He knew he was still dreaming. This was not real.
Her head dipped toward his. He wanted to open his eyes, and yet he feared what he would see. She would have no face, only shadows—
And then her lips touched his. He felt the roughness of her tongue against his lower lip. The touch was real, wet, strange, abrasive—
Harry came awake with a start, realizing hewasbeing kissed—but not by a woman.
A cold nose brushed his skin. Again the rough tongue stroked his lip. He reached up what was on top of him and flung it away from him.
A small body landed on the floor.
His senses on alert, Harry reached under his pillow for his knife as he rolled out of bed and held it out, ready for the intruder.
No one attacked.
He knew he’d been dreaming. Damn, his body was still hard and the blood flowing through his veins hot. The embers in the fire in the hearth sent a warm glow through the room. He held his breath, listening. He was not alone.
And then he heard the small meow.
A cat?
“Oh God,” Harry said, raising the back of his free hand to his lips and wiping them clean.
What would a cat be doing here in this house that was a haven for every dog that came its way?
Harry put down the knife, pulled on his breeches, and reached for the candle. He walked over to the dying fire to stir the embers, lit the candle off of them, and turned toward the bed.
The cat jumped up onto the bed, a cat with an unusual round head and ears folded over. Fenella’s cat.
Or was it Fenella? The cat’s eyes seemed to view him with a wisdom as old as the soul.
Cautious now, Harry took a step forward. “Here, kitty. How did you come in here?” His door was shut. The window was closed as well.
The cat came to its feet, arching its back and hissing at him. Harry stopped. “How did you make it in here, kitty, past all Monty’s dogs?”
The cat’s lips curved into what Harry would swear was a smile, and then it jumped down from the bed and ran under the wardrobe in the corner of the room.
Harry followed, falling to his knees and reaching under the furniture to drag the cat out, heedless of claws. And yet, as he stretched his arm in every direction, he felt nothing.
Harry brought the candle down as far as he could so that he could peer beneath the wardrobe. The cat was not there.
He came to his knees and searched the room.There was no sign of the cat. The window was still locked. Harry looked behind the drapes and under the bed.
No cat.
It had disappeared.
He even went so far as to open the door. The hall was empty and all was dark and quiet. Not one dog in the house stirred.
Just to be certain, he went to Monty’s door and pounded on it. It took several knocks and shaking of the knob to wake his friend.
Monty in his nightcap cracked open his door, squinting against the light. A few of the dogs came out to check Harry. They didn’t give him more sniffs than usual and didn’t seem to catch a whiff of something different in the hall.
“What is it?” Monty asked, his voice sleep hoarse.
“Do you have a cat?”
“A what?”
