Eyes of the Cat

by Mimi Riser

  “You seem pretty sure of that, dear. Where does your information on the Comanche come from?”

  “From stories my father told me when I was small,” she said, sorry she’d made the digression in the first place and hoping he wouldn’t pursue it.

  But Alan’s curiosity had been perversely piqued.

  “And where did our eastern born Dr. Earnshaw get his information?”

  “From his father.”

  And you wouldn’t believe the rest of it, even if I had the time to tell you right now. She stared over his shoulder at a curiously iridescent spider adding another lacy tapestry to the dusky, web hung walls.

  “It might have been an accident…Heather’s death, I mean,” she reflected aloud, as the spider danced in and out of its threads. “He may only have meant to give her the beating he thought you should, but it got out of hand. She fell and hit her head or something, and—”

  “Tabitha, you do realize that you’re talking about a man killing his own daughter, don’t you?”

  “I’m talking about a man who was raised to be the laird here, until the discovery of your father’s birth knocked him down a rung. MacAllister pride must have been fed to him along with his mother’s milk. To protect the clan’s rights, I think he’d do anything he had to. You didn’t see the horrified look on his face before he threw me in here, but did you hear what I’d just warned him of—that those rights may be in jeopardy?”

  “The entire castle probably heard you, dear, but—”

  “But that’s my point. He must have been equally horrified that the rights would die out with you, that any heirs Heather produced would carry the doubt of illegitimacy. Or that you’d become so disgusted, you’d leave for good.”

  “I was disgusted, all right. But I’d given my word I’d stay.” Alan’s eyes locked with hers as she looked away from the spider.

  “I believe you,” she said, holding steady in the banked force of his gaze. “But I don’t think Angus did. He thought you had already run out on him the day of the murder.”

  “And what makes you think that?” he asked smoother than a razor stroke.

  “You. When you said Angus told you that Heather felt she was running away with you. Why would he say that unless he thought you had left? And where could he have gotten the idea from except Heather herself? That’s why you feel responsible for her death, isn’t it? You had threatened her with leaving, so when you disappeared that morning—probably just to ride off some steam—she foolishly assumed you’d carried out that threat, chased after you at Angus’s urging, and—”

  “Why do you say foolishly?”

  “Don’t ask silly questions. If she’d understood you half as well as I do, she’d have known how empty your threats are.” Tabitha grinned up into the shadowy face glowering down at her. “You growl like a lion, Alan, but underneath you’re just a big, purring pussycat.”

  “I’m doomed,” he groaned, the glower dissolving into a wry grin of his own. “For I can see who’s going to be wearing the pants in this family, now that my secret’s out.”

  “I should hope so. And maybe you’ll think twice now, before swinging a girl off the ramparts,” she said sternly. “Don’t worry about it too much, though. I’ll pretend that you’re in charge, for the sake of appearances.”

  “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.” He reached forward and cupped both her hands in a warm grip. “And I appreciate your fascinating deductions as well. But aren’t you forgetting one small detail?”

  The hands between his stiffened slightly. “What?”

  “That there’s no mystery to Heather’s death in the first place. We’ve always known who killed her and why. It was a clear-cut act of insane rage. Though I suspect, in his own mind, he may have felt he was avenging me for her infidelities.”

  Yes, you would suspect that—it would give you a double reason for your own guilt, Tabitha thought. Honestly, the man was almost too gallant for his own good.

  Not to mention hers. That was why he had nearly sent her packing. Given the circumstances as he had seen them at the time, it had probably seemed the only honorable action he could take, the chivalrous idiot. He was the sort who’d cut off his own nose if he considered it to be spiting his integrity, she mused—and fought back a sudden chill as the thought triggered a completely unrelated image in her mind. The image of a dawn-lit face minus one of its central features.

  Why should that bother me so much? It’s not as though I’ve never seen such a scar before…

  “My father always had something of a temper, you see,” Alan was explaining, the tightening of his hands around hers the only sign of inner tension. “Though no one would ever have thought him capable of an act like that. If he’d had the least fear for her safety, Angus wouldn’t have sent Heather with him that day.”

  “Angus knew they were together, then?”

  “Aye. Wild Horse had arrived at the castle, looking for me, an hour or so after I’d left. ’Twas how they discovered I was gone. It worried my father that I might have run off without speaking to him first, so he agreed to track me. And Angus insisted that he take Heather with him.”

  With instructions, no doubt, to say or do whatever she had to in order to entice you back. Even if she had to first beg to go with you…

  “Grandmother Molly thinks it may have been my father’s head wound that tipped him over the edge. He was barely conscious when Angus found him near the body, and bloodied from crown to chin. It looked like Heather must have struggled and shot him with his own revolver before he overpowered her. She was a sturdy lass.”

  “Growing up with brothers like hers, she would have had to be… But something’s not right with that story. If Wild Horse killed her in a burst of homicidal insanity, but the insanity was caused by a wound she had given him after he’d already attacked her… Do you see what I’m getting at?”

  “No.” His hands tightened another fraction. “Because, as much as I’d love to believe otherwise, my father is insane. He’s spent these past years little better than a zombie. An occupant of our dungeon, true, for light distresses him—but a prisoner primarily of his own mind. That’s why we’ve not been able to deal with this before. According to MacAllister law, the accused has to make a plea of guilty or not guilty to be tried and sentenced, and Wild Horse would say neither. The only word he’s spoken from then till now, has been beer.”

  “Beer?” It brought her thoughts up short for a second. “Why would he ask for beer? Is he that fond of the stuff?”

  “He hates it, in fact. Always has, but even more so since the murder. Offer him a mug, and he flies into a rage. Uncle Angus does it occasionally, just so he’ll get some exercise.”

  “Uncle Angus has been trying to keep your father fit, has he? That figures,” Tabitha said, agitatedly attempting to pull her hands free and finding them held fast.

  “I must say, this whole affair has worked out very conveniently for him. Not only did Heather’s death free you to marry again and produce unquestionably legal heirs, but blaming it on Wild Horse—supposedly gone mad—gave him a perfect excuse to keep your father here as a back-up puppet laird, just in case something happened to you before he could arrange a new match. I wouldn’t be surprised if the reason your father hasn’t spoken is because Angus has been keeping him drugged. And maybe that’s why he’s been wandering, too. I gather that he’s only been leaving his cell since I’ve been here, right?”

  She flew on without waiting for an answer. “Now that you’re finally remarried, your uncle doesn’t need a back-up anymore, and he may feel it’s too dangerous to keep Wild Horse alive any longer. So Angus is the one who’s been chasing him off, hoping he’ll get himself lost or killed. But since that hasn’t happened, he’s manipulated this combat instead, to get rid of him that way. Or, maybe—”

  “Or maybe you’re making yourself hysterical again with imaginings—like your giant rat,” Alan sliced her off. “Now listen to me, I did hear everything you told my uncle, and
unlike him, I can believe we’ve had a Ranger at the castle. I’ve seen Smoke on horseback, and he rides far to well for a dandy, as Angus called him. But as for the rest of this… Tabitha, you saw my father this morning, with the bloodlust in his eyes. He came after you, for God’s sake!”

  “What does that prove? We all had bloodlust in our eyes this morning. I shot one of those swine myself, and I’d never even fired a gun before. Does that make me insane?”

  “You don’t really want me to answer that, do you?”

  “Alan, I’m serious! I think your father simply stumbled onto that horror by accident, the way I did, and was trying to help.”

  “By attempting to kill you?”

  “Yes! Because he’d seen me in the yard with the others before you arrived. I didn’t realize he had at the time, but I think now that he must have. Wild Horse mistook me for part of that band. I stampeded the horses to keep those murderers from getting away, but if I’d been one of them, I could just as easily have done it to create a cover for my own escape. And the way Rosa was screaming, he probably thought I was stealing her. That’s why he chased me.”

  Well, it did make a certain sense, she thought, remembering how Wild Horse hadn’t even arrived on the scene until after she and Kathy had plunged into the thick of it under cover of Captain Elliott’s wild charge. Were all Texas Rangers such daredevils, she wondered, still trying to decide if Simon was a hero or a fool? Whatever had he been thinking from that silver-studded saddle of his? That very fancy, very large, and very heavy saddle…

  A pair of green eyes suddenly narrowed in the gloom.

  Why had Captain Elliott appeared outside the corrals the previous night? If he had been coming to stop her and Kathy, he wouldn’t have bothered hauling his tack with him, would he? He’d simply have figured on herding them straight back inside. For that matter, why had he, of all the people at the castle, been the one to receive Alan’s message that evening? And had that message actually been for her, or had her part of it merely been a postscript?

  It was beginning to look as though the appropriately nicknamed Smoke, really had been heading out on a moonlight ride when he’d been bushwhacked by the equally well-named Cat Kildare. But where had he been intending to ride before Pedro and Kid Connors reshuffled his plans for him? To a meeting with a quasi-legal posse of mixed-blood Comanche-Highlanders led by one of the most infuriating men alive?

  No. Scratch that. He wasn’t one of the most infuriating men alive. He was The most infuriating man—alive or dead!

  And he must have read in those flashing emerald slits that he was perilously close to becoming the latter, for he hastily returned the fists (well, they had been hands, but now they were fists) he had been holding to their owner and began cautiously backing toward the door.

  “Damn you,” Tabitha said, advancing and breathing fire down his chest. “Just how long were you going to stand there letting me try to convince you of all the things you already know?”

  “Like what?” Alan stalled, a wary smile touching his lips and a warier look filling his eyes.

  “For starters, like Smoke Elliott is a lawman—one you’ve secretly been cooperating with, so the pact is in no real danger, after all. Your father may not be insane. And you don’t think he’s a murderer any more than I do!”

  “Ah, but I never argued with you about Smoke being a Ranger, now did I, dear?”

  “No, but you called him Smoke before I ever mentioned his nickname.”

  “Was that where I made my mistake?” he muttered half to himself, stepping backward into the passage.

  “Your mistake,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “was in thinking you could play me for an idiot.”

  “Never! An idiot is absolutely the last thing I’ve ever considered you. It astounds me the way you manage to deduce so much from so little. ’Tis just that I wanted your thoughts on the matter—to give me a bit more ammunition for my coming fight. And I’ve noticed that you do seem to come up with your most creative ideas when under fire, as it were. I was simply playing devil’s advocate to stimulate your—”

  He broke off to field her hand as she swung at him, catching it neatly and planting a warm kiss in the center of her palm. “I’d be careful of that. Remember what happened the last time you tried to slap me.” He grinned, fanning her furious pink flush to crimson.

  “Get out! Leave me alone you…you…” Words failed her as she yanked her hand free and shoved hard at his chest. Grabbing for the door the instant he was clear of it, she slammed it shut in his face, completely forgetting, in her rage, that she was on the wrong side of it. It was the scraping of the key re-securing the earlier sprung lock that reminded her.

  “Aye, dear, I’m afraid I’ll have to for a bit. I’ve some tricky business to deal with now, and I’d prefer you well clear of it,” Alan apologized through the grill. “’Twas nice of Uncle Angus to leave the key in the lock, though,” he added, deftly pocketing it. “Makes me feel doubly bad over the trap I’ve decided to set for him. Your thinking my father and I were twins gave me the idea, in fact. We do seem much alike, I suppose—save for the nose. His was broken in a Pawnee raid years ago; that’s why it looks rather like a squashed potato. But our claymore combats are fought in partial armor, you see. With my helmet’s visor down, I dare say Uncle Angus will never suspect ’tis me inside it.”

  Before she could gather enough breath for a good, solid scream, he was down the passage, down the steps, and downright depressingly out of earshot.

  “Bloody hell,” Tabitha said, borrowing the curse from the dark haired cause of it, and nearly giving into tears until remembering her own key. Fishing it out of her bodice, she felt for the keyhole on her side of the door.

  And felt.

  And felt.

  And felt…

  “Bloody hell!”

  The previously fought off tears won a brief skirmish as she realized why her grandmother Elspeth hadn’t been able to use her skeleton key to save herself when she had been imprisoned in this same tower.

  A one-holed lock. It could only be opened from the outside.

  Or had that been done since Elspeth’s time?

  No, she remembered now. That was part of the story. A part that the castle MacAllisters had never realized, in fact, having never found out about the key.

  Elspeth’s cat, Caliban, had initially been shut in the tower with her, and to alert her lover of her danger, she had ripped loose the hem of her frock and used it to tie her secret key around the cat’s neck. The tree had been so much smaller then, Caliban had to leap down almost one and a half stories to reach its top branches. But he had made it to the ground, outmaneuvered several pairs of kilted legs, and somehow found his way to the Comanche encampment where Jeremy Earnshaw was staying with his blood brother, the Panther.

  “Otherwise, Elspeth would have been burned, never having the chance to produce Zachary Earnshaw, who helped produce me, thereby allowing me the chance to be here and go through the whole nightmare all over again,” Tabitha mumbled to herself, sinking down onto one of the chambers main furnishings—that pile of straw so musty she was sure it hadn’t been changed since her grandmother’s stay.

  “Though, of course, there are a few minor modifications with my situation,” she continued, hurriedly vacating the straw when several mice and one genuine rat ran out of it. “Elspeth was here awaiting her own death and worrying if a particular man would be able to rescue her in time. I’m here awaiting a particular man’s death and worrying if I’ll be able to escape in time to kill him first, for being so impossibly pigheaded!”

  Alan had no idea what he was walking into. Worse, neither did she. There was a trap being set, all right—she could feel it. But whether it was being baited by Alan or for him, she no longer had any idea.

  “I thought I finally had everything so neatly pieced together, but it’s all breaking apart on me,” she complained, staring at the iridescent spider again, but seeing, perversely, only taunting images of squas
hed potatoes floating in vats of sticky brown beer.

  “Why did he think that was Alan on the prairie?”

  It was back in the bedchamber, wasn’t it, that Alan had told her how, when Angus had first found Heather’s body with Wild Horse nearby, he had thought for one awful moment that he was looking at his nephew? But if Angus knew Wild Horse and Heather were together, why would he make such a mistake? Unless…

  “Well, that explains the beer, anyway. I guess I owe Uncle Angus an apology,” she muttered, kicking through the straw and upsetting several more rodents as she paced about the cell.

  Someone else had obviously been out on the prairie that day. Someone who was probably a better shot than he was a card player, and who had mistaken Wild Horse for his son even before Angus had. Then, to cover his own act of vengeance, that same someone had arrived back at the castle with a full blown story of how he had seen Alan and Heather engaged in some heated conflict—that it had looked as though they were on the verge of killing one another. A ridiculous story, of course, but it had been good enough to send the already worried Angus riding out to survey the situation for himself.

  “What’s really ridiculous, though, is that the idiot is still telling that story to any new ears he can catch across the poker table. If it wasn’t so appalling, it would be comical,” Tabitha mused aloud, reaching down to scratch between velvet ears as four black paws fell into step along side her.

  “Not now, angel, I’m trying to think. Why don’t you make yourself useful and chase some of these mice. Their squeaking is starting to annoy me-ee!” she finished on a squeak herself. Not because she was so startled to see him. The realization she’d been so unstartled was what surprised her.

  “Hullo, Caliban. I suppose I must have been expecting you to show up about now,” she purred to him.

  He purred back as she scooped him into a mutually satisfying hug.

  “My father once told me all about you incredibly clever little wildcats with the courage of a panther and a life span of thirty or more years, but I never quite believed him until now. Did you know there aren’t any of you left in Scotland? You may be the last of your kind. Is that why you’ve lived so long, because you can’t bear for your breed to die out? I’ve heard that some of your relatives actually made it to forty, but you must be over fifty by now. That’s like a person living well past a hundred. No wonder they all think you’re a demon!” She shook her head as Elspeth’s cat leapt out of her arms and padded to the window.