Outlaw's Angel

by Colleen Quinn

  “I thought this was to be my ravishing,” Marisa whispered, her smile erotically seductive. “You are supposed to be helpless.”

  “I am.” Watching her fingers trace lower, to the firm muscles of his outer thigh, then to the corded strength of his legs, and finally back to his inner thigh, Marisa was rewarded with a passionate kiss that ignited each cell in her body to its own separate flame. Giggling as Kyle swept her beneath him, she looped her arms around his neck, admiring the polished gold of his hair in the glimmering sunlight.

  “Do you need assistance? I didn’t mean to take advantage of you in such a sorry state.” Smiling softly, Marisa slowly undid his trousers, easing them off his firm thighs with a few hidden caresses of her own. She heard his indrawn breath and saw the smoldering desire that flamed in his eyes.

  “Are you torturing me, my lady?” Kyle asked hoarsely, winning another smile.

  “ ’Tis the least you deserve after kidnapping me, holding me ransom…”

  “Making love to you…”

  “Most especially,” Marisa teased. “It’s time you got a little of your own back.” Helping him to the pillows, the straw mattress snapping beneath him and the ropes creaking in musical protest under the bed, Marisa sat up and slowly removed her gown. Deliberately, she allowed the rose-colored velvet to fall off her shoulders, then to subtly expose the ribbons of her chemise. Working the laces free, Marisa allowed the gown to tumble to the floor in a smooth velvet puddle. Straightening, she saw his eyes travel over her, clad as she was in only a shift and petticoats, his expression an interesting mixture of pleasure and pain.

  “You exact your revenge in a most effective manner,” Kyle said, bracing his arms behind his head. “Do you have any idea of what you’re doing to me?”

  “Certainly,” Marisa replied softly, then she released the petticoats and stays, watching them float to the floor like a lacy spider’s web. All that remained was the chemise. Her eyes meeting Kyle’s, she held them to her with enchanting fascination as she gracefully dropped one shoulder strap, then the other. The fullness of her breasts teased him through the sheer cloth, her eyes hypnotized him, her round hips and well-shaped legs nearly drove him mad. When she began to tease him with the ribbons, he made a sound almost like a growl and reached for her, pulling her into his embrace.

  “But your arm!” Marisa protested, giggling as he pulled her purposefully beneath him.

  “My lady, more than my arm will be injured if you proceed. ’Tis time I took matters into my own hands.”

  “Nothing could please me more,” Marisa sighed. Removing the chemise with far less care than Marisa, Kyle entered her slowly, hearing her little cry of passion, a sound that had become sweeter to him than the song of any nightingale. Holding back his own raging desires, his fingers traced the delicate outlines of her face as she trembled violently against him. Her breath changed, coming in a fast little series of pants as he moved within her, deeply and erotically in a cadence that seemed directed by some primal instinct.

  “Marisa, look at me,” he whispered. Her eyes slowly opened, wondrous with the pleasure he wrought upon her, shy with her own blooming sensuality. She had an unearthly light about her, her eyes glittering with all the colors of the ocean, her lips parted breathlessly, her cheeks flushed and stained with the red of a tea rose. Smiling reassuringly, he moved within her, bringing her to ecstasy, mesmerized with the change in her expression, the beauty reflected within her.

  “Kyle!” Marisa reached out for him, and he rewarded her with a kiss that brought his own hunger out of control. Each thrust brought them closer together, higher on a plane of pleasure that only lovers could experience. Like sand and the sea, they met in mutual need, were consumed in fiery want, then drifted slowly apart as the waves crashed around them.

  Downstairs, the duke sat in the library, staring pensively into the fire. Outside, a new-fallen snow still bore the tracks of the departing carriage, without the obscuring curve of the returning coach. He scarcely looked up when Saunders placed the tea tray beside him, but as the servant sought to withdraw, he spoke suddenly.

  “Not home yet, I suppose?”

  “No, Devon has not returned.” Closing the door, Saunders joined his master before the fire and gazed out at the smothering whiteness outside. “I could send one of the stable lads out to look for him.”

  “Not yet.” The duke sighed, taking the cup and looking directly at Saunders. “The Irish girl went after him, Shannon O’Hara.” The duke smiled thoughtfully, as if at some private secret. “I like that girl immensely. Lots of common sense. If anyone can help Devon adjust, it would be her.”

  Saunders stared at his employer, noticing the good color in his face, the healthy sparkle in his eyes. “You seem much better,” he commented, “ever since you regained your son.”

  “Aye.” The duke smiled, his face warming with an expression Saunders hadn’t seen since the duke was much younger. “Do you know, Kyle looks so much like his mother? I see her in him every time he smiles. Yes, it is good to have him safe.”

  “And the earl?”

  “Oh, he is not happy, as well can be imagined.” Gleefully, the duke rubbed his hands together. “He is swearing vengeance by the score! It only took a little educated blackmail to bring him around. As soon as he realized that I would inform the clans of his participation in obtaining weapons for the MacKenzies, he became almost docile. A clan upsurge is not something pretty, Saunders. The earl knows that.”

  “Speaking of blackmail, what of Travers?”

  “Alastair is powerless.” The duke smiled. “He had seen me at Culloden, knew that I had the jewels. Now that the truth is revealed, he can no longer use my past against me. It is ironic that his daughter is marrying my blood, though not the way he intended. I get pleasure thinking of his dreams.”

  “Then it would seem everything worked out for the best.” Purposefully, Saunders let the silence fall, until the duke spoke again.

  “I have not forgotten Devon. Somehow, I owe both my sons a considerable debt. Flora never told me about Kyle until she died. I couldn’t take the risk then, the scandal that would result if I acknowledged my son. Alastair Travers knew my secret from that unfortunate day at Culloden. He guessed Kyle was my son and held it over me all these years, hoping to force Devon into marrying Marisa. Ironically, his blood is still marrying mine, although not the way he had planned. I hope the thought gives him many sleepless nights.” The duke smiled, satisfied with himself.

  “So you merely watched out for Kyle all these years, had him transferred to the colonies when he was arrested, gave him the opportunity to make his own way.”

  “Aye, but it wasn’t enough,” the duke said shortly. “Kyle had to learn that revenge would not bring him what he needed. It seems Marisa is the only one capable of doing that.”

  “ ’Tis a lesson more of us could learn,” Saunders said dryly. He ventured to the door, seeing the contented chuckle of the duke’s shoulders.

  “Not so subtle, Saunders, but unfortunately correct. We all have more than one lesson to learn.”

  Epilogue

  Douglass was seated at the castle table, a mug of ale in one hand, a pretty wench in the other. In all, things were going well. The MacKenzie clan, incited by fears that the mystical Angel might materialize again, were momentarily leaving the MacLeods in peace, affording Douglass time to reinvest the meager earnings from the previous year in the hopes of the next. The other clans, weakened by emigration and the new alliance with England, had their own troubles, and had little time to clash dirks with the MacLeods or any other clan.

  The Highlands, resplendent with a sparkling white coverlet of snow, seemed to be waiting, watching, giving the Scots time to renew. It was, after all, winter. A time of hibernation and waiting, when hope was at its lowest ebb. Sighing loudly, Douglass released the castle maid, indulging in drink and thinking of the days of old, when Kyle had wrested jewels from the hands of British ladies.

  As if hearing hi
s thoughts, Mac spoke out loud. “He will come back. Kyle is still the Angel, married or not married, colonies or no colonies. The land is in his blood.”

  “Ha!” Douglass snorted, blowing the chaff from his beer. “Ye know little of men, lad. There is nothing for Kyle here. In the colonies, a man could get rich, could put down roots. If ye have half a brain, you’ll go there with him. Kyle could help ye get a start.”

  “I will not go,” Mac said sullenly, his adolescent face painfully drawn. “Someone has to try to fight the battles.” Staring silently out the castle window at the vast emptiness beyond, Mac continued quietly. “How long did you know?”

  “About his parentage?” Douglass shrugged. “Since he was a babe. His mother—a soft pretty little thing, all cotton down and cherry cheeks—she told me when he was still in nappies. Someone had to look out for the lad. Flora knew he’d have enemies; he still does. While the earl lives, Kyle will never be completely free. Fortunately, he is made of sterner stuff than his mother.”

  “Flora was weak?” Mac turned to look at Douglass, his eyes far too worldly for his years, and far too afraid. Douglass smiled.

  “No, she wasn’t weak in the general sense. In some ways, she was wonderfully strong. Imagine keeping such a secret so many years! She took care of the child alone, refused charity, raised him until she could no longer bear it.”

  “But why you? What did she want you to do?”

  “To protect him as best I could,” Douglass said. “You see, she knew Kyle, knew that he had much of his father in him. The lad would search his entire life for vengeance and never find happiness. Flora did not want that for him. He needed to learn that only through loving someone else could he ever be at peace.”

  Mac was about to protest, but then he remembered Marisa and the way she looked at Kyle, as if nothing else in the world existed. And Kyle would return that look, like two candles exchanging a secret light, one that strengthened and fortified them. A thousand pictures flooded his mind to reassure him, from Marisa’s happy smile to Kyle’s hidden contentment. Was it really at once so simple and yet so complicated?

  Douglass saw his expression and nodded. “Have ye noticed anything different?”

  Rousing from his thoughts, Mac eyes Douglass critically. Beer stained his shirt, his belly expanded in a firm roll over his trousers as always, his eyes sparkled with the same black essence that they always did. His mouth was curved in a droll smile, as if guarding some unfathomable secret, but otherwise, Douglass was Douglass.

  “No.”

  “Listen.”

  The wind blew, rustling through the heather and ending in a cacophony amid the trees overhead. Mac could hear the Highlanders arguing, the maids talking quietly, the clatter of dishes and the slamming of ale cups. Otherwise, nothing.

  “She’s going, lad. The crying.”

  She was indeed. Mac’s hand tightened on his cup as the familiar wail diminished, then disappeared forever. The hallways became silent, the clansmen stopped their drinking to listen, one of the maids dropped a plate. The sudden cessation of a sound they’d heard so often they no longer paid it heed was more dramatic than a crash.

  “Here’s to you, lady.” Douglass lifted his cup. “May ye rest in peace.”