Outlaw's Angel

by Colleen Quinn

  Marisa. Lying across an old chair, her foot neatly propped on the bed and bandaged with the strangest apparatus he’d ever seen, she nevertheless looked like a fairy princess from his childhood memories. Firelight gave a rosy blush to her cheeks and she sighed in her slumber, unaware that she was being observed. Her black curls, burnished in the golden light, tossed down over the back of the chair like an ebony satin cape.

  The relief Kyle felt gave way to a stronger, more subtle emotion that he dared not define. He had never really believed that she was gone from him; something within both reassured him and would not allow for the possibility. Yet he did not expect the force of emotion that filled him now. It was unfamiliar, confusing, and frightening. It reminded him of a time long past, when a much younger boy had loved without forethought or misgiving, with all the surety of youth. Restraining Damien, Kyle dismounted and entered the hut, closing the door softly behind him.

  Marisa started at the sound. Her lashes fluttered, then her eyes slowly adjusted to the chaos of light and unfamiliar surroundings.

  “Kyle? Is it really you?” Marisa stared as if seeing a ghost. Her heart leaped, and she wondered wildly if he knew, if he could see the raw wealth of feelings that his mere presence inspired. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, huge pools of sea-green flecked with gold that scarcely hid anything. “Why did you come back?” Marisa bit her lip as the words slipped out.

  The molten silver of Kyle’s eyes turned to liquid mercury. He reached for her, his hand burying into her silken curls, lifting her face toward him. Then his mouth was crushing hers.

  Marisa sighed, relaxing in his embrace. Reason exploded in a happy shower of sparks that ignited somewhere within her and left her as defenseless as an injured kitten. Her worn travel dress, normally thick and stiff, now felt like cheesecloth. The warmth of his body transcended practical things like linen, wool, cotton. The play of his muscles was intimately apparent between them, the softness of her body an achingly sweet caress.

  “Marisa, I’ve missed you.” She heard the words in a haze, like fighting through layers of gauze, each one more arousing than the last. His mouth left her lips, making her ache in protest, only to gently caress the rest of her face. He kissed her eyelids, rediscovering the satiny texture of her skin, then the hard firmness of her cheekbones. Almost intuitively aware that her body had stiffened in the chair, he began an agonizingly erotic massage, stroking the exposed muscles of her neck and the subtle curve of her back. He kissed her again and when he finally withdrew, Marisa lifted her head, fighting to inhale short, painful bursts of oxygen.

  Kyle’s hand moved gently to the bandaged ankle. “You’re hurt.”

  Marisa nodded, wincing as he lifted her foot, then slowly untied the cloth. “What is this?” He indicated the odd cloth, and Marisa smiled.

  “Shannon’s petticoat. After we escaped from the MacKenzies, I hurt my ankle. She tied it up until we could get help. Now she’s out looking for water.”

  “It’s still swollen.” Carefully, he massaged the bruised flesh.

  Their eyes met, and then once again she was in his arms. He carried her from the chair and to the straw bed. Then he was scattering hot, feverish kisses on her exposed throat, into the shivery secret of her ear, behind he neck. Dissolving like crystallized sugar into hot tea, Marisa gave herself to him, her body curving neatly into his, craving a more intimate contact. Teasingly, he held back, his hands an achingly erotic torture through her clothes, his fingers knowingly arousing and purposefully seductive. Marisa gasped as his hand caressed her breast, his fingers teasing the nipple into an erect hardness, then circling the opulent curve before treating the other in the same manner.

  “Kyle…” Marisa pleaded. She was rewarded by his light laughter and the narcotic urgency she read in his eyes. Slowly, languidly, he unbuttoned her gown, managing to explore the satin of her skin beneath with each tiny loop. The gown dropped like a whisper around her hips, aided by his hands, leaving her naked from the waist up, the firelight playing against her skin. Marisa shyly tried to draw him closer, but he held her hands gently at her sides, his smile sweet and compelling.

  “You’re so beautiful, Marisa.”

  Golden straw turned to gilt in the firelight, tumbling about her black curls and gleaming innocently against her white skin. Marisa forgot modesty as his face lowered to hers, the linen of his shirt an unbearably sweet caress against her heated flesh. His kiss was enticing, unreasonably arousing and filling her mind with strange, erotic secrets. It was as if he were sharing some special knowledge with her, not with words but with the more subtle intimations of his mouth and tongue. His head moved lower, down past her throat to where her nipples throbbed in tingling anticipation. His hair brushed her first, making her breathless with its silken touch, then he took a nipple into his mouth and stroked it moistly.

  It seemed that every part of her body conspired with him. Hot, urgent liquids rushed to where his tongue teased her, making her a wanton beneath him, then culminating below her waist where an anguished ache became torture. Somehow knowing, his hand swept up the gown, then gently explored the silk of her thighs. Reaction swept through her like stark lightning. Blindly, she tried to reach for him, but he held her one hand, the other braced beneath his leg.

  “Wait, sweet. You’re so impatient. One might think you wanted this. I’ll have to get better at torturing you the next time you’re captured.”

  “You’re doing just fine,” Marisa managed, extracting another laugh from him.

  “All right, sweet.” Purposefully, his caresses changed. His fingers stroked the curls between her thighs, then entered her, just enough to bring her a taste of sexual completeness. Earth had barely stopped spinning when, after discarding his own clothes, he entered her abruptly. Rising against him in amazement, Marisa buried her feet into the mattress as sensation washed through her in sweet bliss. Each hard thrust took her higher, making her excruciatingly aware of the need he kindled within her. Their souls entwined even as their bodies merged, bringing a fulfillment that was more than sexual, more than physical satisfaction. Shuddering, Marisa heard Kyle whisper her name, and then, unbelievably, “I love you, Marisa. Oh God, Marisa, I love you, I love you….”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Thankfully, Shannon kept her word, both from caution and the presence of a huge black stallion tied carefully outside the hut. Though not normally discreet, she had enough sense to announce her presence quite loudly, singing a bawdy Irish tune from twenty feet, giving Marisa and Kyle enough time to do up buttons and replace undergarments. By the time Shannon entered the hut, Marisa and Kyle were properly clothed and reclining in sated amusement.

  “Well, the hero arrives.” Placing a vessel of water on the floor, Shannon gave Kyle a distant grin, while casting a worried eye at Marisa. She still held Kyle in awe but had not entirely forgiven him for causing Marisa pain. Understanding flickered in Kyle’s eyes and he raised himself up from the bed, taking Shannon’s hand into his own.

  “I understand I owe you a debt of thanks.” At Shannon’s confused look, he indicated Marisa’s bandaged leg. “You’ve done a fine job, and I am very grateful. How you managed to find this hut at night is truly remarkable.”

  “Necessity,” Shannon replied bluntly, though Kyle’s charm was not entirely lost on her. “Although I’ll be needing no thanks for helping Marisa. I could hardly do otherwise.”

  “I extend them anyway,” Kyle said. “Now, if you can both stay put for a little while longer, I’ll see what I can find in the way of a carriage to take you to the castle and see that foot attended to.”

  “How did you know where to find us?” Shannon asked. “Mari kept saying you would come, but how could you have known so quickly?”

  “I’ve been to see the duke,” Kyle responded. “Devon told me that Marisa had gone, probably to Ireland with you. From there, I managed to trace you to the MacKenzies.”

  “You spoke to Devon? And his father?” Marisa asked. “Did you get
the jewels?”

  “And whatever happened in that battle with the MacKenzies? You didn’t do too good a job of beating them off, I must say,” Shannon sniffed indignantly, noticing the green tartan Kyle still wore. “You could have saved us a lot of trouble if you had.”

  “All in good time. It may relieve your mind to know that Neil MacKenzie is dead, although the rest of the clan is still buzzing about like hornets. And no, I did not get the jewels, though I have reached an understanding with the duke. I’ll tell you more about that later. Now, I’d best go. If we leave by nightfall, we should be able to get home tonight, then out of the Highlands by morning.”

  Placing a prim kiss on Marisa’s forehead, Kyle extracted a pistol from his cloak and placed it on the bed. “It’s loaded, though you should be safe enough here. I’d try to take you both with me, but I’m afraid such a trip would only cause Marisa more injury. Do you mind waiting with her?” He gave Shannon a heart-melting smile, and the Irish girl nodded eagerly.

  “Good. Then I’ll return shortly. The MacKenzies are liable to be about, so I would suggest dousing the fire until then. I’ll leave my cloak against the chill.” Giving Marisa a warm glance, he disappeared through the door.

  “What a man!” Shannon sighed, then turned a twinkling glance to Marisa. “I hope I didn’t arrive at a bad time. Had I known you had company, I would have stayed out longer.”

  “Don’t be a pest,” Marisa said, though she grinned happily. “Your day will come. He told me he loves me.”

  “Did he now?” Shannon grinned. “What a secret! He only holds you for ransom long after he could have gotten it, then he follows you halfway across the country, risking his own neck, kills Neil MacKenzie, and has to announce that he’s in love? If there’s one thing I like, it’s a man of mystery.”

  “That’s enough,” Marisa said, though she gave Shannon a smile. Kyle would return, they would be transported to safety, and she would be with the man she loved. It all seemed too good to be true.

  It took the earl all of a day to hear about the MacKenzie killing. By nightfall, the villagers were agog with talk of the notorious Angel, who single-handedly had swept into the MacKenzie fortress, killed Neil, and mysteriously freed his lady. Women, impressed with the romance of it all, sighed unhappily in bed with their Campbell mates, dreaming of the golden-haired rogue who once again roamed the land. The other clansmen, hearing of Kyle’s latest escapade, felt the ancient Celtic battle stirring within their hearts. It didn’t matter that the MacKenzies had almost annihilated the MacLeods just a few short weeks ago; what did matter was that the Angel was back, and the legend grew.

  “Bastard.” The earl’s hand tightened ominously on a piece of parchment, crumbling the missive into a tight ball. The maid scurried out of his way, only too familiar with the look in his thoughtful black eyes. The fire crackled, throwing sinister shadows across the earl’s face as he idly stared into the flames.

  Kyle. He had come for Marisa, no doubt, as the MacKenzies had so foolishly anticipated. He had managed to turn the tables, use their superstitious fears against them, and carry off the girl. Marisa…

  Suddenly the earl smiled, a more chilling sight than his frown. Kyle would plan an escape; he would take Marisa, head for the nearest seaport, and hasten to the colonies to spend the rest of his life there, in relative safety. The earl could almost see Kyle’s thoughts intuitively. Kyle was obviously in love with Marisa, and such a situation would make him careless, as well as more dangerous.

  It would be an easy matter to have him arrested. Once confined to the unforgiving British justice system, Kyle would be defenseless. All the legends in the world could not help him then. Eventually, the clans would forget. They would speak of his name as more myth than reality, and they would wish that another Kyle MacLeod would be born. In the meantime, his own clan’s power would be protected….

  The earl wasted no time in summoning his servant. “Have a carriage sent round,” he said thoughtfully, half closing his glittering eyes like a panther about to strike. “I have a matter to take care of.”

  The Highlanders were shamelessly happy to see Marisa. Roarke kissed her boldly, ignoring Kyle’s amused frown, while Douglass declared he would keep her for himself since Kyle couldn’t hold onto her. Ryan and Brannock teased her, while Mac solemnly bandaged her foot, tying a poultice around the injury and insisting someone send for food and a hot wash.

  They teased Shannon, too, telling her that she had to be part Scots—she was far too pretty to be Irish—to which Shannon pertly reminded them that it was hardly her fault they shared a Viking ancestry. Finally, they had to be forced by Mac to let the women have some privacy for a change of clothes and a bath.

  Marisa noticed one face missing. The room quieted when she asked for Duncan. It was Douglass who told her, after a quick glance at Kyle, that their leader had died.

  “I’m sorry,” Marisa murmured, shocked. Duncan, who’d been so kind to her, who was the backbone of the clan. It hardly seemed possible that such a short time ago he was dancing before the fire, the bagpipes wailing, the music joyous and sad at the same time.

  “We tried to persuade his Lairdship there to take his place as chieftain, but he had more important things to attend to,” Douglass said, indicating Kyle. “So I was elected”

  Marisa gave him an exuberant hug, understanding more than Douglass said. Duncan’s death must have been a terrible blow to Kyle, who had initiated the battle. Yet it was obvious that the men did not hold him responsible.

  Extracting himself, Douglass grinned, chuckling at the flush that was creeping up his face. “Well, at least Duncan’s death was avenged. I understand you did that all right, Angel. The clans talk of nothing else.”

  “Do they?” Marisa turned to Kyle, who’d been standing at the fireplace, watching all that went on around him with bland amusement. “Let them talk,” he said, noticing Marisa’s relief. “I am done with wars and vengeance. Their hero is about to become very ordinary and boring. I think it an appropriate change. What do you think, my lady?”

  “I think it’s wonderful,” Marisa agreed with a mischievous smile. “But boring? You underestimate yourself. I cannot imagine you boring, even if you tried.”

  Kyle gave her a smile that made shivers race through her skin. Douglass cleared his throat, and the clansmen exchanged bawdy remarks, delighted when Shannon blushed and called them a pack of rogues.

  “Come, my lady.” Kyle swept her up into his arms, ignoring the jests and guffaws of his men. Marisa sighed, cradled in his arms. There was no other place she’d rather be, she realized, looping her arms around his neck and feeling the soft brush of his lips against her throat.

  “Where are we going?” she asked as he mounted the stairs, the din of the hall already far behind them.

  “To my bedroom.”

  Marisa glanced over her shoulder to the room beyond. It was undoubtedly Kyle’s. The masculine wall hangings, the MacLeod tartan, the swords juxtaposed on the granite wall, could belong to no one else.

  A curtain fluttered with the evening draft, displaying the landscape beyond, the craggy mountains, the hillsides awash with heather, the crystalline streams. A sadness crept into Marisa’s eyes as Kyle placed her onto the bed, taking care not to hurt her injured ankle.

  “What is it, Marisa?” Kyle questioned gently, but Marisa could not voice what she felt. “You are sorry to go,” Kyle said, his smile gentle.

  Marisa nodded, forcing back the emotions that threatened to spill forth like an overfilled tin kettle.

  “Why? Why would you miss the Highlands? They are a rough and untamed lot, my clan. They know little of your world, less of your education. The land is wild and fierce; it could have easily taken your life the way it takes the lives of innocent lambs who miss a step and falter into a ravine. Do you not miss the world you live in, filled with balls and parties, tea roses and lords, satin breeches and lace gowns?”

  He was speaking, not of his land in abstract but of him
self. Marisa could see that, young and inexperienced though she was. She thought of his question and her mind carefully probed her own feelings. Miss a world that she seldom felt she belonged to? A world of loneliness, of posturing men and ladies drenched in attar of roses, who talked of nothing but Paris and fashion and dance? Marisa thought of her frustration when she’d been sequestered at home, when she had not been able to leave, even to go to Ireland, when the peony-stenciled walls seemed to close in on her. Miss all that?

  Then she thought of the months she’d spent with Kyle, as his ransom, certainly, then later as his lover and something more….It was like bursting from a shell to face a world that was sometimes terrible, always unknown, but most of the time wonderful. Looking directly at him, she answered softly, “I would miss my family, and Shannon, of course. But there is little else. I don’t belong in that life, Kyle. Even if you were to leave me now, I still couldn’t marry Devon or anyone else. That’s why I wanted to go to Ireland. I just couldn’t face them all again.”

  Kyle listened intently, watching her as she spoke, measuring what she meant both literally and figuratively. His gaze held hers directly with a hypnotic urgency that left her breathless.

  “Come with me, then. I cannot live here; you know that. Even among my clansmen, I would eventually be caught and hanged. But the colonies are fighting a battle for freedom. I have land there, Marisa. There’s a house, though not as large as your parents’, and business. The new colony offers opportunity and fortune. Already my own investments have paid off handsomely.”