Outlaw's Angel

by Colleen Quinn

  Duncan’s body was barely interred in the ground, the final chunk of frozen earth dropped onto the unforgiving casket, when the men started.

  “He’s gone, Angel. Who will lead the clan?”

  “We canna’ do without a leader, Kyle. There’s no one else.”

  “You’ve got to, Angel.”

  “No!” Kyle faced the men with eyes blazing, full of liquid, unearthly lights that frightened all but Douglass. “No, I cannot be your leader. Don’t ask me again.” Wrapping himself in a thick tartan, Kyle left the wake, striding quickly outside as if he couldn’t be rid of them fast enough.

  Only Douglass had the courage to follow.

  Snow drifted softly to the ground, falling in thick feathery flakes that quickly covered the heather and the moors beyond. Good, thought Kyle, relishing the cold that matched his mood, glad that the sodden earth froze his feet and penetrated the cloth with a deathly chill. The fleecy quilt would help, would hide the cold wound of the battle, the places where they’d been unable to secure all the bodies for burial. It would even obliterate the scarred and mottled landscape, rendering the battle site as pure and pristine as the glens and fields. If only the same could be done for his mind!

  “ ’Tis a braw night.”

  Kyle nodded, exhaling a silvery fog in the cold, glad that Douglass had come.

  “You were right, you know. Refusing the men.” Douglass began cautiously, thrusting a tin flask at Kyle. He waited as Kyle eyed the dented vessel uncertainly, then shrugged and raised it to his lips, drinking as if he were dying of thirst.

  “Ah.” Douglass helped himself to a drink, reminded that on a night such as this, there were fewer comforts for a man his age. “Again.”

  A rare trace of a smile came to Kyle’s lips, gone before it made any permanent impression. “Are you trying to see me drunk, then?”

  “I might be.” Douglass’s grin was broad. “I think tonight you need it.”

  Kyle inhaled the nutty scent of the Scottish whiskey, then doused his throat with another draft. Douglass was right. It did help. The liquor burned through his veins, bringing a placid warmth to his fingers and toes. Even the pain lessened, the burning ache that threatened to rob him of his sanity. Duncan.

  “It was my fault,” Kyle said quietly, grateful for the hushed quiet of the snow that muffled his words. “He thought it was wrong.”

  “Like hell it was your fault.”

  Kyle looked at Douglass in surprise, then took another drink. “But I usurped his power, forced the men…”

  A harsh chuckle burst through the silence of the snowfall and Kyle peered at Douglass as if doubting his sanity.

  “You may be our Angel, and no one loves ye like I do, but you’re not as powerful as all that.”

  Dumbstruck, Kyle tried to remember the source of his guilt. Alcohol buried it, obliterated the painful thorn thrust deep within him until he could barely find the throbbing core. “But…”

  “The clan has tried to force you into battle since you were a wee bairn,” Douglass intoned quietly. “They wanted a legend and you appeared. Jailed by the Brits, you escaped the hangman, the sentence, only to return with vengeance in your mind and hate in your heart. You gave them what they wanted.”

  “Aye,” Kyle agreed, amazed to find the burden lighter. “But if I hadn’t drawn them into battle, pushed Duncan aside…”

  “What?” Douglass asked pleasantly. “They would not listen to Duncan, would they? Do you think it would have been very different if you were not here? Hatred burns as deep for the clan, Kyle, as it does for you. The MacLeods are fighting something they canna’ win. ’Tis change, lad. The only thing in this life that is real and damnably permanent.”

  “Then I haven’t any answers,” Kyle replied. “I’ve devoted my life to a cause that is lost.”

  “Don’t we all?” Douglass asked. “I want to tell you about a man I met, just a fortnight ago. He was well into his cups, talking about Culloden to anyone who would hear. Times were nay so good in ’45. The man—Malcolm was his name—said he had but one wormy biscuit to last him three days. By the time he saw battle, he fainted dead among the men, never to raise a sword against the hated Brits.”

  “What happened?”

  “He awoke hours later. Actually, the faint may have saved his life, for he crawled behind some shrubs, forcing air into his lungs and fighting the blackness that threatened to take him. From there, he could do nothing as the soldiers bayoneted already-dead bodies for sport. He never forgot his cowardice, nor his own horror upon watching his clansmen do the same thing.”

  Kyle said nothing, his expression screened by the white veil of snow. Douglass sighed, then continued.

  “One of the men, a loyal follower of the clan, had been entrusted with the jewels. A king’s ransom, so they said, the collected wealth of the clans.”

  “My father.” Kyle’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

  Douglass nodded. “Aye, I thought that, too. His body lay near that of Malcolm’s. He was bleeding badly, but Malcolm said he knew not whether the man lived. Shaking and weak from hunger and fright, Malcolm lay hidden in the brush, pretending to be dead, nearly crying out in terror when a redcoat’s boot brushed his head. It was dawn when he dared look around.”

  Kyle was deadly silent now, listening intently to every word Douglass uttered.

  “A small group of men had arrived—royalty, he supposed, from the way they were dressed and from the good material of their cloaks. They spoke like gentlemen, shaking their heads in disgust at the sight that met their eyes. They had been sent to investigate, by order of the king, it seemed. Whilst picking through the wreckage and debris, he saw one of them reach for your father’s coat and remove a small sack.”

  “The jewels,” Kyle said simply.

  “Aye, the jewels.”

  “Then what did he see?” The rage in Kyle’s voice was apparent, but Douglass continued undaunted.

  “The man was well away from the others, so they could not tell what he did. ‘Let us bury this poor fool,’ the man cried out. ‘We cannot leave him for the wolves.’

  “The men protested. What was one bloody Scot from another? But the nobleman insisted, and his men buried the body beneath the bushes. Malcolm said he did not move, though he was frightened for his own life. When they finished, the nobleman realized that one other man lived, a merchant who’d apparently volunteered for service. The nobleman let the fellow live, though I often wondered what became of that. Most men would not want another privy to their secret, though the merchant feigned delirium.”

  Kyle was uninterested in this aspect of the story and waved his hand abruptly. “Then my father is truly dead.”

  “I don’t know,” Douglass shrugged. “In all likelihood, though Malcolm said he never went back.”

  “Why are you telling me this now?” Kyle asked softly, though the intensity of his voice was almost tangible. “Why? After these past few days?”

  “You were not ready to hear it before,” Douglass said simply, taking another drink and offering the flask again to Kyle. “You would not have listened. You needed your revenge, to feed that ruthless ambition that almost became your downfall.”

  After a moment, Kyle accepted the whiskey, thoughts penetrating his mind with the same dulling effects as the liquor.

  “So, I was right,” Kyle said bitterly. “I was on a fool’s errand all along. I am relieved to know my father was not a thief, but I cringe to think of him in his grave, unmourned and accused. My only thought is, now what?”

  “What now?” Douglass returned. “What of Marisa?”

  “Marisa.” Kyle’s eyes closed, glinting metallic lashes against pale white cheekbones fringed with snow. “She is gone, Douglass. Married to a lord, no doubt. I could call her ‘lady’ for certain.”

  “Are ye so sure?” Douglass chortled, though Kyle could see little reason for his humor. “You have a thick skull, lad. I do not like cracking a man’s brain to put a thought into it. The lass
thinks something of you, Angel. Surely it would be worth finding out.”

  Kyle said nothing, allowing the snow to burst through the tree branches and settle like dust on their cloaks. Then, finally, “I must go to London. The jewels are there, you know. The duke knows something of who killed my mother.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Douglass replied without denial. “Go then, to London, my boy. To find the jewels, of course.”

  The furious blue Atlantic crashed against the shores of England, determined to pulverize the rocks into tiny pebbles before withdrawing back to Neptune’s reins. Shannon clapped her hands against the cold and stamped her feet. Her gloves were nearly useless in the damp winter air, and she tugged them from her chapped hands, eyeing Marisa uncharitably.

  “Whose idea was this? I’m freezing, that I am.”

  “Mine,” Marisa answered without regret. “But you were on your way home anyway.”

  “You could have talked me out of it,” Shannon said, nearly hugging the stove that burned weakly from a few exhausted coals.

  “The ferry should be here shortly,” Marisa replied, gazing out the window of the clapboard building.

  Shannon’s gaze followed her own, little comforted by the thought of the boat ride. The ocean was a tumultuous grey mass today, iron colored, and about as warm and friendly. Shivering in anticipation, Shannon recalled the last time she’d taken the ferry. It was spring then, warm, wonderful spring. The sky had been the hue of a robin’s egg, and so intense it was almost painful to look at. Yet the ferry had been cold, horribly dirty, and damp. Forcing away the thought of Marisa’s warm house, she smiled grimly.

  “I hope Sean will be there to greet us. He’ll have but the haywagon, but ’twill be better than walking.”

  “How old is your brother now?”

  “Nineteen,” Shannon grinned. “Wait until he sees you! He’ll scarcely know you, for certain.”

  “And I’ll hardly know him,” Marisa said with a smile. Shannon’s brothers were her first introduction to boys her own age, the only thread she had had to those loud-talking, swearing, and drinking creatures she’d know later. True, they were not of the same class as the noblemen’s sons, but understanding their motives and aspirations helped tremendously. The O’Haras were like living in a boxful of puppies, Marisa thought, surprised at her eagerness to return. Glancing impatiently outside, she saw nothing but the unbroken plane of liquid and sky.

  “It’ll be here shortly, mum.”

  A Scotsman’s harsh burr rang out and Marisa ignored the pang of regret she felt. Would they ever leave her, the reminders of Kyle? They were not that far from Scotland now, not far at all from the Fergusons’ inn. Marisa could not prevent a wry smile as she thought of that night, when Kyle had insisted upon watching her bathe….

  “There it is,” Shannon said, pointing in an unladylike fashion at the ship outside. “ ’Tis time enough. My feet are fair frozen.” She gave the Scotsman a bright smile that allayed the sarcasm of her words. “Do you think a warm quilt is to be had?”

  “I’ll see, lass. Going home, are ye?”

  “Yes, we are,” Marisa responded, aware of the intensity of the Scotsman’s stare. He had a full red beard. Now, why did that strike her as familiar and oddly frightening?

  “I’ll be thinking he likes you, Mari,” Shannon teased. “Did you see the way he stared?”

  “I could do without admirers like that,” Marisa said, more relieved than disturbed when the man did not come back with the promised quilt.

  Neil MacKenzie could not believe his good fortune. Of all people, to run into his Lordship’s fiancée here, at the ferry! He would never forget Marisa’s face as the carriage had passed him on that fateful day, that magical face with the full red mouth, eyes the color of emeralds, and hair the same glossy black of a raven’s wing. Nor could he forget his suggestion to Colin that they kidnap his Lordship and the lady. Colin, who even now slumbered beneath the frosted green grass, thanks to Kyle MacLeod…

  “Neil!” Gordon, his clansmen, approached, obviously relieved. “Where have ye been, man?”

  “On a mission,” Neil said boldly, his hand caressing his dirk. “We have a duty to perform, mate. Gather up the men and meet me on Skye. We’ve a ship to take.”

  Marisa. Her face and her name were all that occupied Kyle’s thoughts for days. He had been a fool to let her go; he saw that now, as one too often sees things, in retrospect. In all likelihood, she was now Lady Sutcliffe, Devon’s bride. An angry flush came to his face as he thought of her at Devon’s side, laughing softly in the evening, enchanting anyone who sat near her. Or worse, waking in the morning, that perfect face lying on a linen pillow beside Devon. Can you bear the thought?…

  No, Kyle realized, hating the understanding that came too late. Why didn’t I listen? Douglass was right, he berated himself. I was not ready to listen. Not then. I still had to try…

  London seemed like a foreign city, in spite of the dozens of times he’d visited before. Lord Murdoch. A wry smile came to him as he lifted a quill to the ledger of the King’s Crest Tavern. He’d have to think of something else; Marisa’s letter had seen to that. London had a description of him and the knowledge of his disguise. The quill scratched against the parchment as Kyle signed “Laird Argyll.” Let the earl have a few sleepless nights when this alias became known.

  “You there, come here, lad.” Kyle waited until a young Irishman approached, one who inexplicably reminded him of Mac. Withdrawing a note from his pocket, he slipped the letter into the lad’s hand, along with a shilling. There was something about the young man that seemed familiar….“Take this to the Duke of Sutcliffe,” Kyle said. “And bring back a reply. Another shilling awaits your return.”

  “Aye,” the lad nodded, pocketing the coin without smiling. “I was going there mesel’, anyway. Glad to do it.” He strode through the door, while the innkeeper cleared his throat disapprovingly.

  “He’s naught but an Irish ruffian, my laird. It doesn’t do well to encourage them. I can fetch one of my own lads….” At the look on Kyle’s face, the innkeeper’s voice trailed off.

  “No, thank you,” Kyle replied coldly. “I’ll take my chances. When the lad returns, would you kindly send him to my room? I would appreciate your trouble.” Turning abruptly, Kyle strode to the hall, leaving the innkeeper staring openmouthed behind him.

  “Fool!” the duke railed at Devon from his bedchamber, his feverish eyes glazed, the color of Wedgwood china. “You let Marisa go! Disappeared, her father said. No one knows where.”

  Devon did not respond. He toyed with his brandy glass, tossing back half of its contents before looking up. His father had aged since he last saw him. The fever, inexplicable but real and acute, plagued the duke continually, wearing down even his iron resistance. Devon saw that his father’s face was like the parched red earth, cracked and lifeless, though vitality blazed from his eyes. Placing the glass aside, Devon smiled calmly at the duke, bracing himself for what was to come.

  “Yes, Marisa is gone. To Ireland, her mother thinks. She left with Shannon.”

  “The Irish girl.” The duke coughed, an acrid sound in the room. Devon waited. “So, your affianced barely returns from Scotland, then she runs to Ireland, of all places. Do you think you might manage to secure her return and hold onto that chit until you are wed?”

  This was it, Devon thought. Surprised that he felt little fear or regret, Devon shrugged. “We are not getting married.”

  “What?” The duke’s eyes burned, searing into Devon as if they were two hot poker points. “Did I hear you correctly?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid you did.” Devon smiled a charming grin. It felt wonderful to hold the trump card, for however long it lasted. Knowing his father, there was an ace in his cravat, but ah, it was sweet. “Marisa does not want to marry me. I know this now, and I see no reason to ruin both our lives. I plan to release her from her vow as soon as she returns. I’m sure she’ll be relieved. Is there anything else you wish to se
e me about?” Devon got up, knowing when to make an exit, but his father stopped him cold.

  “Have you lost her to the Scotsman, then?”

  Devon froze, hating the anger that rose in him. Dammit, how did his father do it? How did this sick old man know where his Achilles’ heel lay, where the most painful place to strike him would be? Forcing a grin, Devon turned back to his father’s bed.

  “I never really had her, Your Grace. Though that is something you would know little about, feeling as you did about my mother. Marisa agreed to this marriage for the same reason I did. It was expected, and it was the right thing to do. Or so we thought. Blaming the Scotsman is oversimplistic. The only one who will be disappointed about my decision will be yourself and Alastair Travers. And I can’t say I’ll lose sleep over either of you.”

  The duke laughed shortly, a harsh sound that degenerated into a cough. When he could speak, he stared at Devon, compelling him to remain.

  “So you think you have all the answers? How little you know of any of it. Do you truly think I know nothing of love, nor of the pain of loving someone you cannot have? Marisa will do as she is told, Devon, as will you.”

  “You cannot force either of us….”

  “Can’t I?” The duke smiled, his webbed face resembling a spider’s lacy artistry. “You have considerable gaming debts, dear son. Unless you are prepared to take sole responsibility for them, I suggest you reconsider.”

  “Damn you!” Devon glared, forcing his fists into the pocket of his robe, trying to stop the rage that flooded through him. “Why does it mean so much to you? Alastair Travers has been haunting the house since the engagement was announced, determined to see us married. And you…” Suddenly, part of it made sense, like finding the jigsaw piece with the blue edge of sky and the purple mountain peak. “That’s it!” Devon said in wonder. “It isn’t you at all, it’s him! What hold does he have on you, anyway?”

  “Get out,” the duke snarled, a wounded lion threatened, never more dangerous than at this moment. “Now.”

  “All right,” Devon said, too curious to smirk. What in the hell did Marisa’s father have to do with their marriage? Devon didn’t have the faintest idea, but he was determined to find out.