Outlaw's Angel (13 page)

“I’m sorry, Shannon. I didn’t mean you weren’t…attractive. I just don’t think of you that way. You’re more of a sisterly figure to me.” Congratulating himself on his tact, Devon gave her a dazzling smile, one intending to charm away any ill feelings.

Shannon smiled sweetly with an expression Marisa would have recognized instantly. She had seen it the day they had buttered Devon’s saddle; now Shannon sauntered innocently beside the young lord, idly fingering the pitcher.

“Devon, I’m so glad you think of me as family. I feel the same way about you. In fact, if you were me own dear brother, I would do this.” Without further warning, she dumped the pitcher on top of his Lordship’s head, leaving him gasping in shock and surprise. “I’ll be going now, since you’ve decided to bathe first. Good night, dear brother. And please, don’t wait up for me.”

Devon started to get up from the chair and Shannon dashed from the room. Even she knew when to make an escape, and from the look in Devon’s eyes, it wasn’t a moment too soon.

The sweet summer air was tinged with a hint of autumn as it whispered through the velvet draperies into Marisa’s room. The breeze brought little coolness; instead, it seemed as if a dragon snarled from the dungeon below, sending its foul breath skyward.

Marisa lay tossing and writhing on the bed. Clad only in a light sheet, at Kyle’s insistence, she nevertheless bore the unmistakable signs of fever. Her beautiful skin was flushed, her lips parched. She moaned, clutching the sheet to her breasts, unaware of the man who watched her and bathed her in cool liquids. The dream was returning. This time the woman pleaded with Marisa, her huge grey eyes imploring. But Marisa could not understand what she wanted. The knife clattered to the floor and the woman slipped away again, lost in wreaths of mist and fog.

“No!” Marisa cried, reaching out to her. There was nothing. The dungeon was empty where the woman once stood, the walls staring back at her in silent rebuttal. Only the flagstones, stained from the woman’s blood, confirmed that someone had been there….

“You won’t help her by staying here morning and night.”

Kyle did not look up as Duncan spoke, his burr thick with concern. “Ye’ve done everything ye could for the wee lass. Perhaps ye should have listened to the doctor.”

“No,” Kyle said quietly, his voice betraying his fatigue. “I won’t let him kill her.”

“But ye cannot do this, lad.” Duncan lost all pretense of patience. “Ye cannot bring her back this way.”

“Stop speaking of Marisa in the past tense,” Kyle said sternly. “She’s not dead and will not die. Not while I breathe.”

“And why is that? Because ye declare it?” Duncan asked incredulously. “Think of what you’re saying! And I wasna’ speaking of Marisa just then.”

Kyle sank wearily into a chair and stared out the window. Already, he could see the tinge of winter in the greying of the heather and the softening green of the oaks. Why was everything dying?

“I will say my piece.” Duncan seated himself across from Kyle, unobtrusively pouring the younger man a stiff drink. “First this.” He handed Kyle the glass.

“I don’t…”

“Drink it.”

Kyle resisted a smile and obeyed. It was only when the glass was drained that Duncan relaxed.

“Is the lass improved at all?” the chieftain began cautiously.

“No.” Kyle fought to keep his frustration from his voice and failed miserably. “I’ve tried everything! I’ve poured liquids down her throat. I’ve bathed her over and over. She wrestles with nightmares, one that seems to return repeatedly, something so horrifying she cries out. I swear, it’s making her worse.” Dropping his face in his hands, Kyle did not know that Duncan’s expression was full of understanding.

“I see. Mayhap we should contact her family. If the lass won’t get well…”

“She will get well.” Kyle looked up, his grey eyes like the steel of an uplifted sword. “If I have to sell my soul to the devil, that girl will get well.”

“Hush, mon, don’t talk like that. Ye cannot control the lass’s life, nor can ye bring Flora back by caring for Marisa now.”

For a moment, Duncan didn’t think Kyle had heard him. The Angel appeared to be staring at nothing, lost in his own private dungeon of pain. But finally he lifted his head, his eyes looking through the chieftain.

“Is that what I’m doing? Trying to resurrect my mother through Marisa?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. Don’t I have the right to feel responsible and a damned bit guilty? I abducted her.”

“Then this is merely to assuage your guilt?”

“Dammit, Duncan, don’t play priest with me. I have no other confessions.”

“Save that you care for the lass.”

The room fell silent, except for Marisa’s tortured breathing. Kyle threw his glass into the empty fireplace with an unexpectedly violent gesture, then stalked across the room to stand at the foot of Marisa’s bed. She looked like a princess from a fairy tale, gone to sleep, waiting for the magic spell that would awaken her. Her black hair, damp from the water Kyle had used to bathe her, clung to her cheeks in loose strands. Her closed eyelashes lay like thick black fans against her cheeks, and her lips bloomed unnaturally red from where she’d bitten them. She was murmuring again. Kyle held her hand, fighting the sense of helplessness that raged within him.

“Duncan,” Kyle finally spoke. “Help me. Please.”

“Aye, lad,” the older man said. “I’ll do all I can.”

Shannon awoke with a start. Marisa. The name leaped unbidden to her lips. Sitting up in bed, she tried to still the trembling of her dream-sodden body. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. She had felt this way once before, when she and Marisa had climbed the huge apple tree, laden with creamy white blossoms. The scene from atop the tree—Ireland clustered with flowers—had been spectacular. Marisa’s artistic instincts were fully aroused, and she had tried to get a better view. Her foot had slipped, terror taking the cry from Shannon’s breath as Marisa tumbled helplessly down, past the safe branches, toward the treacherous ground below. Fortunately, Marisa had managed to grab a blossom-crusted branch, then pulled herself to safety with a corner of Shannon’s shawl. Neither of them had spoke of the incident for a long time, almost afraid to tempt the laughing witch called fate.

Shannon shuddered, pushing the dreaded thoughts from her mind. Marisa was in danger. Some terrible cloud hung over her friend; Shannon could feel it. Devon would dismiss her premonition as ridiculous, she realized, but that mattered little. She would convince him and resume their journey quickly. Whatever trouble surrounded Marisa, it was deadly, Shannon was certain. But where was Devon?

The room was still empty. Shannon had returned just a few hours previously, leaving Devon in the gaming hall, scowling at her over a hand of cards. Deciding that a tactful retreat was in order after dousing him with the pitcher, Shannon was only too glad to retire early and get a good night’s rest, in a real bed. She had assumed that Devon would return sometime during the night. Then an awful thought came to her: Could she have pushed him too far? Perhaps he had decided to end his involvement in their journey and return to England?

Hurriedly donning her dress, Shannon tore a brush through her hair, then raced downstairs. Her heart pounded until she saw a familiar figure slumped in an ungentlemanly posture across the hall. Catching her breath, she walked slowly across the room, trying not to awaken the two other noblemen who slept in their brandy.

Devon’s half-covered body was slumped across a satin sofa beneath a portrait of the Scots queen. Relief replaced by disgust, Shannon nudged the inert body the way one would a sleeping mastiff, ready to make a run for it if the beast suddenly lunged into life. Devon did not move. A crystal tumbler rolled from his hand across the floor, the twinkling sound incongruous with the still morning.

“Devon!” Shannon’s righteous anger flared. She shook him violently. Devon looked up, managed a half-drunken smile, then slumped to the floor. Cards floated around him like black and white butterflies, settling to the floor beside the Lord of Sutcliffe. Enraged, Shannon called for help, finding only a whiskey-scented groom.

“Help me with him.” The groom started to argue, but at the look in Shannon’s eyes, he changed his mind. Grumbling, he lifted Devon by the shoulders while Shannon got his feet.

“He’s out cold,” the groom muttered. “He’ll sleep nigh on through the day, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You are mistaken,” Shannon said through quick breaths. Devon was heavier than he looked. “I’ve got to get him sober and awake.”

“Good luck,” the groom spat. More cards fluttered down. “ ’Tis a common-enough trick, ye know.”

“What is?” Shannon’s own suspicions rose to the surface. Devon was no stranger to drink. It would take more than a few brandies to get him in this state, particularly when he was gambling.

The groom snorted, hefting Devon over one shoulder and mounting the stairs. “They give new players the good stuff. Straight mountain whiskey. And when the man passes out—”

“—they clean him out,” Shannon groaned. As soon as the groom deposited Devon on the bed, Shannon rummaged through his pockets. A tuppence rolled out between her fingers, two lousy pence that would scarcely provide an evening’s meal.

“I’m sorry, miss.” The groom seemed genuinely apologetic. “A man like him should know better.”

“So you’d think.” Shannon fought the mists that sprang up in her eyes. Devon was drunk, they had no money, and Marisa was in danger. What else could go wrong?

Chapter Thirteen

This time the woman came to her. Marisa followed her outside, past the terrible dungeon gates to the heather-covered moors beyond. The woman seemed to float rather than walk, her slender figure swaying like a gentle flower in the breeze. She sensed Marisa’s presence and turned toward her, smiling.

Something was different this time. Gone was the fear and dread Marisa associated with this lovely spectre. She was not crying now. It was as if some terrible burden had been lifted from her shoulders and she was free, gloriously free.

She approached Marisa, her grey eyes familiar and comforting. Golden sunlight dusted down through the trees, settling on the woman’s light hair, making her seem radiant. Taking Marisa’s hand, she smiled again, her touch warm and oddly human. The woman pressed something cold and sharp into Marisa’s palm, then drifted off, disappearing into the heather like a witch from the Druid legends.

Marisa stared after her, dumbfounded. She had disappeared, simple as that. Even in her dreams, the reality of seeing a ghost affected her. Remembering the object in her hand, she opened her palm, gasping at the woman’s gift.

An emerald. Marisa stared at the brilliantly cut stone, wondering what it all meant. The emerald glittered in her hand, sparkling in the sun until it too gradually disappeared, vanishing until nothing but a shadow remained. Coming gradually back to consciousness, Marisa could hear the woman calling out from the moors: Remember….

It was twilight when Marisa awoke. The last few rays of sunlight faded into a soft purple, blending into the heather and the grey edge of night just behind the mountains. A cool wind blew through the windows, suffusing her with a chill. For the moment, she did not know where she was. The castle walls, with their granite grooves and oak panelling, seemed a part of her dreams until she spied Kyle dozing in a chair opposite her.

He awoke instantaneously, sensing the slight movement of her facial features and the rustle of her sheet. For days now, he had listened and prayed for just such a sound. Unbelievably, Marisa hoisted herself up on one elbow and gazed at him thoughtfully.

“Kyle? Have you been ill? You look terrible. Why is it so dark in here? I’m so thirsty.” She looked like a petulant child waking from a nap, cranky and demanding.

“Duncan!” Kyle shouted, then attended to Marisa himself. Placing a hand on her brow, his smile became broader as his fingers discerned no poisonous heat. Her skin felt firm and cool, her eyes were lucid and bright. His grey eyes met hers, and Marisa wondered why they seemed overly bright. He turned from her quickly and brought back a tray, eagerly supplying her with water, then with food. Agatha came in with a pile of towels, placing them on the commode. Upon seeing Marisa, she threw up her hands in delight.

“Well, I’ll be. Never thought I’d see the day, don’t mind me, miss.” She wiped her eyes discreetly on an apron and forced a grin. “Though the master there wouldn’t leave ye day or night. Tended ye himself, he did. I’ll fetch another bowl of soup, and would ye like anything else, sir?”

“Aye,” Kyle said, holding a glass to Marisa’s lips. “A quieter maid. You talk too much.”

“Aye, that I do,” Agatha agreed brightly. “But then, sir, you don’t enough.”

At a warning glance from Kyle, she disappeared through the door, nearly running into Duncan, Mac, Roarke, and Douglass. They burst into Marisa’s room, each eager to kiss her and feel her forehead for themselves.

“It’s good to see ye up, lass,” Duncan said cheerfully. “Stop fussing over her, Mac. She can fluff her own pillow. These men have been good for nothing since you’ve taken ill. They do naught but sit in their cups and sigh. It’s damned depressing.”

“It is that,” Roarke teased. “The place has been like a morgue these past few days. What with Duncan snarling at everyone and Kyle throwing out the doctor, they’ve all been a bit testy.”

“Throwing out the doctor?” Marisa questioned. Kyle grinned, sending Roarke a look that betrayed his lack of appreciation.

“Never mind, it’s not important now. Eat this. You need to get stronger. I’ve never liked a skinny woman in my bed.”

Marisa blushed hotly and wondered if she dared tip the bowl into Kyle’s lap. But even now, with the illness still sapping her strength, she could feel her blood pulse like hot honey at his words. She slid back into the comfort of the bed, amazed to see Kyle’s concerned reaction.

“Is it the fever again?” Before Marisa could assure him otherwise, he brought her a fresh drink of water, with crushed ice and mint. “There,” he said sternly. “You are not well yet, apparently. I want you to stay in bed and relax. You are to do nothing more strenuous than enduring my company. I plan to see you well, my lady.”

Kyle lifted her slightly in his arms, arranging the bed linens behind her. Marisa felt a pure primal pleasure in being protected and cared for by such a man. Even now as he leaned over her, his muscles a study of animal-like symmetry, her desire to tell all vanished. She would enjoy his attentions, Marisa thought, hiding a smile. Eventually she would tell him she was fully recovered. But not too soon.

Devon, who was accustomed to attention, nevertheless found himself the recipient of a kind he would have preferred to do without. Discomfort was the first sensation he experienced upon forcing his eyes open, followed by an aching wet chill.

“Jesus!” Leaping from the bed, Devon had to fight a feeling of déjà vu as he saw Shannon standing over him, poised like a wrathful goddess with a pitcher in her hand.

“Are you crazy?” he snarled, staring in amazement at his sodden clothes. The water ran in icy rivulets down his shirt, beneath his trousers, then to the floor. His gaze met Shannon’s with a frosty outrage and he took a single step toward her. At once, his head felt like a thousand demons struck with hammers, pounding his brain in a primitive torture ritual.

“It wasn’t my fault you got yourself drunk and rolled in the bargain,” Shannon began, not trusting his sudden silence. “If you can’t stand the stink, stay away from the pigs, and if you can’t hold your liquor…”

“Brandy,” Devon gasped, lowering his dripping body into a chair.

“Whatever. You couldn’t hold it, ’tis plain to see.”

“Get me a brandy,” Devon corrected her.

“Are you out of your mind?” Shannon asked incredulously. “After what happened last night, if you think I’m providing you with more drink…”

“Get me a goddamned brandy now,” Devon barked, boring a blood-soaked eye right through her, “or I’ll break your Irish neck without a prayer to any of your damned saints!”

Deciding that perhaps now was not a good time to argue, Shannon held her tongue and fetched him a drink. Holding it out to him with a sanctimonious expression, she hid a shiver of repulsion as he downed the brandy, ignoring the water that she offered. Devon closed his eyes and she could almost see the liquor working; his face smoothed as the ravaging pain retreated, and a more normal color returned to his skin.

“Feeling better?” she asked with false solicitation. Devon’s one eye opened slowly, dismembering her with a glance.

“I’m feeling wonderful, no thanks to you. I’ll be just fine when this blasted trip is finally over. I’ll have Marisa back, and you’ll be packed away on that damned green island where you belong.” Rubbing his temples, Devon tried to recall what had happened the previous night. He and Shannon had fought about something…. He had a vague remembrance of a dousing even then. The girl apparently had a fetish for water. His face almost registered amusement at the thought when he slipped his hand into his wet pocket. Nothing. All of his money was gone.

“All right, where is it?”

“Where’s what?” Shannon asked coldly.

“My money! You know what I’m talking about! Don’t look at me like that! I want it back.”

“Sorry,” Shannon shrugged. “But that’s the way you were returned. Empty of money and full of liquor.”

“Shannon, this is no time to joke around….”

“You’re telling me,” Shannon said angrily. “A fine mess you’ve made of all this. You gamble away every cent to our names, get roaring drunk, pass out in the gaming hall like some sot. Then you have the nerve to threaten and accuse me!”

“Will you quit harping? You sound like Saunders,” Devon said, though her words penetrated to his aching consciousness. He had a recollection of a game….Wasn’t the Lord of Cambridge winning? He had asked for one more hand, trying to win his money back…. A rogue like Cambridge could have never beaten him out of all that money. Unless it was more than drink…. The peculiar ache in his head and the sour sickness in his belly almost confirmed his suspicions.

“Shannon,” Devon said thoughtfully, his voice calmer. “Was anyone else passed out?”

“Do you mean, did you make a solitary fool out of yourself or did you have company?” Shannon chided, then shrugged when she saw he was serious. “Yes. I saw a few other men sleeping downstairs. But that doesn’t excuse…”

“That’s what I thought,” Devon said. Of course! Lord Cambridge would resort to such a trick.

“So what do we do now?” Shannon asked, suspicious of the smile that crept across his face.

“Why, that’s easy,” Devon smirked. “I’ll win it back.”

“You don’t mean…” Shannon said, her mouth falling open. She had visions of them stuck for days at this inn, even weeks, as Devon went from one drunken debauchery to another. “Oh, no you don’t….”

“I was drugged, sweetheart,” Devon snapped, his patience gone. “Old Cambridge slipped something into my drink. And how far do you think we’ll get without money? Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”

Shannon was not so sure.

There was a lot to be said for being an invalid, Marisa thought, relaxing in the sun-dappled shade beneath a thick oak. Kyle had insisted upon carrying her down, and there was nothing for Marisa to do but loop her arms around his neck and enjoy the luxury of being cradled in his arms. He’d spent the last few days caring for her himself, everything from feeding her breakfast to lighting her candles at night. Marisa enjoyed every minute of it. It was a heady experience to know he could be kind as well as commanding, thoughtful as well as domineering. He told her stories at night, tales from his own boyhood that made her see the man beneath the Angel’s outlaw image. Eventually, Marisa didn’t have the heart to tell him she was recovered. Especially when being ill was so much fun.

The object of her thoughts sat a short distance away from her, presiding over all of them, Mac and Douglass, Roarke, Brannock and Ryan, like a young god. The sunlight broke through the tree in a ragged patch, making his hair glisten and his eyes look like drops of liquid mercury. He smiled at Roarke’s jest, idly eating grapes, his mouth a study in artless sensuality as he bit a luscious purple fruit and carefully sucked out the juice. Marisa didn’t count on the rush of liquid fire that pulsed through her veins. It was a cruel irony, she thought, glad for the distraction of the men.

“Do you want another tale, lassie?” Douglass asked, ignoring the negative boos from the audience. “All right, then. I’ll tell ye the one aboot the ghost of Skye.”

“Tell her about the whore in Sconser instead,” Brannock said. He had the kitchen maid sitting on his lap, a fresh-faced girl named Megan, who giggled. “Sorry, Angel.”

Kyle had merely given him a lazy, indolent glance, but it was enough. Marisa had to fight to keep from bursting into laughter at Brannock’s flushed face.

“I think I’ll tell ye aboot the ghost,” Douglass grinned.

“Tell her about Willow the Wisp,” Kyle suggested. He moved deftly behind Marisa, observing her struggle with her hair. The prim knot had unwound, allowing raven tendrils to fall charmingly around her neck and shoulders. Removing the pins, he slid his fingers through her hair, enjoying the silky feel of it. It was a wonderfully sensual experience, one that held its own torture for Kyle. He repinned her hair, still idly playing with it, occasionally dropping a feather-light caress on her neck or shoulders. The gown she wore, loaned to her by one of the Highland daughters, fit her slender figure like a silk stocking. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath, and Kyle fought to keep his caresses chaste, reminding himself that she was still ill….

“The Wisp appears at night, looking like a bright light over the marsh,” Douglass asserted. “Some say ’tis the divil himself, come for souls. Some say she’s merely a lost soul, wandering the marsh. Others say the Wisp is a goddess, enchanting men to their deaths.”

“And have they?” Marisa questioned, ignoring the delightful shivers that spun down her back and through her thighs.

“Aye,” Douglass affirmed, while Roarke and Mac nodded in agreement. “They’ve found bodies in the marshes while cutting the turf for fires. Some poor fool followed the magic light into the bogs, where the green moss floats, thinking he’d be on the earth. Instead, he sank into the water, his body buried beneath the peat and the dying plants.”

“That’s awful,” Marisa shuddered.

“There’s more. In the Druid days, men feared the bogs. Though they provided fuel and water, there was always a mystery aboot them. It is legend that the Druids offered human sacrifices to the black waters.”

“Is there any proof?”

“Well, some of the corpses were found buried in the peat, wearing jewelry and tools. ’Twould not be very likely, should a man merely be following the Wisp, that he would carry such things.”

“Fascinating.” Marisa was intrigued in spite of the horror of the tale. “And what do you believe?”

The men grew silent, except for Douglass. “Who’s to say?” the Highlander began cautiously. “It is easy to laugh at such ideas here. But up there, in the moors, it is different. I saw it myself.”

“You saw it?” Marisa questioned eagerly.

Douglass nodded. “Aye, I’ll never forget. I went up into the Carron moors, following a deer I was tracking. I only realized too late how far I’d gone. I stood in the center of that bog, feeling a desperation beyond words. Everything around me was dying. The very air smelled of decay. The muck at my feet grabbed my boots like phantom hands. I could not find my way out. The farther I walked, the more I lost my bearing. The footsteps behind me filled with water as soon as my boot left the ground, so I couldn’t even mark where I’d been. Nightfall began, and I nearly panicked. I knew I couldn’t stay out there alone, uncertain if the next footfall would bring me to death. That’s when I saw her.”