

  “Why have you brought me here?”

  “Come now, miss. Show me some of that intelligence that you so foolishly displayed earlier. Why would I bring you here?”

  “Because…no one here would turn you in…for kidnapping me. You are safe.”

  “Precisely,” Kyle nodded. “And because you show an alarming propensity for trouble. As it is, we shall have to take our meal upstairs. Bedraggled as you are, these men haven’t seen a real woman in quite some time. I believe you are close to creating a scene.”

  Marisa glanced up, amazed to see that he was right. Several burly sailors stared bluntly in her direction, while a gambler tried to attract her attention from the card table. Kyle pulled her to her feet, not giving her time enough to think or even attempt to flee, if she had such a thought. He hesitated only long enough to press some sort of a message into the hands of one of his men, a bold Scotsman who seemed more of a friend than merely a follower. Reading the note, the man nodded and slipped out again into the night.

  Kyle led her, without incident, upstairs. Marisa could do nothing except follow him to a dark and unclean room. The chamber boasted a fire, small though it was, and a table set with smoking dishes. Food, real food. Forgetting her pride, she fell upon it, opening the cream-colored dishes and revealing pink slices of ham, the perpetual potatoes, some summer vegetables, and even a carafe of wine. The pouch must have contained quite a bit of money, Marisa thought, ignoring Kyle’s mocking smile as she ate. He joined her, and subconsciously he imitated the neat way she held the utensils, making Marisa wonder again about this outlaw. Only now, when they were alone, did she notice him give favor to his injured shoulder. He absently rubbed at the wound, wincing as a fresh spot of blood soaked through the white linen of his shirt. Feeling his eyes on her, she finished the food, placing her fork self-consciously on the table.

  He was drinking wine, filling her glass and admonishing her to join him. Marisa complied, wondering if the wine would make it easier. She hadn’t been able to ignore the bed; it occupied much of the room, reminding her that she was alone with him and completely in his power. Her eyes averted quickly when they met his. Marisa heard his light chuckle as he leaned back in his chair, and she sensed this time of waiting was at its end.

  “Aren’t you going to get out of those wet clothes?”

  Marisa’s head flew up, her green eyes wide. He shrugged and gestured to the fire.

  “I don’t know when you’ll have another chance to get warm and comfortable. You can hang that dress there, on that quilt rack, and it might just dry by morning.”

  Summoning all the dignity she could muster, Marisa pushed away from the table and stood up. The wine made her feel slightly dizzy; she shouldn’t have drunk so much of it so fast. But even as she steadied herself, her hand gripping the chair, she managed to answer him quite coolly.

  “Thank you for your concern, but I’m certain I’ll be quite comfortable. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll just take this chair here and try to get some sleep.”

  His laughter unnerved her. That, and the sound that followed, the click of his trigger as he laid the horse pistol on the table beside him. Casually, he watched her, his eyes never leaving hers. They were fringed by black lashes, pools of sparkling gray.

  “You have a choice,” he said, his voice cool and remote. “You can take off the dress by yourself, or I can assist you. Which do you prefer?”

  Too much wine, Marisa realized. She was unable to think clearly. But she had enough presence of mind to brazen it out. “I am not your whore, and I will not strip for you.” She lifted her chin, returning his stare, her courage weakening when she saw the determined expression he wore.

  “Not for me, but you will for a duke or a lord.” He spoke as if sorting facts for himself. “Then I take it you require help.” He lifted himself from the chair, taking a step toward her.

  “Don’t you come any closer
!” Marisa said, panicking. She reached for the gun, made a quick grab for it, and was amazed when she managed to grip the weapon. Balancing the heavy piece in both hands, she aimed it directly at his heart.

  “Dear me,” he grinned, enjoying the spectacle. “Does this mean what I think it does? Delightful family. First your father shoots me, now his daughter. I can’t wait to meet the rest of the Traverses.”

  “Don’t move,” Marisa said, edging toward the door.

  “Believe me, I have no intention of it. I shouldn’t want you to get nervous and blow a hole through me. Especially since I’m your best bet here tonight.”

  “What do you mean?” Marisa paused at the door, the gun precariously weaving at her handsome target.

  He smiled. “I think I explained what sort of company we have below. Do you wish to join them? You may find it more interesting than only myself, it’s true, but you’d discover it difficult to escape, lying on your back.”

  Marisa hadn’t thought of that, but it was true. Those men below who leered at her…She shuddered, refusing to complete the thought. Facing him directly, she indicated the chair.

  “Sit back down there. I still have the gun.”

  “Do you mean to hold it on me all night? You may get tired after the first five or six hours. I’m incredibly lazy, you know. I plan to enjoy a full night’s sleep.” He smiled, his face unfairly handsome and charming, robbing her of any sense of pride. “Now be a good girl and give me back the gun.”

  “No.” Marisa wondered whence this courage; from the wine, no doubt. That, and fear.

  “Give me the gun.” His voice was seductive, entrancing. He walked toward her, absolutely no hesitancy in his step, not even as moist blood appeared from his wound. Her hands shaking, Marisa lifted the gun higher, drawing back the trigger. He was three feet away, then two….She couldn’t force her fingers closed, couldn’t make herself do it. Her teeth clenched in frustration, she could do nothing as he peeled the weapon from her hand and put it safely away on the side table. She was trapped, his legs on either side of her, his arms enfolding lightly around her shoulders, gently caressing the smooth satiny slopes. Huge green eyes stared up at him and he smiled, his finger tracing the outline of her cheekbones, now washed with color.