Eyes of the Cat (5 page)

The reason for the groan glanced over his shoulder at her. “You’d best come drink. ’Tis a dry ride back.”

Still dazed, Tabitha walked to the spring. “It never happened. I never did that. I imagined it,” she repeated inaudibly, over and over, while drinking and splashing cold water on her face and arms.

That’s right. You imagined it
, a voice spoke in her mind.
And you’ll go on imagining it. If you live to be a hundred, you’ll never forget it.

“Oh, shut up,” she said.

The Comanche glanced at her, the ghost of a grin haunting his lips. “Who are you arguing with?”

“Myself,” she answered through clenched teeth. “I do it a lot.”

His eyebrows rose. “Interesting. You must always win, then.”

“No, hardly ever.” She sighed. “Can we go now, please?”

The moment they were remounted, he swung the stallion’s head in the direction they had previously galloped from.

“Wait a minute!” Tabitha squirmed around to glare at him.

“Do you know your eyes flash like emeralds in the moonlight?”

“Don’t change the subject. This isn’t the way to Abilene!”

The arm about her waist tightened. “I realize that.”

“But you promised!” She struggled against his hold.

“So did you. Sit still or you’ll startle the horse,” he ordered, as she tried to throw herself free.

“This isn’t fair.” She pulled as far away from him as was possible in the short space on the stallion’s back.

He yanked her back against himself, sending a hot flush spiraling through her. “Isn’t it? I kept my end of the bargain.”

“You did
not
. You said you’d take me to Abilene!”

“I said I’d help you away from the castle. And that, I did,” he corrected. “I never promised I’d not return you.”

Tabitha strained around to glare at him again, but all she could see was his firm mouth scant inches from her own. She hastily faced front again.

“You never had any intention of taking me to Abilene Station,” she ground out. “Why did you go to all this trouble to bring me out here, anyway? Simply to…to molest me?”

A maddening low laugh rumbled against her spine. “’Twas only a kiss, dear. Don’t tell me you’ve never been kissed before.”

She clamped her mouth shut, but her sudden trembling gave her away.

“I never would’ve guessed it,” he said more to himself than her. “One more surprise.”

“Let me off this horse,” she said darkly.

The arm about her hardened into hot steel.

“Let me off this
instant
. Or…or I’ll spur him into that ravine ahead and kill all three of us!”

“You can try. But he can jump that ravine.”

As her trembling spilled over into frustrated sobs, Tabitha felt angrier with herself than her captor. This was mortifying.

“Whoa.” The Comanche reined them to a halt. “Listen, lass”—he wrapped both arms about her and lowered his head close to hers, his voice a soft purr in her ear—“I’ll admit ’twas a bit of folly to ride you off the way I did. You were so anxious to be rescued, I…I’m afraid I couldn’t resist. But my intentions at the spring were honorable. I simply wanted to…propose something, you might say. You just never gave me the chance to explain what.”

“So explain now!” she snapped, her tears evaporating in the heat of a new anger.

“Later,” he said. “You’re too miffled now, I think, to give me the answer I—”

“Miffled?” Tabitha almost strangled on the word. “I’m a good deal more than
miffled
. Do you think I
like
the idea of being locked in a rat’s nest? Because I promise that’s what will happen if you don’t let me go.”

“And if that’s all that’s bothering you, I can promise you’ll not be shut in the tower again.” He chuckled.

“
How
? How can
you
promise me anything?” she blazed back. “Why should you even care? What difference is it to you whether I return to the castle or not? Who
are
you?”

The Comanche answered by spurring the stallion forward into a furious gallop.

“I’m the Laird of the castle!” he declared over the thunder of the hooves. “I’m Alan MacAllister—your future husband!”

Chapter 2

A battalion of water and hail blasted against Castle MacAllister’s thick adobe walls. Wind ripped through the great courtyards, shrieking like all the fiends of hell out on a bloody warpath. It sounded like the end of the world.

Which was right in keeping with Tabitha’s mood as she huddled in the center of a big four-poster bed, listening to the assault. This was her second night in the fortress, and she was depressingly wide-awake, having spent her first night and most of the following day sleeping like a drugged person.

In fact, she was irritably certain that she
had
been drugged—probably just after the impossible lord of the place had carried her in and left her. It couldn’t have been done before that, of course, because she’d been kicking and screaming too much. Not that she had believed fighting would do any good—the man was too strong—but she had seen no reason to make it easy for him.

There could have been some tasteless drug in the water, she speculated. Or a topical narcotic in the salve that little maid had brought for her scratches? (The maid had also delivered a supper dish of haggis, but the drug couldn’t have been administered through that because Tabitha hadn’t eaten the haggis. Who in their right mind could?)…

Whatever had caused it, she had only the sketchiest impressions of the past twenty-four hours. She knew there had been people hovering over her at intervals. Chambermaids, Tabitha thought, but she couldn’t recall much about them. There had been the queerest dreams, too. But she couldn’t remember much of those either—except that they had been unsettling enough to make her grateful she couldn’t remember them.

And once, she had awoken briefly to find the black cat curled up beside her. Though he wasn’t here now. She pulled herself upright and glanced around. An oil lamp burned low on a table by the bed, bouncing weird shadows everywhere, but there were no cats hiding in them.

She was in a different room, a large, handsomely furnished chamber on a lower level of the keep. They hadn’t shut her back in the rat tower. Her captor had kept his word about that, at least. Not that she’d trust him on anything else. Mr. Elliott had been right. Of all the MacAllisters, Alan was definitely the oddest. To say nothing of the most aggravating.

Tabitha slipped out of bed and padded across the room. She had to see if the door was locked. After all, Alan had promised she wouldn’t be shut back in the tower, but he hadn’t promised not to imprison her elsewhere. And she had learned something about Laird Alan’s promises. They were a lot like her favorite Swiss cheese—tempting but loaded with holes.

She gave a small gasp when the heavy door creaked open; it was so unexpected. But then she realized the reason. Alan knew he didn’t need to lock her in a single room. The entire castle was her prison. Even if she could find her way out of the keep, through the courtyards, and scale the massive bailey wall, there was still the moat to cross and the outer palisade to get over. A classic, medieval styled castle like this was one of the most efficient fortresses ever designed. Before the invention of gunpowder, a scant handful of men could have held such a place against almost any enemy except starvation. It was virtually impenetrable. Which meant it would also be virtually impossible to escape.

“I couldn’t try it in this storm, anyway.” Tabitha sighed. “I may be desperate, but I’m not stupid.”

She was also famished. Thirsty, too, but she didn’t dare drink from the jug on the table, just in case it
was
the water that had been drugged.

Which raised another concern.
Why
had they drugged her? Simply to keep her quiet? Or had there been a more devious intent? Either way, it rattled her.

She explored the rest of the chamber with one agitated, sweeping gaze…that stopped on a steamer trunk nestled against a wall. Thank heaven for small favors. They had returned her previously confiscated luggage. That was something, Tabitha supposed. It would be comforting to wear her own sensible clothes again after all those days in Lady Gabrina’s bothersome tartans. The tartans that had gotten her mired in this mess.

“I hope she and Captain Lawrence made it away safely. I’d hate to think I’m going through all this for nothing.”

Her breath caught. The image of lovely Gabrina had sparked an inspiration. Perhaps the MacAllisters were actually viewing her
as
Lady Gabrina. Sort of a six-of-one, half-a-dozen-of-another situation. When they saw her in her true colors, they might lose interest. After all, they had no idea what a severe little Plain Jane she really was.

“Laird Alan”—she smiled—“I believe I have another surprise for you.”

The smile flipped into a frown when she opened the trunk. “Honestly! If they had to search my things, the least they could have done was put them back properly.” Quickly, she rummaged through the jumble, looking for one of her high-necked shirtwaists and sedate dark skirts. “What the… These aren’t my clothes! These are all—”

Her voice was lost in the thunder rolls as she pulled out piece after piece of frilly, frothy, exquisite apparel, all of it breathtakingly beautiful.

It was Gabrina’s fancy French-made wedding trousseau, ordered and paid for by her Texas kinsmen. The welcoming wardrobe the Scots girl had bragged would be here waiting for her.

How awful.

Still, one had to wear something. With a resigned sigh, she selected undergarments and what appeared to be the most modest of the gowns, and dressed. From somewhere in the keep, a clock chimed midnight. The
witching hour
. But Tabitha didn’t believe in witches, and she needed to find food and drink before she collapsed from hunger. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast on the train, which made her last meal almost two days ago. She snatched a silver handled brush off the bedside table, turned up the oil lamp, and moved to stand before the dresser’s large mirror.

And froze.

A scream stuck in her throat. Her blood ran cold. A terrible visage stared out of the glass, its green eyes huge with horror.

“Oh, no…I look lovelier than Lady Gabrina!”

The gown was an elegantly cut, forest green velvet with a rather provocative neckline, but she had chosen it for its dark fabric and long sleeves. Unfortunately, the covering of her arms only emphasized the dip of the bodice, while the rich color accentuated the alabaster tones of her skin and made her hair look like spun gold.

Yuck.

Sticking out her tongue and making all kinds of faces at herself to try to dispel the enchanting image, Tabitha yanked the brush through her long locks, twisted them into a tight bun, which was the most unattractive style she could think of, and stomped out of the chamber in search of sustenance.

Outside the door, she found a lit candle in a wall sconce and confiscated it in the name of necessity. Prowling a dark fortress at midnight on a wild, storm tossed night was neither for the faint of heart nor the faintly illuminated. She believed in ghosts no more than she believed in witches, but she didn’t know her way about the castle, and she couldn’t shake the creepy sensation that unseen eyes watched her from the shadows.

A dozen paces down the corridor, a narrow passageway led off to the left. Tabitha stepped into it, hoping it was a servants’ route to the kitchens. Her foot bumped something. And the something let out a blood-chilling howl.

“Oh!” She gasped. “I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?”

The cat’s large eyes glowed like two live coals. “Just my pride,” he seemed to say, making a soft rumbling sound in his throat.

“You naughty boy”—she stooped to stroke him—“I really should be most annoyed with you over that incident in the tower, but how can I be angry with my only friend here?”

“I’m glad to hear you say so,” spoke a low voice from close behind her.

Tabitha jumped a foot in the air and whirled around. “Mr. Elliott! You do have a knack for appearing out of nowhere.”

“Like I told you, Miss Jeffries, I’m a wizard.” He gave her a long, slow grin. “My, don’t you look stunning tonight. Just like a fairytale princess.”

“Yes, I know.” She grimaced. “Isn’t it dreadful?”

His eyebrows shot up, then lowered to normal, and he chuckled. “Miss Jeffries, you are a very unique young lady. Most girls would blush over a compliment like that.”

“Most girls aren’t in my predicament. I don’t want to look like a princess. I’m not the princess type. If I have to look like anything out of a fairytale right now, I’d prefer it to be the ugly old hag.”

“Well, cheer up. All women turn into hags eventually, don’t they?” He grinned again.

“What an unpleasant thing to say. Even if it were true—which it’s not—I can’t afford to wait that long. And furthermore”—she paused for breath—“I
do
wish you’d stop trying to cheer me up. With cheering like yours, I’d never need anything to depress me.”