Outlaw's Angel Read Online Free Page B

should see them all hanged. He returned to his game, abruptly calling for more cards.
    The Scotsman remained in the room, staring thoughtfully at the emerald. Reaching into his waistcoat, he pulled out a packet of velvet, spilling forth the contents. Another emerald dropped into his palm, identical to the one already warm from his grip. They winked at him like the eyes of a harlot, teasing, glittering, superficially beautiful. They were a strange shape, like teardrops, each facet lovingly and expertly cut to show off the intricate shadings of the gems.
    The first he’d carried for almost fifteen years now, the only clue he had to his mother’s murderer. The night Lord Woodruff had innocently paid him with its match had set his heart pounding. But tonight’s exploration of the duke’s room had proved unrewarding. The only thing he’d discovered was a packet of letters.
    Unwittingly, his thoughts went back to that woman in the garden. Beautiful, exotic, passionate, and arousing. The Scotsman wondered who she was. Grimly, he wrapped up the jewels, replacing them in his pocket. His first attempt might have proved futile, but there would be other opportunities.
    Thoughts know no boundaries of time and space. As the Scotsman thought of Marisa, her own mind was filled with the image of his eyes, those startling silvery gray eyes that stared into hers.
    Annoyed with herself, Marisa tossed and turned on the bed, hearing Shannon’s untroubled breathing beside her. She had met him just for a moment and allowed him to kiss her! A perfect stranger! Worse, she had enjoyed it.
    Devon had known nothing of the blond Scotsman when she’d questioned him earlier. It was simply her imagination, Marisa thought, but his image would not leave her. That, and the delicious feelings that he’d aroused in her when he took her in his arms…
    Furious with herself, she forced her eyes closed. But even in her dreams, a presence invaded her thoughts and her rest was uneasy.
    The morning of Marisa’s wedding broke with a thunderstorm and a roar of activity. Maids scurried from the cellar to the kitchen, carting huge bottles of wine, ale, and port. Cooks stirred pots of steaming soups, while servants rushed to spread pure white cloths on the tables and arrange fresh bouquets of summer flowers. Every inch of the house was dusted and swept spotless in preparation for the celebration to come.
    Marisa held in her breath as her two giggling maids tied the sash of her ivory gown. Her hair was done up, each glistening black curl piled against the next until they cascaded down her back in a shining onyx fall. Her mother stepped back, her face a mixture of pride and worry as she draped her own pearl necklace around Marisa’s throat, fastening the gold clasp beneath her hair.
    “You look lovely.” Sara Travers smiled. The worry left her for the briefest moment, and for that second she looked young and carefree. The lines settled back, however, as if by an elastic pull as she frowned nervously.
    “Marisa,” she said softly. “I know your father has his heart set on this wedding. But I want you to know it’s never too late if you change your mind.”
    “Why, Mother—” Marisa began, surprised. But her mother went on as if she hadn’t spoken.
    “Devon is a fine man, and I’m sure he’ll make a good husband. But I don’t want you to feel forced into anything. Your happiness comes first.”
    Marisa knew that Sara’s marriage to Alastair had not always been good. In recent years, the strain of his illness and the disappointments of his past had tarnished their chances of a peaceful life together. Marisa rarely saw her mother smile and even more rarely heard her parents talking softly together, laughing, or enjoying the simple pleasures of living. She pressed her mother’s hand, responding with all the certainty of youth.
    “Mother, I will be happy. Please don’t worry. Now if I could just manage this dress, we’d better be off.”
    Her mother