Eyes of the Cat Read online

  Oh my God… Has this actually happened? To me?

  Rapid-fire images raced across her mind’s eye… Alan the first time she’d seen him under the tree… Alan kneeling by the spring on the prairie… Alan standing in the moonlight of the castle’s courtyard… Alan charging through the dust, lit by dawn’s fire… Alan in her arms as they…

  Good heavens, I have been hooked, haven’t I? I’ve swallowed the bait—hook, line, and sinker.

  “All right, Alan, it looks like you’d better reel me in.”

  “What?” A sudden wariness darkening his eyes, Alan took three slightly stumbling steps backward.

  Tabitha moved three fluid ones forward.

  “What do you mean, what? Don’t play dumb with me, you…you husband, you. What have we been arguing over? What have you been trying to convince me of?” she asked with youthful simplicity. “I’m informing you that you seem to have succeeded,” she added, a newfound womanly huskiness creeping into her voice.

  “Splendid. Your timing is astounding,” he groaned, retreating until his spine nearly dented the wall. “Tabitha, haven’t you been listening to me?”

  “Of course I have. You were explaining why our marriage is legal,” she said, the vocal heat increasing as she deliberately closed in on him. “You know, that really was a dirty trick you played on the ramparts, but I can forgive you for it now, because I understand the…the provocation behind it. I’m beginning to understand a lot of things, I think. It’s like a door has been unlocked for me—a door I never even knew existed.”

  “And I’m extremely sorry about this, but we’re going to have to close it again and hide the key. You haven’t been listening, or you’d know that we’re not married.”

  The words couldn’t have stopped her more effectively if they had been a brick wall. A queer new anxiety prickled her skin into gooseflesh.

  “But you said the MacAllister weddings are legal. For heaven’s sake, Alan, which is it? Are they valid or aren’t they?”

  “They are. But ours is not. Because you’re underage. According to MacAllister law, a girl under the age of twenty cannot marry without her guardian’s consent. Do you understand the problem now?”

  “No,” she said, wondering why her anxiety was increasing when there was such an obvious solution at hand.

  “Tabitha—”

  “Well, I don’t have a guardian, so maybe that rule doesn’t apply to me. But even if it does, I’ll be twenty in a couple of years. Can’t we simply restate our vows then?” She smiled. Hopefully. Desperately? “I can wait if you can.”

  Granted, it was going to be a looong two years…

  Her smile froze.

  It was the eyes that clued her, rather than his silence. All of a sudden, the man who had been come hithering her front, back and sideways, was having trouble meeting her gaze. Her gaze? Alan “Eyes-of-the-Cat” MacAllister couldn’t look her in the face?

  The idea was such an absurd turn around, it brought a brief burst of giggles bubbling to her surface. Then, as complete realization struck home, the giggles clogged her throat, swelled almost to the point of strangulation, and finally blew forth in a fit of full-fledged laughter. Laughter that was hard enough to ice skate on—or cold enough, anyway.

  “Oh my, I have been an idiot, haven’t I? Alan, I owe you an apology,” she said with an amazing show of good sportsmanship, considering the emotional pratfall she’d just taken. “I’ve been thinking horrible things about you, and I’m sorry for it. I’m sorry I thought you were insane, and a murderer, and some sort of diabolical hypnotist. You’re not any of those things. What you are”—her voice tightened—“is a plain old, run-of-the-mill, garden-variety rake!

  “No, wait!” She shot out her hand as he tried to speak. “I have to take that back, as well. There’s nothing ordinary about you. An ordinary rake would have been content merely to claim the girl’s virginity. But you had to go it one step better, didn’t you? You had to get a declaration of devotion, too. Well, guess what, Casanova? I lied! I was only playing along to see how far you’d run this silly game.” She gave a haughty sniff—hoisting her dignity up by its bootstraps—then quickly crossed her arms in front of herself. She’d…um…just noticed how her abused dressing gown refused to stay fastened.

  “But at least it’s over now, thank God.” She turned her back on him, partly to show she considered the matter closed—but more because the sea green silk robe was in doubtful shape to demonstrate the same principle. “I think we’ve both gotten about all the sport we can from this thrilling masquerade, don’t you? Any more and it runs the risk of becoming tedious.”

  “Tabitha Tilda, I can’t imagine the world ever being tedious as long as you’re in it,” his low voice sounded from behind her. “And—just for the record, dear—nothing is over until I say so. And I don’t recall having said anything of the kind.”

  What? He was still trying to… After the way he’d just… Or, rather, the way he hadn’t…

  Tabitha nailed her feet to the floor to keep from charging to the dresser and grabbing the water jug again. This is so typical, she thought bitterly, as understanding dawned fiery red in her new assessment of the situation.

  “Honestly! If male egos had feathers, this castle would be an aviary. You know perfectly well you’re finished with your little frolic now. You just don’t like me being the one to state it first.” Striding primly across to her steamer trunk, she snapped the lid back and began dumping its contents onto the floorboards by the armful.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Packing to leave.”

  “It looks to me like you’re unpacking, dear.”

  “You’re right. The only thing here I’m interested in is the trunk. I’m taking it empty, so I can sell it when I’m back in Philadelphia to buy myself a decent wardrobe. Until then, I’ll wear feed sacks if I have to. They’ll be better than these whorehouse frills!”

  “Tabitha…”

  The peaches and cream organdy gown bunched in her arms, she spun about to face him, like Joan of Arc confronting the English. “Damn it, admit that you’re through! If you don’t let me go now, you’ll be breaking your own word. You said you’re not one to force a woman who doesn’t—”

  “Aye, but that has nothing to do with you, because you’re not a woman. You’re a child—as this temper tantrum proves. Though I’ll admit I am rethinking the idea of marriage. All things considered, it might be more appropriate for me to adopt you.”

  “Don’t be patronizing,” she said, frost crystals flashing on every syllable.

  The expensive organdy creation in her hands abruptly split down one of its seams. It made such a satisfying sound, she ripped it again and again, letting it flutter about her ankles in wispy tatters.

  “Keep it up, lassie, and you’ll find yourself locked back in the tower,” Alan warned, his eyes glowing like coals in a banked fire. “’Tis either that, or I’ll be locking myself in the ice house,” he muttered inaudibly, as each aggravated rip also pulled Tabitha’s robe open a little farther, unbeknownst to herself.

  The last of the pastel froth landed like a crumpled cloud at her feet. “I take back my apology,” she uttered in a voice more shredded than the organdy gown. “You really are a madman if you think you can threaten me with that again. You’re hopelessly insane!”

  “Aye, I’m afraid you’ve pegged the truth square through the center there, dear—for I’ve no business thinking anything about a lass your age. But the damage is done, and there’s nothing can fix it now,” Alan grated out, the iron of his usual tone turning to rust. Heaving himself away from the wall, he turned angrily toward the door.

  “I am insane,” he confessed, shooting a look over his shoulder that nearly stopped her heart. “I’m hopelessly and insanely in love with you.”

  Chapter 11

  Love… In love… In love with…

  He did look like he meant it, didn’t he? He sounded like he meant it, too.

  So
why was that ragged declaration so difficult to accept?

  I’m hopelessly and insanely in love with you…

  The words hammered in her head like something desperately demanding to be let in. Tabitha found herself pondering almost abstractly why she couldn’t bring herself to even crack open that inner door again—the door she had flung wide and then slammed shut when his eyes had refused to meet hers. Why couldn’t she believe him?

  It was a curious question, but one she didn’t have time to answer right then, because the hammering turned out to be not entirely in her mind. Just as Alan’s fingers touched the door handle, a heavy pounding came, shaking the wood planks in their frame and sending Tabitha, in mortified awareness of the state of her robe, diving into the bed, next to sleeping Rosa.

  “Alan, lad, we’ve a wee bit of a problem,” an unmistakable base voice boomed, sounding like the problem was anything but wee.

  “Why not? A perfect end to a perfect day.” Alan swung open the door open so sharply, Angus’s next knock might have knocked some teeth loose if either man’s reflexes had been slower.

  “Johnny on the spot, ain’t you? ’Twoulda taken me langer than that tae reach me bedchamber door when I was new wed,” the older one said, catching himself neatly for his bulk on the edge of the door frame, then grinning slyly as his gaze rested on the motionless form huddled under the four-poster’s quilted comforter. “Ah, worn oot and sleepin, is she?” He chuckled, as though that explained everything.

  “Aye. We’ve had an…active day. Full of surprises,” Alan said. “And, now, you’ve another for me?”

  In no mood to be sucked into any Clan MacAllister business, Tabitha lay curled on her side with her back to the men, their words only half registering as she concentrated on feigning a sound slumber.

  “’Tis nay surprise, really,” Angus began, his characteristic bellow rolling down to the nearest it ever came to a whisper. “Ian’s flown his cage.”

  “Again? That makes the third time in less than a week. And you know he can’t stand light anymore. Even this keep is too bright for him. Why, after all these years of clinging to the dark, has he suddenly taken to wandering?”

  “How should I ken? Perhaps our demon’s been haunting him.”

  “And has been witching him out of his cell, you mean? That’s not funny.”

  “You’re right, lad. ’Twas a sorry joke based on a load o’ superstitious rubbish. There be some ’round here, though, who still believe those auld stories. Did I tell you that Donald says he’s seen paw prints in the dungeon again? Feline prints?”

  “Before or after his nightly beer?”

  “Scoff if y’like, but you’d best warn Tabby tae say nay more aboot black cats. Dunstan was a loyal lad tae cover for her that night, drunk as he was—but she could start some worrisome gossip if she repeats that tale.”

  “Let her then. Considering all else I’ve to deal with right now—including an insane father on the loose—gossip is the least of my concerns. Are any of our braves from this morning’s action still on the premises? It’ll save time if we can begin the search directly from here. He can’t have gotten far.”

  “He’s closer than y’think. ’Tis nay need for a search.”

  “But—”

  “I said Ian flew his cell. I didna say he’d flown the castle. He’s in the great hall, demandin’ the right o’ trial-by-combat. And as full square daft as he may be, he’s also enoof MacAllister blood in his veins that you’ll hafta grant it.”

  It was the sudden flash of silence that pulled Tabitha’s attention to the hushed debate. Scarcely daring to breathe, she lay motionless in the big bed, ears pricked back, rapidly trying to recall what she had just heard while simultaneously straining to catch the rest.

  “Have to grant it?” Alan asked in a voice that made her think of a sword being slowly drawn from its sheath. “Uncle Angus, you of all people ought to know that the devil himself couldn’t stop me from accepting that challenge.”

  “Nay, lad. Your only part in this be tae sign the order for the combat. ’Tis meself who’ll fight it.”

  “Over my hacked and bloodied corpse, you will. You prevented me from having at him ten years ago, but you’ll not—”

  “I will! And for the same reason—tae keep you fray becomin’ a hacked and bloodied corpse. I ken you too well, lad. You’re thinkin’ tae simply disarm him, hopin’ maybe a few good knocks’ll jar some reason back into his skull. But ’tis nay the way Ian’ll play this. He’s crazy, aye. Crazy like a fox. I can see it in his eyes now that he’s finally found his voice. He’s oot for blood, I’m thinkin’, and tae destroy the whole clan through yourself. His son or nay, he aims tae finish you. And he can do it ’cause he realizes you couldna return the favor. You still love him, lad, for all his madness. If it came to it, you’d ne’re be able tae strike a fatal blow. You canna kill your own father.”

  “But you can kill your own brother, I suppose?”

  “Aye. ’Tis nay like we’ve e’er been close—bein’ reared in separate worlds as i’twere. If Cain survived the experience, I’ll wager I can.”

  “Cain didn’t survive it very well, if I recall correctly. Anyway, what makes you think you’d be the victor? You’re a powerful man, but so is he. And he’s a harder man, for he was raised a Comanche. In case you’ve forgotten how they fight, let me remind you. ’Tis a subject I know well. I was Comanche myself, remember—before I traded that life in exchange for Heather. My father’s people were born for battle. They fight to win.”

  “Aye, ’tis why most of ’em, save the MacAllister mix-breeds on our land, be herded onto reservations now, like sheep.”

  “Your sarcasm is unnecessary. I’m not talking Indian politics, here. I’m trying to warn you. Whatever has suddenly possessed him, the man is still not responsible for his actions. Give him half a chance, and Wild Horse will carve you up like a Highland steer.”

  “I’m nay steer, laddie. I’m a bull! And Scots stock dinna carve sae easy. Highlanders fight tae win, too. Besides which, tae the challenged—that’ll be me—goes the choice o’ weapons. And for all his battle skill, Ian—or Wild Horse, if you prefer—has little held a claymore in his hand. Whilst I was fair born with one in mine.”

  Too much explained too quickly…

  The tangle that had been building in Tabitha’s head since landing in Texas was unraveling faster than she could keep track of the threads. Which made it all the more curious that the one thing uppermost in her mind right then was not any of the big answers she had just been given, but a new, small, and seemingly insignificant question.

  Claymores? Hadn’t she had heard someone else mention claymores recently? But where? And why?

  The reply, with all its implications, hit suddenly, like a bucket of ice water down her back, only seconds before Alan said in that low growl she’d already learned signaled the end of a conversation:

  “No. After all you, yourself, have taught me of MacAllister honor, I’ll not allow that. I’ll write and sign the order, but I’ll handle this myself—and it’ll be done fairly. Heather was my wife, and that makes this my fight.”

  There was, apparently, nothing more for Angus to say.

  Tabitha listened to booted steps crossing the hardwood floor, listened to the desk drawer sliding open and the scraping of pen on paper… Listened to it all as if she were hearing her own death warrant being signed. Because that’s what it suddenly felt like. Could she have found the words to stop him, she wondered moments later? Would she have been able to get them past that awful lump in her throat?

  She never found out. A sledgehammer fist on the back of a black haired head saved her the trouble.

  “I’m sorry, lad,” Angus said, catching his unconscious nephew before he hit the floor. “But Heather was my daughter afore she was your bride. And there be too much at stake here. I’ll hafta do this my way.”

  * * *

  Exactly what his way was, Tabitha didn’t have time to consider as she fumbled
into the forest green gown she’d worn the night of the storm. It was an interesting question, of course. But not nearly so interesting as where Angus had carried Alan, and what he had put in the lamp oil that had made her so drowsy and dizzy before she had realized what was happening and blown out the light.

  That last question, however, was also an answer—or part of one. It told her how she’d been drugged her first night and day at the castle, if not why. Though the why was easy enough to guess. Angus must have done it to keep her quiet and trouble free while Alan was away.

  And where had Alan been during that time?

  Most likely riding the range with the MacAllister-Comanche who lived on this land. Chasing after Mad Ian, perhaps, out on a previous stroll, or tracking down bandits like the ones they had captured this morning.

  They were evidently some sort of unofficial police force for the area. The key word there being unofficial. Heaven knew, in wild country like this, their services were needed. Although some might not see it that way. From a strictly legal perspective, there was often very little, if any, difference between avenging angels and lynch mobs. Hence, Simon Elliott’s warning—the warning she had yet to deliver.

  It was all so clear, really, Tabitha was astounded she hadn’t deduced any of it sooner. No doubt she would have, she told herself, if she had been less…well, distracted by…um, other concerns. But naturally, with all the fighting going on in the castle’s early years, there would also have been a certain amount of intermarriage. Highland lassies captured by fierce plains warriors. Native women taken by Scotsmen…

  She now realized that Alan himself was the descendant of such a union. No wonder he spoke Comanche, dressed Comanche, rode Comanche, called himself a Comanche… He had Comanche blood and had lived with them before joining the Highlander side of his heritage to marry his castle-bred cousin.