“But that’s just a wee cat!” Niall said at last, though he took a step back when the beast snarled again and bared gleaming teeth.
“Nothing wee about it—where’d it come from?” Angus asked in a whisper.
“Should we kill it?” Ruari asked. “Can it be killed?”
They jumped as the door of the necessary opened with a squeal of its leather hinges and Andrew Pyper stepped out, adjusting his plaid. He looked at the gathering in surprise. “What’s going on?”
Niall pointed. “Devil cat. Don’t move. Angus is going to kill it.”
Andrew glanced at the cat. “Killit? Are ye daft? One of the MacLeod lasses keeps it as a pet. You can’t kill it.”
Ruari’s eyes popped. “A pet?That?”
“What kind of virgin has a pet like that?” Angus asked. The men turned back to Andrew for an answer, since he’d been at Glen Iolair.
“Och, Mistress Fia MacLeod is as sweet as a morning meadow, as lovely as the sun rising over the peaks of—”
Angus Mor rolled his eyes. “Dhia—never ask aseanchaidh’s son to give ye a short answer.”
Andrew looked hurt. “The cat’s name is Beelzebub, and for good reason.” He rolled back his sleeve to show them the half-healed scratches that crosshatched his arm from wrist to elbow.
“What do we do?” Niall demanded. “We’ve got to get into the stable.” They looked at the cat. The creature switched its tail and stared them down.
John was no stranger to finding ways to get past gatekeepers, guardians, chaperones, and nursemaids to reach a lovely virgin’s bower. Sometimes all it took was charm. Other times . . . “A bribe,” he said. The Sinclairs looked at him. “We need to bribe the cat. I once knew an old lady who was fond of jam tarts. She had a pretty niece I wished to visit, but her parents refused to allow me to see her and left her aunt to guard the girl’s virtue. I brought the old auntie a basket of tarts, spoke a few charming words, and she was most agreeable to turning her back for a short while.”
“Now there’s a tale worthy of aseanchaidh,” Andrew said. “What happened to the lass?”
“I think he means we should feed the cat,” Wee Alex said. “Is that right, English John?”
John nodded. “Precisely. A bribe.”
Niall folded his arms over his broad chest. “Highlanders don’t pay bribes. We take what we want by force. It’s a point of honor. Besides, we haven’t got any jam tarts, and our cook would box our ears before she’d give us any to feed to a cat.”
Andrew Pyper reached into a pouch at his belt. “I have a bit of bannock left from the journey,” he said. “Will that do?”
They looked at the cat, who raised his nose in the air, tested the breeze, then fixed an expectant yellow gaze on the tidbit in Andrew’s fingers.
“Go on,” Angus said, elbowing him. “Give it to him.”
Andrew swallowed. “Why me?”
“It’s your bannock. Och, don’t worry, lad—we’ll tell your father ye died a hero, and he’ll make a fine song about ye. Get on with it.”
They held their breath as Andrew crept forward, crooning soft nonsense, the food extended on the very tips of his fingers. The cat waited, proud as a king. Andrew tossed the bannock. It landed between Beelzebub’s massive paws.
For a moment the cat regarded the offering disdainfully, then his whiskers swept forward as he focused his attention on the bannock. He took it in his great fangs and shook it, worked it over, and devoured it. Then the cat abandoned his post in the doorway, strolled to the mounting block in the center of the bailey, and began to wash his face.
“It worked!” Angus said. He slapped John on the back and grinned.
“So what happened with the lass—the one with the aunt with a fondness for tarts?” Niall asked.
“She eventually married a marquess,” John said. “So who’s going into the stable first?”
They looked at the cat, still bathing itself on the mounting block. “How fast can a cat run?” Andrew asked.
John leaned on the door of the stable and kept an eye on the cat as the Sinclairs went inside to tend the horses.
Surely any lass as sweet as a morning meadow capable of coaxing a purr and a cuddle out of a beast that had bested Padraig Sinclair’s finest warriors could manage Dair Sinclair.
