Free Outlaw's Angel by Colleen Quinn Page B

Marisa declared, grateful for the opportunity to eavesdrop. “I met you last night, downstairs. I was with the Highlanders.”
    “Oh, the big chap with the gold ’air? I recall now.” Marisa breathed a sigh of relief as the key grated slowly in the door. “Damned good-looking bloke, ’e is. I wouldn’t mind a bit of that. Better than wot I just left, I can tell ye that.”
    The door flung open. Marisa faced the gaudily dressed young woman she’d seen the night before in the tavern. Grinning, Annie pocketed the key and winked perversely.
    “Like I said, miss, if that Scots bloke tires ye out, tell ’im to send for me. A man like that could last all night, he could. And I would charge him only two shillings.”
    “Thank you.” Marisa managed a smile. Annie’s eyes dropped to the breeches she wore, and her eyes widened.
    “Does he make you dress up in those? Men! You’ll never knows what they’ll take into their heads!”
    Her gown swished as she started for the stairs, shaking her red hair.
    Marisa wasted no time after the tavern wench’s departure. Hushing the door closed behind her, she slipped down the narrow hallway, grateful for the lack of candles. As she neared the tavern room, she paused, hearing her own heartbeat. The noise below assured her that the tavern was full. No doubt the Highlanders would be fully present, drinking their fill and wenching. Marisa stood torn for a moment, wondering whether it might be better to return to her room. Instinctively, she knew this might be her last chance to escape. And if they were near Brighton, Lady Ashton had lodgings not too far away. Help could be as close as the next carriage….
    Summoning all the bravado she could, Marisa walked slowly toward the door, trying not to attract attention. She saw Annie’s curious look, then felt the heated stares of the men.
    “Hey, who is she? Ain’t she a new one? You’re a pretty little lady, even in those trousers….” A sneering chuckle followed, coupled with bets as to who could take them off her.
    A Scotsman dropped his ale and stared at her, slowly rising from the table. Panicking, Marisa recognized him as the man who rode beside Kyle, an elderly Scotsman who spoke little except to qualify their plans. He stared across the room, seeming to guess her motives. Frowning, he replaced his ale and came toward her, his eyes peering out of a face swathed in hair, his full beard flowing well past his chin.
    Marisa darted for the door and ran out, down the steps and onto the road ahead. Moonlight bathed the scene with a sharp light, throwing everything in stark relief. She had barely cleared the stairs when she heard footsteps behind her. She ran desperately, an ache starting in her side and her lungs burning. She saw a horse standing in the road just ahead.
    “Please! Help me!” she called, then froze as the horse walked toward her, its rider painfully familiar.
    “Going somewhere, my lady?” Kyle asked. Moonlight silvered his features, making his eyes even more frightening and even more wonderfully hypnotic. He was furious.
    Devon returned home, his body drawn and tired. It felt as if he’d been riding for days, but in actuality it was only a few hours.
    The house was quiet when he entered, the tall gray stone building resembling a granite mausoleum. Devon had hated this house since he was a little boy, the brooding dankness of the estate a stark contrast to the green loveliness of the lawns and hills beyond. Placing his gloves on the polished mahogany table, he crept to the back of the house and down a staircase used only by the servants.
    The cellar was dark and damp. Cobwebs dusted the brim of his hat as he reached for a candle, relieved that Saunders still kept one near the door. Striking a match, the young lord strode past the dusty bottles of port, past the sacks of potatoes and barrels of meal to a wall made completely of brick. Without pausing, Devon pushed aside a barrel and knelt down to the floor.
    A wooden