A waft of silk tantalised her ankle, and peeping down, she discovered Twinkle who, despite his prior dislike of her, was now circling her legs, brushing and curling, rubbing and purring.
Never having owned a cat, Hebe shifted foot to foot, unsure what to do.
Twinkle, however, had his own idea, and it was Hebe who yowled as he attempted to climb her night-rail, claws digging through the sheer material and into her legs.
With little choice, if she wished to retain skin, Hebe abandoned the lantern to the chest of drawers, bent down and cautiously picked him up, cuddling him to her bosom.
Content with this turn of events – a male, after all – Twinkle rammed into her throat and bumped beneath her chin, his warm body rumbling like distant thunder on a humid summer night.
“Well, Twinkle, what do I do with you now?”
Twinkle didn’t answer, obviously, so she wandered to the bed.
Once seated, Hebe realised she’d purely been used as a means of transport, as he now extricated himself from her arms, pounced onto the coverlet, stalked to the other pillow, plonked his derriere to the linen, tucked his paws under and hunkered down to stare at her with unblinking celadon-yellow eyes.
So Hebe likewise laid head upon pillow, the coverlet pulled up, to stare back at her new bedfellow.
Truly, he was the ugliest cat ever.
Odd patches of black, brown and white fur coated Twinkle as though someone had thrown an artist’s palette at him; even his nose was an unseemly combination of black and pink. One entire ear was missing, tail bent at an angle as though it had been trapped in a door, and the left eye was rheumy.
“You poor dear,” she whispered, her earlier self-pity having been ousted in the light of this cat’s past anguish. “You’re safe here, you know? In this castle.”
Twinkle’s purr drowned the lash of the rain, his eyes sleepily blinking, and as Hebe watched those whiskers nod and the lone ear flick, she found her own eyes closing to the soothing sound of his contentment and trust.
She too was safe here.
‘The breath of Camilla instantly stopt, and senseless, lifeless, she sunk upon the floor…’
LUD,this was a good chapter but…
Ernest peered to the grandfather clock in the Long Gallery – its hand almost at a half after one. So, he placed his marker in chapter four of book ten and stretched, arms cracking and spine stiff from sitting in the wingback chair for all of four hours.
Considering Hebe’s strict refusal of a companion tonight, he was unsure why he had earlier made himself comfortable in this chair across the Gallery, simply that he could not bear the thought of her alone and scared.
So with a good book, a brandy in hand and Twinkle in his lap, Ernest had kept the night watch.
Yet when he’d heard that cry of distress at a quarter before midnight, he’d been unsure of what to do and dithered. How could he assist without causing her further fright? What did she need?
After all, Hebe had requested not to be disturbed, stated she suffered from nightmares, the cause of which alone had haunted his mind.
Of course, a seasoned rakehell should stride into her chambers, sweep her into a torrid embrace and vow to chase away the nightmares with hours of endless, grinding pleasure but…
Such a course of action felt underhand and duplicitous, using Hebe’s vulnerability to his own ends. She’d loathe him at daybreak, and though he didn’t care to consider why it might be so, the thought of such an outcome…pained him.
Twinkle had objected to his restlessness, batting his chin with a paw and requesting attention.
Then the idea had struck and Ernest had plonked Twinkle on the table instead, instructing him in the ways of damsels in distress and how it was their duty as chivalrous gentlemen to assist in any way they could.
Twinkle, however, had looked decidedly unimpressed with the concept, chewing the corner ofCamilla, but a morsel of dried beef placed just under Hebe’s door had aided his compliance with the plan.
Of course, as Ernest had lurked in the shadowed recess of the Queen Elizabeth Suite, what he hadn’t been prepared for was Hebe Locke in all her night-time glory.
Twinkle had shot into her chamber like a buck after a doe.
And who could blame him?
Highlighted by a golden lantern, milk and honey curls had tumbled over her breast, a diaphanous wisp of verdant silk barely covering her. She’d resembled some spring nymph, eyes bright and lips parted on a breath.
