Romance at the Royal Menagerie
Page 13
“Is everything all right?”
He nodded. “Yes, just… uh, yes.”
“Good. Reach out your hand, just like you did toward the cubs.”
He whispered from the side of his mouth. “But they were little, and she’s—”
“She’s just a big cub, that’s all. The same inside. That’s all that counts.”
“If you say so.“ Hand shaking at first, then steadying more the farther he held it out. He bit his lip. And waited.
Belle yawned and stretched out her neck, sniffing the air in front of John’s hand. Her nose touched his finger.
“So cold.”
“You’re doing well, John. Keep your hand out for a moment longer.”
Belle scooted a little closer and stretched toward him again, rubbing the side of her face against his thumb.
John let out a breath. “Now what do I do?”
“Slowly lower your hand to your lap. Let’s see what she does next.”
“You mean you don’t know? Should I run screaming for the door?”
“No, if she were going to attack you, she would have done so by now.”
“Attack?”
“I’m joking.”
He lowered his hand to his lap, beside his hat, and sat still. Belle moved closer and sniffed the air around his head. Whiskers twitching, she pressed her nose to his cheek, then to his chin, and finally to his nose. Sitting back on her haunches, she raised her paw.
John gasped. “What’s she—?”
Belle stuck out her tongue and began to groom the fur along the back of her paw.
Francesca sighed and leaned her shoulder against John’s. “Yes.”
John frowned. “Yes, what?”
“Belle approves of you, so yes. I’ll marry you.” Francesca Hartwell, soon-to-be-baroness.
Laughing, John wrapped his arms around Francesca and pulled her against his side. “You have made me so, so incredibly happy. Since you’re to be my very own baroness, do you suppose I could finally kiss you now?”
Holding back a grin, Francesca darted a glance toward Belle. “Hmm. Let’s ask—”
“Don’t even think it!” He laughed and pulled her closer still, pressing his lips to hers.
The End
About the Author
Ruth J. Hartman spends her days herding cats, and her nights spinning sweet romantic tales that make you smile, giggle, and laugh out loud. She, her husband, and their three cats, love to spend time curled up in their recliners watching old Cary Grant movies. Well, the cats, Maxwell, Roxy and Remmie, sit in the people's recliners. Not that the cats couldn't get their own furniture. They just choose to shed on someone else's. You know how selfish those little furry creatures can be.
Ruth, a left-handed, cat-herding, Jeep driving, farmhouse-dwelling romance writer uses her goofy sense of humor as she writes tales of lovable, klutzy women and the men who adore them. Ruth's husband and best friend, Garry, reads her manuscripts, rolls his eyes at her weird story ideas, and loves her in spite of her penchant for insisting all of her books have at least one cat in them. Or twelve. But hey, who's counting?
Also by Ruth Hartman
Prologue
Samuel wrapped his arm around the slim waist of his latest conquest. He licked his lips in anticipation of what was to come next, when he took her to the nearest bed. He was so foxed her name escaped him. Carlotta? Celina? He shrugged as he leaned in to nuzzle her soft neck. No matter. His memory faded soon after he tired of each woman he bedded, but there was always another waiting in line. Oftentimes, he brought them here, to one of his favorite inns.
The woman giggled when Samuel closed his eyes, nipping at her earlobe with his teeth. Pulling her closer still, he took possession of her ripe lips, not caring who stood nearby to watch them.
He'd done this before. Many, many times.
As quickly as Samuel placed his lips on the woman's, she was gone, leaving him to pucker up only to the stale air. His eyes popped open. "What the…?"
Another man, dressed in expensive breeches and coat, now had his arms around Samuel's woman. Samuel gritted his teeth, the very teeth that had only moments ago been clasped on soft feminine skin. Now, they bit down hard. On his tongue.
Cursing loudly, Samuel lunged at the other man, pushing the woman aside in the process. "Get your filthy hands off of her. She's mine!"
The man narrowed his eyes, knocking Samuel's hands away from his person. "You are of no consequence to me." He glanced at the woman, his eyes roving over every voluptuous inch. "I like what I see. She is now mine."
Samuel's blood boiled. Heat flooded his face. Vision now blurred from anger and ale, he lowered his head and raced forward, intent upon knocking the other man senseless.
Strong hands once again pushed Samuel away, hard. Staring up at the dirty ceiling, Samuel shook his head, trying to force the room to stop spinning.
Clump. Clump. Clump. Footsteps… that last quite close to his ear. Turning his head, Samuel gasped. How easy it would be for the other man to kick him in the face! He forced himself to a sitting position. Perhaps his swirling vision would calm. Surely he could stand. He must. There was no way he was letting his woman walk away with someone else. And away from him. Yes, there had always been another waiting for his favor, but suddenly it was important he possess this woman, on this night. It was a matter of pride that he not let her be taken away.
Samuel braced his hands on the floor until he had steadied enough to get his feet under him. Silence in the room had replaced the bawdy laughter of but a few moments ago. Of course, that would be the case. The patrons loved nothing better than to bet on a fight.
The sound of coins being exchanged all about him couldn't peel his eyes from the man standing in front of him. It was now or never. Any show of fear on his part might diminish future chances with other women if word got out that he'd acted the coward. A quick glance to his right showed the woman smiling, eyes gleaming, excited to be the object of such a feud.
Bone smashed bone as a fist knocked his head back, once again setting the room to a twirl. Samuel shook his head, blood now pouring from his nose. More blood ran down his throat. He coughed and spat. Red now colored the dirty floor.
Clenching his fists, Samuel attacked the other man, pounding him again and again about the face and chest. Now they'd find who would win the woman. No way he would give up. It was do… or die.
The man cursed, wiping blood from his chin. Enraged, he grabbed Samuel's shirtfront, propelling them both toward a grouping of rickety wooden tables. Samuel broke their fall, his back smacking onto the nearest tabletop. Pain lanced through his spine, jarring every bone and muscle. A firm grip lifted him from the table and threw him on the floor in a dusty, bloody heap.
Samuel turned his head. A black boot pulled away from his head, then propelled forward, smashing into his temple.
His world faded to black.