Eyes of the Cat Read online

  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.”

  “Why, Miss Jeffries”—he cast baleful gray eyes upon her—“is that any way to speak to a friend? I thought you just said you couldn’t be angry with me.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you, Mr. Elliott. I didn’t even know you were there. I was talking to the cat.”

  “Hmm…the cat again. I see.” He gave her a look that made her feel he was measuring her for a straightjacket.

  She stifled a groan. “Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t notice him this time either.”

  “Afraid not.” The gray eyes narrowed to smoky slits—then he shrugged the matter aside. “Say, as long as you’re up, would you care to see some magic?”

  “Only if it involves pulling supper out of a hat. I’m famished.”

  Simon chuckled and offered her his arm. “I’m sure I can materialize something for you. And then, perhaps, we’ll have a Light Show.”

  “More electric lanterns?” She glanced up at him, mildly interested.

  “Mmm…sort of. But these two are a bit larger.”

  * * *

  A bit? Good heavens…

  Tabitha stood frozen, awestruck by the scene. These were the largest generators she’d ever seen, more than double the height of her escort, who was a tall man. Two thick metal cylinders on wooden bases, capped by giant spheres that were shooting out lightning bolts like a July Fourth fireworks display.

  “What feeds them?” She had to shout to make herself heard over the ferocious crackling.

  Simon didn’t bother to shout back, but took her hand and led her to one of the narrow windows of the tower they were in. He pointed to the stormy night sky, punctuated with slashes and flashes of brilliance.

  “Lightning?” she mouthed at him.

  He nodded, his attractive face looking inordinately pleased over her interest. She started to shout something else, but he gestured for her to wait, then strode over to a small control box and flipped a lever.

  “That’s better.” He turned back to her. “The storm outside is loud enough without having to deal with one in here, too.”

  “How on earth do you harvest it?” Tabitha glanced from the window to the now quiet behemoths.

  “The raw power, you mean? That’s the easy part. We’ve secured a lightning rod to the roof of this tower, with wires leading down from it to Jack and Jill here. When lightning strikes it, the electricity runs down the wire and into the generators. Until we let it out, of course.”

  Hmm…yes, that’s the next question, isn’t it?

  She studied him from beneath lowered lashes. What could he be working on that required such tremendous voltage?

  “What are you going to use them for?” she asked. Casually.

  “We haven’t decided.” Equally casual, he crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back against a wall, and leveled one of his slow grins on her. “But I imagine we’ll come up with something. Eventually.”

  She met his grin with a small, knowing one of her own. “I didn’t think you’d tell me.”

  Simon went all wounded. “Oh, come on, Miss Jeffries, be fair. You know how it is. Did your aunt spill her beans when she was cooking something big?”

  “Never.” Tabitha laughed. “And she was always working on something big. There were no small projects as far as Aunt Matilda was concerned. She used to say that the largest breakthroughs often grew from the tiniest seeds of discovery.”

  “Yes, and one should never discount anything, regardless of how insignificant it might first appear,” Simon quoted back to her.

  Tabitha lowered her gaze, washed by a wave of bittersweet memories. Marvelous Aunt Matilda, so prim and proper, yet so independent. Too independent, some had said. Women weren’t supposed to be inventors, but Dr. Matilda Jeffries had been one of the best. An incongruous straight-laced rebel whose genius had been surpassed only by her generous nature. No matter how busy she’d been with her own work, she’d never turned away anyone who came to her for instruction or advice. The thought gave Tabitha a twinge of guilt.

  Her eyes met Simon’s again. “I…I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you before, Mr. Elliott. But so many science students visited my aunt, I never could keep track of them all.”

  “Well, you could hardly be expected to.” He smiled. “Anyway, I was only there once, and you couldn’t have been more than seven or eight at the time.”

  “I was nine—but only just. It was my birthday. That’s why I should have remembered you,” she said, unable to suppress a smile of her own. “When you found out, you jumped the fence into our neighbors’ yard and stole an armful of their prize roses for me.”

  He began chuckling. “Yes, I recall that now. ‘Beautiful blossoms for a beautiful little lady,’ I said to you.” The chuckling stopped. “And you got angry. It quite startled me. Still does, in fact.” A smoky-eyed gaze drifted over her. “Why don’t you l
ike being thought of as a beauty, Miss Jeffries?”

  Tabitha felt the burn of a blush and realized she must be turning as pink as the long ago filched flowers.

  Cough.

  “Because I’d rather be appreciated for the contents of my head than what’s on the outside of it. Men think pretty girls are merely decorations to wear on their arms. They never take them seriously or consider them capable of accomplishing anything worthwhile.”

  Simon pulled away from the wall and came toward her with an easy, confident gait. “Well then, let me assure you, Miss Jeffries, that I do appreciate your contents,” he drawled, halting only inches from her and grinning down. “But I hope you’ll forgive me if I can’t help admiring your packaging as well. That gown does suit you, you know.”

  “Aye. ’Tis good to see how well it suits you, considering the money I had to pay for those frocks,” sounded a low growl from behind them, wiping Simon’s grin off his face and sending him backward an unrepentant pace.

  “You can’t blame a fellow for trying,” he murmured to no one in particular.

  Tabitha’s blush heated. She whirled toward the tower’s doorway—and nearly choked on her own surprise. Who was this person? She recognized that impossibly handsome face, but the rest of him had undergone a remarkable transition. Remarkably disconcerting.

  I think I liked him better as a Comanche.

  Bare-chested, in leggings, breechclout and moccasins, he had seemed merely savage. In the civilized dress of a western gentleman, he looked… She groped for the right term… Sinister! That was it.

  The golden brown leather vest accentuated the golden glitter in his eyes. The crisp white linen shirt accentuated the breadth of his muscular shoulders and chest. And what those form fitting black trousers accentuated, she didn’t even want to think about.

  Drat the man. Why couldn’t he wear a nice, modestly pleated kilt like his clansmen?

  She felt herself turning from hot pink to angry red. “My, my, if it isn’t Big Chief Thief-in-the-Night. I want my own clothes back, Chief. You had no right to steal them from me.”