

### EYES OF THE CAT

Part 1:

### Unholy Wedlock

MIMI RISER

www.mimiriser.com

Eyes of the Cat is now released as a serial, which means it has been divided into separate parts that are offered individually. This is the first of four parts.

Serial Copyright © 2014 by Mimi Riser

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition, Smashwords License Statement: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

[Note: Eyes of the Cat was originally published by a NY house, in mass-market paperback, under a different title. It has since been revised and re-edited. This is the new expanded edition and contains material not found in the paperback.]

Disclaimer: This novel is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

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### Chapter 1

A castle?

A Scottish castle.

A medieval Scottish castle in _Texas_?

Staring out the train's dirt streaked window at endless arid plains, Tabitha Jeffries shook her head. She'd been chewing on the matter for days, but still found it difficult to swallow. It wasn't the castle itself that disturbed her well-ordered proprieties so much—though that was part of it. A Highland castle ought to be in the Highlands of Scotland, oughtn't it? It seemed not only peculiar, but also impractical to construct such a monstrous edifice out upon this scrubby terrain. Wherever did they find the stone for it?

Oh, right—it had been built from those mud bricks called adobe. That was some consolation, she supposed. Tabitha shook her head again without even realizing she did so. It was one of those irksome little habits her late aunt had never been able to quite cure her of. Another habit was the rapid jiggling of one knee or the other whenever she was agitated or engrossed in thought. At the moment, it was her right knee that bounced up and down.

What _really_ bothered her was the reason for this journey. How could a family send a girl nearly halfway around the world to marry a man she'd never even seen? What kind of a man would accept an unknown bride? This was modern day 1883 America, not 1483 Scotland, for heaven's sake. The whole idea was positively feudal. There was something almost indecent about such an arrangement.

Although she had to admit that Gabrina MacAllister—who was, after all, the girl affected by it—didn't seem to think so. Tabitha had heard enough about family loyalties and honor and tradition these past days to last her until doomsday. She'd met only one of them so far, but was already sick of the entire MacAllister clan. And she was sick of tartan wool, too. It was hot and scratchy, not to mention inappropriate for a paid companion to wear her employer's clothes.

"But me spare travelin' gown fits you sae well, Tabby dear. And you look sae bonny in it," the fluffy curled and fluffier brained Lady Gabrina had chattered cheerfully every morning of their tiring trek west. Her nickname, Gabby, suited her.

"You wouldna be sae cruel as tae deny a poor, lonely lass such a wee bit o' comfort, would you? It makes me feel less homesick tae pretend I've a countrywoman alang side me. Why, with your fair hair and those green eyes, I could a'most swear you were a MacAllister. Leslie's been sayin' we could a'most be sisters.'Tis the reason I chose you. The other lasses your agency offered were all puddin' faced hens, they were. I didna fancy bein' cooped with any o' them. But the moment I laid eyes on you, I said tae meself, now there be a Highland lass, whether she kens it or nay!"

Thank goodness this was only a temporary assignment. Their train would be rolling into Abilene Station any blessed moment now. Lady Gabby would be greeted and herded off by her Texas kinsmen, and her exhausted chaperone would have several well earned days all to herself before returning to Philadelphia and whatever needy damsel or matron the agency next assigned her to.

If it's another Scotswoman, I'll quit.

"This looks like the end of the line for us, ladies," offered an attractive young man with a military bearing and British inflection, as the train screeched to a rocky stop. "Gad, you'd think someone would oil those wheels once in a while, wouldn't you? If I ran my ships the way these lads run their locomotive, I'd be fish food on the bottom of the ocean by now."

"Aye, Leslie, you're a bonny, braw sailor, and Tabby and I both ken it. Dinna we, Tabby dear?"

"Well, you would have more personal knowledge of that than I, Lady Gabrina. Captain Lawrence is your family's friend, after all. However, since he ferried you across the Atlantic without mishap, I believe I can safely assume that he's a more than adequate seaman." Tabitha rose from her seat in the private compartment to gather their hand luggage together.

Leslie Lawrence hurried to relieve her of the heavier pieces, and was rewarded with one of her rare smiles.

"And I know for a fact that he's a most solicitous traveling companion." She blushed at his returned grin. "I'm sure Lady Gabrina has already thanked you for it, Captain Lawrence, but I should like to add my own gratitude to hers. It was most chivalrous of you to take a leave of absence from your professional duties to see us safely out here."

The handsome Englishman swept a small bow before her. "It was my extreme pleasure, Miss Jeffries, but not quite so altruistic as you seem to think, I'm afraid. You see, I was heading west, anyway. I..." He paused, suddenly blushing himself for no discernible reason. "Well, the truth of it is, I've resigned my naval commission and accepted the captainship of the merchant schooner _True Love_. She sails for the Orient out of San Francisco the end of this week. I've had to make special arrangements to get me there on time," he finished in an awkward rush.

"Oh," was all Tabitha could say. This was certainly a piece of news. Lawrence had had such a promising career it had seemed. Gabrina had confided that he would probably make admiral before he was forty. Whatever could have induced him to resign?

"Leslie! Why didna you tell me?"

With the lady's faint, came the answer to Tabitha's question.

_Oh, dear Heaven, how awful_. She rummaged through her purse for the smelling salts she always carried for her overly hysterical, or overly corseted clients. _Why didn't I guess this before?_ It was so obvious, now she considered it. And so pathetically ironic. _Of course they're in love!_

Gabrina and Leslie had grown up in each other's pockets, to hear them tell it. They'd probably been in love since childhood. But Leslie had been so ambitious, Gabrina must have thought he was married to his career. That was undoubtedly the real reason she'd agreed to this ridiculous marriage to her Texas cousin, Alan MacAllister—who must be one sorry specimen of a man to have agreed to such an impossibly medieval alliance, himself.

"I wish he were here right now. I'd give him a lesson in _modern customs_ he'd never forget," Tabitha muttered to herself while fanning some lavender water under Gabrina's pert little nose. She hadn't been able to find the spirits of ammonia, so the lavender would have to do. It smelled nicer, anyway.

"Dearest, I wanted to tell you before now, honestly I did," Leslie began the moment the girl's eyelids started to flutter.

He'd been kneeling beside her, chafing her wrists and staring at her with such an agony of love, Tabitha almost could have fainted, herself, just from the backlash of his emotion. Except she really wasn't the fainting kind. The prim maiden aunt who had raised her never allowed such self-indulgent displays as fainting.

"I _would_ have told you, darling, but I was afraid it wouldn't make any difference. You seemed so determined on going through with this bloody marriage— Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Jeffries." He shot a sheepish glance at Tabitha.

"That's quite all right, Captain Lawrence. I understand the provocation," she assured him.

"But, Leslie dear"—Gabrina's eyes filled with tears—"you didna give up your commission for _me_ , did you?"

That was too much for the young captain. His British reserve broke and he swept her into his arms like a tidal wave swamping the shore.

"My commission? Dear God, what's my commission worth without you? What's _anything_ worth without you?" he choked out. "Give up my commission for you? Gabby, you little fool, don't you realize I'd willingly give up my _life_ for you?"

"Oh, Leslie..."

Tabitha discreetly turned her back on them and stood staring out the compartment's window at a row of wanted posters on a nearby wall. This was hardly a sort of behavior she approved of. But...well, she could understand the provocation. Or, rather, she thought she could imagine understanding the provocation. It wasn't as though she had any actual personal experience in such things—or wanted any, for that matter. But surely, under these circumstances, it was... Wasn't it?

Whew, it's hot in here.

The little compartment felt like an oven. Tabitha realized she must be blushing all the way down to her toenails. _Oh, I don't know what I think!_ Except for the fact she was thoroughly disgusted with herself.

Behind her, Lady Gabrina had begun to sob.

_Don't tell me she's one of those silly girls who cries when she's happy._ Now Tabitha felt a trifle disgusted with Gabrina, too. She need not have been concerned, however. Gabrina MacAllister was anything but happy.

"Oh Leslie, you foolish laddie, you should've told me sooner," she wailed. "'Tis too late now!"

"Darling, of course it's not too late. It's perfect timing, if you ask me." Leslie chuckled indulgently. "I've already hired a private coach here to take us to El Paso. From there we can catch a train straight to San Francisco, where we'll have just enough time to be married before the _True Love_ sails. Her owners are quite amenable to you sailing with me. They feel a wife on board makes for a more stable captain."

Gabrina sobbed harder than ever. "But you dinna understand. I'm _here_ now. My people are meetin' this train, and they'll hold me tae me pledge. They'll ne're let me go with you!"

"They will once I talk to them and explain the situation, gentleman to gentleman. This isn't ancient Scotland." Leslie chuckled again. "We're a civilized world today, and I'm sure your cousin Alan is a very reasonable man, dearest."

"Reasonable?" His dearest's voice cracked on the word. "A MacAllister? _Reasonable_?"

She may actually have a point there.

From what Tabitha had heard so far of the Texas MacAllisters, logic did not seem to be one of their dominant characteristics. Long before any other white men had entered this territory, several score clansmen and women had arrived, fleeing the British persecutions that had plagued them in the decades following the Jacobite rebellion. They had built an adobe duplicate of their destroyed family fortress back in Scotland, and had lived cloistered in it ever since, a world unto themselves—as though they honestly believed they'd never left the Highlands. It was absurd, but a fact that might have to be reckoned with, nonetheless. What was it the Scots themselves said?

"What canna be cured, mun be endured," she recited. The sound of her own voice surprised her and brought Gabrina's weeping face up out of her hands.

"Why, Tabby"—she sniffled—"you sounded a'most like me."

"Yes," Tabitha said softly, "I know." Very carefully, she turned from the window and confronted the couple. She had to move carefully because her heart had begun racing so fast she feared it might burst through her bodice if she made any too sudden gestures.

"Captain Lawrence?"

"Yes, Miss Jeffries?"

Tabitha glanced from him, to Gabrina, then back again. How could she put this to them? She could barely believe, herself, what she was about to propose. "I...I think that Lady Gabrina is probably correct. Her relatives here still operate on ancient Highland law. They'll never allow you to simply walk away with her. The clan's honor is at stake, and that kind of honor takes precedence over all else."

Lawrence gazed down at her, a bemused expression in his hazel eyes. He was still obviously unconvinced of the gravity of the situation. "What do you suggest we do then, Miss Jef—" A wild, weird wailing suddenly filled the air. "Gad! Is someone slaughtering pigs out there?"

Gabrina giggled, in spite of herself. "You daft laddie. 'Tis auld Highland tradition. Bagpipes tae welcome the bride." On the word bride, she choked, and Tabitha caught her hand.

"Never mind, Lady Gabrina. We'll counter them with another old Highland tradition. _Stealing_ the bride." She gave the girl's fingers a reassuring squeeze.

"How?" Leslie asked, his confidence apparently cracked by the wailing of the bagpipes. "It sounds like there's a regiment out there."

"Oh, nay. They'd ne're send sae many," Gabrina said quite seriously. "A dozen, perhaps, nay more."

Leslie gave her a wry grin. "A dozen or a regiment, it makes no difference, darling. I can't fight that many. And I doubt I could slip you past them in your tartan. They'll be watching everyone who gets off the train."

"True." Tabitha straightened her bonnet and gave her borrowed skirt a quick shake to smooth the creases out of it. "But there are two of us here in tartan. And the MacAllisters will only be expecting _one_."

Gabrina's eyes went wide. "Oh, Tabby—you wouldna!"

"I most certainly would! It's already been commented that we could almost be sisters. Of course, you're a good deal prettier than I, but the MacAllisters have only your portrait to go by—they've never actually seen you."

_And a man who'd marry a girl he's never seen can't be that choosy, anyway._ She pulled on her gloves and collected her large purse.

Disliking deceit in any form, Tabitha wasn't overly enthralled by the prospect of the switch, herself. But it was a question of the lesser of two evils. Just like when her aunt's tragic death a year ago had left her penniless, and she'd nearly lost a well paying position because the service agency refused to hire anyone under twenty-one. In that instance, it had been either tack a few years onto her age, or starve. In this one, the choice seemed as obvious: A few hours of embarrassment for herself, or a lifetime of misery for Gabrina and Leslie.

And having reached that decision, an earthquake wouldn't have been able to jar her loose from it. That was another of Tabitha's habits that her aunt had never been able to cure. Pigheaded stubbornness.

She paused a moment to listen. "It sounds as though they're near the front platform. That is the one I shall use. You two will have to disembark at the rear, but give me a few moments lead before you do. I'll need to draw them away."

"No!" Leslie Lawrence blocked her exit from the compartment. "This is very noble of you, I'm sure, Miss Jeffries, but a gentleman can hardly allow a young lady to endanger herself on his behalf. You don't know what they might do to you at that castle!"

"Really, Captain Lawrence, I have no intention of playing this charade that far. I shall never even see their horrid old castle. I appreciate your concern, but I assure you, I am quite capable of looking after myself." She met his rigid gaze with iron in her own. "Now kindly move aside."

He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Absolutely not."

"Leslie is right, dear. We canna let you do this."

Tabitha resisted the urge to stamp her foot. "Good heavens, Lady Gabrina, it's not as though I intend to _marry_ the man. I'm simply going to distract them long enough for you and Captain Lawrence to get safely away. Do you two want to elope, or don't you? We're running out of time!"

"Time? Why the time be near eight o' the mornin'. Who asks?" a heavy voice brogued from the corridor just outside.

"'Tis too late!" Gabrina squeaked, and promptly fainted again.

Leslie tried to catch her, but was sent sprawling as the compartment's door burst open, and a haystack in a short plaid skirt muscled its way into the small chamber.

Oh, not a skirt...a kilt, Tabitha corrected herself.

"C-cousin Alan?" she stammered.

The haystack glared fiercely down at her, glanced at Gabrina and Leslie slumped motionless together on the floor, then fixed his bushy browed gaze back on Tabitha. A big, beaming smile split open between beard and mustache.

"Gabby MacAllister! I'd ken you anywhere!" he roared. "Welcome tae your new home, lassie! The bonny bridegroom couldna come t'day. I'm your Uncle Angus!"

Thank heaven for small favors, Tabitha thought, as she fought for air in his rib-cracking hug. At least this wasn't Alan.

Though, perhaps, Alan would be worse?

She shoved that idea straight out of her head. Right now, she had to get _Uncle_ Angus off the train before the good captain and Lady Gabrina regained their senses (and herself along with them—in a different sort of way). Already Leslie had started to stir. She watched in horror out of the corner of her eye as his lids fluttered open and he groggily struggled to sit up.

"Uncle Angus, 'tis fair squeezin' the breath oot o' me, you be." She giggled, neatly twisting out of his burly embrace and dropping her heavy traveling purse at the same instant. It landed on Lawrence's head. "Ah, the poor laddie," she said, as his eyes closed and he slumped forward once more. "'Tis exhausted he mun be."

"Aye," Angus agreed, glancing downward. "Who are they, Gabby dear?"

"I dinna ken for sure." Tabitha batted guileless eyes at him. "They only boarded the stop afore this one, and we had such a wee time for speech."

Angus's eyes abruptly narrowed, drawing his brows together into one big fuzzy blond caterpillar creeping across his forehead. "The lassie wears MacAllister tartan!"

"Oh, aye." Tabitha quickly laughed. "The poor dearie was splashed by a carriage just afore boardin', and she hadna another gown, sae I made her take one o' me own."

"Ah, now there be a MacAllister for you, generous tae the core," Angus boomed. "Come alang now, Gabby dear. Me lads be fair hoppin' oota their kilts tae see you."

"Aye, Uncle Angus." Tabitha beamed up at him.

I must be completely mad, she thought, following his broad back off the train.

* * *

"They're mad!" A disheveled tartan-clad fury stormed across the dim chamber, flailing cobwebs out of her face as she went. "All of them!" She fumed back to the thick wood door, kicking through a pile of ancient straw on her way and startling a family of rodents. "Every last man Jack of them—completely and utterly stark raving _mad_!"

Grabbing the door's heavy iron handle with both hands, she braced her feet, threw her weight backward, and tugged with all her might.

It refused to budge.

Which was pretty much what she'd expected, having already tried to open it eleven times and gotten the same result with each effort. She hadn't been able to resist a twelfth attempt, however, just in case it wasn't actually locked, but merely stuck, and a really solid pull would jar it loose. A fancy born of desperation, of course, because she knew well and good that the horrid door to this horrid tower prison was horridly locked. She had very clearly heard its horrid latch scraping horridly into place when they had thrown her in there barely thirty horrid minutes before.

It took two of them to do it, though.

Tabitha studied the blood under her fingernails—none of it her own. That was some satisfaction, at least. The tartan gown was rather the worse for the tussle, her long hair had tumbled loose and probably looked like a banshee's at the moment, but other than that—and a few definite dents in her pride—she was basically intact.

So far.

Which was more than anyone would be able to say for Duncan and Douglas. Or had it been Donald and Dunstan who had imprisoned her up here? Douglas and Donald, perhaps?

She shook her disheveled head. Angus's four sons all looked so alike, how could anyone be expected to tell them apart? Probably it made no difference. They were four peas in a pod—all insane, like their father. Some kind of congenital defect, no doubt. Only insane people could be thinking what they were.

After all, they knew the truth now. She had admitted who she was long before they'd come in sight of this adobe monstrosity. She'd had to hold off a while, naturally, to insure Captain Lawrence and Lady Gabrina an adequate headstart, but she hadn't waited a moment longer than necessary. Scarcely three hours out of Abilene Station, she had told all. It had been right as they were passing that other wagon, the one with the pleasant looking Mexican family. It had seemed such a providential time because, once the MacAllisters realized she wasn't Gabrina, they certainly wouldn't want her anymore, and she should have been able to hitch a return ride to Abilene with the Mexicans.

Except...

"Ah well"—Angus had shrugged after listening silently to the confession—"what canna be cured, mun be endured."

"Thank you so much for your understanding, Mr. MacAllister." Tabitha had twisted around on the wagon seat, straining to see if the Mexican family was still in earshot. The explanation had taken longer than she'd intended. "I must say, you're being very gracious about this."

Where was that other wagon? That couldn't be it, could it? That pinprick on the horizon?

"Oh, dear." She had turned back toward Angus. "I'm terribly sorry about this, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to drive me back to Abilene."

"Why?" He had flashed her a big toothy grin. "Gabby or Tabby, 'tis such a wee dif'rence. Dinna you fear, lassie. Alan'll still wed you."

A high-button shoe stomped onto a filthy wood floor.

But I've no intention of wedding Alan! I don't care if he's Prince Charming, himself, I don't even want to meet the man.

The truth of the matter was, she had no intention of wedding anyone. Ever. Her Aunt Matilda had always preached that wedlock was a _lock_ , indeed, little better than slavery for women. Tabitha wasn't sure if that was entirely correct; she had known some girls who seemed content in their chains. But they were generally the type of Lady Gabrina, girls who hadn't much stored in their attics, so to speak. She agreed with Matilda Jeffries that she, herself, was not especially well suited for marriage.

"You are too intelligent and far too independent to tolerate such a union," she could almost hear her aunt saying. "For you, Tabitha, marriage would feel like being nibbled to death by ducks. A slow torture. Leave it for the girls who can think of nothing else to do with their lives. You will be far better satisfied if you forge your own way in the world, as I have."

Right," Tabitha answered aloud, stalking away from the locked door. "But the only way I'm interested in now, is whatever way will get me _out_ of here."

Stopping in the center of the circular cell, she peered about, trying hard to determine her options, and harder to ignore the fact that there didn't appear to be any. Except for the gloom, the must, and the dust—of which there was plenty—the cell was practically bare. Nothing but one heavy door with a small iron grate letting in scant light from the passage beyond, one narrow, deep-set window letting in a bit more from the nearly full moon outside...one torch in a wall bracket, offering no light at all, because it was unlit...one comforting manacle dangling from a short chain in the wall (the comfort being that it wasn't dangling from her)...one foul smelling heap of straw...one small, scarred wood table...

Was that all?

But there had to be _something_ here. Something she had missed. Something she could use?

Swallowing down anger, frustration, and a rising panic, she forced herself to make another deliberate inventory. Table. Straw. Manacle. Torch. Window. Cat. Door...

Cat?

She rushed to the window. There on the floor below it, stately and dignified, like a king holding court, sat the biggest, blackest, most magnificent tomcat she had ever seen. He was almost too beautiful to be real.

"Why, you marvelous creature... Wherever did you come from? I'm sure you weren't here a moment ago."

The cat stared solemnly through large golden eyes as she reached down to him. He sniffed her fingers, rather with the air of a courtier kissing a damsel's hand, and then began a deep bass purr while she stroked between his ears.

"I wish you could show me how you got in," she said, "because maybe I could get out the same way."

The cat stood up, gave a long regal stretch, and leaped neatly into the window crevice.

"Oh, now don't tell me you came in through there." She shook her head at him. "We must be at least three stories high. Did you scale the tower, or simply fly? I don't see any wings on your back."

"Nor I on yours, and I thought angels always had wings," came a low voice from behind her.

Her heart in her throat, Tabitha whirled about to confront a tall young man lounging against the closed door and studying her with obvious amusement. He was fair-haired, like most of the MacAllisters, but he spoke with a distinctly American accent and wore trousers instead of a kilt. Which meant... She allowed herself a discreet sigh of relief.

He wasn't Alan.

"Who were you talking to just now?" he asked.

The fellow might not be Alan, but he was someone with an apparent vision problem. Even in the gloom, her feline visitor was hard to miss.

"The cat, of course," she answered warily. "Don't you see him?"

"I'm afraid not."

"But you must." She glanced over her shoulder and suffered a sudden weird tingle down her spine. "Oh! It...it's not there anymore."

"Well, don't let it trouble you," he drawled.

Although Tabitha wasn't sure what he meant by "it"—the cat's disappearance, or the fact that she had seen it when he had not. Either way, she didn't care for the man's tone, nor the idea that he'd gotten into the cell without her hearing him.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"At the moment, I rather wish I were Alan." He grinned, and she didn't care much for that either.

"No, you don't." Her eyes slid over him like a glacier.

The grin broadened. "Perhaps you're right. I saw what you did to Duncan and Dunstan. I'm Simon Elliott." He looked as though he thought the name might mean something to her. When it didn't, he shrugged and continued a bit cryptically, "You could call me a...a friend of the MacAllisters. I'm engaged in some...well, let's just say some research here at the castle. Among other things, I'm studying old Highland customs." He gave her another irritating grin. "Angus has been telling me all about you, Miss Jeffries. A fascinating situation you've landed yourself in, I must say."

"I'm so glad you find it amusing."

Her expression, which must have looked anything but glad, seemed only to increase that amusement.

"Oh, come now, buck up"—he chuckled—"I'm sure things aren't nearly as bad as you think they are."

"How would you know?" She turned her back on him.

"I'm a wizard. Wizard's know everything."

Marvelous. He was insane, too.

"Look at it this way, perhaps, when you two finally meet, Alan will decide that he doesn't care for you—as unlikely as that seems. Or, you may decide that you _do_ care for him," Simon suggested. "I don't, of course. He's a little too odd for me."

Tabitha gave a strangled laugh as she spun back to him. " _All_ the MacAllisters are odd!"

"Perhaps. But Laird Alan is the oddest of the lot."

Double marvelous.

"Did you climb all the way up here just to tell me that?" she asked icily.

"I came to cheer you up," he replied warmly.

"Well, I'm sorry to inform you of this, Mr. Elliott, but you have been anything but cheering."

"How unfortunate. I must try to do better." He stooped to retrieve a black wood box from the floor near his feet. "See? I've brought you a gift to brighten your stay here. It's one of my latest toys."

Curiosity driving back her upset for a moment, Tabitha reached for it. It was a little heavier than she had expected from its size, and it had a glass globe covering a wire coil sticking out of its top. "How do you work it?"

Her interest appeared to please him.

"Place it on the table, and I'll show you."

When it was positioned, he touched something on its back with one hand, while flourishing the other in the air, declaring, "Let there be light!"

And there was. While Tabitha stood blinking in the glare of it, Simon quickly and quietly left.

"I told you I was a wizard," she heard him whisper just before the lock clicked back into place.

"Yes, and I'm Cleopatra," she said, unable to take her eyes off the contraption. What an annoying man. Rather ingenious, though. This was a very serviceable electric lantern. Smaller than the one Mr. Edison of New Jersey had come up with a few years earlier, but it produced even more illumination. The compact size with the increased brightness, in fact, were two of the improvements her aunt had been trying to perfect right before she died. If Tabitha had been older at the time and had had the funding to continue the work, she might have worked out something like this, herself. But the investors had been appalled. A woman scientist had been dubious enough—regardless of her sterling credentials—but a teenaged girl?

She shook her head. There had been nothing to do but finagle her way into a paid position with that prestigious service agency, ignore the foibles of the wealthy women she companioned, and plan for the day when she had enough money saved to continue her aunt's research. It was a bit aggravating, naturally, to realize that someone had beaten her to the punch on this lighting device. However, modifying Mr. Edison's idea had been only one of Aunt Matilda's projects—everyone and their brother had been working on the same problem, it seemed—and there were so many more interesting and original discoveries waiting to be made.

But I'll never get a chance at any of them unless I get out of here!

Reaching around the back of the box—obviously some sort of power storage unit—Tabitha felt for the trigger... Ah, there, a small lever. She flipped it and the bright glow popped out with a distinct crackle.

"That didn't sound good. The voltage is unstable," she muttered. "You had better be careful with your _toys_ , Mr. Elliott. I don't believe you're quite as clever as you think you are."

Something nudged the side of her foot. She jumped, certain it was one of the rat colony from the straw, and then laughed with relief.

"Oh, you're back, are you? Where did you disappear to before?"

The black cat gave a long, resonant yowl.

"Goodness! You sound like an alarm siren, and I entirely agree. This predicament _is_ alarming. But what can I do? I know it seems absurd, but I'm like one of those fairytale damsels-in-distress. Complete with the imprisonment in a genuine towered fortress." Kneeling by the cat, Tabitha stroked him from the top of his satin head to the tip of his long tail, his purr rumbling like a steam engine at full throttle.

"I don't suppose you know of any knights-in-shining-armor who could come to my rescue, do you? You'd think a castle this size would have at least one Sir Lancelot or Galahad. A Robin Hood, perhaps?" She sank back on her heels. "Right now, I'd even settle for Friar Tuck."

Studying her intently, the cat yowled again, then leapt onto the table. He sniffed the lantern, arched his back, and gave a ferocious hiss.

"Yes, I agree with you there, too. Mr. Elliott won't be any help. I'd already discarded that possibility, myself. Any other ideas— Oh! Be careful, you might hurt yourself!"

Her four-footed confidant had just lashed out and batted the lantern clean off the table. The glass globe shattered, and the box split open, spilling wires and coils all over the dusty floor. Tabitha stared at the mess, feeling her eyes bug. There, in the center of the jumble, was what must have caused the unstable current. A long, curious iron key.

The key to her prison? The key to freedom?

She looked at the cat, sitting motionless in the center of the table like a big furry black Buddha.

"Oh my," she breathed. "Do you think we could possibly have misjudged Mr. Elliott?"

The feline's only answer was to leap off the table, snatch the key in his mouth, and dart pell-mell across the cell.

"No! Bring that back!" She raced after him, but he'd already disappeared through the narrow recessed window. "I thought you were my friend!"

She could almost have sat down and cried, but that certainly wouldn't have solved anything. There was nothing to do but slide into the window crevice after him. Due to the thick walls of the prison tower, it was nearly three feet deep and a bit of a squeeze, but she thought she could manage it.

However is he getting up and down from here, anyway?

"Heavens, what a monstrous tree! Why didn't I notice that before?" she asked aloud, staring in fixed fascination at the massive branches grazing the outside of the tower.

"Because you didn't check the window before, you nitwit," she answered herself.

An understandable oversight, though. The window was so deep-set it was difficult to see out of, unless one actually climbed into it. And she'd known she was too high to make escape that way a possibility. Also, she just happened to have this absolutely ghastly horror of heights. It was the one habit her aunt had never even tried to cure her of. Because Aunt Matilda happened to be horrified of heights, too.

Probably an inherited trait, Tabitha mused, clutching the adobe sill with a white knuckled grip and trying desperately not to be sick as she peered out into the new spring leaves. There sat the cat among them, just out of reach, with the key jutting jauntily out the corners of his mouth and what appeared to be a highly amused expression in his large amber eyes.

"Oh, you think this is funny, do you? Don't you dare yowl and drop it, you little imp. Bring it here to me."

He stood up on his branch, stretched, and padded a few steps toward her.

"That's right...that's a good boy...come here...one more step...come on, angel," she coaxed. "Oh! You naughty little devil!" She glowered as he spun and flitted back the way he'd come.

Key in mouth, he strolled about the nearest branches, pausing here and there to sharpen his claws, stopping occasionally to level that warm golden gaze on her. "I'll give you the key if you'll come here," he seemed to be saying. "Come on, it's perfectly safe. Look at me. It's easy."

It's insane, Tabitha thought. Everything was crazy, the situation, the castle, the MacAllisters, the cat...

"And I'm the craziest of all. Oh, how I hate heights," she groaned, sliding through the open window.

It was a heart-stopping scramble from the sill to the first branch. Tabitha never was quite sure how she accomplished it, because she'd had her eyes squeezed shut during the whole process. When she did dare look, there was the cat sitting two branches below and staring encouragingly up at her, as if to say, "You did that very well. For a human."

"Thank you," she said. "Now may I _please_ have that key?"

"No. I've changed my mind," he said. "It's a cat's purr-ogative, you know."

At least, that was how Tabitha interpreted his response. What he'd done was to turn his back to her and leap down four more branches.

He's right, she realized, gazing mournfully from the cat to the window. "I couldn't possibly steel myself to climb back there, even if I wanted to return to that wretched room. The lesser of the two evils now is to continue the way I'm going." The branches were large and sturdy, and there were plenty of them. With the worst part behind her, she supposed it wouldn't be too terrifying to make it the rest of the way down.

She managed it surprisingly well—for a dyed-in-the-wool acrophobe who was certain she was going to pass out and plummet to her death at any second. Except the tree seemed to have taken a distinct hankering for her clothes. Anything they could catch on, they caught. And ripped. And left pieces of themselves fluttering festively among the spring leaves like gay tartan streamers.

She tried not to think about it—far too embarrassing—but by the time she made it to the lowest branches, she was down to hardly more than her corset, corset cover, plain white cotton drawers, and high button shoes. Even her modest black stockings had been shredded. Her long hair spilled about her shoulders; she was scratched, bruised, hot, flushed...

And extremely perturbed when she reached the final position, where the cat sat waiting, and discovered that there were still nearly five yards between her and the ground. Fifteen feet to go, and no more branches. Marvelous.

"All right, my fine furry friend, you got me into this. Now tell me how I'm supposed to get the rest of the way down."

Blinking enigmatic eyes, he swiveled, crouched, and sprang, landing lightly near the base of the giant trunk.

"Yes, I was afraid you'd suggest something like that." Tabitha sighed. "But are you sure that's the only possible way? I mean really, _really_ sure?"

He peered up at her a moment, pointed ears on alert, swishing his tail from side to side, then suddenly turned—the now useless key still in his mouth—darted around the tree, and was lost to view.

"I guess that means he's sure." She shook off an uncanny feeling that she was somehow being observed. Impossible, of course; there wasn't a soul in sight. "I could call for help, I suppose... But that would rather defeat the entire purpose of an escape." Not to mention, that whoever came would find her in little more than her undergarments. "I think I'd rather take my chances with the jump."

It might prove fatal, but if anyone saw her like this, she'd die of embarrassment anyway. So, drawing a deep breath and clamping her eyes shut, Tabitha leaned forward, let go of her branch, and dropped—

Straight into a waiting pair of arms.

Her eyes flew open. So did her mouth, but her scream shriveled in a scorching blaze of shock. She was too startled to breathe, let alone make a sound. The arms that had caught her were attached to a... Well, not a MacAllister, at any rate. She supposed she ought to be grateful for that. But...

A Comanche?

The Comanche were the people who had once roamed this part of Texas, weren't they? She had thought they'd all been moved onto reservations, but one, at least, had stayed. That much seemed definite.

A Comanche with clean-chiseled, motionless features and warm tanned skin. A Comanche with thick black hair grazing what would have been his collar, if he'd been wearing a shirt. A tall, powerful Comanche in the prime of manhood, with shoulders like a gladiator's and deep amber eyes. Eyes that were fixed on her with the penetrating gaze of a cat. They seemed to bore straight into her soul. It was worse than distracting. It felt weirdly intimate, almost invasive, somehow.

He was holding her so close, she was aware of every hard muscled contour of his bare chest. Too aware. The heat of his flesh sent the most indefinable tingles shivering through her. Tabitha had never felt anything like them before, and wasn't at all sure she relished the sensation now.

"Th-thank you," she finally managed to strain out. "I-I'm extremely indebted to you, b-but do you think you could put me down?"

The Comanche apparently did not think so. All he did was to shift her even closer, sending a fresh hot wave of those disturbing tingles washing over her.

Oh! Perhaps he doesn't understand.

"Down. You. Put. Me. Down," she enunciated slowly and distinctly, pointing to him, herself, and the ground.

"Are you sure you're able to stand?"

Tabitha almost laughed with relief. He _did_ speak English. Quite well, in fact, in a rich, husky baritone, with just a subtle touch of some nebulous accent.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," she assured him. "Thank you, but it really is all right for you to... Really, I'm...fine..."

_What_ was he doing? He'd stopped listening and appeared to be engrossed in studying every inch of her, shifting her this way and that in his arms as though she were no more than a ragdoll. A very confused and unnerved ragdoll.

"You've a lot of scratches," he announced. "Not serious, I think, but they should be cleansed. I'll take you where they can be seen to."

" _No_!" Tabitha squealed, as he began carrying her toward the castle's towering keep. "Not there!"

He halted in midstep, frowning. "Why not?"

"Because I can't let any of the MacAllisters see me!"

"Aren't you a MacAllister?"

_What?_ He thought she was... Well, she did have the MacAllister coloring. And probably to an Indian, all white people looked alike, anyway.

"Oh, perish the thought," she said with a shudder, and explained her predicament as quickly and coherently as possible, considering the circumstances. The Comanche's gaze never left her face, and his granite expression never changed.

"So, you see," she finished a little breathlessly, "it's imperative that I escape. Quickly! If you'll help me, I'll pay you whatever you ask."

"A tempting offer." The man stared at her, an unreadable look in his eyes. "But you should be careful about agreeing to a price before you hear what it is. You can never be sure what a person might...propose."

"I don't have time for bartering!" she snapped, not taking the time, either, to wonder why she was so willing to trust this stranger. Not considering that she was grabbing at straws, and not worrying that he might turn out to be as stable as a loose straw in a stiff wind. In desperation, she grabbed at him anyway. There were too many miles of wild open country between herself and Abilene to attempt both alone and on foot.

Whoever he was, and whatever he was doing at the castle, it seemed obvious he wasn't one of _them_. If he'd been allied with the MacAllisters, he'd have thrown her back to them already, wouldn't he? Much as her inbred independence chaffed at the realization, she did need some sort of knight-errant to help rescue her. And the Comanche were kind of like knights, weren't they, with their horses and long war lances? Gazing at his smooth, tanned skin, Tabitha fancied she could almost see the sheen of polished armor over it.

"Please, there's no telling how long I have before they discover I'm not in the tower, and the moment they do, they'll come searching for me. I have to be well away from here by then! Won't you help me? _Please_?"

Those curious cat eyes locked onto hers, holding her firmer even than the powerful arms locked about her tense form.

"And you'll pay me whatever I ask?"

She forced herself to meet his stare unblinking.

"I promise."

The Comanche gave a short whistle, and out of nowhere it seemed, trotted a giant Appaloosa stallion, snorting and shaking his head. There was nothing on him save a blanket and a simple leather halter.

Tabitha gulped. She wasn't sure exactly what she had hoped for, but this wasn't it. "I...I'm sorry. I do ride, but I'd never be able to handle _him_."

For the first time since she'd dropped out of the tree and into his embrace, the savage smiled.

"No worry." He winked. "I can."

With one fluid motion, he tossed her onto the stallion's back and leapt up behind her, spurring past the kitchens and several other low buildings toward the rear of the castle's great inner courtyard. "We'll use the postern gate. I left it open when I rode in tonight," he called just a moment before they cleared the emergency exit through the back of the massive bailey wall.

"What about the moat?" Tabitha gasped, seeing only a narrow footbridge spanning it at that point.

For answer, her knight-errant spurred his charger faster.

The moat was nearly twelve feet wide and waterless, due to the dry climate, but its bottom and sides were porcupined with sharp dagger-like stakes. Horrified, Tabitha watched it rushing toward them. He couldn't possibly be planning to—

She felt the Appaloosa gathering itself.

Oh, God, he was!

"Hold tight," the Comanche ordered.

Like she couldn't figure that out for herself? Silly man. A dynamite blast couldn't have loosened her grip as they soared through the air and landed with a jolt on the opposite side of the moat. A second lunatic leap, and they were flying over the outer palisade. The stallion never even broke stride as his hooves struck earth, but thundered off across the moonlit prairie like a giant dappled bat straight out of the jaws of Hades.

Tabitha fought to regain her breath. She had a sudden mental image of something being thrown from a frying pan into the flames.

The something was her.

And the flames were in the Comanche's glittering amber eyes...

"We'll need to stop here," he finally spoke, some immeasurable distance later, as their mount slowed to a canter, then a trot, then an agitated walk. He pulled him to a halt by the side of a small spring, jerking the stallion's head up when it stretched toward the water.

"Why did you do that?" Tabitha demanded. "He's thirsty!"

"I don't doubt it. He'll get a drink as soon as he's cooled off." The savage jumped to the ground and lifted her down beside him. "This spring is fed from deep underground, and the water is cold. If I let him drink now, it could make him sick."

"Oh." She backed a few hasty steps away. His hands had lingered on her a just little too long when he'd lowered her off the horse. As much as she appreciated his help, his way of offering it was beginning to grate on her nerves. "I wish he could be solicitous without being so...so _tactile_ about it," she muttered under her breath, watching warily as he harvested a handful of tall dry grass and used it to wipe down the stallion's froth speckled flanks. Then, with a sharp slap, he sent the animal trotting off.

"Don't worry, he won't stray far from the water." He turned to Tabitha. "What was that you just said?"

Drat the man, he must have ears like a fox.

"Um...I was only asking if I should wait to drink, too," she improvised, lowering her gaze.

"A few more minutes might be wise. We can use the time to bathe your scratches."

Her gaze flew back to his. " _We_?"

"You can't reach the ones on your back," he pointed out.

And for the second time since she'd met him, the Comanche smiled. But to Tabitha, it suddenly looked like the hungry grin of a wolf.

"My back can wait until I reach Abilene," she said, turning that part of her anatomy toward him.

"Did you know there's a great rip in the seat of your drawers?"

With a gasp, she spun around again, reaching behind herself. "Oh! You— There is not!"

"I know. I just wanted to make sure I had your attention." His expression turned to stone. "There's something we need to discuss before riding any farther."

"What?" Her expression was beginning to take on the quality of a bayed rabbit.

"My payment."

"Oh, but I can't possibly pay you now. I thought you realized that." She frowned in flustered confusion. "I was expecting to wire for funds from Abilene Station. I have no money with me."

"I wasn't thinking of money."

He flashed her his third smile of the day, and Tabitha suddenly felt as though she were wrapped in ice. Ice so cold it burned her. No... It was the gleam in his eyes that was burning her. So it had come to this, had it? Her knight had become a dragon? She steeled herself to meet his look without wavering.

"What, then? What do you want?"

As if I don't know, she thought.

"What do I want in payment?" He took a step forward. "It may surprise you."

"Really?" She struggled to keep her voice level. Was the man an idiot? Surely he didn't think she was _that_ naive. "Try it," she said ominously, "and I may surprise _you_."

He stopped dead in his tracks, threw back his handsome head, and howled with laughter. "Tabitha Jeffries, after seeing you leap out of that tree in your underwear, I doubt there's anything you could do that would surprise me!"

It snapped her tense control. An attempted assault was bad enough, but being made fun of was absolutely, positively intolerable. She flew at him like a five-foot-two, hundred pound freight train, knocking him several steps backward. She fought like a wildcat on wheels. It took him several minutes to bring her even partly under control. And then another one to wrestle her to the ground.

"I was wrong," he panted out, his breath hot on her face as she battled beneath him. "You do surprise me."

Tabitha tried to spit at him, but her mouth had gone dry. "Wa-water," she croaked—and went limp, as though she'd swooned.

She felt his lean, hard torso relaxing against her, watched from beneath lowered lashes as his expression changed from suspicion, to concern, to genuine alarm. Then she was free of his weight and studying his muscular back in the moonlight as he knelt by the spring. When he rose and turned around from it, she was standing there, brandishing his own belt knife before herself like a miniature saber.

The Comanche heaved a ragged sigh, and let the water in his cupped hands spill onto the parched prairie. "Full of surprises, aren't you?" he said simply. "But enough for now. I'm tired. Give me the knife."

"Try and take it. Just try!"

"If you insist."

And the next thing Tabitha knew, the knife was somewhere in the nearby brush, and she was snug against the Comanche's solid, naked chest. His arms tightened about her like iron bands, pulling her off her feet, bringing her face level with his.

"Any other requests?" he whispered, his lips grazing hers.

"Y-yes"—an intensified replay of those wild, weird tingles sucked the air out of her lungs and stampeded all coherent thought from her head—"p-please don't d-do this."

"Do what?" His lips brushed hers again.

"K-kiss me!" she gasped.

"If you insist."

His mouth covered hers.

An electric shiver jolted through her, like a lightning strike. Her whole body went rigid—then melted into his. Much to her amazement, she kissed him back. Kissed him fervently and full and hard and deep.

Who was this girl?

His hold released, and she dropped back to earth, staggered as he stepped away. Breathing heavily, he stood there staring at her like she was a puzzle he couldn't possibly piece together.

"To think I believed there was nothing else you could do to surprise me," he said on a husky rasp. "I'm beginning to wonder if there's anything about you that _isn't_ a surprise." Spinning on a moccasined heel, he whistled for the stallion. "We'd best go now."

What? He was still going to take her to Abilene?

Tabitha watched through a cloudy red haze as the Comanche led his Appaloosa to the spring. Gradually, her breath and pulse returned to normal. She shook her head. It was impossible to accept what had just happened.

I don't do things like that. I don't even consider them!

Maybe it was some kind of momentary hallucination?

"I must have hit my skull in the scuffle and imagined the whole thing," she told herself. "I mean, I know I've been up to some foolish business lately, pretending to be Lady Gabrina and all. But there was a good reason for that."

What possible motive could she have had for...for kissing him?

At the memory of his lips on hers, her recalcitrant body flooded her with so many reasons, she couldn't suppress a groan.

The reason for the groan glanced over his shoulder at her. "You'd best come drink. 'Tis a dry ride back."

Still dazed, Tabitha walked to the spring. "It never happened. I never did that. I imagined it," she repeated inaudibly, over and over, while drinking and splashing cold water on her face and arms.

_That's right. You imagined it_ , a voice spoke in her mind. _And you'll go on imagining it. If you live to be a hundred, you'll never forget it._

"Oh, shut up," she said.

The Comanche glanced at her, the ghost of a grin haunting his lips. "Who are you arguing with?"

"Myself," she answered through clenched teeth. "I do it a lot."

His eyebrows rose. "Interesting. You must always win, then."

"No, hardly ever." She sighed. "Can we go now, please?"

The moment they were remounted, he swung the stallion's head in the direction they had previously galloped from.

"Wait a minute!" Tabitha squirmed around to glare at him.

"Do you know your eyes flash like emeralds in the moonlight?"

"Don't change the subject. This isn't the way to Abilene!"

The arm about her waist tightened. "I realize that."

"But you promised!" She struggled against his hold.

"So did you. Sit still or you'll startle the horse," he ordered, as she tried to throw herself free.

"This isn't fair." She pulled as far away from him as was possible in the short space on the stallion's back.

He yanked her back against himself, sending a hot flush spiraling through her. "Isn't it? I kept my end of the bargain."

"You did _not_. You said you'd take me to Abilene!"

"I said I'd help you away from the castle. And that, I did," he corrected. "I never promised I'd not return you."

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 like 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."

Those glittering eyes scarcely blinked. "As the laird of this castle, and your soon-to-be _personal laird_ , dear, I'd every right." Alan stared implacably back at her. "And I didn't much care for the cut of your clothes."

"Fine. Then I won't ask _you_ to wear them. I, however, do care for them. And, laird or not, you've no authority over _me_. I'm not a MacAllister. I will never _be_ a MacAllister. And I want my things back this instant! If you don't return them, I'll tear this...this _adobe absurdity_ apart brick by brick until I find them! Do you hear me?"

"They can probably hear you in Abilene." Alan's gaze slanted sideways, as though something on the doorframe had caught his attention. " _Ahem_ "—he cleared his throat—"I can't give them back. They've been burnt."

They'd been...

" _What_?" Now she felt positively purple. "Why you miserable, egotistical, _insufferable—_ "

"Simon! How can I be expected to concentrate with all this caterwauling? What the devil is going on out h— Good Lord, don't tell me _this_ is the new Tabby everyone has been whispering about? I wouldn't have guessed it if you gave me a million years to try. Tabitha Tilda, you astound me!"

That makes two of us.

It couldn't be...

Here?

On legs suddenly become limp dishrags, Tabitha turned. A tall, dignified man with graying hair and penetrating green eyes was hurrying toward her from the tower's inner door on the other side of the generators.

"Dr. Earnshaw!" she cried, and flung herself into his outstretched arms.

"Oh. You two know each other, do you?" Simon said with a bit of surprise.

" _Tilda_?" Alan said with a lot.

"There, there, no need for tears," the older man kept repeating, his own eyes suspiciously moist, as Tabitha clung to him. "Stand back, child. Let me have a good look at you... My goodness, can one year make such a difference?" He held her at arm's length. "Why, you look absolutely charming!" His mouth twisted into a wry grin. "Though Matilda would hardly have approved of this gown, you know."

"Believe me, I know. I'm not overly fond of it, myself." Tabitha laughed through her tears, suddenly understanding how a person could cry from pure simple joy and relief. Zachary Earnshaw was the classic absentminded professor, but he had also been her aunt's most trusted associate. Surely he could help her out of this dilemma.

"What are you doing here? I tried to find you after the funeral, but no one seemed to know where you'd disappeared to." She couldn't take her eyes off from him. He looked like landfall after a long, treacherous trip at sea. "Oh, Dr. Earnshaw, you have no idea how glad I am to see you!"

"The feeling is mutual, child. My goodness, but you've become the image of Matilda." Zachary's gaze and hands dropped from her at the same time, and he awkwardly turned away. "Her death hit me hard, you know. Matilda wasn't only a valued colleague. She was my dearest friend. Philadelphia held too many sad memories for me after she was gone. Everywhere I looked, all I could see was her absence." He turned back with a half shrug and a full sigh. "Perhaps the move out here was hasty, but I wasn't thinking very clearly at the time. I just knew I wanted to be near family."

"F-family?" Staring up at him, Tabitha felt her smile beginning to freeze. "B-but you're an Earnshaw."

"On my father's side, naturally. But my mother's people are MacAllister." His brows rose, as though he was surprised she hadn't realized that. "It's a large clan, you know."

The brittle smile froze so hard it cracked and dropped straight off a suddenly ashen face. Tabitha thought she could almost hear the shattering sound it made as it hit the floor.

"Too large," she rasped, turned like a zombie, and glided shakily to the door, only to find her exit blocked by an amber-eyed Rock of Gibraltar in crisp linen shirt and trousers so tight she wondered, even in her haze, how he was managing to draw air. Just the painted-on sight of them made it difficult for _her_ to breathe. Between that and the second regretfully large helping of boiled beef Simon had foisted upon her earlier, she couldn't get outside fast enough.

"And where do you think you're going, lassie?"

"The bailey wall. I'm going to hurl myself off the top," Tabitha lied, regretting also the second helping of apple custard. "If that doesn't work, I'll try falling into the moat. That's the nice thing about castles. They offer so many suicide options."

The Rock lounged against the doorframe, eyes glittering down at her. "Aren't we being just a wee bit melodramatic?"

"I don't know about you, but I certainly am. It's such an appropriate n-night for it, what with the storm and all," she half gasped, not sure how much longer her midnight supper would stay in place. "Now you'd really b-better let me by."

"No. Not if you're going to try something silly."

Good heavens, couldn't he see she was just...just...

"I'm not going to be s-silly. I think I'm going to be s-sick!" She clamped one hand across her midsection and the other over her mouth.

"Bloody hell..." Alan grabbed her by the elbows and steered her out into the courtyard.

The rain had stopped only moments before, and the wind gusted fresh and cool against her flushed skin, blowing the queasiness away and bracing her up.

"Th-thank you. I'm all right now." She tried to step out of his hold.

The hold remained firm, setting her a new problem: how to ignore the electric tingles his touch sparked.

"You're sure? This is an awfully sudden recovery." There was a hint of suspicion in his husky baritone.

Added to everything else, it rankled her nerves. "Yes! I'm fine. Now let go of my arms."

He did. But apparently just so he could slide his hands around her waist and draw her back to lean on him. Tabitha's breath hitched as his warmth wrapped around her and his chest muscles rippled against her spine.

"Of course now, 'twas a sudden illness, too," he mused. "Makes me wonder if you planned it to get me alone."

Her breath whooshed out in an angry rush. Tabitha tried first to elbow him in the ribs, and then to stomp on his foot. Both blows went haywire.

"Easy, lass." Chuckling, he spun her about in his arms, so she faced him. "'Twas just a joke." He smiled at her.

Tabitha glared green daggers. "Well, I'm not laughing. And _Big Chief_ better takum hands offum paleface squaw, before squaw knockum stupid grin offum Big Chief's face!"

He released her so fast she staggered two paces backward before catching her balance.

"That wasn't funny." The chill in his voice sent an icy shudder down her spine.

She shook it off and drew herself up with all the dignity she could muster. "I don't see why not. If you can play Comanche, why can't I?"

"Because you're not a Comanche."

"And you _are_ , I suppose?"

"Aye...I am." And he angled away.

Tabitha's eyes widened, then narrowed. Around her in the moonlit courtyard, puddles flashed and the rampart's towers loomed like shadowy giants, but all she saw was the tense muscular figure before her. _Alan MacAllister thought he was a Comanche?_ Of all the... Wasn't being the lord of a Highland fortress on the flat plains of Texas eccentric enough for him?

She shook her head. The man was either a liar, a joker, or a lunatic. Probably all three. And she wanted nothing to do with any of them!

"Right. Of course you are," she said. "And I happen to be Shakespeare's _Prince Hamlet_. Excuse me now, but I must go look for my father's ghost." Gathering her skirts together, she turned and darted up a nearby stairway that led to the top of the bailey wall, forgetting her earlier threat.

"Tabitha— Don't!" Alan caught up with her just as she reached the rain slick pathway behind the parapet. Grabbing her wrist, he jerked her around to face him.

She skidded and shrieked. Not because of Alan, but because she suddenly realized something that, in her anger, she hadn't stopped to consider from the ground: how high and exposed it was upon the wall. The parapet shielded the outer edge, but the inside of the pathway was a twenty-foot dizzying drop straight down to the massive, muddy courtyard below.

Tabitha took one look at it and, without stopping to consider again, threw herself into his arms. It was probably the last thing he'd been expecting, and it knocked him backward a pace, but he rapidly rebalanced, swinging her off her feet and against his chest. She shivered and clutched his shoulders, burying her face against his neck to shut out the sight of the drop. Her hair had come loose and hung about them both, shimmering like a gold veil in the moonglow. Not that she could see it at the moment, but others could.

"Now that _was_ silly," Alan said. "You didn't really think I'd let you jump, did you?"

" _What_?" She let out a slightly hysterical laugh. "Good heavens, I was being facetious when I said that. Heights terrify me! You couldn't get me to leap off this wall if you lit a fire under me."

His arms tightened a fraction, but she was too unnerved to notice. Nor did she see what he was gazing at over her head, a small audience gathering in the yard below.

"Opportunity knocks but once," he quoted cryptically, a sudden, odd lilt in his voice that slipped past her, too. "All things considered then, dear, this looks like a perfect time for me to confess something."

"Oh no, you're not going to tell me that you're also an Arabian Sheik, or a Russian Cossack, or something like that, are you?" Tabitha groaned into his neck. His answering chuckle had an ominous ring to it, but she missed that warning as well.

"Tabitha Tilda, the only thing I've any interest in being right now is your husband."

" _What_?" Her head flew up, and she glared at him.

"That's what I wanted to discuss at the spring." Alan parried the glare with an incorrigible calm. "I'm asking you to marry me. And if you don't say yes, I may become so _down_ hearted, I'll go weak and accidentally drop you off the rampart."

"You. Wouldn't. Dare."

"I surely wouldn't. But then...I might not be able to help myself."

"No!" She gasped and clutched at him as he took a wavering step toward the pathway's open side. "Wait!"

"Aye, dear? You've something to say to me?" His eyes gleamed expectantly down.

Hers blazed frightened fury back. "I don't think you really want to hear what I have to say to you," she hissed like a cornered cat.

"I'd better." He relaxed his hold a notch and took another step.

"No!— Yes!" Tabitha shrieked over the pounding in her ears.

"Which is it, aye or nay? Make up your mind, lassie. My arms are getting tired."

He moved right to the edge.

She clung frantically to him, fighting down dizziness and frustrated rage. This was so unfair! So unbelievable! So _MacAllister_.

"All right! Y-yes," she finally managed to choke out, though how she was able to squeeze the words past that suffocating lump in her throat, she had no idea.

"Yes, _what_?" His voice sounded like the business end of a saber.

"Yes, I...I'll m-marry you," she half sobbed.

"Louder. I want to hear you say: I promise to be your wife, Alan MacAllister." A powerful pair of arms slipped their hold just enough to make her gasp and clutch at him again.

The crisp, post-storm air blew against them, fanning Tabitha's hair out over the courtyard like a blond banner, but doing nothing to cool the scorch of angry mortification.

Oh, what difference does it make? Engagements have been broken before now. It's not like I'll ever go through with it.

Drawing a deep, trembling breath, she discreetly crossed two fingers behind his back and repeated with as much volume as she could muster, "I promise to be your w-wife, Alan MacAllister."

He pulled her securely against his chest and stepped away from the edge. "And I promise to be your husband, Tabitha Tilda. Did you hear that, Uncle Angus?" he called.

"Aye, lad, we all did!" the big man's voice boomed back. "Why dinna you kiss the bonny bride?"

Alan glanced at the bonny bride's murderous expression. He flinched. "Um...later." Grinning a bit sheepishly, he carried her down the stairway to those waiting below. Whose waiting did not include waiting for a kiss.

Roaring felicitations in Scots Gaelic, Angus snatched Tabitha up into a rib-crunching bear hug and planted a resounding, hairy smack on each flushed cheek before turning her over to the next in line.

"I...I'm not sure what to say." Zachary Earnshaw gazed down at her with a curious mixture of bemusement and concern. "You're rather young for this, and marriage isn't like a math equation, Tabitha. There are no tried and true formulas you can follow to make it come out correctly. Are you certain you know what you're doing?"

_I know I'm_ not _going to marry any overbearing, over-muscled, insane Scottish Comanche._

Tabitha met the worry in his gaze with iron resolve in her own. "Quite certain!"

Zachary's expression relaxed into a relieved smile. He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. "Then you have my full blessing, child." The smile went a trifle wry. "Though I doubt Matilda would have approved." Chuckling to himself, he turned and headed back to the generator tower, a slight crookedness in his gait the only evidence that he still carried several annoying ounces of shrapnel from the Civil War.

"Aunt Matilda would have had a conniption." Tabitha slapped the creases out of her velvet skirt while pretending it was Alan.

Suddenly she stiffened.

"You must be loosing your touch, Mr. Elliott. I heard you approach." She pivoted about to confront him.

"I thought it would surprise you more this time if I didn't appear out of nowhere." He stared at her, an inscrutable look in his smoky gray eyes. "I'm afraid you've put your foot in it, Miss Jeffries. Or, should I say, Lady MacAllister?"

"Hah, it's only an engagement, Mr. Elliott, and it hardly puts me in a worse position than I was before. I'll be _Lady MacAllister_ when they throw the first snowball out of you know where."

Simon opened his mouth as if to speak, then snapped it shut again. He breathed a small sigh and shrugged. "Ah well, far be it from me to disillusion you, dear girl. At least it affords me opportunity for this."

On that odd note he jerked her forward and kissed her. Kissed her warm and firm and full, in fact. And square on the mouth.

He punctuated the act with a cavalier grin. "Don't look so startled, Miss Jeffries. Merely following the dictates of tradition, is all. Who are we to argue with such things?" His gaze shifted, but the grin remained. "Isn't that right, Alan?"

"Aye. I dare say you wouldn't care much for the tradition I'm thinking of now, though."

"Probably not. But then, they can't all be this much fun." Simon chuckled. "You'll have to excuse me now. Dr. Earnshaw and I still have a lot of work to do tonight. You too, I imagine. Hmm, Alan?" With a wink at Tabitha, he sauntered off in the wake of Zachary Earnshaw.

"I don't want you even speaking to him again. Understand?" Alan's low growl rolled out like thunder.

Biting back her own aggravation at the incident, Tabitha glanced up into his black glare and asked coolly, "Are you giving me orders?"

"Aye! And you'll bide what I say, lassie."

"Aye, I'll _bide_ you," she mimicked him. "I'll bide you when I see _pigs_ circling in the air and building nests in the parapets. Now leave me alone. I've had just about all of the male species in general that I can tolerate for one night. I'm going back to bed. I'm going to drink that water in my room and hope that it _is_ drugged, so I don't have to look at or listen to any of you for a good long while!"

She gathered up her skirts and raced toward the towering keep, only to be grabbed by the arm and spun about before she was halfway there.

"What do you mean, your water is _drugged_?"

"It has to be! That, or some other damn thing I was given. Why the hell do you think I slept for twenty-four solid, bloody hours?" she shouted—then clapped a hand over her mouth in embarrassed surprise. It was the first time she'd ever cursed. The way things were going, though, it probably wouldn't be the last.

Alan loomed over her, his handsome face in the shadows, so she couldn't read his expression, but his voice, when it came, had a sharp edge of suspicion. "I didn't know about any of that. I've been gone most of last night and all of today. I returned but a short while ago."

"How lucky for me." She bared teeth in a snarl of a grin. "What were you doing?"

The grip on her arm hardened. "One thing you'd best learn, and quickly, Tabitha, is not to question me. You might get answers you'd rather not hear."

She swallowed down a sudden flutter of fear. "Fine. I don't really care anyway, you know. I only asked because I was hoping that wherever it is you were, it was someplace you'd be going back to _soon_."

"Not yet, lassie." He yanked her back when she tried to shrug free, pulling her close enough to see the gleam of his eyes in the shadows. They glowed almost like a cat's. "I've one more bit of advice," he purred dangerously. "It'd be worth your while to at least _try_ being pleasant to me. Your life could become a wee bit...uncomfortable, otherwise."

" _Otherwise_?" Tabitha drew herself up to her full height. It brought her nearly eyelevel with the top of his shoulder. "Things can hardly be any worse for me than they are right now! My life has been _uncomfortable_ since I left Philadelphia with that taxing little chatterbox, Lady Gabrina."

"If you didn't like her, why were you so willing to take her place? I've been pondering that. What did Gabrina and that captain of hers offer you?"

His implication stung her. "Don't be insulting. I wouldn't do something like that for pay. They tried to stop me, in fact. And I never said I didn't like her. I simply found her a bit too fluffy headed. Girls like that get on my nerves, I'm afraid. But I helped her and Captain Lawrence because they needed it. It seemed the only solution to the problem. And"—she paused to gather her thoughts and dignity together—"and because the very idea of an arranged marriage in this day and age really ruffled my principles. It's uncalled for, unpleasant, and utterly archaic!"

"I agree."

"You..." Her eyes widened. Was that a smile she saw tugging the corners of his mouth? "Then why on earth were you going to marry her? Did the thought of her money mean so much to you?"

The smile vanished. "Now, who's being insulting?" He gave a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Gabrina's family has little money, anyway. Didn't she tell you that?"

"No." But his words were beginning to paint a much clearer picture for her than the one Gabrina had presented. _Tradition and family honor, my Aunt Fanny._ It had been nothing but a business deal. Though, naturally, Lady Gabrina wouldn't have cared to admit that. Tabitha hardly needed the rest of Alan's explanation.

"Money is the reason Gabrina's people wanted her to marry _me_. 'Tis this branch of the clan with the wealth...for all the good it does us."

The bitterness of his tone surprised her. This man carried some grudge against his own family, it seemed. Because of the marriage they'd arranged for him? What _had_ been their purpose for that?

"If they weren't interested in more money, what were the Texas MacAllisters supposed to gain from the alliance?" She stared at his shadowed face. The moon suddenly streamed out from behind a cloud, illuminating his features. Her throat constricted at the anger she saw.

"They were hoping for a proper, civilized wife, I expect. To help tame their _savage_ son."

"And what did the son hope to gain?" She tried not to wince as his hand tightened like a vise on her arm. There was evidently more to this story than he cared to tell, but she had to know the truth. If she could understand the motives at work here, she might be able to mold them into a bargaining point for her own release. "Why did _you_ agree to the marriage?"

"I didn't! 'Twas all Angus's doing." Abruptly, the grip on her arm opened, and he angled away, his expression lost in the shadows again. "I'd no intention of wedding Gabrina. That's why I rode out the day she was to arrive. I didn't even want to see her."

Could this be the opening she'd been looking for? If she offered sympathy and support now, would he respond in kind?

"It must have been so horribly frustrating for you. Your uncle is a very difficult man, I'm afraid. Do you know he had me _tied_ to the wagon seat when I tried to jump out on the way here?"

She quivered at the memory. Then quivered more at the warm touch of Alan's fingers brushing her cheek when he turned back to her. His hand cradled her chin, tipping her face up to meet his eyes. Eyes with such unfathomable dark depths, she had a sudden dizzying sensation of drowning in them.

"No, I didn't know." His low voice rippled over her like smoke in the cool night air. "Though it doesn't surprise me. Angus has used heavier handed methods than that to get what he wants."

"Why is he so insistent on this marriage? And, more to the point, why are _you_?" she persisted, a desperate edge creeping into her tone. Was it her imagination, or was the night growing warmer? It was so difficult to keep her thoughts in order with that imposing form scant inches away and those mesmerizing eyes boring into hers. "You say you had no intention of marrying Lady Gabrina. Why, then, would you want _me_? It doesn't make any sense!"

"Doesn't it?" His fingers traced the line of her jaw. "Do you know when I first saw you, I thought you _were_ Gabrina?" The fingers started drifting up and down the side of her neck, like flames licking her where they touched. "I said to myself, 'How interesting, Uncle Angus has found me a bride who leaps out of trees half naked. He has more imagination than I gave him credit for. I may have to rethink this alliance.'"

"But I'm _not_ Gabrina. You're breaking the law by keeping me here. When I get out—and I promise you I will—I can have the lot of you arrested for kidnapping!" Tabitha's voice sounded like sandpaper to her own ears. Alan had stepped so close she could see the pulse throbbing at the base of his throat, feel his breath on her brow when he spoke.

"I think not. You left Abilene of your own free will, remember." His hand slid around to the back of her head and tangled in her hair. "You deliberately misled Angus as to who you were."

"Only for a few hours. It was necessary. But I told him the truth as soon as I could. And I was honest with you from the start." She battled back a wave of panic and heat. "Alan, this isn't right, and you know it!"

Her breath caught in her throat with a ragged gasp as his free arm snaked around her waist, locking her so tightly against him, their two lengths were almost molded into one. She could feel every solid contour of his body grinding into her, hard in all the places she was soft.

"Are you a mind reader, Tabitha? You know what I know, do you?" he whispered, slowly drawing her up to her toes and pulling her head back to meet his. "Tell me then, dear...what am I thinking now?"

For answer, Tabitha squeezed her eyes shut against the fire in his. Already she could feel herself starting to melt, sense her body beginning its electric response to his. And she was powerless to stop it. It was maddening! Except she didn't know who she was angrier with. Alan, for doing this to her? Or herself, for suddenly wanting him to.

Then without warning she was free of him, and standing alone and trembling in the chill of the courtyard. Her eyes flew open, and she drew in deep shuddering breaths, like a drowning victim breaking through to air. As her respiration slowed, she saw Alan, poised taut and watchful, a few paces before her. The last of the storm clouds had blown away, and the yard was flooded with an eerie incandescent glow, making the castle walls appear as if they were carved from green gold. Time seemed to dissolve into a distant mist as she stood, silent and shivering, waiting for...she wasn't sure what.

Alan finally broke the spell.

"I just wanted to convince myself our kiss by the spring wasn't my imagination. I needed to be sure that you reacted to me the way I remembered." His voice wrapped around her like a velvet cloak. "But I'll not kiss you here. I might not be able to stop with just a kiss. And the courtyard's a bit muddy for anything more."

It brought a hot new blush to her face. And raised a chilling new concern. What actually was happening here? How could he have such a powerful effect on her? A mere word or look from this...this creature, and she became someone she scarcely recognized. It went beyond confusing. There was something genuinely strange about it. Something almost... Diabolical?

She shook the thought out of her head.

_I have_ got _to get away from here. This preposterous place is starting to give me too many preposterous notions. The next thing I know, I'll be suspecting him of black magic and worrying about demonic possession—and I have too many real concerns to waste energy on silly ones!_

"Go to bed, Tabitha Tilda. We'll finish this business later," that velvet voice said as its owner stepped forward.

"The hell we will. My business with you is finished as of this moment!" She glued her feet to the ground as he reached to brush back a wild wisp of hair from her cheek.

With a wicked grin, he tucked it behind her ear. "That's what you think, dear. Our _business_ has only begun."

Taking her by the shoulders when she refused to budge, he gently turned her around and propelled her toward the keep with a not so gentle swat on the bustle.

"Why, you—" She whirled back, intent on some serious swatting of her own.

"Later." He chuckled, catching her hand in mid-flight and kissing it before she could jerk free. "Now to bed with you. But on your way there, I've a question for you to ponder."

" _Yesss_?" she hissed, glaring murder at him.

"I want you to decide who you're really afraid of. Me?... Or yourself." The chuckle deepened into a full laugh at the fury on her face. "Now you'd best leave. Before I decide to _ignore_ the mud."

Almost strangling on her own tongue, Tabitha snatched up her skirts and beat a beeline to the keep, his laughter burning in her ears the whole way.

### Chapter 3

"I should have scattered a trail of bread crumbs after myself when I left, so I could find my way back. I think I'm just going around in circles. Everything is starting to look the same," Tabitha grumbled as she padded down what seemed the hundredth winding passageway she'd tried since reentering the keep. She'd found another lit candle, but it wasn't helping much. "Honestly, this place is laid out like an unfinished jigsaw puzzle. I'll never reach my room at this rate."

She sighed when the passage ended abruptly in a semicircular alcove. The area was bare, save for a few stools off to one side and a large, three-section Oriental screen standing near the back, looking rather incongruous. How curious. What could it be there for?

" _Aahoooeeeeahhh_ ..."

The sudden screech rattled overwrought nerves. Tabitha's hair stood on end.

" _Death... Death... Leave before it's too late_!" a banshee voice wailed. " _Ahooeeeooahh_ ..."

Uh-huh.

Silently, Tabitha crept toward the screen, like a cat stalking a mouse. With a single quick move, she grabbed the nearest panel and snapped it back. The screen wobbled, overbalanced and tipped over, landing on the wood floor with a heavy thud.

"Oh! Now see what you've done!" A tall, willowy young woman with extravagant red hair, piercing blue eyes, and an almost blinding canary yellow negligee stood staring at the screen in dismay. She stamped her foot. "If it's been damaged, Uncle Angus will hang me by my thumbs and then have me hurled into the moat! That screen belonged to his mother."

She glanced at Tabitha, her brows suddenly pulled together with thought. "Or, maybe it was his grandmother's. I can't remember. Anyway"—she heaved a dramatic sigh—"he's very fond of it. Here, help me set it right. I'm Mary MacAllister, by the way. But I detest being called Mary—it's too mundane—so I've changed my name to Esmeralda," she chattered as the screen was lifted back into position. "What do you think?"

Tabitha was studying the ornate panels as best she could by the light of her candle. "It looks all right to me."

Mary-Esmeralda gave a disgusted snort. "I didn't mean the screen! Who cares about that silly old thing?" She gave it a kick that almost toppled it again. "I want to know how you like my _name_. Don't you think Esmeralda has the wildest, most romantic sound to it?" She closed her eyes in ecstasy.

"Why, yes," Tabitha said in the voice she reserved for small children and fussy lapdogs. "It makes you sound like a Spanish flamenco dancer."

The blue eyes snapped open. "Oh, no! That will never do. I can't sound like a flamenco dancer. They make far too much noise. All that heel clicking and those castanets—they sound like a herd of stampeding crickets!" She angled away, her brow furrowed with furious thinking. "I know! I'll call myself Ophelia," she exclaimed, spinning triumphantly back to face Tabitha. "What do you think of Ophelia? Or... Wait!" She flung out an arm for attention. "Flavia! Or maybe Angelique? Sophia? Desdemona? Oh, it's so difficult to decide! What do you think?" she demanded, stamping her foot again.

"How about Cassandra?" Tabitha suggested, thinking of the beautiful, mad princess from Greek mythology.

"Cassandra?" The young woman's head quirked to the side, as though she were listening to some distant melody. " _Cassandra MacAllister_ ... I like that very much, I think. It'll look good in print, too. I'm going to be a famous playwright, you know. And star in all of them myself. Cassandra, it is then! Thank you, Tabitha."

She smiled sweetly. "Oh wipe that silly shock off your face. Everyone here knows who you are. Didn't you see your audience the other night when Alan dragged you up the keep's ramp? That was quite a show you put on. I almost applauded. It didn't fool me any, of course—I knew what you were up to—but it was entertaining, nonetheless. I may use it in my next play," the redhead finally finished, because she'd run out of breath. She stared at Tabitha through narrow blue slits, a sly grin curling the corners of her mouth.

Tabitha stared back through equally narrowed eyes and the opposite of a grin tightening her expression. "What are you talking about, _Cassandra_?"

"As if you didn't know," the new Cassandra chanted, wafting dreamily across the alcove and seating herself on one of the stools in a billow of screaming yellow silk. "But enough of that. Here I am boring you with all this talk about yourself, when you must be dying to hear all about me."

"Not really," Tabitha said, still staring glaciers.

"I'm from Boston, and my father sent me out here last month because he thinks the theater is a scandalous career for a woman," Cassandra cheerfully began, ignoring the ice. "He's hoping I'll marry one of Uncle Angus's sons, instead. But I don't like any of Uncle Angus's sons. They're all toads. And not the kind you could turn into princes with a kiss either." She grimaced. "If I kissed any of them, I'd get warts."

"So why don't you go _back_ to Boston."

"No." Mary-Esmeralda-Cassandra pressed her lips into a firm line, her eyes flashing blue fire in the candlelight. "You won't trick me that easily, Tabitha. I know your game, but it won't work." She popped haughtily to her feet, shaking out her negligee like a queen shaking out her robes of state. "And I'm _not_ going to tell you any more about me. You can perish of curiosity, for all I care." Chin in the air, she billowed out of the alcove and was several catlike steps down the dark passage, when she whirled around and flew back.

"By the way, speaking of perishing, I'd keep my eye on Alan, if I were you. He may be a murderer," she said brightly, gazing down at Tabitha's stunned face with an angelic smile illuminating her own. "A murderer and a widower, to be specific. The two terms go together, you see, because he supposedly killed his wife. Her name was Heather, in case you're interested." Still smiling, she turned and drifted into the darkness, like yellow smoke vanishing in a midnight breeze.

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."

"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 only 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.

But Alan managed it anyway. One stiff yank, and she was sliding across the slippery satin and staring, with a sort of glazed fascination, at the broken piece of bedpost clutched in her white knuckled fist.

A club?

His eyes must have read the expression in hers. The post went sailing through the air, bounced once as it struck the floor, and rolled under the dresser.

"Don't worry about it, dear. I'll have it mended later," Alan said, in response to the dismayed look on her face. "Now come here. There's something I want to tell you."

I'll bet it's something I don't want to hear, Tabitha thought, and countered with a quick, "Actually, that's not true what I said before. You're not the first nude man I've seen."

The grip on her wrist hardened, and his eyes darkened with suspicion. "Another surprise, Tabitha?"

"I...I've seen pictures of Michelangelo's _David_ ," she admitted weakly.

A small grin began twitching the corners of his mouth. "Oh? And how do you think I compare?"

A hell of a lot better, she realized— _gulp_ —and changed the subject again.

Or tried to. His arm snaked around her waist, hoisting her over and onto his lap before she could utter another word.

"That's better. But don't you find this sheet a bit constricting? I know I do," he said, casually inching the satin away from her breasts.

She caught her breath and the sheet at the same time, yanking the latter away from him and clutching it frantically against herself.

"You are a Nervous Nellie, aren't you? I'd have thought you'd be getting at least a little used to me by now." Alan sighed and tightened his embrace, as though that would still the trembling that had overtaken her. It increased it, in fact, making him sigh again and tuck her head against his shoulder.

"Listen, lass, I do appreciate why you've been frightened of me. But you can't possibly understand the whole story, and you've given me no chance to explain it."

"So, explain now!" She tried to push away.

He cradled her closer.

Tabitha broke off the fight. Struggling didn't help, she was beginning to realize. It only made her more aware of that masculine form pressing against her. Of course, not struggling didn't work either. There was simply no way to block the feel of his hot raw energy wrapping around her, holding her fast. She suddenly had a great empathy for all the little creatures who'd ever been snared in a spider's silken web.

"Another time. I'm hardly in the mood to discuss it at present," Alan answered her. "I only want to point out that if I wanted to harm you, I've had ample opportunity to do it before now." His hand traced the length of her bare arm, stroking from the wrist to the elbow, elbow to shoulder, and over the shoulder till it tangled in the long locks at the nape of her neck.

"I'm not going to kill you. I'm going to make love to you," he whispered.

_What's the difference?_ The one would end her life, but the other would end everything that made her life worth living.

"You're only frightened because this is your first time. Would it set your mind at rest if I told you what to expect?" Alan offered, sounding almost fatherly.

His tone set her teeth on edge. "Good heavens, I'm not a child. And I have an extensive background in science—including biology! I fully understand the human reproductive system and how it functions," she grumbled into his neck.

"I'm relieved to hear that. It makes things so much easier if we both know what goes where." He chuckled. And instantly had to tighten his hold again as she tried to lunge away.

One hand still buried in her hair, he pulled her head back to meet his eyes. Before she had time to resist, she was trapped, drowning once more in those smoldering amber pools.

"Tabitha, _what_ is the problem? I've been most patient with you so far, but I am fast reaching the end of my tether. I don't want to force you to do something you're uncomfortable with, but if you can't give me a good reason for all this fuss, I may end up doing just that."

The threat snapped something awake inside of her. Sudden outrage and indignation gave her the strength to tear free from his gaze.

"I'll give you at least _three_. Number one, regardless of how you view this mock marriage, I do _not_ consider it valid. And I was raised to believe that intimate relations between unmarried people are _wrong_. Number two, even if none of that were the case, I simply do not _want_ to be married. I have a life already that I am very satisfied with. A life that does _not_ include domestic servitude, men, or children. I have other plans for myself. Important plans!"

"Don't let Uncle Angus hear you say that," Alan blithely broke into the tirade. "He's expecting a new heir nine months from tonight."

"To hell with Uncle Angus, and to hell with _you_!" With a violent twist, she threw herself off him, landing face up on the other side of the bed, her sheet torn half away, exposing her to the hips.

She grabbed for it, but not fast enough. His weight was upon her—hot and heavy, skin to skin—holding her flat on the mattress before she could blink or gasp. The indescribable raw force of his naked torso molded to hers drove all reason from her head.

Alan gave a thick groan and buried his face against her neck for several choppy heartbeats, as temperatures spiked and pulses began to climb skywards.

"That's only two reasons," he panted out. "What's the third?"

Tabitha had no idea. "Um...I...ah..." She fumbled for words, dizzily trying to rake her wits together.

He braced up on an elbow to search her eyes—a look that drilled deep into her core, opening an aching void within her that demanded to be filled.

"Never mind. It can't make any difference," he said hoarsely. "None of your reasons can stand against _this_ one."

A sharp tug tore the rest of the sheet from between them. A hungry mouth claimed hers...

"Alan! Y'awake, lad? You're needed!"

The shout was accompanied by the banging inward of the door, and brought a blast of curses from the bed that would have blistered a better man than Dunstan MacAllister. Or a smarter man, anyway.

"Have you forgotten how to knock, you half-witted Scottish buffalo?" Alan sprang off the mattress like a cougar about to pounce.

Dunstan slouched lazily in the doorway, a stupid grin pulling his thick features into a lopsided caricature of contrition. "Sorry, cousin. I reckoned you'd be finished with the lass. Hell, you've been in here lang enoof. I coulda serviced her ten times o'er by now." He glanced at the bed where Tabitha was frantically rewrapping the satin sheet about herself. "Perhaps nay, though. She's a bit scrawny for my tastes." He frowned slightly, then the grin twisted itself back into place. "Ah well, breedin' and nursin' bairns'll fatten her oop."

Tabitha turned pink, then red, then scarlet.

And Dunstan turned an amazing shade of chartreuse as Alan, with thumb and forefinger, jerked him to his toes and jammed him hard against the wall by his nostrils.

"What are you here for, _Dumb_ stan?" He skewered him on a lethal look before letting him drop.

" _Ow_. Dinna be mad at me, laddie, I'm just the messenger," the beefy blond grumbled nasally, rubbing his swollen nose. "You're wanted in the yard. 'Tis Mary."

Alan let out a deep, gut-wrenching groan. "I'm going to ship that little lunatic back to Boston on a mule train. What's her folly now?"

"She's climbed oot on the ledge o' the wizards' tower and promises tae jump if you dinna come," Dunstan said, as Alan yanked his clothes back on.

"Why can't one of you get her down?" He fastened his trousers with a slight wince. "Haul her in through the window above, or use a ladder. Don't tell me you're all afraid of one moon-mazed lassie!"

"Aye, when she's got a loaded revolver, we are. Malcolm did try the ladder, though. She waited till he was nearly oop, then gave it a stout kick." He paused a moment to scratch under his arm. "Molly says 'tis a good, clean break, his leg ought tae heal."

"I'm glad to hear it," Alan said, as though glad was the last thing he was. "How the devil did she get a revolver?"

"How should I ken? She's a witch maybe." Dunstan shrugged, blinking at Alan through bloodshot eyes. "You comin' or ain't you?" The eyes flashed to Tabitha, huddled small against the large bed's headboard. "I can keep the bonny bride amused whilst you're gang," he offered with a leer that curdled her blood.

"You can find yourself flayed and staked out on the prairie, too," Alan said, with a grin that curdled Dunstan's. "Wait for me in the yard. I'll be there directly."

He watched until his cousin had lumbered sulkily out of sight, then swung about, snatched Tabitha's clothes off a chair, jammed them into her trunk on top of the others, slammed the lid down, turned the trunk's key with a vicious twist, tore it out of the lock, and shoved it into his boot.

"Just making sure you won't want to go anywhere while I'm gone." He stalked to the bed and nailed her to the headboard with an iron glare. "When I return, I expect to find you _exactly_ where I left you. This night is not over for us yet, lassie. As far as I'm concerned, it hasn't even _begun_. Now come here."

She couldn't. Fury radiated off him like heat waves, paralyzing her. She'd seen him angry before, but not like this. This was a real temper. It was suddenly too easy to imagine him killing someone.

She gave her head a little shake, simply because that was the only response she could manage, but it seemed to infuriate Alan even more. A snarl on his lips, he reached forward and hauled her into his arms, capturing her mouth, kissing her as though he'd devour her in one bite.

It rocked her like a volcanic eruption, turned her blood into molten lava and her breath into steam—swept through her like a firestorm, burning away resistance, leaving nothing in its wake but a deep, driving, devastating need.

"There, that should hold you for a bit!" Abruptly, he released her.

She landed on the mattress in a shower of electric sparks and lay there gasping, staring at him through a red-hot haze as he strode for the door.

"I'll be back," he flung over his shoulder. And then he was gone.

And she was alone with a quivering, unquenchable desire... And a shivering, unspeakable fear.

### Chapter 4

Turning up the lamp didn't help. It brightened the room, but Tabitha's thoughts grew blacker with every erratic beat of her heart. Alan had been gone about thirty minutes, she estimated, yet it may just as well have been seconds so intensely could she still feel the scorch of his body, taste his lips, sense his energy. It was like being branded, she thought, furious with him for marking her and herself for letting him. Even if she escaped now, she'd never really be free. Wherever she went, whatever she did, she would have to carry his memory with her. The rat.

Shaking her head in a hopeless effort to clear it, she paced the room—from end to end, side to side, corner to corner, and back again. Wrapped up in the sheet, wrapped up in anxiety, glancing at the door and dreading his return...glancing at the bed and longing for what she dreaded... Boiling in such an emotional stew, the sudden crack of the door banging open hit her like a gunshot.

She jumped, tripped over a trailing corner of sheet, and stumbled forward and sideways before catching herself with both hands on the edge of the dresser. Left to its own devices, the sheet slipped down off her breasts, and she stumbled again in the hasty grab to pull it back into place.

"Need some help?"

The offer was made cheerfully enough, but the reek of stale sweat and fresh whiskey that came with it almost turned her stomach inside out. And the meaty hand that latched onto her arm sent a polar chill through her veins.

"Don't you _ever_ knock?" She jerked away from the grip with a sharp twist.

"Why bother? 'Tis all family here, Cousin Tabby. We've nothin' tae hide fray one another, and we share and share alike." Dunstan stared at the swell of her breasts beneath the satin and licked his lips.

Eww...

"Get out." Tabitha watched him the way a cornered cat watches an advancing dog, every fiber tensed for fight or flight, whichever opportunity came first. The moron ought to know she wasn't easy prey. He still wore the scratches she'd given him when he and Duncan had locked her in the prison tower.

"Aye, tha' reminds me," he slurred, not so drunk he couldn't read her expression. "I owe you somethin' for t'other day!"

A heavy hand lashed out, delivering a vicious slap before she could dodge it. The blow hit her on the jaw, knocking the wind out of her and sending her hard into the dresser. She grabbed at it for support, trying to spin clear, but the back of the hand cracked into the other side of her face, driving her to her knees. The room started to tilt, and she struggled to stay conscious, barely aware Dunstan was dragging her down beneath him by her hair. He let go of it to clamp down on her throat while his other hand tore away the sheet.

Jagged nails raked a raw path from her breast to abdomen. "Here's some o' your own back, you wicked cat!" He bit her shoulder with enough force to draw blood.

Pinned fast and battling for breath, Tabitha had bigger concerns. The grip on her windpipe was choking her more than Dunstan in his drunken anger realized. Or maybe he did realize—but she preferred to give him the benefit of the doubt; dealing with one murderer per night was about all she could manage. More likely, Dunstan was just a stupid, lecherous lout with a wounded ego and a sore nose.

_Wham!_ She slammed the latter with the heel of her hand.

He yelled, drew back and gave her several more blows that nearly knocked her eyes out of their sockets, but her lungs expanded with the needed air— _gasp_ —because to strike her, he'd had to let go of her neck. He grabbed her wrists instead, locking them together in one huge, sweaty hand, straining them high over her head. His free hand fumbled his kilt aside. His hairy knees began forcing hers apart...

"This be for Alan. Stake me out, will he? I'll stake his bride tae the floor!" His breath made her feel like she had her face stuck in a sewer.

Tabitha gagged, then as something ungodly grazed her thigh, started screaming for all she was worth.

Not half so loudly as Dunstan, however, as a yowling, black fiend landed on his back in a furious frenzy of fang and claw. He bellowed like a wounded bull, rolling over and crushing the creature beneath his bulk, but it scrambled free, clawed its way over his head and drove straight for the man's throat.

Dunstan lumbered to his feet and floundered about the room, trying to free himself from fangs that refused to let go. For something that was really only a good-sized house cat, the animal fought with the studied ferocity of a full-grown panther. It seemed to know exactly what it was doing, and it clung to him like some crazed devil-leech straight out of the darkest depths of hell. It strained toward his jugular, like it had done this sort of thing many times before, like it reveled in it, craved it, and only a long drink of hot spurting blood would be able to appease it.

Left sprawled on the floor, Tabitha followed the struggle with incredulous eyes while she groped a hand up under the dresser. Somewhere... _there_. Her fingers closed around something hard and smooth. She inched it out, her breath coming in ragged snatches, then pulled to her knees and gazed down.

It was a fancy carved piece of hardwood, about the length and thickness of a baseball bat. It was the broken bedpost. But to her it was the end to this nightmare.

Struggling to her feet, she grasped it with both hands and staggered toward Dunstan just as he finally ripped the cat off his neck and hurled it into a wall. The animal dropped to the floor in a hissing, spitting crouch, and the wild-eyed man lunged forward to stomp its head in. But Tabitha lunged faster, swinging with all her might, and it was his head that cracked, instead. Not literally, though.

Unfortunately.

Studying the man's motionless, but obviously breathing form, she decided that since he had mostly rocks between his ears, all she'd done was to rattle them a bit.

She hovered above him another moment, poised like a batter awaiting the next pitch, just in case he needed another crack, but his lights had been well and truly blown out. Dropping her weapon, she raced to the cat.

Who sat washing his face as though nothing had happened.

Tabitha scooped him up, hugging him against her chest with an almost hysterical relief. He snuggled into her, purring like a miniature locomotive.

"You brave, foolish, little angel"—tears splashed onto his fur—"thank you! But that was an awful chance you took. He's so much bigger than you."

The cat fussed his way out of her arms, padded over to Dunstan, sniffed him, then turned his back, lifted high his tail, and sprayed the unconscious man square between the eyes. His way, apparently, of saying, "The bigger they are, the harder they fall."

Blinking up at Tabitha, who was suddenly racked between laughter and sobs, his glowing eyes seemed to suggest, "Don't you think you should be leaving now? We won that battle, but let's not press our luck."

"Good point." She sniffled and stumbled back across the room to collect what was left of her sheet.

Not until she was tucking it around herself did she realize she was angrier with Alan than she was with Dunstan. The latter was only a drunken fool. _Alan_ was the shameless villain who'd deliberately stranded her in such a vulnerable position in the first place. If she'd been properly dressed, she could have dodged Dunstan before he'd ever laid a finger on her.

"It's this damned sheet that caused the whole thing! It keeps slipping and tripping me," she complained to the cat through a new flurry of frustrated tears.

He gazed at her a thoughtful moment, then snagged Dunstan's monogrammed kilt pin with a neat front paw, tore it loose, and batted it across the floor to her. "Will this help?" his eyes asked.

Tabitha blinked away her tears, staring from the cat to the pin and back again. "You are utterly extraordinary."

The cat's glowing gaze narrowed into a smug, feline sort of grin. "Yes, I know. It's a specialty of mine," he seemed to say. "Now run along. I'll catch up with you as soon as I've repaired my weaponry." He began an industrious sharpening of his claws on Dunstan's thick shoe leather.

Securing her makeshift toga with the gilt pin, Tabitha threw the longest edge over her shoulder and groped her way through the dark passages that led out of the keep and into the fresh night air she needed to wash Dunstan's stink out of her nostrils. The cat never did follow. But then, she was beginning to get used to that.

By the time she reached the outside door, she had barely enough strength left to shove through onto the ramp and down to the inner courtyard below. After staggering half a dozen steps over soggy turf, her knees gave way in front of a narrow bench deep in the shadows of a wall. She collapsed onto it, feeling like a burst balloon. The adrenaline that had been keeping her on her feet and masking pain had finally fizzled out, leaving her all too aware of how horribly she hurt.

There was something wet and sticky trickling down her face, and both eyes were starting to swell shut. Her torso burned where he'd raked her, and the bite on her shoulder was throbbing and oozing more sticky stuff. Worst of all was the pounding ache in her head. It felt like a war zone in there, like someone was setting off blasting caps inside her skull. Or cannon fire, or gunshots or—

Pow! Pow!

It took two shots in rapid succession to alert her to the fact that someone _was_ firing a gun.

Through bleary slits, Tabitha peered ahead into the gloom and saw a small, buzzing cluster of people standing a dozen yards away in a circle of smoky torchlight. None of them appeared to have noticed her yet. They were all too engrossed in the surrealistic burlesque show being performed high over their heads.

Perched like a big yellow canary bird, and singing like one, too, Mary MacAllister was balancing on the narrow upper ledge of the nearby generator tower, offering a lovely rendition of an old Scottish folk tune for—Tabitha could only assume—the entertainment of her Texas cousin.

Except, gauging by his body language, the Texas cousin wasn't entertained. From his position on the long ladder, roped against the tower so it couldn't be toppled, Alan apparently was either trying to climb onto the ledge with Mary, or coax Mary into boarding the ladder with him. Neither endeavor seemed to be progressing very well. Dunstan had been wrong, Tabitha noted, squinting up at the moon and torch lit pair. Mary did not have a loaded revolver. Mary had _two_ revolvers.

However, she was only holding one at the moment. The second was tucked into a holster of the heavy cartridge belt buckled jauntily over her billowy, yellow negligee.

"O, ye take the high road, and I'll take the low road, and I'll be in Scotland afore ye—"

Pow!

Alan ducked as the third shot in several minutes whizzed past his ear.

"For me and my true love will never meet again on the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond," Mary finished plaintively. She glanced sideways at Alan as the top half of his head peered warily over the ledge, her elegant brows suddenly knit together in some sort of mental distress.

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry, Cousin Alan. That wasn't right of me at all, was it?" She gazed at him with fretful concern.

"Aye. But you missed me, so there's no harm done. Just hand over the guns and come down like a good lass, and we'll forget all about it," he said soothingly as the rest of his head, followed by his shoulders rose cautiously before her view. With painstaking care, he began hoisting himself onto the ledge.

Pow!

The fourth shot drove him back to the ladder in a hasty scramble.

"You silly thing. Men really are so stupid sometimes." Mary fanned the gun smoke away from her face with a graceful hand. "I was referring to the _song_. You're lower than me at present, so I should have done it, ' _You_ take the low road, and _I'll_ take the high road.'"

And she sang the entire tune, with all its verses, over again, making the necessary corrections, and keeping Alan glued to the ladder with the aid of two more erratically aimed bullets.

"There! That was much better and far more appropriate, don't you think?" she asked, as the last notes drifted eerily away in the storm washed air.

"Aye," Alan agreed, a dangerous edge sharpening his voice. "And the best part is you've now emptied _both_ cylinders." With a quick, catlike motion, he swung himself onto the ledge and grabbed for her.

She skipped lightly out of reach. "Ah, you can count to twelve, I'm so impressed! But it hardly matters. I've lots more cartridges." She giggled, and then bit her lip in concentration as she fumbled with the revolver in her hand, evidently trying to determine how it opened for reloading.

Alan made another grab. "Give me that! You don't know what you're doing."

"No, no, no—don't help me. I want to figure it out for myself." Mary danced three more steps away.

Easily working her way around the ledge, she continued fussing with the weapon, always staying just beyond Alan's reach and cheerfully chortling to herself. "Ah ha! So that's how it opens. How cunning. Now, I wonder which end of these is the front?" She slipped one of the cartridges out of the belt and squinted at it.

"Mary, those aren't toys. Give them to me!" Alan was obviously doing his best to overtake her, but the narrowness of the ledge put a man of his size at disadvantage compared to the slender redhead.

"Don't call me Mary." She pouted, turning the bullet this way and that. "I told you before, I'm Cassandra."

" _Cassandra_ , then," he growled.

"No... After hearing you say it, I don't think Cassandra will do, either. It's too cumbersome." She paused, and he must have thought he had her, but it was only a tease. "I think I'll call myself _Monique_ , instead. That way I can keep the same initials, and I won't have to change my monograms. I do believe in being practical."

"Then be _practical_ now and come down from here. You shouldn't be playing with Geordie's Colts. He's going to be very angry with you." Alan almost slipped as he missed another grab.

"He's angry already, but it won't do him any good. These aren't his Colts any longer. They're mine." Monique laughed, pausing again to let Alan make up the distance he'd lost by slipping.

"How do you figure that?" he bit out.

"Because last night I had three aces, and he only had two."

It was Alan's turn to pause. " _Five_ aces total? You _cheated_ him?"

"Don't be absurd." She smirked. "No one has to cheat Geordie at cards. It's too easy to beat him honestly." Clumsily, she began to fill the Colt's chambers. "One of my aces was a One-eyed Jack. One-eyed Jacks were wild last night," she explained—and gave a startled shriek as part of the tower wall abruptly fell away behind her and she toppled inward.

Several moments of tremendous banging, scuffling and crashing ensued, punctuated by enraged feminine screams and a few genuine shouts of pain—none of them from a woman's throat.

Inching along the outside ledge, Alan peeked through the opening, winced at what he saw, retraced his steps, and hastened down the ladder.

He made it to the ground only seconds before Simon Elliott staggered out the bottom door of the tower with Mary-Monique slung over his shoulder. The lanky blond's tie was gone, his collar was crooked, and his jacket was torn. He had a bump on his forehead and a scratch on his cheek. His cargo was hissing and spitting like an alley cat, furiously trying to reach one of her two revolvers, which were jammed into the waistband of his trousers.

"I'm afraid not, little girl. I'll give them back to you when you're old enough to learn how to use them properly." He delivered a swat to her upturned derriere that made her eyes pop.

"Beast! I detest you," she hissed from her inverted position.

"That's quite all right. You're not one of my favorite people either." Grinning, he swung her down to her feet with a little jolt. "Now, why don't you go to your room. It must be way past your bedtime. Would you like me to come along and tuck you in?"

She gave him a glare that would have flayed the flesh from his bones if eyes were razors, stormed several paces toward the keep, saw the figure huddled on the bench, and went whiter than the satin sheet it was wrapped in.

"Oh my God! Tabitha, what happened to you?" She raced to her side.

Tabitha glanced up into Mary's blurred, stricken expression and tried to smile, but the current state of her face wouldn't allow it. "I enjoyed your performance. Almost applauded," she joked through swollen lips.

With a laugh that sounded more like a sob, Mary sat next to her. "Honey, I'm so sorry, I wasn't quick enough," she whispered, gathering the girl into her arms.

Too fuzzy to figure out what she was talking about, and too shaky to sit upright, Tabitha collapsed against the silk clad shoulder. Its owner might be nutty as a fruitcake, but she was also acting sweeter than one. Why? Tabitha didn't know and didn't care. It was a relief to have the comfort.

She felt Mary tense, and didn't even have to hear his angry growl to know Alan was suddenly looming over them.

"I thought I bid you stay in the room. What the devil are you doing here—dressed like _that_?"

Tabitha battled back a scream. _Oh yes, dressed like_ this _, the way you left me—naked and defenseless—a sitting duck for the first drunk who decided to try his luck!_

With a furious moan, she buried her battered face deeper into the billowy negligee. "Make him go away," she mumbled.

Mary's already tense form stiffened into steel. "With pleasure," she muttered under her breath.

Tabitha felt one of the woman's hands shift and close around something small and hard beneath the folds of canary silk. _How funny, I was as wrong as Dunstan._ Mary hadn't had two guns; she'd had at least three. The third one felt like a Derringer in a garter holster. Was that what the well-dressed Boston belles were wearing this year?

"I think you've already done quite enough for one night, Cousin Alan," she said with a curious, glacial calm. "Leave us alone now. I'm going to take Tabitha to my room." She pulled both of them upright, holding Tabitha against herself with a lithe, athletic strength that was almost as surprising as the hidden weapon.

Alan bit back a curse, obviously fighting to control himself, and just as obviously losing the battle. "Listen, lassies, I've had all I'm going to take from either of you. Enough is enough! Mary, you can go to your room, or go to blazes. I don't care, just so long as you go there _now_ and go alone. And Tabitha, _you_ are coming with me!"

A hand flashed out, yanking her away from Mary, his fingers not rough exactly, but digging into the bite wound on her shoulder with enough pressure to make her cry out. Mary flew forward and pulled her back, shoving her half behind herself and steadying the girl with her left hand while the right was still buried somewhere in the froth of yellow silk wafting about her in the cool night air.

"If you want her, you'll have to get past me." She spoke with an icy poise that made her sound as though she faced situations like this regularly for sport. "Beating an innocent girl... I should have shot you when I had the chance," she added in a tone softer than death.

The innocent girl heard it, but the assumed beater's attention was suddenly riveted elsewhere. He was staring at a now exposed swollen and bloody face—with an expression of unspeakable black rage fast darkening his own.

" _Who_?"

One word. That was all he said, but the sound of his voice sliced through Tabitha like a knife. His figure towered before her, fuzzy and wavering, his face a dim blur with two sparks of deep golden glow searing out of it. Squinting into them, Tabitha felt a furious wave of adrenaline wash through her, tightening her knees and drawing her upright. "You! You did it!" She grabbed onto Mary as her legs went watery again.

Alan scarcely acknowledged the answer. He seemed to view it as hysterical raving. "Never mind. I'll find out for myself." His gaze burned over her, reading every mark, every drop of blood as though it were a volume of information, while she glared defiance back at him.

Neither of them noticed they'd become the new show for the courtyard audience. Only Mary was aware of the growing number clustering about them. Her eyes never left Alan, but she knew the position of every kilted clansman, every tartan-shawled woman hovering near. The only person she missed somehow was Simon Elliott, who suddenly was just there, brushing against her right side and startling her so much her hidden hand nearly jerked free.

"You're right," he whispered, grinning, as she quickly shoved the hand and what it held farther into the yellow folds. "That probably would _not_ be a wise move."

"I don't know what you're talking about." She blinked at him with wide-eyed innocence and just the right amount of feminine pique.

"Yes, you do." He grinned again. "And you know I'll be watching you closely from now on, too, don't you?"

She managed a very attractive, little blush. "All men watch me. They can't help themselves." She pouted prettily. "My beauty attracts them, like moths to a flame."

"Mmm...yes," Simon murmured, smoking her from head to toe with a visual assessment that turned the blush genuine. "That's another good reason for it."

He sauntered past her into the shadows, leaving Mary looking like a gambler who had just accidentally dropped all her cards face up on the table and was trying to convince herself that no one had seen.

Beside her, Tabitha was struggling to keep her uncooperative legs under herself and marveling that it could be so hot and so cold at the same time. She realized she was probably suffering from shock, but somehow that knowledge didn't make the symptoms any easier to deal with. The only silver lining in the cloud was that she could hardly see Alan anymore. The courtyard and everyone in it were swirling into one big patchwork haze.

"Please, d-don't let me pass out," she moaned to Mary. "I don't trust what will happen if I faint again."

"Stand back! Someone get her some water," Mary ordered. She resettled her charge onto the bench and began fanning her.

Tabitha felt her hair being pushed back off her face and shoulders, and cool air stinging the now exposed bite wound. She also felt Mary almost drop her and heard the young woman's enraged shriek:

"Oh my God, he's _bitten_ her! She'll get rabies!"

The noise yanked her back into enough reality to be disturbingly aware of Alan kneeling before her and glaring hard at something golden fastened in the sheet just below the wound.

The kilt pin.

" _Dunstan_." Alan snarled the name like it was the vilest of curses.

He snarled it just as its owner happened to be lumbering out of the keep in an absolute idiocy of bravado. Dunstan had tidied himself up a bit and decided, apparently, that if he acted as though nothing had occurred, no one would be the wiser. He was that stupid. Or that drunk. Or both.

"Aye, cousin?" He staggered toward the cluster of people like a big, smelly, unknowing lamb on its way to the slaughter.

Though "slaughter" was perhaps too pleasant a term for what it might have been if two men hadn't leapt on Alan to hold him back.

And then two more.

And two more...

In the end, it took seven hearty Highlanders several long, hellish moments to drag their laird to the ground. Even then an extra one was needed to keep him there. That one was Uncle Angus.

"Hold, lad— Hold!" he bellowed, doing a powerful bit of holding, himself, with a heavy hand buried in Alan's hair. "If he's guilty, Dunstan will be duly punished. But by _MacAllister_ law, nay by yours!"

Straining furiously against the kilted tonnage pinning him to the damp earth, Alan gave a solitary, inhuman cry of defiance. It ripped through the great courtyard like the scream of a wounded panther, almost shattering the walls and hitting Tabitha with the force of a bullwhip. In the dazed, dizzy state of her shock, she felt, suddenly, like she was reliving something—some ghastly, heartrending experience. But she couldn't remember what. She only knew it was something that had happened right where she was then, in the castle's inner yard, and that somehow she'd heard that cry before.

"Even the laird canna change this! D'ye understand me, lad?"

Tabitha heard Angus's question and Alan's answering snarl of "Aye" as if the voices came from another world. She stumbled through the next moments like she was barely in them, like the whole thing was some weird, wavering masque, and she was simultaneously one of the players and one of the spectators.

Dunstan was led forward, mumbling some sullen, fretful nonsense about her being a witch and cursing him with her evil eye. Which Mary parried with "No, you idiot, _I'm_ the witch, and if you don't shut up, I'll turn you into something worse than the disgusting toad you already are!" He had ended by accepting his fate stoically, however, not even trying to argue most of the accusations Tabitha had been required to state in front of all.

That had been the eeriest part, having to stand and recite what he'd done while that sea of curious eyes splashed over her—that and Dunstan's abrupt rousing to deny the part about the cat. His wounds were from her, he had insisted. She'd fought him like a cat, that was all. Even in her haze, Tabitha found that unnerving. Why should he lie about the cat of all things?

"That's not true! I was in no position to fight, that's why he got as far as he did." Foggy and fuming, she'd tried to make someone believe that. Good heavens, they were all staring at her like she'd just sprouted whiskers and pointed ears.

"Forget it, honey. What difference does it make? You must have been so frightened, you didn't realize everything that was happening." Mary guided her back to the bench. "All right, you vultures, the show is over," she declared. "Shoot that oaf, hang him, chop his head off, or whatever you do with mad dogs and _get it over with_ , so Tabitha can be tended to and rest!"

Storming to her feet, she hauled Tabitha up beside her and started steering the girl toward the keep. She gave a startled little cry when a quick hand stopped them—and Tabitha gave a loud one as she felt herself swung up into a muscular pair of arms.

"Take it easy, Miss Jeffries. I'm merely offering some gentlemanly assistance. You don't look in any shape to navigate the ramp," sounded a familiar drawl. A lazy grin beamed down at her.

Tabitha heaved a relieved sigh and sank back against the man's solid chest while he carried her up the foot ramp to the keep's second floor entrance. "I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but it _cheers_ me tremendously to see you, Mr. Elliott."

"At least one of us is happy about it," Mary muttered, and promptly choked on a second cry, as the trio's way was blocked by the figure Tabitha had least wanted to see.

Burning amber eyes glinted dangerously into Simon's cool gray ones. _Like fire and smoke_ , Tabitha thought as her heart threatened to skip the next several beats.

"If you're really a wizard, Mr. Elliott, prove it to me now by making him disappear," she groaned into his lapel.

Both men ignored the request. They looked like two stags in a face-off. Except they were locking gazes instead of antlers.

"Thank you for your trouble," Alan said to Simon, as though gratitude was the last thing on his mind. "But I can handle things from here." His arms lifted to take her.

"You're welcome, but it's no trouble at all. I'm happy to be of service." Simon grinned, swinging his armful to the side and preparing to step past.

"'Tis a service she doesn't need." Alan blocked them again. And he was not grinning, the armful noted.

"Yes, I do!" she insisted, locking her own arms around Simon's neck as Alan started to pull her away.

An ear splitting whistle pierced the air. Three heads turned with a start, just in time to see Mary withdrawing two fingers from her mouth, her eyes blazing blue sparks.

"What do you think she is, a rope in a tug-of-war?" She thrust herself between Alan and Simon. "Cousin Alan, be reasonable. Leave Tabitha with me tonight. She needs a woman's care. You'll only upset her more."

"I'll upset _you_ , lassie, if you don't step aside." He latched onto Mary's forearm with an intimidating grip.

The grip popped open, and so did his eyes, in astonishment, as her free hand shot out and landed an expert chop on his wrist that must have rattled his teeth.

Too late, Mary realized the mistake. She glanced over her shoulder to see Simon's smoky gaze studying her. Her own eyes began blinking, as though fighting back tears. "Oh, _ow_ "—she sniffled—I hurt my hand."

"I'm so sorry. Would you like me to kiss it for you and make it better?" Simon offered with a grin.

"No. But I'll tell you what you _can_ kiss, if you're not careful," she answered with a sinister sweetness.

His grin broadened. "Mmm...if it's what I hope it is, I'd enjoy that even more."

" _Eww_..." Mary gagged, a horrified blush staining her face. "You're disgusting." She pivoted back to Alan. "So are you! Both of you are disgusting. All men are pigs," she told Tabitha, neatly prying her loose from Simon and helping her to stand. "We don't need any of them." Holding her chin in the air and her arms protectively around Tabitha, she tried to guide the girl through the keep's smaller, foot-passage entrance.

Alan back-stepped, yanked the door shut, and held it fast with one hand while he reached toward Tabitha with the other. The sudden tenderness of his tone hit her harder than if he had shouted. "Please... Let me take care of you. I'll not do anything to hurt you further. I just want to be with you. 'Tis the only way I can be certain you'll be safe."

"She'll be safer with me, than she will with you," Mary argued as Tabitha shivered against her. "Why do men have to be so blind? She's been too long without care already, and you're standing here wasting more time! Stop being an idiot, Alan. Move aside!"

The door suddenly rattled on its heavy iron hinges. "Alan you say?" someone on the other side of it called. "Be that you, Alan MacAllister, holdin' this door shut? Ye'd best open it, laddie, afore I take me stick tae you."

"Molly? Thank heavens! I was just coming to find you. That miserable toad, Dunstan, attacked Tabitha, and she needs help," Mary answered. "Probably your charm for warts, too," she added thoughtfully.

"Tabitha, is it? Be that the lassie I sent the salve for t'other night? The one they say has just wedded Alan? I've nay seen her yet."

"Yes, that's her, and she's ready to collapse. Make Alan let us through. He's being a pigheaded lout."

A soft chuckle sounded, then a stern: "Alan MacAllister, I bid you once open this door. Now, I'm biddin' you again. If I hafta bid you a _third_ time, I ken someone who's gang tae be a very sorry and a very _sore_ laddie. D'ye hear me, son?"

Alan heaved a tremendous sigh—"Aye, Grandmother"—and reluctantly stepped aside. "What are you laughing at?" He glowered at Simon. "Don't you have somewhere else you need to be right now?"

"Actually, now that you mention it..." The other man grinned. "No."

"Well, go there, anyway!"

Simon pasted on his wounded look (but not for long). "Oh, all right, if you're going to be that way about it." He dipped a slight bow to Mary and Tabitha. "Ladies, I'll see you later."

"Not if we see you first," Mary muttered.

"Ah, but that's just it, isn't it? No one ever sees me first. I'm a wizard," he told her, that lazy grin spreading slowly across his face. "I can appear in a puff of...smoke." He watched a moment as every last scrap of color drained out of her, then turned and strolled off with a long, lanky stride.

"Drat. And here I'd been thinking he was just some nosy tenderfoot," Mary murmured under her breath. "I'm going to have to rewrite this show."

"Be you makin' a new play, dear?"

A female Leprechaun? No, that couldn't be right. Leprechauns were Irish. This was a Bodach, a Scottish pixie, perhaps?

One of the Wee Folk, anyway, Tabitha decided in her daze. The white haired woman smiling up at Mary was less than five feet tall and as wispy and delicate as a blade of grass.

"You know me, Molly, I'm always working on some drama or other," Mary said, looking as though she was deep in the middle of one right then.

"Aye, dear, you're a bonny, braw play actress. And this be me new granddaughter?" Her eyes crinkled for an instant as she seemed to read the whole of Tabitha's injuries and half her thoughts in one practiced glance. "I'm sorry you've had such a rough welcome tae your new home, dear, but 'tis nothin' I canna heal. Wipe that ugly frown fray your face, Alan MacAllister, and make yourself scarce. Mary and I will tend your bride. Your black looks be fearin' the lassie," she said. "I'll send if you're needed."

"You won't have to send far. I'll be right outside your door."

"Oh, 'tis one o' them moods, is it?" Tiny hands on her narrow hips, Molly stood peering up and clucking her tongue at him. "Ah well, what canna be cured, mun be endured. Bring your bride alang then, you blackguard. But mind you go gentle. 'Tis a wicked knock on her head. If you worsen it, I'll give you one tae match on your own." Thumping her short staff on the floor with every step, Molly led the way deep into the heart of the keep, to her Stillroom filled with pungent potions, powders and salves, and fragrant bunches of herbs drying from the ceiling rafters.

Tabitha rode the entire way in Alan's arms. And in agony, too weak to lift her head off his chest and having to listen to the steady beat of his heart throbbing a counterpoint rhythm to the painful pounding in her skull. There wasn't a single part of her that didn't hurt. But the sharpest ache of all was the one that stabbed through her with the horrible realization that part of her _wanted_ this. She wanted to feel his warmth and his strength wrapped around her, holding her together, keeping her from flying into a thousand desperate fragments.

It was worse than horrible. It was ridiculous. It made no sense. She distrusted him, feared him, hated him even. Yet being held by Alan was like being held by a rock. It felt like coming home after fighting a war in some frightful, alien land. But _how_? How could it feel so right when she knew the whole thing was so utterly, awfully wrong?

She didn't realize she'd been moaning aloud until she felt his lips grazing her brow and heard his low voice murmuring, "I'm sorry, dear, I'm trying not to hurt you."

It was the final blow. It burst the dam of her control, and hot, salty tears flooded over her cheeks, stinging open cuts. "Damn you. Everything you _do_ hurts me. Why can't you just leave me alone? Let me _go_."

He flinched, as though her words had been a knife thrust, and she felt his muscles tense.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, the tenderness of his previous tone gone. "'Tis not my intention to wound, but if that's the way you feel, you'd best get used to it. There's no escape, Tabitha—for either of us. You're mine whether you like it or not. I'll ride into hell before I'll let you go."

And I'm almost in hell now.

Tabitha struggled to choke back the sobs before they grew uncontrollable. None of her logical science training had prepared her for this turmoil. There was no logic here. She was out of her depth. And out of her mind. Alan's declaration had sent chills down her spine—but not the icy kind. Nothing seemed to change her core reaction to him. Not anger, hurt, confusion... Despite it all, she was still beginning to feel that being in his arms was the only place in the world she was supposed to be.

Continued in Part 2...

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Sneak-peek

Excerpt from Part 2:

...Like placing one picture over a similar but not quite identical one, so the lines blurred together and it was difficult to tell where one image ended and the other began. That's what the dream was like, Tabitha thought, as she lay between the sheets (sensible cotton ones, thank goodness), straining to remember it, her bruised eyes weighted shut with the effort.

Alan had brought her back to _their_ room, as he called it, after Molly's skillful doctoring of her injuries. She'd been too drained by then, and too dopey from the painkiller the herb woman had administered to care where she was. She had barely even noticed Alan unwrapping her improvised toga, slipping a nightgown over her head, and tucking her under the covers like she was a small child. Then he'd pulled off his shirt and boots and slid in with her, cradling her against him until deep sleep claimed her.

Which proved the worth of Molly's potions. It was outrageous to think she ever could have slept in such a position otherwise, no matter how exhausted she was. Especially given the way Alan had spent the fuzzy interval before slumber rubbing her shoulders and stroking her back through the nightgown, and whispering soft words into her hair. Words Tabitha couldn't remember now. And didn't want to.

That tender side of Alan seemed the most devastating to her. It rattled her to the core, because it was so incongruous to the rest of him. And because she was so defenseless against it. His growling and bullying was something she could lean into, brace herself for, and at least try to resist. But how did you fight gentleness? It was like one of those snares that used your own weight against you. The harder you struggled to loosen it, the tighter it became. She could feel the whole frightening situation closing in on her like a noose around her neck. And that weird dream had only pulled the rope snugger.

_Very_ weird, more like a memory than a dream, really. But a memory of something that had never happened to Tabitha. She'd been someone else in the dream, a girl slightly older than herself, who'd been locked in the tower room as she had, but during some earlier time. Tabitha had realized that because the tree outside the window had been so much smaller. She'd been squeezed into the window, staring out over the branches and waiting for someone, her heart pounding with a desperate longing and terrified dread at the same time. Who, exactly, she had been waiting for in the dream, she wasn't sure, but she'd known it was a man, and that he was coming to rescue her. Although from what, she couldn't remember, nor anything more than that.

The rest of the dream was a blank. Except for the last part of it. In the final moment before waking, everything had been pitch black around her and heavy with the odors of smoke and blood. She had felt frozen, unable to move, and she hadn't known where she was anymore. Then came the horrible noise of someone or something screaming in rage—almost like Alan's cry when they'd pinned him in the yard—and she had awoken with a jolt, the agony of it still ringing in her ears...

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About the author:

http://www.mimiriser.com

Mimi Riser is a longtime author of both fiction and nonfiction, including several series and spanning a variety of genres (with flavors ranging from sweet to spicy hot). Her books celebrate the upbeat, the offbeat, and "beating the odds." She began life in the urban northeast, but now resides in the rural southwest with her best friend and husband Rob.
