“He’s out cold,” the groom muttered. “He’ll sleep nigh on through the day, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You are mistaken,” Shannon said through quick breaths. Devon was heavier than he looked. “I’ve got to get him sober and awake.”
“Good luck,” the groom spat. More cards fluttered down. “ ’Tis a common-enough trick, ye know.”
“What is?” Shannon’s own suspicions rose to the surface. Devon was no stranger to drink. It would take more than a few brandies to get him in this state, particularly when he was gambling.
The groom snorted, hefting Devon over one shoulder and mounting the stairs. “They give new players the good stuff. Straight mountain whiskey. And when the man passes out—”
“—they clean him out,” Shannon groaned. As soon as the groom deposited Devon on the bed, Shannon rummaged through his pockets. A tuppence rolled out between her fingers, two lousy pence that would scarcely provide an evening’s meal.
“I’m sorry, miss.” The groom seemed genuinely apologetic. “A man like him should know better.”
“So you’d think.” Shannon fought the mists that sprang up in her eyes. Devon was drunk, they had no money, and Marisa was in danger. What else could go wrong?
Chapter Thirteen
This time the woman came to her. Marisa followed her outside, past the terrible dungeon gates to the heather-covered moors beyond. The woman seemed to float rather than walk, her slender figure swaying like a gentle flower in the breeze. She sensed Marisa’s presence and turned toward her, smiling.
Something was different this time. Gone was the fear and dread Marisa associated with this lovely spectre. She was not crying now. It was as if some terrible burden had been lifted from her shoulders and she was free, gloriously free.
She approached Marisa, her grey eyes familiar and comforting. Golden sunlight dusted down through the trees, settling on the woman’s light hair, making her seem radiant. Taking Marisa’s hand, she smiled again, her touch warm and oddly human. The woman pressed something cold and sharp into Marisa’s palm, then drifted off, disappearing into the heather like a witch from the Druid legends.
Marisa stared after her, dumbfounded. She had disappeared, simple as that. Even in her dreams, the reality of seeing a ghost affected her. Remembering the object in her hand, she opened her palm, gasping at the woman’s gift.
An emerald. Marisa stared at the brilliantly cut stone, wondering what it all meant. The emerald glittered in her hand, sparkling in the sun until it too gradually disappeared, vanishing until nothing but a shadow remained. Coming gradually back to consciousness, Marisa could hear the woman calling out from the moors: Remember….
It was twilight when Marisa awoke. The last few rays of sunlight faded into a soft purple, blending into the heather and the grey edge of night just behind the mountains. A cool wind blew through the windows, suffusing her with a chill. For the moment, she did not know where she was. The castle walls, with their granite grooves and oak panelling, seemed a part of her dreams until she spied Kyle dozing in a chair opposite her.
He awoke instantaneously, sensing the slight movement of her facial features and the rustle of her sheet. For days now, he had listened and prayed for just such a sound. Unbelievably, Marisa hoisted herself up on one elbow and gazed at him thoughtfully.
“Kyle? Have you been ill? You look terrible. Why is it so dark in here? I’m so thirsty.” She looked like a petulant child waking from a nap, cranky and demanding.
“Duncan!” Kyle shouted, then attended to Marisa himself. Placing a hand on her brow, his smile became broader as his fingers discerned no poisonous heat. Her skin felt firm and cool, her eyes were lucid and bright. His grey eyes met hers, and Marisa wondered why they seemed overly bright. He turned from her quickly and brought back a tray, eagerly supplying her with water, then with food. Agatha came in with a pile of towels, placing them on the commode. Upon seeing Marisa, she threw up her hands in delight.
“Well, I’ll be. Never thought I’d see the day, don’t mind me, miss.” She wiped her eyes discreetly on an apron and forced a grin. “Though the master there wouldn’t leave ye day or night. Tended ye himself, he did. I’ll fetch another bowl of soup, and would ye like anything else, sir?”
“Aye,” Kyle said, holding a glass to Marisa’s lips. “A quieter maid. You talk too much.”
“Aye, that I do,” Agatha agreed brightly. “But then, sir, you don’t enough.”
At a warning glance from Kyle, she disappeared through the door, nearly running into Duncan, Mac, Roarke, and Douglass. They burst into Marisa’s room, each eager to kiss her and feel her forehead for themselves.
“It’s good to see ye up, lass,” Duncan said cheerfully. “Stop fussing over her, Mac. She can fluff her own pillow. These men have been good for nothing since you’ve taken ill. They do naught but sit in their cups and sigh. It’s damned depressing.”
“It is that,” Roarke teased. “The place has been like a morgue these past few days. What with Duncan snarling at everyone and Kyle throwing out the doctor, they’ve all been a bit testy.”
“Throwing out the doctor?” Marisa questioned. Kyle grinned, sending Roarke a look that betrayed his lack of appreciation.
“Never mind, it’s not important now. Eat this. You need to get stronger. I’ve never liked a skinny woman in my bed.”
Marisa blushed hotly and wondered if she dared tip the bowl into Kyle’s lap. But even now, with the illness still sapping her strength, she could feel her blood pulse like hot honey at his words. She slid back into the comfort of the bed, amazed to see Kyle’s concerned reaction.
“Is it the fever again?” Before Marisa could assure him otherwise, he brought her a fresh drink of water, with crushed ice and mint. “There,” he said sternly. “You are not well yet, apparently. I want you to stay in bed and relax. You are to do nothing more strenuous than enduring my company. I plan to see you well, my lady.”
Kyle lifted her slightly in his arms, arranging the bed linens behind her. Marisa felt a pure primal pleasure in being protected and cared for by such a man. Even now as he leaned over her, his muscles a study of animal-like symmetry, her desire to tell all vanished. She would enjoy his attentions, Marisa thought, hiding a smile. Eventually she would tell him she was fully recovered. But not too soon.
Devon, who was accustomed to attention, nevertheless found himself the recipient of a kind he would have preferred to do without. Discomfort was the first sensation he experienced upon forcing his eyes open, followed by an aching wet chill.
“Jesus!” Leaping from the bed, Devon had to fight a feeling of déjà vu as he saw Shannon standing over him, poised like a wrathful goddess with a pitcher in her hand.
“Are you crazy?” he snarled, staring in amazement at his sodden clothes. The water ran in icy rivulets down his shirt, beneath his trousers, then to the floor. His gaze met Shannon’s with a frosty outrage and he took a single step toward her. At once, his head felt like a thousand demons struck with hammers, pounding his brain in a primitive torture ritual.
“It wasn’t my fault you got yourself drunk and rolled in the bargain,” Shannon began, not trusting his sudden silence. “If you can’t stand the stink, stay away from the pigs, and if you can’t hold your liquor…”
“Brandy,” Devon gasped, lowering his dripping body into a chair.
“Whatever. You couldn’t hold it, ’tis plain to see.”
“Get me a brandy,” Devon corrected her.
“Are you out of your mind?” Shannon asked incredulously. “After what happened last night, if you think I’m providing you with more drink…”
“Get me a goddamned brandy now,” Devon barked, boring a blood-soaked eye right through her, “or I’ll break your Irish neck without a prayer to any of your damned saints!”
Deciding that perhaps now was not a good time to argue, Shannon held her tongue and fetched him a drink. Holding it out to him with a sanctimonious expression, she hid a shiver of re
pulsion as he downed the brandy, ignoring the water that she offered. Devon closed his eyes and she could almost see the liquor working; his face smoothed as the ravaging pain retreated, and a more normal color returned to his skin.
“Feeling better?” she asked with false solicitation. Devon’s one eye opened slowly, dismembering her with a glance.
“I’m feeling wonderful, no thanks to you. I’ll be just fine when this blasted trip is finally over. I’ll have Marisa back, and you’ll be packed away on that damned green island where you belong.” Rubbing his temples, Devon tried to recall what had happened the previous night. He and Shannon had fought about something…. He had a vague remembrance of a dousing even then. The girl apparently had a fetish for water. His face almost registered amusement at the thought when he slipped his hand into his wet pocket. Nothing. All of his money was gone.
“All right, where is it?”
“Where’s what?” Shannon asked coldly.
“My money! You know what I’m talking about! Don’t look at me like that! I want it back.”
“Sorry,” Shannon shrugged. “But that’s the way you were returned. Empty of money and full of liquor.”
“Shannon, this is no time to joke around….”
“You’re telling me,” Shannon said angrily. “A fine mess you’ve made of all this. You gamble away every cent to our names, get roaring drunk, pass out in the gaming hall like some sot. Then you have the nerve to threaten and accuse me!”
“Will you quit harping? You sound like Saunders,” Devon said, though her words penetrated to his aching consciousness. He had a recollection of a game….Wasn’t the Lord of Cambridge winning? He had asked for one more hand, trying to win his money back…. A rogue like Cambridge could have never beaten him out of all that money. Unless it was more than drink…. The peculiar ache in his head and the sour sickness in his belly almost confirmed his suspicions.
“Shannon,” Devon said thoughtfully, his voice calmer. “Was anyone else passed out?”
“Do you mean, did you make a solitary fool out of yourself or did you have company?” Shannon chided, then shrugged when she saw he was serious. “Yes. I saw a few other men sleeping downstairs. But that doesn’t excuse…”
“That’s what I thought,” Devon said. Of course! Lord Cambridge would resort to such a trick.
“So what do we do now?” Shannon asked, suspicious of the smile that crept across his face.
“Why, that’s easy,” Devon smirked. “I’ll win it back.”
“You don’t mean…” Shannon said, her mouth falling open. She had visions of them stuck for days at this inn, even weeks, as Devon went from one drunken debauchery to another. “Oh, no you don’t….”
“I was drugged, sweetheart,” Devon snapped, his patience gone. “Old Cambridge slipped something into my drink. And how far do you think we’ll get without money? Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”
Shannon was not so sure.
There was a lot to be said for being an invalid, Marisa thought, relaxing in the sun-dappled shade beneath a thick oak. Kyle had insisted upon carrying her down, and there was nothing for Marisa to do but loop her arms around his neck and enjoy the luxury of being cradled in his arms. He’d spent the last few days caring for her himself, everything from feeding her breakfast to lighting her candles at night. Marisa enjoyed every minute of it. It was a heady experience to know he could be kind as well as commanding, thoughtful as well as domineering. He told her stories at night, tales from his own boyhood that made her see the man beneath the Angel’s outlaw image. Eventually, Marisa didn’t have the heart to tell him she was recovered. Especially when being ill was so much fun.
The object of her thoughts sat a short distance away from her, presiding over all of them, Mac and Douglass, Roarke, Brannock and Ryan, like a young god. The sunlight broke through the tree in a ragged patch, making his hair glisten and his eyes look like drops of liquid mercury. He smiled at Roarke’s jest, idly eating grapes, his mouth a study in artless sensuality as he bit a luscious purple fruit and carefully sucked out the juice. Marisa didn’t count on the rush of liquid fire that pulsed through her veins. It was a cruel irony, she thought, glad for the distraction of the men.
“Do you want another tale, lassie?” Douglass asked, ignoring the negative boos from the audience. “All right, then. I’ll tell ye the one aboot the ghost of Skye.”
“Tell her about the whore in Sconser instead,” Brannock said. He had the kitchen maid sitting on his lap, a fresh-faced girl named Megan, who giggled. “Sorry, Angel.”
Kyle had merely given him a lazy, indolent glance, but it was enough. Marisa had to fight to keep from bursting into laughter at Brannock’s flushed face.
“I think I’ll tell ye aboot the ghost,” Douglass grinned.
“Tell her about Willow the Wisp,” Kyle suggested. He moved deftly behind Marisa, observing her struggle with her hair. The prim knot had unwound, allowing raven tendrils to fall charmingly around her neck and shoulders. Removing the pins, he slid his fingers through her hair, enjoying the silky feel of it. It was a wonderfully sensual experience, one that held its own torture for Kyle. He repinned her hair, still idly playing with it, occasionally dropping a feather-light caress on her neck or shoulders. The gown she wore, loaned to her by one of the Highland daughters, fit her slender figure like a silk stocking. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath, and Kyle fought to keep his caresses chaste, reminding himself that she was still ill….
“The Wisp appears at night, looking like a bright light over the marsh,” Douglass asserted. “Some say ’tis the divil himself, come for souls. Some say she’s merely a lost soul, wandering the marsh. Others say the Wisp is a goddess, enchanting men to their deaths.”
“And have they?” Marisa questioned, ignoring the delightful shivers that spun down her back and through her thighs.
“Aye,” Douglass affirmed, while Roarke and Mac nodded in agreement. “They’ve found bodies in the marshes while cutting the turf for fires. Some poor fool followed the magic light into the bogs, where the green moss floats, thinking he’d be on the earth. Instead, he sank into the water, his body buried beneath the peat and the dying plants.”
“That’s awful,” Marisa shuddered.
“There’s more. In the Druid days, men feared the bogs. Though they provided fuel and water, there was always a mystery aboot them. It is legend that the Druids offered human sacrifices to the black waters.”
“Is there any proof?”
“Well, some of the corpses were found buried in the peat, wearing jewelry and tools. ’Twould not be very likely, should a man merely be following the Wisp, that he would carry such things.”
“Fascinating.” Marisa was intrigued in spite of the horror of the tale. “And what do you believe?”
The men grew silent, except for Douglass. “Who’s to say?” the Highlander began cautiously. “It is easy to laugh at such ideas here. But up there, in the moors, it is different. I saw it myself.”
“You saw it?” Marisa questioned eagerly.
Douglass nodded. “Aye, I’ll never forget. I went up into the Carron moors, following a deer I was tracking. I only realized too late how far I’d gone. I stood in the center of that bog, feeling a desperation beyond words. Everything around me was dying. The very air smelled of decay. The muck at my feet grabbed my boots like phantom hands. I could not find my way out. The farther I walked, the more I lost my bearing. The footsteps behind me filled with water as soon as my boot left the ground, so I couldn’t even mark where I’d been. Nightfall began, and I nearly panicked. I knew I couldn’t stay out there alone, uncertain if the next footfall would bring me to death. That’s when I saw her.”
“The light?”
“Unlike any light you’ll see in this life. It glowed like a fallen star, silver with a veil. The thing seemed to draw me. I stood where I was, remembering the tales, forcing myself not to run or do anything foolish. It was only by closing my eyes and taking one
step at a time that I got back out. Even now, when I look to the moors, I can feel its power. Like a full moon. Or the way a cat looks at you, with too much wisdom for a lowly beast.”
There was not a man present that didn’t believe, Marisa realized, herself a bit shaken by the tale. Douglass was one of the most pragmatic men she’d ever met. For him to tell such a story, he would have to be convinced. Innocently, Marisa glanced up at Kyle, unaware that in her concentration, she had relaxed into his arms, her hair now neatly redone. Her hand lay casually on his thigh and she quickly withdrew it, amazed at the burning passion she saw in his eyes. That and the hardness she felt, branding her naive touch, made her fully aware that he wanted her.
It took all of Kyle’s control to politely remove himself from the soft sweetness of her body. She was in need of protection, not seduction, Kyle told himself, fighting the passion that made him long to take her in his arms.
His expression was not lost upon his men. Douglass and Roarke exchanged amused glances, deciding between them that Kyle’s guilt over this damned wench made him seem definitely more human. Though, as Roarke put it over one too many ales, Kyle had made his own little hell.
Marisa frowned as Kyle withdrew, missing the muscular feel of him around her. She grew less pleased when he left without a word, walking stiffly across the moor as if something pained him. Roarke and Douglass broke into renewed chuckles, choking down their laughter as Marisa looked at them questioningly.
“Private joke, lass,” Douglass said when he could speak. “You’d have to be a Highlander to appreciate it.”
Marisa frowned, watching him until he was gone from her sight, wondering at the strange ache in the pit of her belly. It was a longing, a desire to be his once more, that grew stronger each day.
Kyle returned to the castle, his body still aching from his slight contact with Marisa. What was it about her that aroused him so completely? He had had other women before, women who could raise the passion of a corpse. Marisa was a complete innocent…until himself, that is. Kyle smiled wryly. What a wonderful fix he was in this time, having her just beyond reach, and there was nothing he could do about it.
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