Evidently not. It had been something of a disappointment.
But this night, she was thrilled by the surplus of rooms, because she could not have bundled the giant feline into the inn in secret had she and Christian been in close proximity.
The cat needed a bath. Desperately. Matilda had asked one of the chambermaids to arrange for one and had tipped her generously from her own reticule. Once the steaming copper tub was in order, Matilda had stripped down to her chemise, pushed up her sleeves, and stared at the dirty gray animal.
The cat stared back.
Matilda had to admit that her new companion was an interesting-looking creature. She was not only large, but rather fat as well, though it was hard to discern the shape of her feline body under all her muddy fur. Her nose was squished up into her face as though she’d run straight into a wall. One of her ears was crinkled, the other torn, and her eyes were an alarming flat pale yellow color.
They were not the color of any cat’s eyes Matilda had ever seen. Not precisely a warm amber or a springlike green-gold.
More like jaundice, really. Old, fermenting straw, if one were being generous.
“All right,” she said to the cat. “Let’s get you cleaned up. It’s important you make a good first impression on Lady Bea, you know, if you are to win her over.”
She did not mean that advice for herself, of course. She didnot.
“And,” she went on, “I suspect that Lord Ashford will warm to you as well if you look a trifle less disreputable. And perhaps if you are cleaner, he will be less, er, afflicted by your presence.”
The memory of it made her want to laugh, and she pressed her lips together.
Goodness, she had never seen anything like it. She could not have counted on all her fingers and toes and all of Christian’s digits as well how many times the man had sneezed. By the time they’d arrived at the coaching inn, his nose had been quite strawberry-colored.
At first she’d been concerned he had taken a chill from their adventure by the waterfall, but after her repeated inquiries, he had ground out, “I am perfectly well. It is the bloodycat.They always take me this way.” And then he’d flung open a window and proceeded to glare out of it into the fading evening light.
She hoped the bath for the cat would help. It would not do for her to laugh at his misery. It was unfortunate that she liked him so much in all his stern forbidding grumpiness and when he began to unravel as well.
She had been so bloody disconcerted by what had happened by the waterfall. Not only seeing Margo and Henry in—in—
Truly, she could not think of it! Her brain rebelled. She had never once seen starchy, buttoned-up Henry Mortimer with a wrinkle in his coat, let alone covered in mud and—
Ah, hmm, no. She still could not think about it.
But more than that, her conversation with Margo had shaken her. She had always imagined the two of them in their own distinct roles—Matilda the protector, Margo the one who played and laughed with abandon. But now she had cause to wonder if perhaps by thinking that way she had limited them both.
And in her dizzy confusion and disarray, Christian had been there. He had held her until the world started to make sense again.
She looked down at the cat and stroked one torn-off ear. “All right,” she said. “You are not going to like this, I imagine, but it’s necessary.”
She picked up the animal, who leaned trustingly into her chest, and then plopped the enormous creature into the tub.
All hell broke loose.
The cat let out a wail of outrage—Matilda had never heard such a sound from acat—and started to scramble for the side of the tub. Matilda gasped and clutched at the animal, her fingers slipping across wet fur as she struggled for purchase. Water sloshed over the sides of the copper tub and across the floor, and Matilda’s feet slipped.
“Bloody—hell,” Matilda choked out, her fingers catching the cat by the scruff of her neck. “Hold—still.”
The cat whimpered, her paws churning the water. Matilda snatched up the cake of soap in her free hand and began to wash the animal as briskly as she could. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, “so sorry, so sorry, oh—God—”
The cat was trying to shake her off now, wet body slippery with soap and smelling strongly of roses. Matilda scrabbled at the animal’s tail, trying to hurry without letting the poor creature loose before she was finished. More water splashed, soaking warmly into her chemise and then growing rapidly unpleasant as it cooled.
“Almost done,” she mumbled to the cat, “almost—”
But the cat didn’t listen. With another wail, she threw herself directly into Matilda’s chest. Matilda stumbled backward, her arms encircling the wet, heavy body automatically.
Her feet slipped. Her arms were around the cat. There was nothing to grab onto. She shrieked as she fell, and the cat scrambled upward, across her chest, up her neck and into her hair. Matilda registered slicing pain, and then a crash, and then hands touching her, firm but gentle. Christian’s hands.
“Hold on.” His voice was a gentle murmur in her ear. “Hold still. Don’t move.”
