himself. He appeared to be looking into some deep and awful world to which she was not privy. The mood did not last, however. He glanced up and, seeing her curious look, smiled, his expression languid and seductive. Marisa could feel the veins in her body collapsing as he stepped closer to her, one hand sliding behind her neck, turning her face up to his.
Liquid lights danced in his eyes as his lips touched hers in a brief kiss, and his finger found and stroked a soft earlobe. Sparks ignited where he caressed her, and even the slightest brush of his fingers left a trail of fire hotter than a sunburn. Reluctantly, his mouth parted from hers.
“That,” he smiled gently, “was for your help. You get the rest later, I promise. My arm feels much better.”
Before Marisa could recover, the door opened. Kyle cursed softly, then moved a few feet away, his legs braced apart. A young boy entered. Marisa recognized him as one of Kyle’s band of Highlanders.
“Are you off already?”
“Yes,” Kyle said. “Take care of her, Mac. Get the lady anything she wishes, with the exception of a weapon. Anything else? Good day to you then, my lady. And stay out of trouble.”
Kyle entered the gaming hall, his quick glance taking in the dusty blue drapes, the crowded hallway, the lightly sanded floor. Bewigged gentlemen sat at the tables, their clay pipes puffing blue clouds into the air, which competed with the smoke from the fireplaces. A sharp summer rain tapped at the windows with staccato notes, the sound drowning inside as he entered the room.
“Whiskey,” he ordered, leaning against the polished mahogany bar. His eyes ran over the crowd, a welter of gentlemen, workingmen, even peasants. Whoever could afford a bet was welcome. A cockfight began with a squawk and a puff of feathers. Immediately, the crowd gathered around, tossing coins into the center, cheering on one scraggly bird over the other. It was then he spotted Lord Sutcliffe.
Young Devon lounged in a chair before the fire, his feet up on a table, a pretty bar wench in his lap. Haphazardly, he tossed a card, grinning as he won, then he scooped up his winnings with a flourish. He was obviously at home here, a brandy in one hand, a card tucked inside the lace of his sleeve. He frowned as he glanced up in Kyle’s direction.
The Scotsman would have attracted notice under any circumstances, but especially tonight. He stood framed in the doorway, the firelight playing upon his burnished hair, throwing sinister shadows along his chiseled cheekbones. But his eyes particularly attracted Devon’s attention; they seemed to bore a hole right through him. The skin grew tight around Lord Sutcliffe’s throat. He threw down the cards and helped the barmaid off his lap, standing as the Scotsman approached.
“My lord,” Kyle spoke softly, but nothing could hide the intensity of his voice. Devon nodded, then cleared his throat.
“There is a room just beyond that we can use. The owner has assured me of privacy.”
Kyle smiled; Devon was chilled to the bone. “I think not,” he said quietly. “Your owner will certainly have the law waiting just beyond, hidden in the curtains, ready to drag me out to Triple Tree. I’ve had enough of the English, my nobleman. We will conduct business right here, in public. That is, if you wish Miss Travers to remain alive.”
Devon returned the smile, though he was far from feeling friendly. “Well, it seems you hold all the aces. Will this do?” Lazily, he dropped into a chair, watching as the Scotsman did the same.
“I assume this is a ransom,” Devon continued, trying to sound jaunty. “Just what price do you plan to extract for the safe return of my bride? That is, if she still lives?”
“Marisa is alive,” Kyle said, enjoying Devon’s outrage at the familiar use of her name. “And she will continue to survive if you cooperate. I have no desire to kill her…
yet
.” He emphasized the last word.
Devon nodded. “What
Liquid lights danced in his eyes as his lips touched hers in a brief kiss, and his finger found and stroked a soft earlobe. Sparks ignited where he caressed her, and even the slightest brush of his fingers left a trail of fire hotter than a sunburn. Reluctantly, his mouth parted from hers.
“That,” he smiled gently, “was for your help. You get the rest later, I promise. My arm feels much better.”
Before Marisa could recover, the door opened. Kyle cursed softly, then moved a few feet away, his legs braced apart. A young boy entered. Marisa recognized him as one of Kyle’s band of Highlanders.
“Are you off already?”
“Yes,” Kyle said. “Take care of her, Mac. Get the lady anything she wishes, with the exception of a weapon. Anything else? Good day to you then, my lady. And stay out of trouble.”
Kyle entered the gaming hall, his quick glance taking in the dusty blue drapes, the crowded hallway, the lightly sanded floor. Bewigged gentlemen sat at the tables, their clay pipes puffing blue clouds into the air, which competed with the smoke from the fireplaces. A sharp summer rain tapped at the windows with staccato notes, the sound drowning inside as he entered the room.
“Whiskey,” he ordered, leaning against the polished mahogany bar. His eyes ran over the crowd, a welter of gentlemen, workingmen, even peasants. Whoever could afford a bet was welcome. A cockfight began with a squawk and a puff of feathers. Immediately, the crowd gathered around, tossing coins into the center, cheering on one scraggly bird over the other. It was then he spotted Lord Sutcliffe.
Young Devon lounged in a chair before the fire, his feet up on a table, a pretty bar wench in his lap. Haphazardly, he tossed a card, grinning as he won, then he scooped up his winnings with a flourish. He was obviously at home here, a brandy in one hand, a card tucked inside the lace of his sleeve. He frowned as he glanced up in Kyle’s direction.
The Scotsman would have attracted notice under any circumstances, but especially tonight. He stood framed in the doorway, the firelight playing upon his burnished hair, throwing sinister shadows along his chiseled cheekbones. But his eyes particularly attracted Devon’s attention; they seemed to bore a hole right through him. The skin grew tight around Lord Sutcliffe’s throat. He threw down the cards and helped the barmaid off his lap, standing as the Scotsman approached.
“My lord,” Kyle spoke softly, but nothing could hide the intensity of his voice. Devon nodded, then cleared his throat.
“There is a room just beyond that we can use. The owner has assured me of privacy.”
Kyle smiled; Devon was chilled to the bone. “I think not,” he said quietly. “Your owner will certainly have the law waiting just beyond, hidden in the curtains, ready to drag me out to Triple Tree. I’ve had enough of the English, my nobleman. We will conduct business right here, in public. That is, if you wish Miss Travers to remain alive.”
Devon returned the smile, though he was far from feeling friendly. “Well, it seems you hold all the aces. Will this do?” Lazily, he dropped into a chair, watching as the Scotsman did the same.
“I assume this is a ransom,” Devon continued, trying to sound jaunty. “Just what price do you plan to extract for the safe return of my bride? That is, if she still lives?”
“Marisa is alive,” Kyle said, enjoying Devon’s outrage at the familiar use of her name. “And she will continue to survive if you cooperate. I have no desire to kill her…
yet
.” He emphasized the last word.
Devon nodded. “What
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