Outlaw's Angel

Marisa breathed in sharply. “Unhand me or I’ll scream!”

“Oh no, my dear. If you were going to scream, you would have long before this. I grow more curious by the moment. Perhaps you feel a little curious too?”

Before Marisa could react, his hand slid behind her neck to turn her face up to his. Startled, her mouth parted to give the scream she threatened, but his lips possessed hers, taking her cries with a kiss.

Marisa strained against him, her hands meeting a chest that felt like well-hewn steel. His free arm slipped about her waist, pulling her more closely against him.

She was trapped against him in the most intimate way. Her blood flowed hot, racing to the surface of her skin.

Helpless, Marisa let him have his way…lost to the magic of his insistent touch….

Outlaw’s Angel

Colleen Quinn

Copyright © 2012 by Colleen Quinn

For Marlene

Special thanks to my family, my mother Catherine, my sister Cathy, my brothers Jack, Chris, and Matthew, for your continuing belief in me, and

To my editor, Wendy McCurdy, and Adele Leone, for your support and friendship. It is appreciated.

July, 1775

Scotland

The silver-grey mists of the morning rose from the emerald hills of Slagg Mountain, bathing the craggy vistas in a secretive cloak. The wind howled, dying in the tops of the trees and scurrying off to the fields beyond. No great castles sprung up from the earth, a living legacy to kings and Scottish clansmen, their kilts flying about their knees while their bagpipes screamed with a frenzied vengeance. No manor houses of English nobles graced these hills, lords who held doubtful deeds to the uninviting land. The only sign of habitation was the poor farmhouses scattered about, hidden in the glens. If the British tax collectors came to secure the king’s due, they were sometimes never seen again. The Scots found their vengeance in their own way.

A single horse galloped along the mountain’s edge. The Highlanders peered from dusty windows and blessed themselves, wondering what auld god had loosened from the mountains this night to ride among the heather hills. The horse was as black as. Lucifer’s, they whispered later, and its rider equally impressive. He was a young man, with more than a bit of bold Viking blood in his veins. He paused, his mount’s breath steamy in the warm July morning, and surveyed the land around him. Had the villagers been able to see him closer, they might have been more frightened still, for his face was stern, far too stern for his thirty years. His jaw was sharply chiseled, his nose aquiline, his seat proud on the restless stallion. But it was his eyes that arrested attention, eyes as gray as a loch, clear and unfathomable, hypnotic and arresting. When he squinted slightly, as he did now, those eyes became mesmerizing, sending a chill to the blood of those who peered too close.

Swinging down from his horse in a sure, fluid motion, he unsheathed his sword, carrying it gracefully at his side as he strode through the glen. The horse did not move but waited patiently, tossing his head, his eyes following as his master picked his way through the tangle of weeds and heather that flourished all about. Pausing at a stand of old oak trees, the mysterious rider pushed aside the tangled brush, then kicked in a crumbling wooden door.

The tiny hovel was hidden from the roadside, and without a discerning eye, one would miss the stone chimney and the rotted remnant of the door. The rider paused in reflection, his gray gaze never leaving the humble interior. Here was the hearth where he’d spent his boyhood in isolation. The iron cauldron lay rusted and unused in the fireplace, and ashes, long since grayed, were now a smooth dust. An owl screeched from above and flew out the window, ignoring this intruder as he picked his way through the rubble. A thousand memories flooded back to him and he steadied his hand against the crumbling wall to prevent himself from crying out loud.

It had been fifteen years since he’d seen this place, fifteen years of suppressed rage and misery. His eyes continued their perusal, and he took in sharp breaths to quell the anger that welled up within him again. His rage culminated when his eyes fell to a spot on the floor, an old rust-colored stain still apparent on the straw carpet beneath his feet.

His mother. He could see her again as he found her that day, the knife embedded in her chest, her blood flowing quickly from her, ending the misery of her life. There was no peace in her gaze. Her open and staring eyes seemed to beseech him to find her murderer and to reward him justly.

Clearing his head of the red haze of pain, he reached into his brocade waistcoat and removed a small emerald. It glimmered in his hand like an eye of a black cat, winking, seeming to contain a life within itself. Grimly, he pocketed the gem and, without looking back, crossed the field to his mount.

Chapter One

“Marriage!”

Marisa Travers tossed down the silver hairbrush she was using and fumed at the reflection in the mirror. Outwardly, the woman in the glass appeared the picture of decorum, her shining jet-black hair swept into a charming coiffure, her nose slim, her mouth red and inviting. Diamonds danced from her ears, lending a sparkling fire to a face that needed little aid, and a spectacular diamond necklace glittered from her throat. Her gown, black velvet, was proper enough, even in a time when printed cottons and muslins were favored by the ladies of court. There was only one place her inner turmoil was reflected, and that was in her eyes.

She stared at them, those huge green orbs unsmirched by even the slightest hint of brown. Yes, her eyes practically sparkled with vitality, belying the cool maid so resigned to her fate.

She had no choice. Her father would see her wed, and to a man with a title. For the last three years, Marisa had been to court, had had tea in the homes of all the eligible lords and barons, had endured their fumbling kisses and sly caresses. Marisa thought of them now, her annoyance more with herself than with her eager throng of admirers.

Was it her? Was there something wrong with her? She searched the glass again, looking past the pure perfection of her beauty. Was there something lacking in her mind or in her heart that she could feel so little for any of her beaux?

When she could not choose a mate, her father had decided the matter himself. Pacing about the study, Alastair had laid down his ultimatum.

“If I left it up to you, Marisa, you’d be a spinster. I’ve wasted the best of my wine and my meals to see you decently wed, but not a man would suit. Thus, I’ve decided for you. Lord Sutcliffe it will be. I’ve spoken with the duke, and he has agreed that his son and you shall wed. It cost a bit of persuasion and dowry, but ’twill be worth it all. You’ll be a lady, something all my money cannot buy.”

Devon Chamberland, Marisa thought. Not only did the Duke of Sutcliffe’s lands join with theirs, but Devon was a childhood friend, a man that she liked well enough, though she did not love him.

Tapping her fan on her arm in unconscious irritation, Marisa frowned. It was a splendid match—everyone said so—and tonight their engagement would be announced. Devon was handsome, refined, well-bred. He was kind to her in a distant sort of way, even sending her white roses for her birthday. All of the ladies were enamored of him and whispered their congratulations with envious sighs.

A rustle from behind her brought her swiftly back to reality. Marisa forced a smile, turning gaily to her friend. Shannon lifted the flagon on the dressing table, testing the scent before wrinkling her nose at the pungent aroma.

“Are you going to wear this stuff?” Shannon choked, waving the air as the sweet smell of lilies and roses drifted through the chamber.

“My aunt sent me that.” Marisa shook her head, lifting the crystal stopper and testing the scent herself. She smiled as Shannon paced in an unladylike stride about the room, her gown encumbering her steps until she hoisted it out of the way.

“I hate it that you’re getting married.” Shannon flounced upon the bed, kicking her feet up behind her. “We’ll never have any adventures again. Like the time I climbed the trellis and talked you into sneaking out to watch the fireworks display. Didn’t you want to die laughing when Lady Marklam’s wig caught on fire?”

“That was funny,” Marisa said. “Especially when she tore it off and trampled it to the ground. ’Tis a good thing my parents never found out about that night.”

“Or the time we went sledding with the stableboys? That was great fun, especially when they started a bonfire and we all sang Christmas songs. Or the time you stayed at my house in Ireland and we baked those awful scones?”

“And your brothers ate them,” Marisa said, giggling at the memory. She and Shannon had been friends for years, long before her family had come into money and purchased Travers Estate. Although Marisa had taken pains to assure her otherwise, both of them knew that marriage would change their friendship.

As if hearing her thoughts, Shannon stopped her pacing and said abruptly, “Marisa, why must you marry Lord Sutcliffe?”

Marisa was momentarily taken aback, but she collected herself.

“You know why—we’ve been through that. Papa wants me to wed a title. It won’t be that bad. I’ll be close by; you can still come and visit. And I’ve a lovely gown picked out, antique lace and seed pearls. Let me show you.”

“Marisa!” Shannon flopped onto the bed in exasperation. “Will you stop being so practical! This is your wedding we’re talking about! Do you really want to spend the rest of your life with Lord Sutcliffe? The man’s arrogant, conceited, selfish, and cocky.”

“You just don’t like him because of last summer,” Marisa laughed. “Remember?”

“As if I could forget!” Shannon wrinkled her nose in distaste. Devon as a little boy was remarkably intelligent and polite, but he had all the manners and affectations of his class. That he thought the girls beneath him was obvious. He was Shannon’s favorite tease, and regrettably, Marisa went along with a few of her stunts, even buttering his lordship’s saddle when they’d had enough of his noble demeanor. His descent to the stable floor caused them both untold mirth. Devon hauled them down from their hiding place in the loft, correctly assuming Shannon was to blame. Unfortunately for Devon, the duke chose that moment to appear, calling him off before he could dispense with what he felt was a well-deserved thrashing.

“Swine,” Shannon muttered. “And I didn’t even think of using butter. That was all your doing.”

“Yes, but you talked me into it,” Marisa agreed. They stared at each other and burst into laughter.

“Well, isn’t there anyone else you could marry?” Shannon asked.

“The only other titled gent currently begging my hand is Lord Montgomery, and he is—”

“—a lout, a lecher, abusive, and a drunkard.” Shannon finished the sentence bluntly. “There’s got to be something we can do.” Shannon faced her abruptly, her own rather plain face brightened with her intensity. “I always imagined you marrying some elegant rogue, some unconquered hero….”

Marisa glanced up, startled by her friend’s words, but Shannon was distracted by the looking glass. Her attention now centered on the becoming buttercup-yellow gown she wore. “Are you sure you don’t mind me borrowing this?” she asked shyly.

“Of course not,” Marisa assured her. “It never fit me, anyway; it was far too long. And the color becomes you. It makes your hair look like copper.”

Shannon beamed at the compliment, then her thoughts returned to Marisa’s upcoming marriage. Sutcliffe was simply not…right for Marisa. It was like mating a raven with an exotic tropical bird, resplendent in crimson and flashing emeralds. Shannon stole a glance at Marisa, admiring the gown that set off her ebony hair and made her a study in bewitching sorcery. She saw the mutinous sparkle of her eyes and she smiled, hope springing within her again. Marisa was not married yet, and something told her tonight would portend great things. Suddenly in better spirits, she handed Marisa her fan and gestured to the door.

“The carriage awaits,” she said stiffly, imitating the footman. “Mayhap you can make Lord Sutcliffe jealous and dance with every swain there. Who knows? Perhaps you will meet your true love tonight.”

Smiling doubtfully, Marisa took her arm and braced herself for the evening to come.

Saunders held open the door for the guests, his face impassive as always, his manner impeccably polite. The maids had spent the better part of the morning grumbling and cleaning the nineteen rooms of the Sutcliffe mansion—the endless yards of billowing velvet curtains, the Chinese rugs, the mahogany in need of polish. Now, the ballroom gleamed in hues of green, lavished with gold from the fire, sparkled with candles that flickered from overhead sconces. Prisms from the crystal chandelier danced across the carpets like faeries, and notes of scarlet, saffron, and blue twinkled from the piano where Lady Arabelle played.

Marisa handed Saunders her cloak, giving him a smile that he warmly returned. Waiting in the hall, she thought of all the times she’d played here as a child, when the duke had reluctantly agreed that Devon needed more companionship than the housemaids and servants. As children, they had shared a taste for the finer things in life—art, music, literature. Devon had admired her drawings and critically pointed out when she’d made a shading less than subtle or a rose too heavily petalled. It was a comfortable companionship, without the sparkle of that mysterious thing called passion, something they both held in suspicion anyway.

Alastair Travers and the Duke of Sutcliffe paused in their conversation, looking up in her direction.

“There you are, Marisa,” Alastair said, his voice full of pride. Born the son of a pauper, Alastair had grown up fully acquainted with the horrors of being indigent in eighteenth-century England. His brother had been arrested and hanged for the lack of a guinea, and his father had perished from tuberculosis at the age of twenty-nine.

Fortunately, Alastair had found a protector in the form of the Duke of Sutcliffe. After making his fortune in gold snuffboxes, Alastair felt secure. All that remained was his daughter’s happiness, which he planned to see to immediately. Marisa was lovely tonight, dazzling in fact. Even the duke seemed pleased as he lifted a craggy hand to her, cupping her chin.

“You are well worth the wait, my dear. Has Devon seen you yet? Come here, my boy. Your betrothed awaits.”

Lord Sutcliffe approached, his smile dashing as he surveyed his future bride. “You look beautiful.”

He inclined his head toward Shannon, who was standing a few feet behind Marisa. Suddenly recalling the day they’d tampered with his saddle, Devon felt a rush of annoyance. Shannon gave him a broad smile, then squeezed Marisa’s hand reassuringly before disappearing into the crowd. Devon turned back to Marisa.

“Will you do me the honor of this dance?” He led her onto the floor, leaving the duke and her father to beam fondly from the side chairs.

Marisa smiled, taking his hand in warm comfort. Clad in a dandified blue brocade, which managed to appear distinctly masculine on him, he looked every inch a lord of leisure. Devon was unusually handsome, with looks so classically striking that he drew attention wherever he went. His hair was the color of coal, his eyes blue and sparkling with humor and cynicism. As Lord Sutcliffe, he had seen much of the world from both sides, the genteel silk and satin as well as the seamy underworld of gaming, drink, and women. Unflappable, mildly interested in everything that went on around him, mentally agile, Devon held a fascination for men and women alike. Sensing her attention, Devon smiled down at her.

“I’m sorry, Marisa. I guess I’m not good company tonight. These assemblies grate on my nerves.” He shrugged, his manner charming and boyish, as if sharing a secret. “Would you like some wine?”

Marisa nodded, glad for the respite. The room had grown intolerably hot.

Sipping her drink, Marisa could feel the stares of the women around her. The air was filled with their perfumes—lilac and roses—and the rustle of their silk gowns. The dowagers and debutantes were little pleased as they surveyed the future Lady Sutcliffe, for Marisa’s black velvet gown was as distinct in the room as a single rose in a field of daisies. Many an unwed lady thought unchristian ideas as she wished Marisa would wed and get quickly with child.

“May I offer my congratulations?” The Earl of Argyll approached, bowing to Marisa. “I would have spoken sooner but I have just arrived. Seems another carriage was waylaid tonight.”

“The Angel?” Devon asked, his jaw tightening.

“Aye. The Count of Hereford’s coach was attacked, on his way here to the party. Luckily, the outlaw made off with only his lady’s opal earrings.”

Marisa shivered at the thought, fingering her own gems. Devon saw her apprehension and smiled reassuringly.

“His reputation is that he causes little physical harm, fortunately. Have they discovered anything else about him other than that he is Scottish?”

“No, and that is the frustrating thing,” the earl snapped. “The king is concerned that this Angel is a supporter of Bonnie Prince Charlie. Perhaps he is trying to round up support for the Prince’s claim to the throne. You know how these bloody clans can be.”

“Excepting your own, which we all know is loyal to the Crown,” Devon said. Marisa glanced up at him, hearing a hint of sarcasm, but Devon continued smoothly. “I know what you mean, though. The Highlanders are as violent as ever. I still hear the pipes when hunting in the North.”

“They say this marauding band is led by the MacLeod.”

“MacLeod!” Devon whistled softly. “I thought they all died out or emigrated from Raassay.”

“They did,” the earl concurred. “All except the central clan, including Kyle. They have no description of him, for he wears a black silk mask and his family tartan. The peasants say he has the face of a Lucifer. Hence his nickname.” The earl shrugged, a condescending smile spreading across his face. “He is a dangerous man, however. He is still wanted for matricide.”

“He murdered his mother?”

Marisa gasped. “I’m sorry, Marisa,” Devon said. “This conversation is not fit for a lady’s ears.”

“Don’t mind me,” Marisa said. “Finish what you are saying. But I think I’ll walk outside. It’s too hot in here anyway.”

Devon agreed, watching Marisa disappear through the French doors before resuming his conversation.

Outside, the moon was full, painting the landscape with a soft silver sheen. A sadness filled Marisa, though she could not name the cause. The scent of larkspur and tearoses filled her head, making it ache, while the heat seemed even more oppressive than inside. Taking a seat in a hidden alcove of beeches, Marisa thought back to the tale of the Angel. A Scottish clansman robbing and inciting rebellion. The idea unnerved her, even more in this lonely garden.

A door opened, and a splash of golden candlelight fell upon the lawn. Marisa jumped, then sighed in relief as Shannon approached, hefting a wine bottle in one hand and a tea sandwich in the other.