Christmas at His Command (4 page)

Once she'd got herself sorted at the cottage she could sit in front of the fire and read Christmas away while she nursed her ankle. There were people in much worse situations than she was in, and she had plenty of food in the car, and now she was going to have an excess of fuel by the sound of it. She'd pay him for the logs and coal, and his trouble, she thought firmly. If nothing else she could do that. And thank him. She twisted uncomfortably on the sofa, more with the realisation that she hadn't even acknowledged his—albeit reluctant and grudging—kindness in offering her sanctuary for the night.

‘When Bertha said it was bad, she meant it was bad.'

Marigold's eyes shot open as she jerked upright. Flynn had reappeared as quietly as a cat and was now standing surveying her through narrowed silver eyes. For a moment she thought he was going to be sympathetic or at least compliment her on her stoicism, but she was swiftly disabused of this pleasant notion when he continued, his tone irate, ‘What the hell were you thinking of, trying to walk on it once you'd hurt yourself so badly? Didn't you realise you were making it a hundred times worse with each step, you stupid girl?'

‘Now, look—' a moment ago she'd been feeling weak and pathetic; now there was fire running through her veins ‘—I didn't know you were going to come along, did I? What was I supposed to do? Hobble back to the car and freeze to death or try and reach the cottage where there was—?'

‘Absolutely no heat or food,' he cut in nastily. ‘And why didn't you try phoning someone anyway? Anyone! The emergency services, for example. Do you have emergency insurance?'

‘Yes.' It was a snap.

‘But you didn't think of asking for help? It was easier to march off into the blizzard like Scott in the Antarctic?'

She bit hard on her lip. He was just going to love this! ‘I'd left my mobile at home,' she admitted woodenly.

He said nothing at all to this—he didn't have to. His face spoke volumes.

‘And my ankle's not that bad anyway,' she added tightly.

‘It's going to be twice the size it is now in the morning and all the colours of the rainbow,' he said quietly.

The cool diagnosis irritated her. ‘How do you know?' she returned churlishly. ‘You're not a doctor.'

‘Actually I am.' She blinked at him, utterly taken aback, and the carved lips twitched a little at her amazement.

The knowledge that he was laughing at her brought out the worst in Marigold, and now she said, in a tone which even she recognised as petulant, ‘Oh, really? A brain surgeon or something, I suppose?'

‘Right.'

Her eyes widened to blue saucers. Oh, he wasn't, was he? Not a neurosurgeon? He couldn't be!

She said as much, but when he still continued to survey her steadily and his face didn't change expression she knew he wasn't joking. And of course he couldn't have been a normal doctor, could he? she asked herself acidicly. A nice, friendly GP dealing with all the trials and tribulations that the average man, woman and child brought his way. Someone who was overworked and underpaid and who had a vast list of patients demanding his attention.

She knew she was being massively unfair. She knew it, but where this particular individual was concerned she just couldn't
help
it.

She forced herself to say, and pleasantly, ‘Not your average nine-to-five, then?'

‘Not quite.' He was still watching her intently.

‘Do you work from a hospital near here or—?'

‘London. I have a flat there.'

Well, he would have, wouldn't he? Marigold nodded in what she hoped appeared an informed sort of way. ‘It must be very rewarding to help people…' Her words were cut off in a soft gasp as he knelt down in front of her, taking her foot in his large hands—hands with long, slim fingers and clean fingernails, she noted faintly, surgeon's hands—and gently rotating it in his grasp as he
felt the bruised flesh. How gently she wouldn't have believed if she hadn't felt it. Suddenly his occupation was perfectly feasible.

She wanted to snatch her foot away but in the state it was in that wasn't an option. She glanced down at the thick, jet-black hair which shone with blue lights and found herself saying, ‘Moreau… That's not English, is it?'

‘French.' He raised his eyes from her foot and Marigold's heart hammered in her chest. ‘My father was French-Italian and my mother was American-Irish but they settled in England before I was born.'

‘Quite a mixture,' she managed fairly lucidly because he had now placed her foot back on the pouffe and stood to his feet again and wasn't actually touching her any more.

Bertha bustled in with the basins of water and a towel draped over one arm, and Flynn glanced at his housekeeper as he turned and walked to the door. ‘Five minutes alternating hot and cold, Bertha, and then I'll be back to strap it.'

He was as good as his word. Bertha had been making small talk while she bathed the ankle and Marigold had been relaxed and chatting quite easily, but the moment the big, tall figure appeared in the doorway she felt her stomach muscles form themselves into a giant knot and her voice become stilted as she thanked the housekeeper for her efforts.

As Bertha bustled away with the bowls of water Flynn walked across to the sofa. ‘Take these.' He held out two small white tablets with a glass of water.

‘What are they?' she asked tentatively.

‘Poison.' And at her frown he added irritably, ‘What do you think they are, for crying out loud? Pain relief.'

‘I don't like taking tablets,' she said firmly.

‘I don't like having to prescribe them but this is not a perfect world and sometimes they're necessary. Like now. Take them.'

‘I'd rather not if you don't mind.'

‘I do mind. You are going to be in considerable pain tonight with that foot and you won't get any sleep at all if you don't help yourself.'

‘But—'

‘Just take the damn tablets!'

He'd shouted, he'd actually shouted, Marigold thought with shocked surprise. He didn't have much of a bedside manner. She took the tablets.

Along with the tablets and water, the tray he was holding contained ointment and bandages, and she steeled herself for his touch as he kneeled down in front of her again. His fingers were deft and sure and sent flickering
frissons
radiating all over her body which made her as tight and tense as piano wire. And angry with herself. She couldn't understand how someone she had disliked on sight, and who was the last word in arrogance, could affect her so radically. It was humiliating.

‘You should start to feel better in a minute or two,' Flynn said dispassionately as he rose to his feet, having completed his task.

‘What?' For an awful minute she thought he had read her mind and was referring to the fact that he wasn't touching her any more, before common sense kicked in and she realised his words had been referring to the painkillers and the support now easing her ankle. ‘Oh, yes, thank you,' she said quickly.

‘I'll get Bertha to bring you a hot drink and a snack.' He was standing in front of the sofa, looking at her steadily, and she could read nothing from his face. ‘Then
I suggest you lie back and have a doze until dinner at eight. You must be exhausted,' he added impersonally.

She stared at him. He seemed to have gone into iceman mode again after shouting at her and she rather thought she preferred it when he was yelling. Like this he was extremely intimidating. ‘Thank you,' she said again, as there was really nothing else to say.

‘You're welcome.'

She rather doubted that but she didn't say so. In truth she was feeling none too good and the thought of a nap was very appealing.

Flynn turned and walked to the door, stopping at the threshold to say, ‘You've got severe bruising on the ankle, by the way; you'll be lucky to be walking normally within a couple of weeks.'

‘A couple of weeks!' Marigold stared at him, horrified.

‘You were very fortunate not to break a bone.'

Fortunate was not the word she would have used to describe her present circumstances, Marigold thought hotly as she protested, ‘I'll be able to hobble about if I'm careful tomorrow, I'm sure. It feels better already now you've strapped it up.'

He said nothing for a moment although her remark had brought a twisted smile to his strong, sensual mouth. Then he drawled, ‘Fortunately I think we have a pair of crutches somewhere or other; a legacy of last summer, when Bertha was unfortunate enough to have a nasty fall and dislocate her knee.'

Oh, right. So when Bertha hurt herself it was just an unfortunate accident; when
she
hurt herself it was because she was stupid! Marigold breathed deeply and then said sweetly, ‘And I could borrow them for a while?'

‘No problem.'

‘Thank you.'

He nodded and walked out, shutting the door behind him, and it was only at that moment that Marigold realised she'd missed the perfect opportunity to set the record straight and explain who she really was.

A
FTER
eating the toasted sandwich and drinking the mug of hot chocolate Bertha brought her a few minutes after Flynn had left, Marigold must have fallen immediately asleep; her consuming tiredness due, no doubt, in part to the strong painkillers Flynn had given her.

She surfaced some time later to the sound of voices just outside the room, and for a moment, as she opened dazed eyes, she didn't know where she was. She stared into the glowing red and gold flames licking round the logs on the fire in the enormous stone fireplace vacantly, before a twinge in her ankle reminded her what had happened.

She pulled herself into a sitting position on the sofa, adjusting her foot on the pouffe as she did so, which brought forth more sharp stabs of pain, and she had just pulled down her waist-length cashmere jumper and adjusted the belt in her jeans, which had been sticking into her waist, when the door opened again.

The room was in semi-darkness, with just a large standard lamp in one corner competing with the glow from the huge fire, so when the main light was switched on Marigold blinked like a small, startled owl at Flynn and the other man. ‘You'll be glad to know Myrtle is safe and snug and tucked up in one of the garages for the night,' Flynn said evenly as the two men walked across to the sofa. ‘This is Wilf, by the way. Wilf, meet Miss Jones, Maggie's granddaughter.'

‘But she isn't.' Bertha's husband was a small man
with a ruddy complexion and bright black robin eyes, and these same eyes were now staring at Marigold in evident confusion.

‘What?'

‘This isn't the same woman who was in the pub that day; the one who was all over that yuppie type and then made such a song and dance about being charged too much when Arthur gave them the bill,' Wilf said bewilderedly, totally unaware he was giving Marigold one of the worst moments of her entire life.

‘I can explain—'

Flynn cut across Marigold's feverish voice, his own like ice as he said, ‘Perhaps you would like to introduce yourself, Miss…?'

Marigold took a hard pull of air, reflecting if she didn't love her parents so much she would hate them for giving her a name which had always been an acute embarrassment to her. ‘My name's Marigold,' she said a little unsteadily. ‘Marigold Flower.'

‘You're joking.'

She wished she were. She wished she could have announced a name like Tamara Jaimeson. ‘No,' she assured Flynn miserably as he looked down at her, his expression utterly cold. ‘My name really is Marigold Flower. My mother…well, she's a little eccentric, I guess, and when she married a Flower and then had a little girl she thought it was too good a chance to miss. My father was just relieved I wasn't a son. She was going to call a boy Gromwell. They're lovely pure blue flowers that my mother had in her rock garden at the time…'

Marigold's voice trailed away. She had been gabbling; Wilf's slightly glassy-eyed stare told her so. Flynn's
eyes, on the other hand, were rapier-sharp and boring into her head like twin lasers.

‘I'm pleased to meet you and thank you for dealing with the car.' She extended a hand to Wilf, who bent down and shook it before moving a step backwards as though he was frightened she would bite.

‘Perhaps you would be good enough to leave Miss…Flower and myself alone for a few minutes, Wilf, and inform Bertha we don't want to be interrupted?' Flynn said grimly, his gaze not leaving Marigold's hot face.

Wilf needed no second bidding; he was out of the room like a shot and Marigold envied him with all her heart. She watched the door close and then looked up at Flynn, who was still standing quite still and looking at her steadily; the sort of look that made her feel she'd just crawled out from under a stone. ‘I did try to tell you,' she muttered quickly before he said anything. ‘Several times.'

‘The hell you did.'

‘I did!' She glared at him. Attack might not always be the best line of defence but it was all she had right now. ‘But you blazed in, all guns firing, on the road before I even had a chance to open my mouth and wouldn't let me get a word in edgeways.'

‘You're saying this is
my
fault?' he snarled in obvious amazement. ‘You tell me a pack of lies, pretend to be someone else and inveigle your way into my home under false pretences—'

‘I did not inveigle my way into your home,' she stormed furiously. ‘I didn't want to come if you remember but you wouldn't take no for an answer, and I'll pay you for tonight and for the coal and logs. I can go to the cottage right now—'

She tried to rise too quickly and then fell back on the sofa with a shocked little cry, her face twisting with pain.

‘For crying out loud, lie still!' He was shouting again and he seemed to realise this himself in the next instant. She watched him shut his eyes for an infinitesimal second before taking a great pull of air and letting it out harshly between his lips in a loud hiss. ‘Lie still,' he said more quietly, the silver-grey eyes narrowed and cold and the muscles in his face clenching as he fought to gain control of himself.

Marigold had the feeling he didn't lose his temper all that often and that the fact that he had with her was another black mark against her. ‘I
did
try to explain,' she said shakily, willing herself not to break down in front of this…this
monster
. ‘But you wouldn't listen.'

He continued to survey her for what seemed like an eternity, before walking over to an exquisitely carved cocktail cabinet on the other side of the room near the massive bay windows, and pouring himself a stiff brandy. ‘I would offer you one but you can't drink with those pills,' he said shortly. ‘Would you like grapejuice, bitter lemon, tonic…?'

‘A bitter lemon would be fine, thank you.' Marigold hoped the shaking in her stomach hadn't communicated itself in her voice, and whilst he was seeing to her drink she glanced round the room again. It was gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous, and everything in it just shouted wealth and influence and prestige. The ankle-deep cream carpet; the beautiful sofas and chairs in the palest of lavender mint, the colour reflected in a deeper shade in the long drapes at the windows; the rich dark wood of the bookcase and cocktail cabinet and occasional tables… Everything was beautiful.

‘Here.' As Flynn handed her the drink she could read
nothing in his expressionless face, and after he had seated himself in an easy chair a few feet away he took a long swallow of the brandy before crossing one knee over the other and leaning back in his seat. ‘I take it you
do
have permission to use the cottage?' he asked evenly.

‘Of course,' she said indignantly, appalled he could think otherwise. ‘I work with Emma.'

He nodded slowly, settling further back in the chair and continuing to look at her, obviously waiting for her to explain herself.

Marigold stared at him, wishing he wasn't so big, so male, so
irritatingly
sure of himself. But she
did
owe him an explanation, she admitted to herself silently. He had rescued her when all was said and done, and then brought her here, to his home. She took a deep breath and said steadily, ‘I work with Emma, as I said, and she—'

‘Doing what?' Flynn interrupted coolly.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘You said you worked with her,' he said impatiently. ‘In what capacity?'

‘I'm a designer.' Marigold hesitated and then said quietly, ‘Emma's the company's secretary. It's a small firm, just eight of us altogether, counting Patricia and Jeff, the two partners.'

‘You enjoy your work?'

‘Yes; yes, I do.'

At some point when she had been asleep Flynn had exchanged his thick sweater for a casual silk shirt in midnight-blue. It was buttoned to just below his collarbone, and in spite of herself Marigold's eyes were drawn to the smidgen of dark curling body hair just visible above the soft material. That, along with the very mas
culine way he was sitting, made his aura of virile masculinity impossible to ignore.

Marigold gulped twice and went on, ‘Anyway, Emma offered me the cottage over Christmas a few days ago and I accepted. It…it was all decided in a bit of a hurry, I suppose.'

‘Why?'

‘Why?' She stared at him. ‘Why what?'

‘Why is someone as attractive as you spending Christmas all alone? You can't tell me you didn't have plenty of offers to the contrary,' he said expressionlessly.

It was a compliment of sorts, she supposed, although his voice and his face were so cool and remote it didn't feel like one. She didn't know quite how to answer for a moment, and then she said carefully, ‘Personal reasons.' She was grateful to him, she was really, but there was no way she was going to give this arrogant, authoritative stranger her life history.

‘Ah…' He inclined his head and took a pull at the brandy. The one word was incredibly irritating.

‘Ah?' Marigold challenged immediately. ‘What does “ah” mean?'

He uncoiled his body, stretching lazily and finishing the brandy in one gulp before saying, “‘Ah” means you are running away from a man.'

She had been having some trouble preventing her eyes from following the line of his tight black jeans, but the cynical and—more to the point—totally inaccurate statement was like a dose of icy water on her overwrought nerves. ‘I am
not
,' she declared angrily. How dared he make such an assumption?

‘No?'

‘No.'

‘But a man is at the bottom of this seclusion somewhere.'

It was so arrogantly smooth she could have hit him, as much for being right as anything else. She could feel the hot colour in her cheeks, which had nothing to do with the roaring fire in the grate and everything to do with Flynn Moreau, and now her back was ramrod-straight as she glared at him, her mind frantically searching for an adequate put-down.

‘You have a very expressive face.' Flynn stood up, not at all concerned about her fury. ‘I should have known back there on the road you couldn't possibly be old Maggie's granddaughter.'

She didn't want to give Flynn the satisfaction of her asking the obvious but she found she couldn't help it. ‘Why couldn't I be?' she asked tightly.

‘Because from what Peter told me Maggie's family are a cold lot,' Flynn stated impassively, ‘whereas you're all fire and passion.'

The last word hung in the air although he seemed unaware of it as he walked across and casually refilled his glass, returning a few moments later and settling himself in the chair again, in the same disturbing male pose.

It wasn't ethical for a venerable brain surgeon to be so sexy, surely? Marigold asked herself waspishly. Weren't men in Flynn's position supposed to be past middle age, preferably balding, married, with children and grandchildren? Reassuring father or grandfather figures who were slightly portly and about as sexually attractive as a block of wood. She could just imagine the furore he created when he walked on to a ward, especially with the cool, remote and somewhat cynical air he had about him. An air that said he'd seen and done
everything and nothing could surprise him. Although she had!

The thought, silly as it was, was immensely gratifying, but after the comment about her expressive face she should have been on her guard, because in the next moment Flynn said, ‘OK, let's have it. What's amused you?'

‘Amused me?' she prevaricated weakly, hastily wiping all satisfaction from her face. ‘I don't know what you mean.'

He shrugged easily. ‘Have it your own way. So, who's the guy and is he still in the background somewhere?'

‘I didn't say there was a man,' she objected sharply, any lingering smugness gone in an instant.

‘Ah, but you didn't say there wasn't, which is more to the point.'

One more ‘ah' and she'd throw her glass at his arrogant head, Marigold promised herself, before thinking, Oh, what the heck? She was never going to see him again once she was out of here, so she might as well humour him.

‘The man was my fiancé,' she said abruptly, ‘and at present he is on what was supposed to be our honeymoon with his new lady friend. OK? Does that satisfy you?'

If nothing else she had surprised him again but somehow it gave her no pleasure this time.

Flynn had sat up in his seat as she had spoken, expelling a quiet breath as he looked at her taut face. ‘I'm sorry,' he said very softly, astonishing her with the deep sincerity in his voice, which was smoky warm. ‘The guy is a moron but of course you are already aware of that.'

She blinked at him. She'd received various words of
comfort and condolence since she'd thrown Dean's ring at him and sent him packing, but not quite like this.

She relaxed a little, her voice steady as she said, ‘Apparently, if one or two mutual friends are to be believed, she probably wasn't the first. We were together for three years and I never suspected a thing.' She gave a mirthless smile. ‘What does that make me?'

‘Lucky.' It was very dry. ‘That you're now rid of him, I mean. You could wait around all your life for him to grow up and die waiting. Let someone else have the job of babysitting him while you have a life instead.'

She'd never heard it put so succinctly before but Marigold realised he was absolutely right. Even when they had still been together, she thought suddenly, she had carried Dean and been the source of strength for them both. She had never been the sort of girl who couldn't say boo to a goose and expected the man in her life to make all the decisions, mind you, but with Dean she had found herself constantly making the decisions for both of them simply because he wouldn't. It had been a flawed relationship in every sense of the word, and the main problem had been—as this stranger had just pointed out—that Dean hadn't grown up. He was still a Jack the lad and not ready for a permanent relationship. Perhaps he never would be; some men were like that.