Outlaw's Angel

by Colleen Quinn

  “I came, didn’t I? It wasn’t my fault. What could I say, that he cheated better than we did?” Devon demanded indignantly, though it was hard to maintain any sense of propriety when holding a squirming young woman trying to extract her pound of flesh. Worse, he had the nagging sense that she had a right to be furious, though he’d be damned if he’d ever tell her that. “Will you stop it?”

  “Get your hands off me!” Shannon snapped.

  “Not until you promise no more attacks!” At her nod, Devon complied, though he backed quickly away, eyeing her warily.

  “You took your time coming to the rescue,” Shannon sniffed. “The old lecher planned on enjoying the fruits of his winnings, and I don’t mean the money.”

  “Speaking of winnings…” Devon’s eyes searched the room, while Shannon’s mouth dropped in disbelief.

  “Are ye mad? Let’s get out of here before he gets back.”

  “Not before I get my money.” Throwing clothes from the dresser by the armful, Devon rummaged through the back of the drawer until he found a leather pouch. “Ah.” Inside was a thick wad of good English money.

  “Will you put that damned thing away and come along?”

  Just then they heard Lord Cambridge’s whistle in the hall. Shannon froze, meeting Devon’s alert gaze like silent coconspirators.

  “Now what?” she whispered.

  Devon stood indecisively for a moment, like a small boy caught with his fingers in the oat cake batter. The window! Rushing to it, he forced the lock and grabbed Shannon’s hand.

  “There’s no time to argue! Get out!”

  Gasping, Shannon found herself perched precariously on a narrow ledge, her not particularly tiny slippers threatening to take her over the edge. Devon joined her, then managed somehow to close the window behind him.

  They were not a moment too soon. Shannon held her breath, wincing at the curses and threats that came from within the room, followed by the door slamming.

  Devon took her hand. “Ready?”

  “For what? How do we get out of here?” Shannon looked down to the ground, fighting the dizziness that swept over her. It must have been ten feet.

  “We jump,” Devon said.

  Shannon glanced down incredulously. The dirt floor was swathed in darkness. They could be leaping to safety or…

  “We could get hurt!” Shannon protested. Normally fearless, there was one thing that made her blood turn to ice. Heights. She never could stand to look out a window higher than the second floor, nor would she go near a ladder. And now Devon wanted her to jump. “I can’t.”

  “Would you prefer it back inside with his Lordship? I thought not,” Devon said impatiently. “We have no other choice.”

  “You don’t understand….” Shannon was past all pride now. “I hate heights! Even standing here is making me queasy!”

  “For God’s sake.” Devon’s mouth parted and he stared at her through the darkness, barely able to make out her trembling form. “Shannon, if we try to go back through the room, we’ll get caught. That means jail, in some Scottish prison, where the guard will be ‘mair than glad’ to watch us rot. Grab my legs and I’ll try and lower you down. Now!”

  Shannon closed her eyes and obeyed, holding onto him, trying not to think of the void behind her. Devon’s body felt warm and strong, the stiffness of his linen shirt a surprisingly sensual contrast to the muscles of his arms and legs. Shannon tried not to think of that as she lowered her body down the human ladder that Devon provided. She couldn’t even wonder at his kindness. Instead, she fought the anxiety that threatened to overwhelm her.

  Then she was falling, a light and buoyant body through a sea of rushing air. Land greeted her far too soon. The hard earth smacked her rump and stung her palms.

  “Ouch!” Shannon said, wiping her hands on her skirt, watching in disbelief as Devon vaulted effortlessly to the ground with surprising grace. He seemed to tumble when he hit the earth, rolling into Shannon and tangling up in her skirts.

  “How did you learn that?” Shannon asked, impressed.

  Devon looked at her, the small effort causing him to groan. “From school. My room was on the second floor.”

  “Are you all right?” Shannon whispered as Devon rose painfully.

  “No. Chivalry has its price.” Wincing, he tested his back, finding no serious injuries. “Let’s get out of here. We haven’t a moment to lose.”

  He spoke the truth, for already lanterns brightened the darkness like huge fireflies and masculine voices rent the air. Tiptoeing into the stables, Devon snatched up the reins of the first horse he could reach. Fortunately, it was saddled. He hoisted Shannon up first, then swung up behind her and urged the animal through the door. They raced past the landlord, Lord Cambridge, and the stableboy, into the protective cover of nightfall ahead.

  They didn’t slow down until they had travelled far from the gaming hall, leaving the Lowlands behind in a dusty cloud. Shannon dozed, giving in to the tension that threatened to make her drop. When she woke it was dawn. A rosy thread of light whispered from the east. The mountains blushed, the rivers were slender pink ribbons curling through the hillsides, and the heather was pink cotton tufts. Yawning, Shannon nearly dropped from the saddle, saved by Devon’s quick response.

  “Good morning.” His arm tightened around her waist, holding her upright. Something about his tone made her wary. Shannon tried to look back at him, but it was impossible in the small confines of the saddle. There was a warmth in his voice that was totally unlike Devon, a pleasurable feeling in the way he held her that made Shannon feel oddly guilty.

  “What are you doing?” she questioned, fighting the impulse to relax in his arms and enjoy the sensation.

  “Keeping you from falling. You look lovely when you sleep, did you know that? Like a little girl, trusting and precious.”

  “What?” Shannon glared at him, though Devon couldn’t see her expression.

  Devon smiled and decided to change the subject. “We’ll be there soon. See those hills?”

  Shannon looked up in awe at the magnificent mountains in the distance.

  “They’re the Highlands, or I’m not the Lord of Sutcliffe. I think we’re within a day’s journey of the MacLeods’ land. From there, it will be a simple matter to locate the castle and Marisa.”

  “I’ll be so glad when this is all over.” Settling back into the saddle, she missed Devon’s nettled expression.

  Marisa awoke to a languid morning. A breeze idly ruffled the curtain, barely lifting the lace from the oak sill. The sun spangled the stone floor with dancing prisms, tiny rainbows of light that changed like a kaleidoscope with each sway of the tree branches outside. Snuggling beneath the quilt, Marisa reveled in the sense of fulfillment that swelled through her. Her body tingled deliciously, and the slight ache between her thighs reminded her of the more intimate aspects of her relationship with Kyle.

  The Angel. Marisa smiled, sure in her feelings for him. She had never felt so complete, and try as she might, she could summon little guilt or remorse about the previous night.

  She slipped out of bed and dressed quickly in a soft rose gown that accentuated her brunette beauty and made her cheeks the color of a bright carnation.

  Downstairs, the hall told its own story of the revelry of the night before. Subduing a smile, Marisa passed the snoring Roarke, his handsome form adorning most of the floor, while Brannock slumbered from the side bench. Douglass groaned, sipping an ale, lifting bloodshot eyes to Marisa.

  “Good morning,” Marisa said gaily.

  “Quietly,” Douglass said, wincing at the sound of her voice. “The joys of the night are well bought with the pain of the morning. My head feels like a thousand British soldiers are marching across it.”

  Marisa smiled and continued on her way.

  Outside, the land around her never seemed more gorgeous. The heather flamed on the hillside, a purple-red blaze of color, while the leaves assumed a poignant shade of olive. The mountain streams l
owered, changing from rushing mercurial waterways to delicate, lacy trickles among the rocks. The winds held a tinge of chill and the northern sky was the color of soft pewter. Even the very grass beneath her feet seemed more lovely somehow, more vibrant and alive.

  The well was a short distance away. Dipping the bucket into the crystal water, Marisa heard a familiar voice swear from the stables. The sound was followed by the whinny of the spirited stallion, Damien.

  “Quiet there, boy. One more shoe to clean and you’re done.”

  Marisa placed the bucket aside and slipped into the stable, her eyes slowly becoming adjusted to the change in light. Kyle was stripped to the waist, Damien’s foot between his knees. He forced a metal tool between the iron shoe and the hoof, cleaning out stones and other refuse.

  “Good morning,” Marisa said shyly. Suddenly she felt very awkward, facing Kyle today after their passion of the night before.

  “Yes, it is a good morning,” Kyle replied without warmth.

  “I thought we might go for a walk today?”

  Kyle dropped the hoof and stood up, wiping his hands on a cloth. His body was covered with a light sheen of sweat. It glazed his muscles and darkened the gold hair that covered his chest, ending in a trail down past his waist.

  “I’m afraid not,” he said tersely. “I’ve planned to look over the grounds today. Some of the tenants are not utilizing their lands to the fullest. I learned a few things about farming in the colonies, where I have some property.”

  “Oh,” she said, disappointed and puzzled by his strange reserve toward her. She tried again. “Kyle, did you ever think of going back there? You could live there in relative safety….” At the look in his eyes, she faltered.

  “That’s impossible,” he said, his eyes hard. “Desert the Scottish cause? Have you learned nothing about me or my people? It is out of the question.” Donning his shirt, he strode away, pausing as he reached the stable door. “I’m sorry for last night, Marisa. It was a mistake. I seem to make a lot of mistakes where you’re concerned. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  Marisa rushed after him and grasped his arm. “Oh, no, I won’t,” she said wrathfully. “For I’ve nothing to forgive concerning last night. And I won’t let you get away with such an idiotic speech as you’ve just made me!”

  Kyle could not resist a rueful smile. She was so beautiful, even when she was angry. Her eyes sparkled with green fire, like the emeralds he’d risked his life for. Her face was flushed with passion, and inevitably, he thought of when he’d made her face bloom, in a completely different way.

  “And pray, my lady, how do you intend to stop me?” Kyle asked, his hand dropping to her shoulder and playing with a stray raven-colored curl. Sunlight filtered in through the barn door, transforming Marisa into a gilded angel framed in filmy light. Behind her, the hay glistened like bales of spun gold.

  Reaching up on her toes, Marisa pressed her lips to his. Kyle’s eyes glittered not three inches from hers, like plates of polished silver, while his hair caught the sun with fantastic lights, fiery gems that danced between her fingers.

  “Like this.” Marisa teased him playfully with a kiss, her tongue tracing artful little paths along his teeth. Groaning, Kyle wrapped his arms fiercely around her, returning her kiss, answering with a desperation of his own. He could never get enough of her; he wanted to memorize every sensation that was distinctly Marisa, her fragrance, the feel of her, the taste of her….

  Then he pushed her fiercely away. Marisa stared up at him in confusion, her lips throbbing from their passion, her body crying out for more.

  “I’m sorry, Marisa,” he said with that awful coldness. “You’re only making this worse.” He strode away from her.

  Marisa’s eyes fell upon the bench where he’d been working. There were his tools, his cloths, his gun….She snatched up the weapon.

  “One moment, Kyle.”

  He turned, his expression ominous when he saw the pistol in her hands. She pulled back the trigger until he heard the sharp click of it falling into place.

  “I won’t let you do this,” Marisa said softly, then, with more determination, “You can start by taking off the shirt.”

  “Marisa…”

  “I’m not as good with a gun as you are, Kyle. Remember? There was a time when I couldn’t shoot you. But I’ve learned a lot since then, from being with you and the clan. Please don’t try me.”

  “Marisa, you can’t be serious.”

  A bullet zinged by, nicking the door and leaving a half circle just a few inches past Kyle’s face. Staring at the hole in astonishment, Kyle spoke sternly. “Marisa, put that damned thing away before someone gets hurt.”

  “I’ll be happy to put this down…when I’m through. I’d advise you to do as I ask.”

  Kyle hid a rueful smile. Damned if she wouldn’t shoot him. Slowly, he removed his shirt, tossing it casually into the hay. “And now?”

  “Why, the pants, Angel.” Marisa said.

  “Certainly, my lady.” He shucked the trousers. His eyes held a glimmer of amusement as he stood naked and unabashed before her. He looked like a Greek god as he approached her, and she trembled with desire for him. Kyle easily removed the gun from her grip, taking her face in his hands instead.

  “Very effective, little mermaid. I think this is the first time a lady has ever raped me.”

  “Hardly rape,” she whispered.

  “Perhaps not,” he agreed, and then succumbed to the temptation to take her then and there.

  Marisa treasured the next few hours as she and Kyle strolled through the heather. He told her stories of himself as a child, songs that delighted him and made her laugh, poems that lived in his mind each and every day.

  Marisa, in turn, told him of her life, of the satins and rosewood furnishings in London, of the fashionable school she attended where she spent lonely days knowing that, for some inexplicable reason, she didn’t belong. The other girls resented her exotic beauty, her refinement, her intelligence, while the boys who visited found much more charm in the buxom blondes who proclaimed their virginity at school then gave all in the fields beyond, buried in buttercups and wood daisies. She lived for the summers, when Shannon would visit and brighten her life for that brief interlude. She told him how she was no longer able to go to Ireland, how her parents felt it unseemly now that she was a woman.

  Kyle listened, not laughing when she explained all this with a rueful smile. Instead, he traced her profile with a fallen oak leaf as they sat beside a tarnished silver stream. Tossing the leaf into the water, they watched it shatter the peaceful surface, then float joyously downstream.

  They had spent part of the morning visiting the tenants, Kyle including Marisa as if he had done so all his life. Marisa, in turn, was duly impressed by the improvements Kyle had suggested, including things like planting different crops each year so as not to deplete the soil. One old man, Iain MacLeod, heard them passing and called to Kyle, bringing out a freshly scrubbed potato from his hovel.

  “Here ye are, boyo. ’Tis the best present I have to offer. Would ye and the lady take a cup of tea?” Iain smiled hopefully, his gnarled face smoothing. A pair of Celtic blue eyes that were covered with a film stared unblinkingly out at them. The man was blind.

  “Only if you let me bring it,” Kyle said firmly. Helping Marisa through the narrow door, he presented the man a thick pouch of good tea, smiling at Marisa’s surprise.

  “That’s good, Angel.” Boiling water hissed into cups as Marisa glanced around. The place was little more than a hut, yet it showed the care of its owner. Patched walls showed the effects of whitewash, and a turf fire burned comfortingly at the hearth. Kyle pocketed the potato as carefully as if it were the finest of gifts, and Marisa grew more amazed by the moment.

  “Ah, enjoy the tea. I heard tell of ye, mistress, in the clan. They don’t like ye because you are a Tory, but if Kyle likes ye, then I do, too.”

  “Thank you,” Marisa said. She sipped the tea, noting Iain
’s delight in being able to partake of such quality refreshment.

  “Kyle comes by every day to see me,” Iain said proudly. “He does an old man good, listening to my tales and telling me what the clan is up to. He fixed that door for me yesterday. The draft was fierce on a cold night.” He chuckled to himself, offering Kyle an extra spoon of precious sugar, unable to notice that the bowl refilled magically.

  The door opened mysteriously, and Marisa smiled when a pig entered and nuzzled Iain’s knee. The old man scratched the animal behind the ears, offering the pig scraps from his table.

  “This is Johnny, my other companion. He sleeps by my bed at night and tells me when someone is coming.” At Marisa’s chuckle, Iain nodded. “Ye hae a bonny laugh. Johnny likes it, too. Don’t be a fearing of him.”

  The pig nudged Marisa gently, then returned to Iain. Kyle smiled, noticing the animal’s affection.

  “Marisa has an odd affinity for swine, Iain.” Grinning at her indignant expression, Kyle fed the animal a biscuit, earning an affectionate rub. He ignored Marisa’s laughter as the pig followed them outside, grunting to keep up with them like a breathless puppy.

  “Tell me, Kyle,” Iain said, “about the sunset, like afore.”

  “It is purple tonight,” Kyle said. “And the mountains are ablaze with scarlet, while the streams run gold and amber.”

  “And the valleys?” Iain asked, with the excitement of a child hearing the same bedtime story each night but reassured by the familiar images.

  “The glens are a sad grey-green, as if already slumbering. They know winter approaches; already the beeches are garlanded in crimson. The oaks are still green, as are the maples.”

  “Then we hae time,” Iain nodded to himself, looking at some forgotten memory when seasons and color still existed. He stood at the door, waving good-bye. Marisa watched him fade into the twilight, his hand still gently uplifted, his unseeing gaze filled with pleasure.

  There are sides to this man I’m only just discovering, Marisa mused, looking at Kyle.

  The castle loomed in the distance, a granite sculpture against the sky that no longer seemed menacing to Marisa. Frowning, Kyle noticed a commotion outside, the rushing of women’s skirts and the stableboy leading a frothing horse into the barn. As they approached, Mac rushed up, his adolescent face red from confusion, sweat, and outrage.