Margaret McPhee - A Magical Regency Christmas - Christmas Cinderella / Finding Forever at Christmas / The Captain's Christmas Angel

* * *

Alex winced at the yowl emanating from the basket as he walked through the village that evening. How such a tiny creature could make so much noise was beyond him. And what on earth was he thinking giving Polly—Miss Woodrowe, he corrected himself—a kitten without even asking her if she would like a cat. Although he doubted that she would like a cat less than that blasted great rat.

And even a cat would be company for her. He glanced down at the pup trotting politely at his heels. Not as good as a dog, of course, but better than nothing, and a great deal cheaper to feed. Especially if it dined largely on rats and mice. Still, if she preferred not to have the kitten, she could always say so. He didn’t much like cats himself, but he thought he could survive one more cat at the rectory if Polly declined.

Serve his housekeeper right! He still wanted to know how on earth Mrs Judd had known he’d visited Polly last night. The dratted woman had asked after Miss Polly when he’d come in, quite as if she had no doubt as to where he’d been, and before he’d known what he was doing, he’d told her about the rat. She’d produced the kitten at breakfast, informing him that it was from the smithy, its immediate antecedents renowned and celebrated ratters.

He should have come earlier, but he’d had to recite the Office and he’d had a sermon to write, not to mention adding up the various parish bills for the month. So there was no question of lingering to talk to Polly now. Quite apart from Mrs Judd’s ire if he were late to supper, there was Polly’s reputation to consider. There was no doubt that Mrs Judd knew exactly where he was this time. He squashed the flicker of regret.

The little cottage was nearly lost in the darkness, but a faint light crept out from behind the shutters, and the odour of wood smoke and something savoury drifted to him, reminding him that he was hungry. Another yowl from the basket suggested that someone else was hungry. Bonny gave the basket a wary sniff and backed off when it hissed.

Alex grinned. ‘Very wise of you.’ He’d back a cat, even one this size, against a setter any day. He rapped on the back door.

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s just me. Alex.’ Too familiar. ‘Alex Martindale.’

Inside the bolts were shot back and the key screeched in the lock. He tried to steel himself, but at the first sight of her, the tawny hair spun to a golden nimbus in the lamplight, heat rose in his blood, and his heart and stomach twisted and clenched. Rather like his tongue.

‘Er, Miss Woodrowe.’ It was all he could manage. Wonderful. He’d told the woman her own name. He’d never understood that desire could tie a man in knots. Bonny apparently saw nothing in the least awkward in calling at this hour. She shoved past him up the steps and reared up, planting muddy paws firmly on Polly’s gown. Nor was her tongue in the least affected by shyness as she licked enthusiastically at Polly’s hands. Which weren’t trying to push her down, but rather were petting the silly creature, rubbing her ears and under her muzzle. His breath shortened and his mind seized. Such soft, gentle hands...

His voice came out as a croak. ‘Bonny—down.’

The pup sat, casting a sheepish look up at him, as her tail swept the step.

‘It’s all right, sir. I don’t mind.’

He snorted. ‘You will when she’s bigger.’

The basket gave another indignant wail.

Polly stared at it. ‘Your supper, sir?’

‘What? Good God, no!’ He held the basket out to her. ‘It’s a cat, a kitten really. For you.’

Silence spread out around them as she took the basket.

‘You brought me a kitten.’ There was a queer note of disbelief in her voice.

A stray curl had tumbled over her brow and he had to exert his will against the urge to stroke it back for her. Everything in him clenched as he imagined her silky hair sliding through his fingers, the velvet softness of her cheek under his touch...

Ignoring the rising beat of his blood, he said, ‘I thought...it must be lonely by yourself. And the rat yesterday—well, that can’t be pleasant.’

‘No. Will you come in, sir?’

He shouldn’t. Not at this hour. Not after dark when she was living quite alone.

Who on earth is going to know? Apart from Mrs Judd and she seems to like Polly...

He would know and he ought not to do this, but his feet were already over the threshold and she was closing the door behind them. The warmth of the little room enclosed them. Dancing firelight and the fragrance of her supper, her counterpane tossed over the back of the settle with a book propped in the folds.

Don’t think of her wrapped in bedclothes!

‘Have you eaten?’ he asked.

Kneeling down to open the basket, she looked up as she lifted the kitten out. Her smile did odd things to him. ‘Yes. A woodcock from last night. It was lovely. Thank you again.’ She cuddled the kitten to her, murmuring to it as it batted her face with a tiny paw. It was a very small kitten, all black and gold patches laced with white.

‘You like cats, then?’ he got out. Lord! Her hands cradled the little creature so tenderly, touching a gentle fingertip to a ridiculous buff stripe on its nose... He shoved away the thought—the image, God help him!—of those hands touching him. He shouldn’t stay, but just being with her, here in the same room, was a joyous torment. Thank God she still had the lamp lit. The intimacy of firelight, with her bed there in the corner... His head spun.

‘Oh, yes. But cats made Mama sneeze, so we never had one. Is it a boy or a girl?’

‘Female,’ Alex got out. ‘Mrs Judd says tortoiseshell cats are always female.’

She rose and sat down on the settle beside him, the kitten in her lap. It was content there for a moment, but then, with a determined squeak, clambered down her skirts and began to explore the room.

‘Another independent female,’ he said.

There was a moment’s silence. Then, ‘Is that so very wrong?’

‘Wrong?’ he asked. In a cat? But, no, she was not speaking of the kitten. Something, someone, had upset her.

‘To want to be independent. Is it really so unnatural?’ Her voice was very quiet and full of an uncertainty he’d never heard in it before.

‘I can’t see that you had very much choice,’ he said. Who had hurt her? He was conscious of an aching need to reassure her, to pull her into his arms and just hold her. Perhaps rest his cheek on that tawny cloud and find out if it really was as silken as it looked. Just hold her. For comfort, of course. He groaned silently. Lord help him—he was even lying to himself now. His body, so well disciplined for so many years, was making up for lost time. Apparently he was not immune to the sins of the flesh after all.

‘My cousin Susan called.’

Ah. No doubt Miss Susan had expressed her mama’s opinion of Polly’s rebellion. ‘Is she well?’

‘Very well. We...we were talking about Christmas.’ She was bent down, detaching the kitten from where it was climbing her skirts, taking care with each tiny claw. Firelight glinted in the curls drifting around her temple, falling against her silken cheek so that his fingers ached to stroke them back, to tangle in them, tilt her face up to his and find out just how sweet her mouth was.

‘I can take the kitten to the rectory while you are with the Eliots,’ he forced out, closing his fingers to fists against the beat of temptation in his blood. What the deuce was wrong with him that he could scarcely get himself to act with disinterested chivalry?

She went very still. ‘Thank you, sir.’

There was something odd about her voice. As if she were close to tears. ‘Polly—Miss Woodrowe, is something wrong? Did Miss Eliot have bad news?’