Christmas at His Command (2 page)

‘Not at all.' She drew herself up to her full five feet four inches and never had she wished so hard she was half a foot or so taller. ‘I was just wondering whether it was worth wasting any breath on such an unsavoury individual as you, that's all.'

‘Really?' He smiled, but it was just a twist of the hard carved lips. ‘And what have you decided?'

She glared at him for one moment more, her blue eyes sparking with the force of her emotion, and then turned and began walking up the road, trying not to limp in spite of the excruciating pain in her ankle, which seemed worse now she had rested it for a few moments.

She heard the engine rev behind her and fully expected the big vehicle to roar past her in a flurry of snow, so when it drew up beside her, keeping pace with her limping gait, she bit her lip hard but didn't turn her head from the white landscape in front of her.

‘You said you fell over and twisted your ankle,' the hateful voice said flatly at the side of her.

She ignored it, along with the urge to burst into tears as waves of self-pity made themselves known.

‘Get in.' This time the touch of raw impatience was very obvious, but again Marigold ignored him, struggling on, her face set resolutely ahead.

‘Miss Jones, I think I ought to point out that you are extremely lucky I had an appointment elsewhere today which necessitated my leaving this morning. There is absolutely no chance of anyone else using this road and the cottage is at least another mile. Need I say more?' he added condescendingly.

‘Get lost,' she bit out through gritted teeth.

There was a moment's pause and then his voice drawled, with disparaging amusement, ‘Out of the two of us I would say that's a more likely occurrence for you. Get in the car, Miss Jones, and let's cut out the drama. It might be unpleasant for you to be told the truth for once, but you are old enough, and I'm sure tough enough, to survive.'

‘I would rather freeze to death than accept a lift from you.' She turned for just an instant to meet the silver-grey eyes and her face spoke for itself.

‘Now you are being ridiculous.'

‘Well, that's just one more thing you can add to my list of crimes, then, isn't it?' she returned tartly.

‘Get in the car.'

At this point Marigold so far forgot herself as to come out with an expletive she had never used in her life before. He thought he could order her about, tell her what to do after he had spoken to her the way he had? OK, so he might think she was Emma, and Marigold had to admit she didn't know all the ins and outs of this matter, but he had known she was asking for help and that she was hurt, and he had just left her standing in the snow
while he'd given her a lecture on family responsibility. Nothing, but
nothing
would induce her to accept any form of assistance from this arrogant swine.

‘Don't force me to make you get into the car, Miss Jones.'

‘You think you could?' she spat derisively.

‘Oh, yes.' It was cool and even and more than a little menacing, but the rage caused by his previous misplaced contempt and male arrogance was still hot enough to keep Marigold walking on, her head held high under its covering of wet plastic and the bottom of the cagoule flapping round her knees.

If he laid one finger on her, just one, he'd get a darn sight more than he'd bargained for, Marigold promised herself with silent fury as the vehicle drew level with her once again.

‘Your grandmother was a woman in a million.'

Marigold ignored him completely.

‘For her sake I don't intend to leave the only child of her son to freeze out here, even if it is exactly what you deserve.'

‘How dare you?' She glared at him again, her eyes narrowed and shooting blue sparks but her lips were bloodless with the pain she was trying to conceal and her face was as white as a sheet. He stared at her for a second, the piercing eyes taking everything in, and then he sighed irritably before springing out of the vehicle with an abruptness which took Marigold by surprise. One moment she was standing glowering at him, the next she found herself whisked right off her feet as he lifted her up into his arms as though she weighed nothing at all.

‘What on earth do you think you're playing at? Put
me down this instant!' she hissed furiously, struggling violently as she pushed at the solid male chest.

‘Keep still,' he muttered exasperatedly, striding round the vehicle and depositing her in the passenger seat none too gently. She immediately tried to scramble out again, catching her injured foot as she did so and crying out with pain before she could check the yelp.

‘Miss Jones, I have a length of rope in the back and I warn you I will have absolutely no compunction about securing you in your seat, all right?' he ground out tightly. ‘You will sit there until we reach Maggie's cottage and then as far as I am concerned it'll be good riddance to bad rubbish, and I'll have done my duty.'

‘You're despicable!' It was all she could manage with the pain now excruciating, but added to the physical discomfort was the shock which had gripped her in the last few moments. This man must be all of six feet four, and his tall, lean height and powerfully muscled body had convinced her she didn't have a hope of fighting him, but close to—and she had been close, how close she didn't dare dwell on right at this moment—he was aggressively and compellingly handsome with no sign of softness about him at all.

His face above the massive, thick oatmeal sweater he wore was darkly tanned and finely chiselled, his eyes of silver-grey ice set under black brows thrown into more startling prominence when taken with the jet-black hair falling over his forehead. He was…well, he was quite amazing, Marigold thought weakly after he had slammed the passenger door shut.

She watched him walk round the bonnet before he climbed in the open driver's door, unconsciously shrinking away slightly as he slid into the vehicle. If he noticed the instinctive withdrawal he made no sign of it, merely
easing the car forward—the engine of which he had kept running—as he said, his voice curt, ‘Did you arrange for food and fuel to be delivered to the cottage beforehand?'

No, because she hadn't known she could. Emma hadn't mentioned it when she'd offered her the use of the place over Christmas when Marigold had confided, a couple of weeks ago, that she was dreading the big family Christmas her parents always enjoyed. Their enormous, sprawling semi was always full of friends and relations over the holiday period right up until the new year—a kind of open house—which was great normally, but in view of her broken engagement and cancelled wedding was not so good. Everyone would be trying to be tactful and treading on eggshells. Poor,
poor
Marigold—that sort of thing.

‘Why don't you tell them you've got the chance of a super little cottage with log fires and the full Christmas thing?' Emma had suggested after she'd offered the cottage and Marigold had said her parents would expect her to go home. ‘I can understand they'd hate the thought of you staying in your flat by yourself, but if you say you and a friend are going away… And anyway, I'll be coming up a couple of days after Boxing Day to make a list of the furniture and one or two things, so it won't actually be a lie.'

Marigold thrust the reminder of her duplicity out of her thoughts as she answered the man at the side of her in as curt a tone as he had used, ‘No, I didn't.'

‘And when was the cottage used last?'

She didn't know that either. She thought quickly and then said airily, ‘Recently.'

‘Recently as in months or weeks?' he persisted coldly.

She wanted to tell him to mind his own business but in view of the present circumstances it seemed somewhat
inappropriate. She remembered Emma had said the cottage might strike a bit cold and damp in the winter because she had only ever visited it in the warmer months, and guessed, ‘Months.'

He nodded but said nothing more, concentrating on the road ahead, which was nothing but a cloud of whirling snowflakes in a landscape that was now a winter wonderland when viewed from the comforting warmth and security of the powerful car. Marigold privately admitted to a feeling of overpowering relief that she wasn't still battling through what was fast becoming a blizzard, and along with the acknowledgement came a few pangs of guilt at her churlishness before she reminded herself that
she
shouldn't feel guilty! He had been way,
way
out of line to talk to her as he had—even if he did believe she was Emma, and however much he had liked and respected the old lady. Rushing in and assuming this and that!

She risked a sidelong glance under her long lashes, aware she was dripping water all over the seat and that the melted snow from her boots had created a pool at her feet.

His face was hard, as though it had been carved from solid rock; he didn't seem quite human. Marigold suddenly became aware she was completely at this fierce stranger's mercy and she swallowed deeply. Somehow the idea of a noisy, crowded Christmas ensconced in the womb of her parents' home didn't seem so bad.

‘Don't look so nervous; I wouldn't touch Maggie's granddaughter with a bargepole in case you're harbouring thoughts of rape and pillage.'

The deep voice had a thread of amusement running through it and immediately it put steel in Marigold's backbone. She reared up in her seat, her face, which had
been pale a moment ago, now flushed with high colour, and her voice sharp as she lied, ‘Nothing was further from my thoughts.'

‘Hmm.' It was just one low grunt but carried a wealth of disbelief.

Loathsome man! Marigold drew her usually soft, full lips into a tight line and warned herself not to respond to the taunt. In a little while she would be at the cottage and he would be gone. She could see about bathing her ankle and strapping it up, and then she would sort herself out for the night. This snowstorm wouldn't last forever, and come morning she could make her way back to Myrtle and see if the little car could be persuaded to start. If not…well, she'd just have to carry everything to the cottage herself somehow. She didn't dwell on the thought of how she was going to lug her suitcase and the bags of food, let alone the sack of coal and other things she'd brought with her, through deep snow with an ankle that was hurting more every minute and now so swollen she wondered how she was going to get her boot off.

Nor did she linger on the fact that if the snow continued to fall as it was doing, two inches could rapidly become two feet. Coping with this angry, aggressive individual at the side of her was more than enough for the moment.

The ground had been dipping downwards almost from the spot where she'd first heard the car, and now, as they turned a corner on the winding road, Marigold saw they were in a wooded valley and that to their left in the distance was what must be Emma's cottage. It was set back some fifty yards from the track in its own garden, complete with neat picket fence and small gate. The cottage itself was painted white, from what Marigold could
see, and it was the slate roof which was most clearly visible through the swirling snow.

She breathed a silent sigh of relief and gingerly flexed her injured ankle, knowing she had to climb out of the vehicle and walk to the cottage door in a few moments. The immediate stab of white-hot pain was worrying, but again she told herself it would be all right once she could strap it up.

‘Your inheritance.' It was caustic.

She turned her head and looked at the granite profile. ‘What makes you think it might be put on the market?' she asked evenly.

‘Well, apart from the fact that you and the rest of your family have already shown you have no soul, you were heard talking about it in the pub down the road when you came up before,' he said shortly.

‘People
eavesdropped
on a private conversation and then had the gall to repeat it?' Marigold asked with genuine disgust.

Her tone evidently rattled him. ‘From what I heard, this “private” conversation was all but yelled to the rafters after you and your partner had consumed a bottle of wine each. If you don't want people to overhear what you say, don't get drunk. You can perhaps moderate your voice better that way. And the comments about the “yokels” didn't win you any friends in these parts either,' he added scathingly.

Oh, Emma, Marigold winced inwardly. She'd known Emma for a little while, but since she had met her current boyfriend—a high-flier with a sports car and a big opinion of himself—she'd changed.

Fortunately the car had just pulled up outside the little garden gate and Marigold was saved the effort of having to think of a reply. She took a deep breath and prayed
this could end right now and that she would never set eyes on this man again in the whole of her life. ‘Thank you for giving me a lift,' she said stiffly, conscious of the drips of water trickling off the cagoule hood and hitting her nose.

‘A pleasure,' he drawled with heavy sarcasm, un-hooking her knapsack, which had somehow managed to jam itself to one side of the controls, after which he opened his door and walked round the bonnet to open her door for her.

The courtesy surprised her, especially in view of the content of their conversation to date, and flustered her still more, highlighting, as it did, the dark attractiveness she had been trying to ignore for the last few minutes. She would have liked to ignore the outstretched hand, too, but in view of the pain in her ankle and the height of the car she decided to err on the side of caution as she rose, putting her weight onto her good foot.

She had stripped off her wet gloves in the car, stuffing them in her pocket, and now as she put one small naked paw into his large fingers the contact of skin on skin brought an unwelcome little tingle of awareness in her flesh. She hesitated for a second, wondering how she was going to land on her injured ankle and whether she should try and shift her weight onto it now so she could land on her good foot.