The rainspout clanked in protest as he balanced himself against the window, then dropped lightly to the cobbles. Catching his breath in a sharp ache, Kyle ran across the courtyard, aware that he had been spotted. Dogs barked furiously, and the sound of his own footsteps seemed abnormally loud in the alley. The stables loomed just ahead. He hoped Dolly was right, that a horse was waiting….
“Here ye are,” a young stableboy said, his freckled face puzzled as the Scotsman brushed past him, leaping onto the horse with amazing agility. He and the animal seemed as one, the black stallion coming swiftly to life, sensing his master’s urgency. Like something out of a nightmare, the horse and rider galloped through the alleyway, springing out into the moonlit street like an apocalyptic vision. Kyle was gone before anyone could give chase, his image so awe-inspiring that many whispered later he was truly sent from hell.
Reaching the outskirts of town, he finally slowed his pace, certain that he’d lost any pursuers. Good, he thought, patting Damien’s neck, aware of the labored breathing of the animal. He would have some time, then, to make his escape into the Highlands. Dolly was right. Once alerted to his presence and with a description, he could no longer afford his London identity.
Marisa, Kyle thought, his fury growing. It was she who had written the letter; he had no doubt. Cursing his own stupidity for trusting her, he remembered all too well the first night he saw her. He had known then she was not like other women, standing in a stream, wantonly playing with the water like a legendary nymph. Then to kiss her in the garden, to feel her return his passion, her green eyes wide and innocent…Grimly, he kept to the side streets and returned to the tavern. Marisa had endangered far more than his life, and he would see that she paid for it.
Marisa sensed his return before she saw him. She was giggling uncontrollably at a song the Highlanders bawled about a young lassie who was wed to an auld man. “He’s doylt and he’s dozen, his bluid it is frozen; O dreary’s the night wi’ a crazy auld man!” Joining in on the chorus, Marisa glanced up, her eyes blinking widely at the sight of Kyle MacLeod.
Unconscious of the incredibly lovely picture she made, a single woman in the midst of the coarse outlaws, her face flushed from whiskey, her black hair tumbling wantonly about her, she could easily have been the heroine of any of their songs. He was staring at Marisa with an expression that reminded her of her father when he was deciding whether to kill a newly lamed mare or to graze her. At another time, Marisa would have been petrified. But tonight the whiskey had taken her beyond such mundane emotions, and she was only dizzyingly happy to see him again.
“It’s Kyle,” Marisa whispered loudly to Douglass, unaware of the charming slur of her words. “He does look rather fierce. Do you think he doesn’t care for the song?”
Roarke and Brannock burst into laughter at her innocent remark. Only Douglass remained sober, his huge body rising from the table as he correctly interpreted Kyle’s wrath.
“It is late, boyos. And I’m certain we’ve a long day ahead.” Looking down at Marisa, Douglass said slowly, “We didn’t mean the lass harm, Angel. She was just lonely upstairs, and I—”
“—took it upon yourself to invite her down,” Kyle finished the sentence for him, his words cracking like thin ice in the room. He drew closer, placing his riding gloves on the table, facing his men with a smile that wasn’t a smile. “And you are right about tomorrow. I’ve been discovered. Which means we must get adequate sleep, supplies, then put as much distance between us and London as possible.”
“Discovered?” Roarke leaped to his feet. “How? Was it Lord Sutcliffe? I didn’t think the lad had it in him to figure you out.”
“He had help.” Kyle continued to smile coldly, noticing that the color drained from Mac’s face. “A letter arrived in London, describing me. Evidently, Lord Sutcliffe used the information for his own purposes.”
“Kyle, ye don’t think…” Douglass indicated the men in a protesting voice. “Ye know we would die before…”
“Yes, I know.” For the first time since he had entered the tavern, his voice was less stern. “I will deal with the appropriate party, particularly since everyone else seems incapable of doing so.” His gaze rested lightly on Marisa, making her squirm in her seat.
“The lass?” Douglass questioned in disbelief. “Kyle, she was with us all night and locked in her room earlier. There was no way she could have gotten a message to anyone.”
“Isn’t there?” Kyle asked coldly. “Roarke, see that the horses are ready for the morrow. Brannock, make a list of what we need. Ryan, see to our monies and start working up an escape route. Douglass, organize our weapons. You can take Mac with you for now. I’ll handle this.” One by one his men moved to obey him, leaving only Marisa seated at the table.
They were alone. She lifted her gaze to meet his, flinching from the accusation she saw there. His face was a wonderful meld of planes, from the high forehead to his chiseled nose, then to his torturously sensual mouth. Even through his anger, his eyes held an erotic promise that told of undreamt delights, a part of his nature that he worked assiduously to conceal.
“Well, I guess I’ll go to bed.” Slowly she rose, not at all surprised when his smile widened, his voice deadly.
“Sit.”
“But you said…”
“I was speaking to the men,” Kyle said softly, picking up her hand in a gentlemanly gesture. Marisa wasn’t fooled for a moment. “We had an agreement.”
“What do you mean?”
“You agreed not to try and escape again. In return, I would not tie you up, nor harm you, nor in any way act the part of an outlaw. Am I correct?”
“I didn’t try to escape.”
“No, you wrote a letter…describing me accurately enough that I was almost captured. Do you know what they do to a Scottish rebel, my lady? Do you really want to hear?”
“No.” Dizziness threatened; she fought it back. “I didn’t mean…”
“I would have been hanged. But only after being disemboweled, tortured, and mutilated first.” Kyle spoke kindly, in the tone someone uses to address a child or an imbecile. “You do realize that I cannot forget this? And that your accomplice will have to be punished?”
“Accomplice?” Frightened desperately now, Marisa gazed pleadingly at him. “Kyle, don’t harm him, please don’t. It wasn’t his fault. I made him help me, begged him to take the letter. Don’t hurt Mac.”
The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could think. Quietly, Kyle picked up a stray lock of raven hair, idly toying with it between his fingers. “If I wasn’t sure before, I certainly am now. You played it all wrong, my lady. You should have acted indignant. I want so badly to believe in you, I would have tried. Do you see what kind of fool I am?”
Marisa did not hear this last, his unspoken plea. All she could envision was Kyle meting out some horrible torture to the young Highland boy who had tried to help her. Rising to her feet, she stared up at him, her eyes bewitchingly green, like emeralds.
“Don’t hurt Mac. Please. I’ll do anything…” She spoke before she thought, her eyes widening even more as something changed subtly in his face. Dropping the lock of hair, he reached for her, lifting her into his arms.
“Show me, Marisa,” he whispered, his voice stirring a thousand emotions as his breath touched her ear. “Show me how much you want my mercy. Perhaps then I’ll reconsider.”
Chapter Eight
Marisa could only stare at him, breathless, her mind weakening under the import of his words. She had no time to consider; Kyle saw to that. He immediately gathered her unresisting body up to their room, past the yawning boy who swept the floors and piled empty tankards onto a tray.
The room was cold and dark, but it little mattered. Kyle was like a flaming fire himself, the warmth of his body a deliciously sensual feeling through the sheerness of the shirt she wore. The shirt was ordinary cotton, but she only became aware of the flimsiness of the fabric now, with Kyle’s arms around her.
Tumbling her onto the bed, his mouth took hers before she could voice another protest, his tongue lightly tracing her lips and teeth before plunging in to take possession of the sweetness of her kiss. Delicious little shivers raced through her as her body turned traitor. No, she had never meant for this to happen, though it seemed inevitable from the first moment she saw him. His mouth eased from hers, his eyes wonderfully silver, reflecting the fire the way a wolf’s reflected the moon.
“Kyle, please let me go. I can’t do this.”
For a moment, he stared at her, as if unable to understand her language. A sudden doubt came to him, reflected in the changed tone of his voice. He was no longer angry, but Marisa wasn’t sure why. “Yes, you can,” he said in that strangely compelling tone he’d used before. “Put your arms around me, Marisa. I’ll do the rest. Trust me, I won’t hurt you. I just want to love you….”
Magic…A wizard’s spell…A warlock’s trick. It could be nothing else, Marisa thought as he lifted her, naked, in his arms. All the logical reasons for chastity melted into some distant part of her brain, refusing to be summoned. Kyle smiled charmingly, a spellbinding smile, one that made her his. If he could have remained angry, she could have resisted, but not now. His mouth lowered to her breast, teasing her nipple with a slow, torturing motion. Marisa leaned toward him, her body charged with a thousand exquisite nerve endings. Lingeringly he traced their pattern from her throat down to her toes. Marisa relaxed in his arms, letting him have his way. The whiskey-laden mist began to seep into her consciousness; once taking hold, it seemed to penetrate her very mind, making it a struggle to stay awake. Slowly, the room faded from view, taking Marisa with it.
Kyle only knew that she no longer struggled. Indeed, her body grew warm and placid, accepting his caresses even when he parted her thighs. With a gentleness he didn’t fully understand, he thrust himself that first small bit into her. Her body resisted, the tight, moist flesh making his passion rage out of control even as his mind sent him a warning. It was not until he had plunged deep within her, tearing the silken barrier between them, that he realized the truth. Stunned, he lay motionless, his passion-drugged mind at first unable to comprehend what his body told him. A virgin. There could be no mistake. Slowly, unable to restrain himself, he thrust into her again and again, cursing himself even as he spent his lust in the most painfully joyous way.
Time was suspended like a single raindrop on a glass pane. Slowly, Kyle disengaged his tangle of limbs from Marisa’s. Retreating from the bed, he went to the washbowl and returned with a damp cloth, sponging away the signs of his own brutal passion. When finished, he gently pulled a sheet over her naked form. Placing a soft kiss on her cheek, he caught a whiff of whiskey, the good Highland stuff that would put many a brawnier man under the table before dawn. It must have wreaked havoc in this small frame. He recalled the way she had sat boldly with his men, singing a ballad, her laughter like the sound of a snow-swollen river in the spring. Witchery, he thought. She was capable of magic, of turning a situation to her benefit. Even now she had the ultimate revenge, in a way she was hardly aware of. Ruefully, he blew out the taper, lying awake for a long time in the dark.
Marisa awoke. A thundering pain in her head made her retreat to the soft pillows and shield her eyes against the light that stabbed into her brain. Slowly, she ignored her headache and drifted fully into awareness. The first sensation other than pain was warmth, the unaccustomed feeling of an arm wrapped familiarly about her waist and of a leg nestled between her thighs. Hushing every sound she might possibly make, Marisa slid from beneath Kyle, wrapping the sheet around her naked body.
It was not possible. The memories of the previous night came back to assault her with all the cruelty of the morning light. Disbelief became knowledge, which became outrage. She, Marisa Travers, heiress to a fortune built on a snuff box, had dallied in the arms of an outlaw! It would have been laughable if it had not been so disastrous. Marisa sank down into a chair. The very thing she’d dreaded, yet longed for, had come to pass. How could she return now and expect Devon to marry her? What would she say to everyone? Marisa cringed at the thought of their whispered conjectures, the silent hush that would result when she entered the room. She recalled when Lady Arabelle had been compromised by the Earl of Bideford last summer at Bath. She had been the topic of conversation for weeks. Even though Arabelle had married quickly afterward, there had still been speculation as to the parentage of her firstborn. Good Lord, what if there was a child?…
Kyle snored peacefully from the bed, his magnificent body sprawled uninhibitedly across the mattress. A red line on his arm was all that remained of his wound. He smiled in his sleep. Dreaming of his latest conquest, Marisa thought shrewishly. Her wrath rose at the sight of his innocent repose, and without thinking, she hurled a brass spittoon across the room, watching it land in a clatter on the floor. Instantly, she groaned, leaning against the bedpost, regretting her impulsive action.
Kyle awoke immediately. He turned to see Marisa standing at the foot of the bed, her face the same color as the sheet she wore. The spittoon rolled about the corner of the room, coming to land upright with a clang. Amusement tugged at the corner of Kyle’s mouth, but he suppressed it admirably.
“Are you always so noisy in the morning?”
“You Scots heathen! ’Twould be just like you to make light of it! ’Twasn’t your virginity lost, I’m willing to wager!”
“Ah,” Kyle smiled, his warmth little affecting Marisa this morning. “Then you do remember.”
“Of course,” Marisa replied indignantly, though most of the night remained a painful blur. Even the outburst had cost her. Her head pounded like a thousand drums, while her mouth felt like carded cotton. “I’d like to know what you expect me to do, now that you’ve ruined my life.”
“You are not the first woman to wed who was not…shall we say, untried?” Kyle pointed out, that infuriating grin remaining. “I’m certain that Devon will overlook such a defect, in view of the circumstances.” Kyle slid out of bed and picked up his shirt. Fortunuately, he stooped just in time to miss another missile, this one a china pitcher. It crashed against the wall, shattering into a thousand pieces. Kyle straightened and turned toward her in amazement. He moved quickly enough when she snatched up the matching bowl.
“Are you mad?” He was beside her in three long strides, disarming her with a gentle efficiency. Marisa struggled as he embraced her, aware that she was still clothed in a thin sheet. The linen clung to each tantalizing curve, sorely testing Kyle’s restraint.
“Let me go!” Marisa demanded, gazing up at him. He was staring at her differently, his smile warm and gentle, nothing like the outlaw she knew. He picked up one stray black curl, idly enjoying the silky texture as he rubbed it between his fingers.
‘“You’ve forced me into a pretty predicament, my lady. I cannot let you go now.”
“But you said…” What had he promised? Marisa struggled to think through the alcohol-induced haze. Words eluded her. It was all she could do to stand up….
“That was before,” Kyle replied. “I have no other choice. You are my collateral. The duke has a vested interest in seeing you safe. If you hadn’t written that letter, I could release you. But now…”
“I’ll slow you down,” Marisa tried desperately. “I’m not good at adventures. I get sick in the carriage if the road hasn’t been repaired. I need sleep every night, and I like to eat regularly. You don’t want me.”
“What makes you say that? I confess, I find it disconcerting when you fall asleep in my arms at such inconvenient moments. But then, I cannot resist a challenge.”
His playful manner confused Marisa even more. Her mouth opened to voice another protest, but he was already handing her her clothes.
“Come. We haven’t time for this. You’ll have to learn to be good at adventures, because you are certainly about to embark on a new one.”
The same inky blackness that enveloped Marisa penetrated the Sutc
liffe estate, blending the molding house and garden into one black mass in the moonlight. Brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, Devon walked into the house. Every bone in his body ached, and his mind cried for sleep. He just needed a drink—one good long pull of a brandy—and then bed.
The place was blessedly quiet. Even Saunders was absent, having retreated to his room hours before. Pulling at his cravat, Devon loosened the linen, then took up a crystal glass. Sinking into his favorite wing chair, he gratefully indulged in the amber liquid, then nearly spewed the brandy across the room as he spied a body solemnly watching him.
“Jesus!” Devon swore, wiping his mouth as he recognized the slowly unfolding frame. “Shannon, for God’s sake. Why didn’t you say something?”
“Sorry,” Shannon said without remorse. “How did it go? Where is she?”
“Marisa?”
“Of course, Marisa,” Shannon said impatiently. “You had a plan, remember? What happened? You’ve had your drink.” She stared pointedly at the crystal glass, which Devon placed on the side table.
“He got away. The damned Scotsman got away. A room full of London’s best, and he manages an escape. I swear the man’s immortal.”
Shannon glowered. “So what happens now?”
“Will you leave well enough alone?” Devon snarled. The last thing he needed was Shannon reminding him of his failures. “I’m working on it.”
“Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s not enough.”
“Is that right?” Then with a second thought, he gave her a narrow-eyed stare. “What are you doing here at this hour, unchaperoned? What are your parents thinking of? Isn’t your reputation worth a damn to you? Flaunting yourself in the gaming hall, then showing up here…”
“My parents are in Ireland, thank you very much, and I don’t give a fig about my reputation,” Shannon said, ignoring his stern tone. “Such is for noblemen to worry about, and judging from the likes of you, I don’t care to impress any of them.”
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