Eyes of the Cat (9 page)

And Tabitha fell, rather than sat, on the nearest stool. Her legs had turned to rubber. She was remembering the story of the original Cassandra and hoping that she hadn’t chosen too appropriate a name for her new acquaintance.

The first Cassandra had been a princess of Troy during its long ago siege. She had asked for and received the gift of prophecy from Apollo. But she’d also spurned the god’s advances, so he’d turned his blessing into a curse by declaring that no one would ever believe her. To all who heard them, Cassandra’s words sounded like the ravings of a madwoman, yet the poor doomed girl had spoken nothing but the truth.

Tabitha shook her head, jiggled one knee, then the other. The atmosphere of the castle had suddenly shifted. Before it had seemed a bit eerie, of course, but mostly just impractical and eccentric. Now it felt malignant and menacing.

She shot a wary glance around the alcove, the flickering glow from her candle making the curved walls appear almost as if they were pulsating. Even her own shadow looked somehow threatening. Steeling herself against a creeping panic, she cautiously rose to her feet, every nerve trembling like a touched fiddle string. Something hit against the hem of her skirt, and the squeal she let out hit high C.

She was that happy to see him.

“Hullo, angel, you always appear just when I need you the most, don’t you?” She knelt down to pet the cat. “You’re my little knight in furry armor.”

He dug his velvety head into her hand, that deep throaty purr of his vibrating like a hive of giant bees.

“You must know this castle like the back of your paw. Do you think you could show me the way to my room? Not that I really want to go there—I’d rather be far away from this dreadful place—but if I have to be anywhere here, I think my room is the safest. At least there I can lock the door and barricade myself in. Don’t you agree?” She gazed wistfully into his glowing amber eyes.

The eyes blinked once, and the cat gathered himself into a tight crouch beneath her hand. Like a spring unwinding itself, he shot around her and darted behind the screen. Tabitha heard a wild scrambling, a muffled woosh, like something large and soft hitting the floor, and then… Complete, breathless quiet.

“Now what was that all about?” Her voice echoed in the stillness. “Did you hear a mouse?”

As if in answer, the candle flame flickered frantically for an instant, then wisped out, leaving her in a darkness so dense it almost suffocated her.

But not quite. From somewhere a breeze was blowing. A draft that hadn’t been there before. Heart pounding, she groped her way toward the source of the moving air—and found not only it, but a bright light in the passageway the cat had uncovered when he’d clawed down the tapestry that had hung behind the Oriental screen. It was rather strange she hadn’t noticed the tapestry before. But then, meeting Mary-Cassandra had been more than a little distracting.

She stooped to retrieve the light that the red haired distraction must have left behind when she’d entered the alcove—from this direction, apparently. It was one of Simon’s electric lanterns.

Tabitha stood blinking and puzzling a moment, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the glare and wondering why the catty Cassandra had been there in the first place.
It was almost like she’d been waiting for me. And what was she doing with one of Simon’s lamps?
Did he present one to every prospective bride who came to Castle MacAllister?

She heaved a small sigh. This was hardly a concern, considering all else she had to deal with—such as kidnapping, imprisonment, and a murdering fiancée—but it did smell somewhat suspicious.

Somewhat?
The whole fortress and everything in it was beginning to stink like a kettle full of rotten fish!

Shaking her head, Tabitha glanced down the passage. Her black furred knight was nowhere to be seen, but that was all right, because she recognized where she was now and knew how to get from here to where she was going. She placed the lantern back on the floor and scurried back to her room.

She was a little breathless by the time she reached it, and more than a little dismayed to find no key in the door’s lock.

“But I’m sure there was a key here when I left. I should have taken it with me,” she muttered while dragging her trunk several feet across the floor and shoving it up against the door’s base. “No, that won’t work.” Panting with the effort, she pushed it aside and began a determined wresting match with the large mahogany dresser that stood against the wall directly to the right of the door. “Ugh,” she grunted, “this weighs a ton. I defy anyone to get past this monster.”

“You’re right. We don’t want to be disturbed tonight. But that’s far too heavy for you. Let me do it.” A powerful pair of arms reached around her and slid the dresser into place.

Tabitha screamed loud enough to wake the dead. Which she sincerely hoped she wouldn’t be joining anytime soon.

Alan clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Hush.” He laughed softly, close to her ear. “They’ll think I’m murdering you.”

A poor choice of words, from Tabitha’s standpoint.

“
Argh
,” Alan bit out through clenched teeth, as her teeth bit into his fingers. He stared at her with a mixture of surprise, amusement—and something Tabitha didn’t want to think about. “What’s the matter with you, lassie?”

“N-n-nothing’s the matter with me. Get out of here!” She flew to the far wall, pressing her back against it. “What are you doing in my room?”

“Our room. ’Twas mine, in fact, but now ’tis ours.” He flexed his hand to make sure everything was still adequately connected.

“
Our
room?” Tabitha choked, unable to pull her gaze off him. She felt pinned, like a butterfly on a mounting board.

Alan began a slow, languid approach toward her, looking as though he couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. “Aye. Husbands and wives often do share the same bed, don’t they?” He paused to remove his collar and vest, then resumed his approach, unfastening his shirt en route.

Tabitha watched in horrified fascination as more and more of that rock hard, tanned chest came into view. The knowledge that she’d seen it before offered not a whit of comfort. A bare chest had seemed…well, natural on a Comanche. It had been easier to deal with then. Now it seemed somehow improper. Indecent. And nerve-wrackingly sensual. She gulped as the shirt hit the floor. He pulled off his belt, and her knees started to quiver.

“What difference does it make what husbands and wives do? We’re not m-married,” she strained out, thinking that if he reached for his trousers, she would probably faint.

“Aye, but we are,” he said. And reached for her, instead.

Her knees buckled, but she quickly caught herself, swiveled, ducked under his arm, skidded across the floor, and plastered herself against the opposite wall. “We are not! We’re merely
engaged
.”

Alan heaved a sigh and turned to face her, the muscles in his torso rippling like burnished copper in the glow from the oil lamp. “Look, dear, according to old Highland law, two people are married simply by saying so in front of witnesses. That’s what you and I did on the ramparts, if you’ll recall. And that makes us man and wife.” Stealthily, he closed the distance between them. “At least, that’s the tradition the MacAllisters follow. And for once in my life”—a sudden grin lit his face—“I find myself most glad to be part of the clan.”

Pausing two paces away, he raked her with a look that almost set her hair on fire and ordered softly, “Now come here, Tabitha. Stop acting so frightened. What do you think I’m going to do to you, anyway?”

Gauging by his expression, Tabitha didn’t know. Strangle her? Kiss her? In her current state, all possibilities seemed petrifying and probably fatal. She doubted if she could survive any of them.

“You…you’re not going to do anything to me.” She dodged sideways and back to her previous wall. “Because I won’t let you get close enough to even try. And I won’t accept this so-called marriage, either. It’s preposterous!”

“What’s preposterous is the thought of me spending our wedding night chasing you around the room,” Alan said, his rich voice something between a growl and a purr. “Now come here.”

He took a single step toward her. And waited.

“Tabitha?” He took a second step, then a third and a fourth, his eyes pulling at her like magnets. “This is your last chance. Don’t make me come get you, lassie. You might be sorry for it when I catch you.”

“You might be sorry for it, too,” she warned, watching him approach the way a caged canary watches a cat. He moved with an easy feline grace that sent disturbing hot tingles shooting deep into her abdomen. “Whatever you’re planning, I…I won’t make it easy for you.”

Alan halted in midstep. “And what do you think I’m planning, dear? I can understand a new bride being nervous on her wedding night, but aren’t you being just a wee bit extreme?” He chuckled.

Infuriated, Tabitha glared into his eyes. A mistake. They nailed her to the wall, sucked the air and the movement straight out of her. She stood transfixed a breathless moment, just long enough for him to cover the last several feet between them, sweep her up into his arms, and toss her into the center of the large four-poster bed.

“And now, bonny lassie,” his low purr filtered into her daze, “the next question is, are you going to unfasten your gown? Or am I?”

The bonny lassie snapped alert, only to find herself trapped between the mattress and Alan’s warm, solid, utterly masculine weight. She went rigid beneath him in a desperate attempt to make her recalcitrant body stop wanting to mold itself to his. Closing her eyes didn’t help. She could still feel him, sense the heat of his gaze, feel his breath on her face. He was going to kiss her, and the moment their mouths met, she’d be finished. With a dismayed groan, Tabitha twisted her head to the side, and the kiss landed on the soft spot below her ear instead of her lips.

“All right, if that’s the way you’d prefer it,” he whispered. “I’m going to taste every inch of you before this night is over, so it makes no difference to me where I start.”

He began nibbling his way down the side of her neck. Tabitha caught her breath. Heaven help her, this was
not
going to be easy to ignore. It grew less easy as kisses smoked over her collarbone, heading south. By the time he reached her cleavage, it was absolutely impossible.

Gasping for air, she felt her hands moving as though they belonged to someone else. They slid over Alan’s amazing back, across his shoulders, and tangled in his thick hair. In a steamy haze, she realized that somehow her skirts had become bunched up around her thighs, and her legs were twining with his.

This is impossible
, said the small part of her mind that still belonged to her.
Tabitha Jeffries does
not
do things like this.

But Tabitha hardly heard it. She was too busy listening to the groans of pleasure Alan was making over all those things she was “not” doing.

The groans rolled into whispered words, throaty and thick with passion. But incomprehensible. What language was that? Scots Gaelic? She didn’t think so. But what else besides English would he speak?

The answer struck hard.
Comanche.
She didn’t know why she should recognize the language, but somehow she did. The knowledge came from some nebulous dark spot within her. A chilling realization that slapped her back to her senses.

Tabitha froze. Really froze. She went stiff and cold as an icicle, while her mind fought for a foothold on slippery slopes. She was trying to give Alan the benefit of the doubt. It wasn’t going too well. Yes, the Comanche had been here when Clan MacAllister arrived, so conceivably Alan could have learned some of their language. Aunt Matilda had once employed a Mexican cook from whom Tabitha had learned a little Spanish. But that didn’t make her think she
was
Spanish.

Lady Gabrina had said Alan’s parents were Ian and Rowena MacAllister; she’d recited his linage back to the Highland chiefs of Scotland, and no Indians had appeared among the names. Yet he’d been dressed as a Comanche when Tabitha first saw him—and down in the courtyard, he’d told her he was Comanche. And now he was talking like one.

All of which implied he hadn’t been joking before. She was lying here tangled up in bed with a Scottish madman who evidently
did
believe he was a Comanche. Who also believed they were married. Who was probably a murderer, too—and who knew what else! It made her almost physically ill.

Alan must have noticed her state (no doubt it was difficult to miss), and guessed where he’d slipped up. The criminally insane could be devilishly shrewd, she’d heard. He lifted his head to stare at her with a feral intensity that only proved her point about his mental condition. He looked like a wild man. His hair was tousled, and sweat glistened his skin. He panted for breath.

“Tabitha, I can explain.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“No. You have to listen. This is something you need to understand.”

This was unfortunate timing, from his perspective—that much was blaringly obvious to Tabitha, but she didn’t care. She had her own concerns at the moment. Like staying alive and in one piece.

“I understand already.” She tried to wriggle out from under him.

He pulled her back. “No, you don’t. Now let me explain. Just five minutes. Then if you still want me to let you go, I will. I promise.”