Eyes of the Cat

by Mimi Riser

  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 whe
n 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.”

  “Oh, yes. We know all about your promises, don’t we?”

  “Damn it, lass, listen to me!” he exploded, pinning her wrists to the bed.

  It was the worst possible move he could have made. It blew near panic into terrified berserk. Tabitha shrieked and thrashed like all the fiends of hell were upon her. Hardly surprising, since that’s pretty much what she felt was happening.

  Suddenly having a genuine battle on his hands to quiet her, Alan overlooked one small detail. To watch out for himself. A frantic knee came up and hit him in what was probably the only place that could have stopped him.

  With a groan that had nothing to do with pleasure, he rolled off her and onto his feet, clinging to one of the bedposts for support, while he caught his breath—and a couple of other things that were rather important to him.

  Having no idea what she’d done to prompt such a reaction, Tabitha rolled off on the opposite side of the bed and stood staring in amazement, rapidly replaying her last few moves, trying to figure it out, just in case it was a defense she could use in the future.

  Worry about it later, you nitwit! Get out now, while you can, that inner voice broke into the analysis.

  “Right,” she answered aloud, scurried to the barricaded door, pressed her back against the side of the mahogany dresser, and painstakingly began inching it away. There was an abrupt, scraping whoosh, and she tumbled backward, only to be caught by a pair of strong hands right before denting her gown’s bustle (not to mention what lay behind it) on the hardwood floor.

  “I should have let you hit it,” a low voice growled, as the hands hauled her to her feet.

  “Then why didn’t you?” she said with a tartness that was meant to mask her fear. It didn’t quite manage it. Nor did the aggravated shrug she gave trying to free herself from his hands.

  Alan released her only long enough to grip her by the upper arms and spin her around to face him. “Because I’ve a certain fondness for that part of your anatomy. I’d hate to see it damaged.”

  Trying not to tremble in his angry grip, Tabitha riveted her gaze to the floor.

  “Look at me!” His grip tightened to a point just short of pain.

  Stubbornly, she shook her head, unwilling to trust her voice, not daring to meet his eyes. The man did have some sort of Svengali quality; she hadn’t imagined it down in the courtyard. He had been mesmerizing or hypnotizing her, or some such thing. That’s how he’d managed to transfix her before. That’s why she’d been behaving so oddly, doing things she never would have dreamed of on her own. He was more devious than she had realized. And a lot more dangerous. An icy prickle crept over her flesh.

  The worst of it was she seemed to be so powerless against him. It was horrible to feel so vulnerable. And infuriating not to be able to hide her fear any better than this. She groaned inwardly as an uncontrollable shivering took her over.

  Alan pulled her into a warm hug. “Tabitha, you have got to stop this.” He sighed, his tone suddenly quiet, almost tender. He rested his chin on the top of her head. “I can’t have my wife too terrified to even look at me. What kind of a marriage would that be?”

  She nearly strangled on a surge of hysterical laughter. “I’m not your wife and this isn’t a real marriage!” she gasped against his chest, as the icy shivers began turning hot.

  “It is, and you are. But I’ll not stand here arguing that now.” Swinging her up into his arms, he strode for the bed. “You’ve just got a bad case of the wedding night jitters. And I know the cure.”

  Tabitha gasped again as she landed with a bounce on the mattress. Before she could draw breath, she was pinned, her arms held immobile over her head and both her legs locked beneath one of his. She went stiff as a statue, and blind as one, too, shutting her eyes against the danger in his. But there was no way to shut her ears against the soothing deep purr of his voice. That was one of the most maddening things of all, that the one who tormented her should also be the one trying to comfort and calm.

  “Easy, lass, you’re safe.” Alan planted a light kiss on the corner of her trembling mouth. He followed it with a matching one on the other side. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he murmured, letting his lips trail along her jaw line.

  She groaned as he nibbled her earlobe, sending an electric tingle all the way down to her toes.

  “You have to relax now, dear, because we’re going to finish what we started before. I’ll take it very slow, and you’ll see there’s nothing to be frightened of,” he whispered against her throat. “Men and women do this every day, and I’ve never known anyone yet to die from it.”

  There’s always a first time.

  Tabitha moaned, as he laid a row of soft, smoky kisses down one side of her neck and started working his way up the other. Her body’s response was rapidly moving beyond the boundaries of her mind’s control. If she couldn’t halt this soon, she wouldn’t even want to.

  “Alan,” she rasped in a frazzled effort to make him take his lips off her for a moment, so she could think.

  “What, dear?” he asked against the top of her shoulder.

  Damn him. How could he kiss and talk at the same time?

  “You…” She ransacked her brain for words that would make him stop. “You seem to know a lot about this sort of thing.”

  “Aye, a bit.” He released her hands so his would be free for other activities. Her heart skipped several beats as he began doing them.

  Oh, God, do I dare? It might tip him into a homicidal rage.

  Alan started to hoist her skirts, and she took the chance.

  “Is…is it because Heather had the jitters, too?”

  His whole body froze, and she pressed home the advantage, raising her lids at last and staring hard up at him. “What happened to her? How did your wife die?” Her voice sounded like ice, but not as chilling as Alan’s when his answer finally came.

  “She was stripped, beaten, and staked to an ant hill.” He returned her stare through eyes that had become blazing amber slits. “Any other questions?”

  “Yes.” Tabitha fought down a violent wave of nausea. “Did…did you kill her?”

  The man never moved, never even blinked. He might have been carved from stone.

  “Aye. I’m responsible.”

  Suddenly the room was empty of air, and the bed was tilting like a drunken cork bobbing about in the ocean. Alan’s face swam dizzily above her; she couldn’t tell where the rest of him was. Everything was fuzzy…dim…dark…and growing darker. She grappled with it a wild moment—then gave up and sank deep into the blackness.

  When she rose to the surface again—how much later, she had no idea—the room was still dim, but onl
y because the oil lamp had been turned down to a tiny, hazy glimmer. Her mind felt equally hazy. She was still in bed, under the covers this time, but these weren’t the cotton sheets she’d slept on the night before. These were…satin? What a ridiculous extravagance. Inwardly shaking her head, she glanced down at them, sat bolt upright, and let out a shriek that rattled the rafters in the room’s vaulted ceiling.

  “My clothes are gone!”

  “Hush. I had to loosen your corset after you fainted,” came a low purr from just south of the bed. “And once I’d gotten that far, I decided I might as well finish the job.”

  Tabitha snatched the top sheet all the way up to her chin, glared across at Alan…

  And shrieked again.

  “This is becoming a wee bit monotonous.” He strolled around to the empty side of the bed, turned the lamp up a fraction, and gazed calmly down at her. “You know, dear, it doesn’t do much for a man’s self-image when a woman screams the first time she sees him minus his trousers.”

  “I-I’m sorry,” she flustered out, suddenly remembering why she had fainted in the first place. He was a wife murderer. And he viewed her as his current wife. And—

  Keep him talking!

  “I…I didn’t mean… It’s just…just that you startled me. I’ve never seen a man completely un…undressed before.”

  “Oh well, in that case, I forgive you.”

  Obliging, wasn’t he?

  The mattress sloped as he sat down beside her.

  Ripping the top sheet out from under him, she hastily wound it around herself and started scooting as far away as she could get. A warm hand shot out and grabbed her wrist before she could slip to the floor.

  “You’re going the wrong way, lassie. I’m over here.” He tugged on the wrist to draw her closer.

  She latched on to the nearest bedpost with her free hand and held on for dear life. A crowbar couldn’t have pried her loose.