“It’s probably deserted,” he remarked. They were about to leave when the door opened, and a wizened old woman appeared. She looked about seventy, her brick-colored hair still fighting to retain its lost glory and her bosom sagging nearly to her waist. She peered out at the strangers suspiciously. “Excuse me,” Devon said politely. “But would you be kind enough to let us rent a room for the night? Our coach is stuck.”
The woman stared at him blankly. Devon turned to Shannon, but the Irish girl stepped past him and spoke a few words in Gaelic. Immediately the woman nodded, then indicated the back of the house.
“She says there is a place out back,” Shannon said. “And that we’re welcome for supper.”
“Thanks no,” Devon shuddered. “We’ll just take the room. Now can we come in out of this rain?”
“Speak for yourself,” Shannon said, though the woman finally opened the door enough to allow them to enter.
The room was little more than a mud hut. Devon stared at the place in amazement, his eyes running from the dirt floor to the wattle walls, then the thatched roof. Water leaked indiscriminately, caught in pans that overflowed onto the floor. A fire burned soddenly, the wood soaked from the leaks, and an odd-smelling cauldron boiled from a hook.
“It’s downright primitive,” Devon said, not masking his astonishment. “This woman actually lives like this?”
“ ’Twould appear so,” Shannon replied.
“Where will we sleep?” Devon couldn’t help but ask. He’d already observed a particularly large spider ambling across the floor and a rook nesting in the roof. Shannon posed the question and at once the woman looked frightened, then responded in a coarse tongue. Shannon broke into bright laughter.
“What’s going on?” Devon asked suspiciously.
“Nothing,” Shannon said when she could speak again. Wiping her eyes, she looked at Devon, then laughed again. “She thinks you want to go to bed with her.”
“What!” Incredulous, Devon turned to the woman and saw her visibly wince. Swearing under his breath, he turned to Shannon.
“Tell her, will you? And stop laughing. This isn’t funny.”
It was less funny when the woman picked up a pitchfork, aiming it directly below Devon’s waist. Shannon hurriedly launched into an explanation, sighing with relief as the Welsh woman lowered the weapon, her gaze still narrowed. She handed Shannon a bowl of what she was cooking, then indicated Devon with a nod of her head.
“I think you should eat some,” Shannon said wisely. “You aren’t exactly her favorite person at the moment.”
“Right,” Devon replied, taking a seat near the fire. He tried to smile as she handed him the bowl, wincing as he recognized the eternal mutton stew.
“I hate lamb. Sheep should stand on hillsides and make mufflers,” he murmured to Shannon, forcing a smile as he tasted a bite. It was worse than he imagined. Devon dared not think of what else could be flavoring this concoction, particularly as a roach stared back at him inquisitively from the wall. But the woman watched him closely, her hand still on the pitchfork, and Devon had little choice. He ate the meal, groaning inwardly between bites while Shannon giggled merrily.
“I can’t wait to see the bed part,” Devon replied when they’d finished. Somehow, he’d managed to get the stew down, though each bite still stuck in his throat. Shannon indicated to the woman that they wished to sleep, and obligingly she led them out back. Devon stared straight ahead in disbelief as she indicated a barn that was, incredibly, in worse shape than the house.
“She’s got to be joking,” Devon said as the woman held open the door and indicated the hay. “She can’t mean…”
“She can,” Shannon said. “Cheer up. At least it’s dry. Things could be worse.”
At that moment, lightning flashed, striking the coach with a loud crackling noise. Shannon and Devon stared out the door, helplessly watching the carriage burn, the wood engulfed by flames. He turned to Shannon, all hell in his eyes, and she decided retreat was the best option.
“I think I’ll get some sleep now. Good night.” Escaping his reach, she chose the farthest part of the barn and spread her shawl on the hay, curling up like a sleepy kitten.
It was a long time before Devon could do the same.
It was nightfall before Marisa saw the tiny lights twinkling in the darkness, indicating some sort of a house. She was not at all prepared for the sight that greeted her eyes when the lights grew brighter.
A castle rose before them, its turrets and round sentry towers silhouetted against the night sky in all its Celtic glory. Marisa gazed about in confusion as they headed purposefully up the fuchsia-lined walk, directly for the door. A dog bounded joyously from beyond the huge fortress, running up to Kyle and leaping with a welcoming bark.
“Down, Argus. You lazy mongrel, take that.” Marisa saw him toss a biscuit to the huge shepherd, who scrambled it up quickly then laughed in the moonlight, his tongue lolling at the joke. It was only then that Kyle turned to Marisa.
“My home, milady,” Kyle said simply.
Douglass broke into laughter at Marisa’s astonished expression. “Thought we’d be taking ye to some bawdy inn or somewhat, didn’t ye now? Mayhap this will be an improvement.”
“Kyle…” Marisa sought to question him, but he cleverly avoided answering, pointing out features of interest as they dismounted.
“The main turret predates the rest of the house. It was built in the 1100s, during the Norman conquest. We nearly lost it at one time in a scuffle with the MacDonalds, but the property is back in the family now, secure for the time. It’s a monstrous place, with a banquet room and a hall. There’s even a dungeon that they say is haunted. Kyle smiled at her expression, aware that fatigue was sapping the strength from her bones.
“I’ll take you around,” Roarke offered, but it was Mac who answered sharply.
“You’ll take her nowhere. She’s tired, can’t you see that? What she wants is a bed and sleep.”
“Not yet,” Kyle said blandly. “She’s not going to get another chance to escape. I want her right by my side.”
Marisa started to protest, but Kyle was already taking her through the great hall. She caught flashes of polished granite, of tables so smooth they shone like glass, of velvets and rich lace curtains dangling like fairy webs from arched windows. Marisa could hardly absorb it all; she felt like one engorged on sensations. Finally, they entered what appeared to be a huge library. Books lines every inch of the walls. Even over the fireplace mantel, more volumes rested together like ladies at a tea party. Portraits adorned the other wall, ancestors of the MacLeods, without doubt. Dumbfounded, Marisa sank onto a Wedgwood-blue velvet couch, studying the painting closest to her. It could have been Kyle’s cousin. An identical pair of gray eyes to the ones that watched her in amusement from the painting followed her gaze around the room in the flesh.
A servant entered, placing a tea tray beside Marisa. He then broke into a smile when he observed Kyle standing beside the roaring fire.
“Master MacLeod! When did you return? I’d heard we had guests, but I had no idea…” His eyes went in confusion from Kyle to Marisa, then back to Kyle, who offered no explanation.
“I just got in, Childers,” Kyle replied, pouring himself a brandy and admonishing Marisa to drink the tea. “Does he know?”
“Duncan? He’s on his way down….”
A footstep resounded in the hall and the door burst open. Marisa nearly choked on the tea as Duncan MacLeod strode in, the Scots chieftain. Dressed in full regalia, a short square hat and a blue waistcoat, the MacLeods’ kilt flashing citron and lemon above his knees, he stood nearly a head taller than Kyle’s six feet. Like most chieftains, Duncan lived in the castle along with the other clansmen. He extended a hand to Kyle, palm up, then pounded him heavily on his back.
“You’ve returned, laddie! Aye, the streets will be thick with rose petals on the morn when the ladies hear. How is London? Have ye recovered the jewels? We’ve been in c
ontact with the prince….” His merry gaze fell on Marisa and his eyes widened.
“A lass? I didn’t know ye brought company.” Curious, the chieftain stepped closer to Marisa, amazed at what the firelight revealed. In spite of the horrid clothing she wore, which smelled suspiciously of a pigsty, she was extraordinarily beautiful. Her profile was a delicate as a Rembrandt, her figure as dainty as a wood nymph. There was something esoteric about her, especially as she looked up at him, her cheeks smeared red with embarrassment. Her eyes were magical. Duncan could not look away from her. Mysterious, shifting emerald and gold, her eyes held him spellbound until she looked away. Duncan turned to Kyle and was outraged. He was at once the girl’s champion and defender.
“Kyle, I hope ye have an explanation for this,” Duncan said, his voice losing its jocularity. “The young lassie looks fair exhausted.”
“She is,” Kyle said. “She has a damnable habit of trying to get into trouble. She landed in a pigsty, trying to escape me.”
Duncan choked back the outrage he felt, not wanting to upset Marisa more than she already was. “Would ye mind telling me where ye got her?”
“In London,” Kyle replied, daring to sound amused. “I stole her on her wedding day.”
“Are ye daft, mon?” Duncan exclaimed. “Ye don’t just steal a wench from another man simply because it’s Tuesday!”
“I think we should let Marisa get some sleep,” Kyle said pointedly. Duncan called for a maid, continuing to glower at Kyle.
“Take the lass upstairs and see that she gets a bath and a bed. And Miss…”
“Travers,” Kyle supplied helpfully. “Her name is Marisa Travers.”
Duncan hid his astonishment. He offered Marisa a hand, then smiled at her kindly.
“Miss Travers, I wish to welcome ye to my hoose. If there is anything you need, do not hesitate to tell me. You will soon find that not all the MacLeods are scoundrels.”
Marisa tried to smile, her face still hot.
“I suggest you lock her room,” Kyle instructed the maid. “She has an unreasonable desire for the company of swine.”
The maid looked confused but melted beneath Kyle’s brilliant smile. “Glad to have ye back, Master,” she whispered as she led Marisa upstairs, into the bedchamber.
The girl hardly quit the room when Duncan burst into speech. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, bringing that lassie up here? Drag her all the way from London, did ye? What kind of a mon are ye?”
“Evidently a scoundrel,” Kyle replied, unperturbed. “Watch out, Duncan. The wench is a mystic. She’s enchanted all of my men. Including me, I sometimes think. She’s Lord Sutcliffe’s fiancée,” he explained.
“Ah,” Duncan said, taking a seat beside Kyle. Sutcliffe! There was scarcely a name more likely to inspire Kyle MacLeod’s hatred or desire for vengeance. Duncan knew of the connection between the young lord and the emerald. Kyle had written to him, telling him of the gem obtained gambling and the results of his investigation. Somehow, the old duke had something to do with the murder of Kyle’s mother and the ruination of his name.
“But to abduct the lass,” Duncan protested. “She’s innocent of all this! Couldn’t ye devise a more honorable plan?”
“Not without the gems,” Kyle said flatly. “Word from France sounds encouraging. If I could lay my hands on those jewels, we stand a chance of enticing the prince back once more.”
“And ye’d know who killed your mother,” Duncan stated.
The fire crackled; a log fell into the grate with a crash. Kyle stared thoughtfully at the ghostlike wisps of smoke wafting up the chimney before putting his drink down and facing the chieftain.
“Yes. I cannot seek revenge nor clear my name without proof. I took Marisa, intending to ransom her for the jewels. Instead, Lord Sutcliffe sought to trap me in London, without paying the ransom. I was forced to flee. There was but one place I could go….”
“Of course,” Duncan grunted. “This is your home. And it is the only place ye are safe. They will be after ye, without a doot.”
“Aye, I know. I’ll have to think on that. But I cannot let the girl go without those jewels. She’s my best chance.”
Duncan digested this, wondering about the relationship between Kyle and this young woman. Marisa was a surprise, in more ways than one. She was exotically beautiful, and she was a lady.
“The clan will be glad to know you’re back,” Duncan said carefully. “There isn’t a day when they don’t ask after ye.”
“I should be happy to see them in the morning,” Kyle said formally.
Nothing, Duncan thought, he tells me nothing. From the time Kyle was a boy, he had always been a loner. Able to command respect, he made a wonderful leader and a natural hero for their cause. Duncan glanced out the window, a heaviness swelling within him. Already, the changes the government had put into effect were being felt. More than one local landlord had evicted his tenants, clearing the land for sheep. Immigrant ships departed from the harbor each week, carrying away the best of Scotland’s youth, lads with an eye to the future and mouths to feed at home. They left by the dozens, the ships returning for their families when they were settled in the colonies. That is where Kyle belongs, Duncan thought sadly. A place of opportunity. But how did one tell a man such as Kyle that he was fighting for a lost cause?
“The clansmen will be pleased,” Duncan said quietly. He turned back to look at Kyle, his thoughts lightening for a moment. “Glad to have ye back, laddie.”
Chapter Twelve
“You have a visitor, Your Grace.” Saunders placed the card with its little silver tray before the duke. Absently, the duke glanced at the card. His heavy lidded glance narrowed at the scrawled name.
“Show him in,” the duke said, his voice betraying no emotion. Before the butler could return to the hall, the door burst open and Alastair Travers stormed into the room.
“I must see you now. I will wait no longer,” Alastair cried, flushed from exertion and anger. “I refuse to come back, to wait outside, or to listen to any more excuses!”
“I had just sent for you,” the duke returned smoothly. “Pray take a seat and we’ll discuss whatever is on your mind.”
“You well know what is on my mind,” Alastair fumed. He took the chair, however, and stared pointedly at Saunders.
“Anything else, sir?” the butler asked politely, as if it were an everyday occurrence to have merchants bursting angrily into the library.
“No, nothing. You may go. And, Saunders, close the door.” The duke waited until the butler obeyed before turning toward Alastair, his face showing only polite patience. “I assume this is about your daughter?”
“Aye, and little enough you care,” Alastair spat out. “My Marisa has been missing for weeks now, and the most you can do is order a regiment to find her. A regiment that failed, I might add.”
“The Angel is a formidable enemy,” the duke concurred. “How were we to guess that he and fifteen Highlanders would fight off a British troop? The Scots were armed with dirks, I was told. They put up a considerable fight.”
“I’m not at all interested in the failings of the British army,” Alastair said hotly. His eyes narrowed as he leaned across the polished marble table, his gaze dropping beneath the force of the duke’s. “I want my daughter back. You’ve had enough time.”
“Time?” The duke’s smile vanished. “I gave you no guarantees for time. Kyle MacLeod is no ordinary outlaw. The man is cold, intelligent, daring, and resourceful. His men would follow him to the ends of the earth, if need be. The government has tried to capture him repeatedly these past few months, but they were unable to discover anything about him. We’ve known he had a secret identity, but no one would provide any information regarding the man. That proves he has loyal London followers as well as Highlanders.”
“That proves nothing!” Alastair banged a slender fist on the table. “He’s not immortal, damn it! A lot rests on this, Your Grace. As you well know.”
“I told you I would extend all of my efforts,” the duke replied, refusing to allow his own anger to show. “I’ve employed the best regiments, picked the hardiest men. I’ve even given my own son.”
“Devon?” Alastair questioned, a smile coming to his face. “You’ve sent Lord Sutcliffe?”
“Yes,” the duke responded, lighting to keep his emotions under control. “My son has agreed to search for Marisa. He is in Wales, having picked up the scent toward the Highlands.”
“Devon,” Alastair continued in wonder. “The man must care for Marisa. But then, what man would not?”
“I’ve also had word on Kyle’s whereabouts,” the duke continued coldly. Removing a parchment from his brocade coat, he thrust it beneath Alastair’s nose and moved the taper closer. “Go ahead. Read it.”
Glancing up like a quizzical mouse, Alastair applied his spectacles to the missive. Amazingly, it was from the Earl of Argyll, claiming that Kyle was back in the Highlands, at the home of his chieftain. The letter went on to state that the earl would assemble a band of Campbells, several thousand men, to see to Kyle’s capture and death. “The man is a threat to us all, Scottish and English alike.”
The duke said nothing, pouring himself a drink and staring moodily into the fire. Alastair finished the note, then chuckled his relief.
“Aye, it looks like we’ve got him now. The Brits from the south, Devon from the west, and his own kind from the east. I’d say he was sewn up tighter than a maiden’s shift.”
“Yes.” The duke took up the letter and slipped it inside his pocket once more. “As you can see, your daughter will be found and returned as quickly as possible. You will note that the earl’s men saw her with Kyle; she is alive and well, according to the report.”
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