Eyes of the Cat (28 page)

Didn’t want to… Foolish… Stubborn… Childish…

The man was amazing. How had he managed to fit so many actual and implied insults into one short speech, Tabitha wondered, her color rising up the spectrum from a pale, nervous white to a blazing, defiant crimson.

“Are you done?” she asked in a voice like a fuse being lit.

“Only if you are. And I’m warning you, lassie, that you’d better be.”

“Oh, I’m done all right. I’m so
done
that if I were a baking cake, I’d be burned to a cinder by now,” she said with a smile that ended at the lips. “I’m done with stupid castles and stupid traditions and stupid—”

“Tabitha…”

“And, most of all”—she skipped to the finish as Alan rose threateningly from the chair—“I’m done with being told what I think by a half-dressed, no-brain, pigheaded, egotistical barbarian who wouldn’t know a genuine thought if it jumped up and bit him on his stupid ass! I may only be…but… Stop that!” she snapped, as her train of thought was derailed by rich low laughter. “This isn’t funny!”

“Isn’t it?” Alan chuckled. An insufferably amused sparkle replaced the warning in his gaze as his warm hands rested on her shoulders. “If you don’t like me being so charmed by it, stop being so irresistibly adorable.”

“And you stop treating me like I’m no bigger than Rosa! I may only be eighteen, but I’m certainly no child, and I am definitely old enough to know my own mind. So stop telling me what I think!”

The hands on her shoulders froze, along with his amusement. “What did you say?”

“You heard me! I said, stop telling me what I…think.” A chilling confusion crept over her at the odd change in his expression. Alan was staring at her as though she had just slipped a knife between his ribs.

“No…before that.
How
old are you?”

“Eighteen.” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why?”

What difference did it make? Was this some new trick?

Alan apparently thought so.

“You’re lying! You can’t be only eighteen,” he bit out, as his hands bit into her shoulders. “I saw your contract with that employment agency when I emptied your trunk that first night. It lists your age as twenty-two!”

“What if it does?” she shot back, anger helping to brace her against that sharp hold. “They wouldn’t hire anyone under twenty-one and I…I was desperate for work,” she admitted, embarrassed by the memory of having to fib her way into a decent job.

Suddenly ashen, Alan pulled back, as if she’d become too hot to hold. Perhaps she had.

“Good God… No wonder you’ve been as frightened as a child. You
are
a child.” A stricken look widened his eyes. “Heaven help me, I’ve been robbing the cradle. You’re hardly more than a bairn!”

He was calling her a baby? Now
that
was pushing things a bit.

“There’s no need to be insulting about it. You’re acting like you’re Methuselah or something—when Lady Gabrina told me you’re only twenty-eight yourself. There’s only ten years between us. That’s scarcely any difference at all between a man and a woman. Lots of husbands are that much older than their wives,” she spouted indignantly. And immediately clapped a hand over her own mouth. “Good heavens,” she whispered, rapidly debating how much effort it would take to bite out her tongue. “What have I just said?”

“You were implying that we’re man and wife,” Alan said wryly. “And I appreciate the thought, dear, believe me. But it comes a wee bit late…” His chest heaved with a sigh. “We’re not married.”

Why is everything still in place?

Tabitha stood staring in weak-kneed shock. To hear him actually admit that could only have preceded the world grinding to a jarring halt, spinning its entire surface out to the farthest reaches of deep, dark space. Couldn’t it?

She shoved her toppled wits back under herself. “Well, of
course
we’re not married. Tell me something I don’t know, for heaven’s sake.”

“Tabitha, you don’t understand. A traditional Highland
handfasting
—in other words, a marriage ceremony such as ours—
is
legally binding, so long as it occurs on MacAllister land.” His low growl rolled over her, bringing a new anxiety in its wake. “When the clan first arrived here years ago, fleeing British law in their native Scotland, they didn’t simply homestead this tract. They bought it outright from the Mexican government, and set up what could almost be called a sovereign state. When Texas became a republic, it changed nothing, since this land lay outside its boundaries. But when the treaty was signed that turned the Lone Star republic into the 28th state, and the acres around ours started being settled, we nearly had a small war.

“There was a fear, you see, that the United States wouldn’t accept clan customs as valid—which would have defeated the purpose of the MacAllisters emigrating in the first place. But the federal and state governments proved to be more interested in keeping the peace—and keeping this land within the Union—than they were in outlawing a pack of old Highland ceremonies. We have a special written provision under Texas state law that approves the legality of the MacAllisters’ private code and practices.”

“No!”

“Don’t argue with me, lass. Have I lied to you yet?”

It was the quiet assurance of his tone that drove her anxiety up the scale to panic—that and the inescapable awareness that he was…was right. Alan did have an exasperating habit of omitting pertinent little facts, of evading issues, and giving replies that sometimes created more questions than they answered, but… No, he had never lied to her, she now realized. And that could mean…

Unbelievably, her wave of panic gave way before a flash flood of…
Relief?

Tabitha shook her head. That couldn’t possibly be right. Something must have gone haywire with her internal sensing apparatus. There was no relief whatsoever in the knowledge that Alan really was her husband. Only the relief, perhaps, that condemned prisoners felt when the noose finally snapped their necks, and the awful wait for death was over.

Unless… He had
also
been right about… And…

She shook her head again. That couldn’t be it either, because this actually had nothing to do with Alan, as absurd as that seemed. The real heart of this dilemma was that matrimony itself was totally alien to her character. She had never, ever wanted to be
anyone’s
wife—not in the slightest—not even in her remotest dreams.

Ah, but that’s the whole point, isn’t it,
the little voice inside her head whispered. And for once in her life, Tabitha couldn’t argue with it. The suggestion made such simple, straightforward sense. It was almost too logical, this possibility. This remarkable, sun-bursting-through-the-clouds possibility that the real reason she had never wanted marriage was because she had never in her wildest, most far-flung fancies ever realized there was anyone in the world like Alan MacAllister.

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

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

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

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

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

Tabitha moved three fluid ones forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tabitha—”

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

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

Her smile froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Packing to leave.”

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

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

“Tabitha…”

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