Page 36 of The Rogue's Runaway Bride
Suddenly—without so much as a bell’s tinkle of warning—a flash of black on four legs darted past the table. Macie’s pet, most likely. Coming to a stop beneath the sideboard, the cat turned to face Belle, seeming to take her in with keen amber eyes. Jewels—perhaps genuine, perhaps paste—adorned the midnight black feline’s collar.
“Cleo has finally stirred from her morning nap,” Mrs. Gilroy observed.
“Such a beautiful name,” Belle said.
“It’s short for Cleopatra. Or some nonsense like that.” Mrs. Gilroy chuckled. “I’m thankful Miss Macie bestowed the name on the cat and not a babe.”
“It’s pretty,” Carrie said.
“I rather like it, too,” Belle agreed.
She’d scarcely had time to utter the words when she spotted the reason for the cat’s mad dash. Heathy charged into the room. Moving at a pace Belle suspected was as fast as his little legs could carry him, he chased after Cleo. The happy swish of his tailgave his pursuit a playful feel. But the golden-eyed feline was not amused. Rearing up, the cat let out a hiss.
And then, she took off.
If Heathy had ever learned that cats could jump far higher than he possibly might, he’d conveniently forgotten the lesson. He galloped happily after Cleo, but stopped in his tracks, appearing a bit perplexed as the cat leapt atop the mahogany sideboard.
“Heathy cannot be here,” Carrie said with a tone of responsibility. She hopped down out of her chair. “I will get him.”
“Carrie, stay here,” Belle said quickly. “I’ll take him to the garden.”
But the child was fast. And determined. Intent on solving the problem at hand, Carrie scurried after the dog. Unfortunately, Heathy hadn’t gotten the message that he was not allowed in the dining room. Rather than understanding that he was about to be unceremoniously shooed from the chamber, he met her approach with energetic wags of his tail. If anything, he evidently believed it was time to play.
And play, he did.
Heathy trotted toward Carrie, almost within her reach. But he darted under the table, avoiding the girl’s grasp. And then, he turned and sped away, appearing quite amused by Carrie’s attempt to catch him.
Up on her perch, the cat watched the pursuit with a bored gaze, as if the humans and the dog they were attempting to corral were quite silly. But then, Heathy’s attention shifted. As if he’d suddenly remembered the cat, he bolted toward the sideboard.
Cleo’s eyes widened. The cat looked rather incredulous and perhaps a bit annoyed. But then instinct took hold. And she ran.
The cat’s ability to propel herself through the air might have put an athlete to shame. With a single leap, Cleo jumped from the sturdy sideboard to the table. The dishes rattled around her.
“Down, Cleo,” Mrs. Gilroy scolded in a tone that made even Belle hesitate. For a moment, the cat actually looked as if she might heed the command. Gazing down at the floor, Cleo seemed to mull her options—encounter the wrath of an exasperated housekeeper or take her chances with Heathy.
Carrie hurried after the dog, who by this time had figured out how to bound onto one of the chairs at the table. “Oh, no you don’t, Heathy.” Bending forward over the chair, the girl wrapped her arms around the squirming pup.
Evidently realizing that Heathy was no longer in any position to chase her, the cat plopped down onto the carpet. Holding her tail high—arrogantly so—Cleo strolled by, throwing Heathy what looked like a feline smirk.
For his part, Heathy was not amused. In a feat of escape-artistry, he wriggled out of Carrie’s hold and rushed pell-mell after the cat.
With feline agility, Cleo took another jump, landing soundly on the table. Heathy galloped after her. He attempted a leap, falling quite short of the tabletop. Then another.
This time, Belle caught Heathy. As she scooped him into her arms, Mrs. Gilroy’s gasp of warning came a heartbeat too late.
“Oh, dear.”
The old woman’s shocked murmur made it to Belle’s ears just as she’d lifted Heathy up—along with the tablecloth the dog had somehow snagged on his bejeweled collar.
Good heavens!
As the finely tatted white lace shifted beneath the table settings, dishes clattered. Porcelain cups quivered. Spoons rattled.
And the silver soup tureen upended.
Oh, no.
Broth splattered. On the tablecloth. On Belle. Even on the dog.
