“Aye.” Kyle nodded, then started for the door. He paused, still puzzled at Devon’s motives and unwilling to place too much trust in a man he neither admired nor entirely understood.
As if hearing his thoughts, Devon grinned. “I still can’t stand you, either, MacLeod. But for Marisa’s sake, I thought I’d do the noble thing. ’Tis a rare occasion; you can be certain I won’t make a habit of it.”
A smile curved Kyle’s mouth unwittingly. Returning the nod, he left, disappearing into the night without turning back.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Earl of Argyll was a contented man. Striding across the lawn of his huge estate, he sampled a late apple from a grove, enjoying the tart sweet tang upon his tongue. Winter threatened; the sky hung heavy with clouds, pregnant with snow, but that caused him little of the grief faced by many of the other clans and tenants. No, neither he nor any of the Campbells would feast upon roots instead of bread, nor would they be reduced to wandering the wild and fierce mountains, looking for whatever food they could steal from the wild deer and foxes.
Yes, the earl thought with a cold smile, surveying all around him, the loyalty of the clan to the king had paid off handsomely, especially when meted out during political duress. And now, with the MacLeods defeated, another rich land was theirs for the taking….
“Will you not come inside, sir?” Margaret, the maid, scampered outside, her body completely enclosed in a thick gray shawl. “The night air cools and the sky foretells snow.”
“In a moment,” the earl replied, not quite ready to comply. Nights like these he enjoyed the most. If the air wasn’t so cold he would take a long ride, down to the meadows where the tenants kept their cottages and sent a full fourth of their produce to Carrick Castle.
A horseman shattered the rural scenery, the image reflected in Loch Goil like an apocalyptic nightmare. A clansman perhaps? Frowning, the earl wiped the cold sweat from his brow. It was not like a Scotsman to ride a good horse in such a careless manner, especially not on such a night. Dread filled his heart as the man approached.
“Laird Argyll.” The horseman spoke in short squeaks.
“Calm yourself, Rainsford.” Smiling thinly in recognition, the earl waved him down. “There now, when you can speak. Do you have news?”
“Aye, that I have. Do you recall the battle between the MacLeods and the MacKenzies?”
“Yes.” The earl nodded, his eyes glittering dangerously. “The MacLeods are all but ruined. I understand Kyle has disappeared and that the remaining MacLeods are nothing more than the weak, women, and children. It is as if the damnable legend never existed.”
“Not quite,” Rainsford said quickly, aware of the odd glimmer in the earl’s eye. “He’s coming back.”
“Back! Whatever for? You must have heard wrong, There is no reason for Kyle MacLeod to return!”
“Aye, but there is. You see, the MacKenzies have got the girl, and Kyle has already been seen in London. They say he’s bent on revenge. ’Tis all the people will speak of.”
“The girl? You don’t mean Marisa Travers? Neil cannot possibly be that stupid.” The earl relaxed a bit. The information was wrong; not even a MacKenzie would dare…
“The MacKenzies are that stupid,” Rainsford said blandly. “They think to finish Kyle off, using the girl as bait. You forget, Laird, that these are not Englishmen. Hatred between clansmen burns deep. Although they won the battle, thanks to the weapons you provided, they still fester a desire to exterminate all of the MacLeods. Especially the Angel.”
“I am ill upon hearing that name!” the earl growled, slamming his fist into his hand. Regretting his display of temper, the earl forcibly calmed himself, thrusting his hands into his coat. “There is but one course of action,” he said more softly. “We must have that girl released. Kyle will then leave, as we have planned. You aren’t backing out?”
“I’m sorry, Laird, but this is one job I don’t want. The MacKenzies are feasting on blood this very night. I’ve seen them in a battle frenzy, and I want no part of it. I also have no desire to face the Avenging Angel, legend or no legend. Kyle MacLeod is a cold, calculating killer when threatened, and I have no wish to face the other end of his sword.”
“Very well.” The earl smiled with all the warmth of the night air. “I will settle this matter. You may go.”
“But my money?”
“Your remuneration was for a job that was finished. This one is not. If that is not satisfactory, you may always take it up with the MacKenzies. I hear their larder is full.” His cloak swirling behind him, the earl strode toward the house, leaving Rainsford out in the icy chill.
The ferryman knew nothing. Kyle leaned across the worm-eaten counter until his face was but three inches from the mustache of the blustery boatman.
“It had to be within the last few days,” Kyle repeated, his eyes glittering harshly, sharp fragments like glass and about as warm and comforting.
“And I tell ye I do not recall!” the man said indignantly. “But I will check with Horace.”
“Horace?” Kyle fought the impulse to throttle the man right where he stood. “Who is he?”
“Horace works on the odd days.” The boatman lifted his fingers, indicating three and five. “Mayhap he might recall something.”
“Thank you.” Forcing a polite nod, Kyle forced himself not to follow the man and drag the truth from him. Someone had to know something, had to have seen Marisa and Shannon. Sensing the danger she was in, Kyle cursed his own foolish oblivion to everything except his cause. Dammit, he had waited so long in life to find out what really had meaning, only to lose it all now? The thought was unbearable. Was this to be his fate, living out his life, looking in every corner of the worlds for a face that haunted his dreams? He could hear the fates laughing, in the cold wind off the Atlantic, reminding him that it had been his choice….
“He ’e is, but I doubt if he knows more than me.”
Kyle nodded to the stringy little Welshman who entered. He was dressed in a patched coat, and his shoes bore the unmistakable signs of repair. Dismissing the ferryman, Kyle spoke directly to Horace. “Do not be afraid, I only wish to ask you a question. I am looking for a lady, an Englishwoman. Her name is Marisa Travers. She is travelling with an Irish girl, one Miss Shannon O’Hara.”
Horace looked to the ferryman, who gave him a quick negative nod that Kyle pretended not to see. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a gold coin, one that made the little man’s eyes widen like pools of spilled sherry.
“This can be yours, my friend. I can and will obtain the information elsewhere, and this coin will line an Englishman’s pocket this night. You still do not recall? I am sorry.” Pocketing the coin, Kyle started for the door when the little ferryman scuttled forth.
“It’ll be on your head, Horace!” the ferryman shouted, appalled.
“I’ll be willing to take that chance. Aye, I know the lady, sir. She has hair the color of the night and eyes like the ocean, green and wide.”
“And her whereabouts?” Kyle fought the sudden rush of hope that filled him.
“The ship was taken, sir. Less than one week ago. It was a Scots clan, with the green tartan.”
The color drained from Kyle’s face. Marisa, in the hands of the MacKenzies, the fierce, war-loving MacKenzies who thought nothing of civilized behavior and spoke only in terms of the dirk, the pistol, and now the bayonet.
Rage fed him, replenishing his exhausted body like a life-giving force. Pressing the coin into the little Welshman’s hand, he turned and strode out of the frame enclosure, into the icy winter air.
“Give me that,” the ferryman scolded, snatching up the coin from Horace’s hand. “You’ll have the clans on us like hornets on honey. God bless us all, the MacKenzies.”
The eastern snow clouds had not yet travelled to this part of the island. Moonlight beat down upon the heather, transforming the innocuous shrubs into barbed wire trestles. The sky was cold black, burnished by an arctic s
un, frozen with clouds and suspended crystals of ice. A wolf howled somewhere, the sound sharply echoing in the stillness, making one think of the tales of werewolves, the living dead who walked about at night, searching for human flesh….
“This is an escape?” Shannon muttered. At Marisa’s warning look, she shrugged. “All right, it wasn’t a bad idea, though the MacKenzies are starting to look better and better. At least we were warm there. You aren’t sort of changing your mind about Neil, are you?”
“Absolutely not,” Marisa replied, pulling her cloak more tightly about her. Though made of lamb’s wool, the garment was nevertheless more suited for fashion than real warmth. The icy air cut through the cloth, chilling Marisa to the bone. Her breath left her lips in a silver fog, freezing almost immediately, blending with the rising steam from the lakes nearby. They seemed to have been walking for hours, but nary a light nor a shepherd’s hut appeared anywhere in sight.
“Mari, are we lost?”
There is something dreadful about placing one’s fears into words. One can live with the happy fiction that all is well, consoling oneself with the belief that around the next bend there would have to be help, a road, or merely a recognizable landmark. All of that optimism vanished with Shannon’s words. Helplessly, Marisa shook her head.
“No. I thought we were heading west, but we seem to have strayed away from the ocean rather than toward it.”
“Wonderful,” Shannon said in disgust. Glancing upward at the milky wash of the night sky, she pointed to a solitary blinking star. “All we have to do is find the North Star, right? Do you know how to spot it?”
“No, do you?” Marisa asked, thinking for the thousandth time of how useless her education had been. A little sewing, a little needlepoint, lessons on a pianoforte; none of which prepared her for life, in any real sense of the word. She had been left unprepared to deal with the MacLeods, hopelessly unprepared to deal with Kyle, and now, unable to practice even the most primitive survival techniques.
“No,” Shannon said, her shoulders dropping. “Although I recall my brother saying something about a star pattern like a water dipper. You use that as a marker.” But the spangled pattern of carelessly tossed diamonds above made no sense to an untrained eye, and Marisa sighed audibly.
“Maybe we should head back.”
“Back?” Shannon hooted with laughter. “Which way is that? We could as easily find our way back as front. No, I think we should keep walking. We’ve got to find something soon….”
Suddenly, Marisa slumped slowly to the frozen ground like a colt who’d lost footing, her cloak flying wildly about her.
“Mari!” Shannon cried.
Marisa grimaced, her eyes glimmering in suppressed agony.
“My ankle,” she said when she could speak. “I think I’ve sprained it.”
Shannon groaned. The wolf howled; the first wispy tendrils of cirrus clouds obscured the moonlight, a sight that every sailor knew meant the harbinger of a snowstorm. For miles the silver-tossed heather covered the wild and unwelcoming land, while black granite hills rose in the distance, polished by cold winds and capped with frost. Kneeling down beside Marisa to inspect the damage, Shannon forcibly bit her tongue, keeping her opinions to herself.
The ankle was indeed sprained. Already it was swollen, red, and distended, the skin pulled taut by the poison within. Swearing silently, Shannon removed her petticoat, gasping as the icy air battered her slender limbs.
“What are you doing?” Marisa whispered, pain apparent in her tone.
“I’m going to use this as a bandage. The wrap should keep the swelling down, though it won’t do much for the pain. You’ll have to rest here while I look around.”
“For what?” Marisa asked, forcing her voice to sound somewhat normal.
Shannon looked up, her cascade of burnished hair tumbling like coppered silk over Marisa’s boots.
“I don’t know! A hut, a direction, a light! Anything at all to indicate civilization.” Her face bore a bright, hopeful smile, but her eyes betrayed her. Shannon was afraid. It was a sight Marisa hadn’t seen often, and for some reason, it gave her strength.
“Good luck,” Marisa said softly.
Shannon nodded, though lady luck had been in too short supply to believe that she would make an appearance now. Wrapping her cloak around herself, Shannon hurried off into the night, leaving Marisa behind.
Neil waited with his men for the scout, ignoring the drunken clamor around him. Eagerly, he downed his ale, aware that he hungered for something much more potent than beer. Marisa. The girl upstairs was in his blood. He’d take her tonight, before his men got tired of waiting and wanting her themselves.
“Robbie’s coming,” one of the men shouted.
Placing his tankard aside, Neil headed for the door, trying to clear his head of the visions that haunted him. Marisa, her gown draped around her, naked from the waist up. She’d wanted him; Neil was certain of that. Her struggling was simply a result of her ladylike upbringing, the thing that set her apart from the rough Highland peasant girls and made her something that Neil had to taste. Kissing her had been like sipping a fine wine. He didn’t have to understand it to like it.
“He’s come, Neil. Robbie’s come.”
Neil strode outside, waiting for the scout. Yes, my sweet English lady, you will be mine before long. Neil smiled. It would be a wonderful blow to the Angel and an appeasement to his own lust. A more pleasant combination would be hard to find.
Night seemed to close in around Marisa like a tangible, living thing. The clouds approached slowly, obscuring the moon, taking even that bit of cold light from the opaque sky above her. Frowning, Marisa massaged her ankle, hating the sparkling pain that welled up like a thousand tiny heat pricks. Shannon had been gone for some time now, and Marisa’s mind played feverish games. Suppose she’d gotten lost or hurt herself, and even now could not find her way back….
It wouldn’t bear thinking about. Forcing the thoughts from her mind, Marisa tried to ignore the icy wind that tore at her cheeks and threatened to take the breath from her. The wolf howled closer; the very sound sent chills dancing up her spine. Fear crept with icy fingers into her heart, immobilizing her more than her injury, facing her with the suddenly real possibility of death….She was so young to die now, without ever having experienced the full measure of life. She would never love again, have children, grow old….
Kyle. His name came unbidden to her lips and immediately she calmed. A warmth seemed to fill her, replacing the cold dread that had been there but a moment before. If nothing else, he had taught her to love, showed her what that could feel like, brought her to the brink of desire simply by calling her name. She thought of the night he’d made love to her beside the pond, sending her into mindless ecstasy as he purposefully aroused her, then joined her in a mutual white-hot bliss. Where was Kyle MacLeod tonight? Was he nearby? Was he thinking of her? Was he still alive?
He had to be, Marisa thought. Somehow, the fabric of their being had slowly been knit together. She could feel his presence, know that he was not too far. She could almost feel his thoughts. Smiling in relief, Marisa crawled beneath a tree, the only possible shelter, and slept, dreaming of Kyle.
Outside, Neil stormed impatiently at Robert, the MacKenzie scout. His wrist still bandaged from the battle with the MacLeods, the former warrior nevertheless appeared shaken and more than a bit bewildered.
“Speak, man! Don’t stand there quaking. What is it?”
“He’s come, sir. The Angel.”
Neil’s mouth dropped, first in surprise, then in amusement. “The Angel? Are ye daft, man? Kyle MacLeod could never have found out so quickly, and by the time he did, it would take days for him to get here.”
“Not if he had a change of mounts ready,” Melville said. “And being the Angel, I’m certain he had. How else could he have gotten in and out of the country so many times without discovery?”
“But still, he couldn’t have been spotted from here
yet….”
“That’s not what the villagers said.” Robert shuddered, then helped himself to a whiskey, drinking a good amount of the fiery brew.
“What did they say?” His curiosity aroused, Neil couldn’t help but ask.
“They said they saw Lucifer himself, riding on a night-black horse with smoke coming from its mouth and a horrible glitter in his eyes.” A hush followed his words, and the men looked to each other, wanting to see a disbelieving grin and finding only their own fears reflected in the face beside them.
“Go on,” Neil said disdainfully, though some of his bravado had disappeared.
“Each man that saw it blessed himself, unable to forget the apparition. He should be approaching by dawn, God rue the day.”
No one spoke. Melville stopped smiling; the other men stared directly into the fire, unable to share what they felt. Fighting a MacLeod was one thing; fighting a supernatural force, another.
“I declare, he conjured that ghost in the swamp….” one man whispered quietly.
“Aye, and brought his leader back from the grave,” said another.
“Seaforth!” whispered a third.
“That’s enough!” Neil’s eyes blazed at the men. “I will go and look for myself!”
The night was moist black velvet. The rapidly retreating moon shone like thin ice, changing the streets to rivers and the rivers to gleaming ore beds. The Sound of Sleat glimmered in the distance, the unrelenting waves crying in misery, like a lost lover. The familiar oak trees rattled in the night wind, the few remaining leaves shaking like bats. Neil crossed himself, thinking of the tales of old, of other, more primitive men that would have understood all this. The prophecy came back to haunt him and he pushed the thought from his mind, aware that he could be as easily defeated from his fears as a man, and yet…
He saw nothing. But he could see without eyes, sense Kyle’s presence somewhere out in that blackness, a blackness made for demons and witches and things that went bump in the night. Turning fearfully back inside, he posed a brave front and chastised the men.
Outlaw's Angel Page 29