Christmas at His Command (8 page)

‘So I'm not right?'

She took a deep hidden breath and lied through the pretty white teeth again. ‘No, you are not.'

He smiled; a predatory, shark-like smile if she thought about it, Marigold noticed uneasily. ‘I'm pleased you're not an accomplished liar, Marigold,' he said charmingly. ‘I really don't like that in a woman. Now, there is a small lean-to and hut just outside the kitchen door; Maggie used to keep the chickens in there when the weather was bad. Wilf's stocked it with logs and coal—more than enough for a couple of weeks' fuel—and you must keep the fires going day and night. You know how to bank a fire, I suppose?'

She didn't have a clue, but she nodded stiffly. ‘Of course I do,' she said haughtily.

He eyed her mockingly. ‘Plenty of damp slack does the trick, along with tea leaves or vegetable peelings; that sort of thing. Pile it on thick just before you turn in and make sure as little air as possible is getting to the fire. That way you should still have enough glowing embers to get it going nicely in the morning once you've scooped the ash into a bucket.'

Quite the little downstairs maid, wasn't he? Marigold thought nastily, and then felt immediately ashamed of herself when Flynn added, ‘Your groceries are all packed away in the cupboards and the fridge is stocked. There's no freezer, I'm afraid.'

‘Right, thank you. Now, what do I—?'

‘If you mention payment once more I'll take it,' Flynn warned with a glint in his eye, ‘but it won't be of the financial kind. Do you understand?'

She opened her mouth to protest, looked into his eyes and knew he meant it. Her mouth closed again. She was just eternally grateful he'd never know the way his
words had made her flesh tingle and the blood sing through her veins.

‘Take these every six hours; no more than eight in twenty-four hours,' he warned quietly, suddenly very much the professional as he brought a small bottle of the painkillers out of his pocket. ‘And no more than the odd glass of wine whilst you're taking them.'

She nodded, wishing he'd just go. She needed time to sort out her whirling thoughts and utter confusion, and whilst he was here in front of her there was no chance of her racing emotions being brought under control.

He stepped closer again, lifting a hand to cup her chin as he said, ‘Goodbye, Marigold.'

‘Goodbye.' Suddenly, and with an irrationality that surprised her, she wanted to beg him to stay. Which was crazy, she warned herself, wondering if he was going to kiss her again.

He didn't.

What was wrong with her? Marigold asked herself crossly as she watched Flynn turn and walk to the door. She couldn't be attracted to him; she wouldn't let herself be. Her life was difficult enough at the moment and she had some major changes in view for the new year and the last thing she needed was a complication like Flynn!

She followed him to the front door and watched the tall, dark figure stride across the snow where the path should have been. The blue sky above him was piercingly clear, and a white winter sun had turned the snow into a mass of glittering diamonds in which the indentation of his large footsteps stood out with stark severity. They were like him—utterly larger than life.

Marigold narrowed her eyes against the sunlight as her thoughts sped on. Flynn was one of those characters you came across just a few times in a lifetime; the sort
of person who created atmosphere and life wherever they went, sweeping lesser mortals into their orbit for a short time until they moved on to pastures new. It would be fatal to get involved in any way with a man like that.

He had talked about meeting fire with fire, but he didn't know her, not really. She was just ordinary—she wanted a home and family eventually, with the right man. Most of all she wanted someone who loved her, who was completely hers. Someone who thought she was wonderful just as she was and who would never look at a tall, beautiful blonde with legs that went right up to her armpits.

She watched the 4x4 move away, lifting her hand briefly in acknowledgement of Flynn's wave, and it wasn't until she hobbled back into the cottage and made her way into the kitchen, intending to make a reviving cup of coffee, that she even realised she was crying.

W
ITH
a determination Marigold didn't know she was capable of, she put all thoughts of Flynn Moreau out of her mind for the rest of the day and evening. Admittedly he did have an annoying habit of invading her mind if she let her guard down even for a second, but, with the radio kept on pretty loudly and a book in front of her nose which she'd been promising herself she'd read for ages, she managed fairly well.

Once Flynn had gone she'd hobbled out to the kitchen and found the cupboards and fridge stocked with masses of stuff she hadn't bought, along with several little luxuries that brought her eyes opening wide. Several bottles of a particular red wine that she knew cost the earth; an enormous box of chocolates; a mouth-watering dessert that was all meringue and whipped cream and fresh strawberries and raspberries, and which would easily have served eight people… The list went on.

Marigold viewed it all with a mixture of disquiet and pleasure, and when she poked her head out of the back door she saw there were enough logs and coal for two months, let alone two weeks. You couldn't fault him on generosity. She bit on her lip hard as, the clock on the mantelpiece chiming eleven o'clock, she found her thoughts had returned to Flynn once more.

She had allowed herself one glass of the wonderful wine with her evening meal—a succulent steak grilled with mushrooms and tomatoes—and the taste of it was still on her tongue as she rose to prepare for bed. It was
as different from the cheap wine she normally indulged in as chalk from cheese, and accentuated the difference in their ways of life more distinctly than anything else so far. He must have a cellar stocked with expensive wine, she thought dismally as she climbed into bed a few minutes later—a bed with crisp, scented sheets and the beautiful broderie-anglaise cover. From her brief glance in the bedroom the day before she remembered the bed had been piled with old, unattractive blankets and what had appeared to be a moth-eaten eiderdown in faded pink satin.

She had followed Flynn's advice and banked down the fires as he'd instructed, and now the tiny blue and orange flames licking carefully round the base of the damp slack caused the shadows in the room to dance slightly, the odd crackle and spit from the fire immensely comforting. It was gorgeous having a real fire to look at whilst you were all cuddled up and snug in bed, Marigold thought sleepily. She could understand why Emma's grandmother had fought to stay here for so long. With a certain amount of elbow grease to get things looking spick and span, a few tins of paint and a clearing out of some of the more dilapidated items of furniture, to give more space and to show off some of what Marigold recognised were really very nice pieces in the sitting room, the cottage could be transformed.

This bedroom was really very large, although packed as it was it didn't seem so. With just the bed and perhaps a new, smaller wardrobe there would be heaps of room for a good working area by the window. She'd easily fit a chair and drawing board and everything else in…

Marigold stopped abruptly, sitting up in bed and flicking back her curtain of hair as she realised where her musing had led. Was she still seriously considering mak
ing an offer to Emma for her grandmother's old home? What about all the inconveniences? What about the isolation?
What about Flynn Moreau?

She sat for some minutes, staring into space, before sliding down into the warm cocoon again. No, it was an impossible idea. Even if she forgot about all the practical difficulties there was still Flynn. Her heart began to pound with reckless speed at the thought of Flynn as her nearest neighbour, and she spoke to it sternly, telling it to behave.

She wasn't going to think about this any more tonight. She turned over onto her side, adjusting her legs so that her good foot protected her aching ankle, and shut her eyes determinedly. It was Christmas Eve tomorrow, she was in a snug little cottage with snow all around her and masses of food and drink, and it was nice to be on her own for once. It
was
. She'd enjoy her Christmas—quietly perhaps, but she'd still enjoy it—and she wasn't going to think about anything more challenging than when the next glass of wine or meal was due. She probably wouldn't even see Flynn Moreau again anyway…

She was asleep within minutes, and it didn't occur to her, as she drifted away into a deep, dreamless slumber, that she hadn't given a single thought to Dean and Tamara for hours.

 

It was about ten o'clock the next morning when the sound of someone banging on the front door of the cottage brought Marigold jerking awake. For a moment or two she didn't know where she was and then, as it all flooded back, she pushed the covers aside and reached for the new thick, fleecy white robe she had treated herself to as an early Christmas present. It was the sort of thing she'd seen some of the stars of the silver screen
wear in fashionable magazines, and although it had cost an arm and a leg it made her feel wonderfully feminine and expensive. And since Tamara she'd needed to feel feminine.

She tested her weight gingerly on her poorly foot and when it felt bearable she limped carefully to the door without bothering to use the crutches, wondering if Wilf was outside with Myrtle. She brushed her cloud of hair from her eyes and opened the door.

‘Good morning.'

It was snowing again, she thought dazedly as she stared into a pair of crystal eyes above which jet-black hair was coated with a feathery covering of white, before forcing herself to answer, ‘Good morning.'

‘I got you out of bed.' He didn't sound at all sorry; in fact his eyes were inspecting her with a relish that made Marigold feel positively undressed rather than wrapped round in an armour of fluffy white towelling.

‘Yes,' she agreed vaguely, wondering how any one man had the right to look so sexy when she hadn't even brushed her teeth. ‘I didn't bother to set my alarm.'

‘I've brought you something.' He indicated with his hand at the side of him and she looked down to see a cute little Christmas tree sitting on the step. ‘We've just brought in the one for the house and this was close by and it seemed the right size for the cottage. Bertha's sorted out a few decorations and what have you. It's in a tub and you'll need to keep it damp so it can go back outside after Christmas.'

‘Right.' She knew she wasn't sounding very grateful but she was acutely conscious of her tousled hair and make-up-free face.

‘How's the foot?'

‘The foot?' Marigold made an effort to pull herself
together. ‘Oh, the foot. It seems a bit better, thank you,' she managed fairly coherently.

‘Good.' He paused, looking down at her with glittering eyes. ‘There's not any coffee going, is there?'

Marigold flushed. After his open-handed generosity she could hardly refuse him a cup of coffee, but he looked so immaculately groomed, with every hair in place, and she… Well, she wasn't, she reflected hotly. Although he had nicked himself shaving. Her eyes focused on a tiny cut on the square male chin and she found herself suddenly short of breath.

‘Marigold?'

‘What?' She blinked, realising he had said something else and she hadn't heard a word.

‘I said, if it's too much trouble…'

Marigold's flush deepened. ‘Of course not,' she said crossly, and then moderated her tone as she added, ‘Please come in, and you can put the tree in the sitting room by the fireplace if you don't mind. It…it's very nice.'

‘Yes, it is, isn't it?' he agreed meekly, but she had glanced into the silver eyes again and they were laughing at her.

Once in the sitting room, Flynn looked somewhat accusingly at the faint glow from the embers of the fire. ‘It's nearly out. You see to the coffee and I'll see to the fire,' he offered, shrugging off his leather jacket and slinging it onto the sofa as he spoke. ‘Have you come across the old bucket Maggie used for the hot ashes?'

‘It's in the broom cupboard; I'll get it,' Marigold said hastily. She'd discovered the broom cupboard in an alcove in the kitchen the day before. ‘You wait here.' The kitchen was old-fashioned and with barely enough room
to swing a cat; the thought of herself and Flynn enclosed in such a small space was daunting to say the least.

She hobbled her way into the kitchen and opened the cupboard door, grabbing the bucket and swinging round, and then she gave a surprised squeak to find Flynn right behind her.

‘You shouldn't be walking on that ankle yet; where are the crutches?'

He was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and a big Aran jumper which was clearly an old favourite today; he'd obviously dressed down for the expedition in the snow to bring in the Christmas trees. The clothes were clean but faintly shabby if anything, and didn't have the designer cut and flair of the others she had seen him in. So why, Marigold asked herself weakly, did they enhance his dark masculinity even more than the others had done?

She forced herself to concentrate on what she was saying as she replied, ‘The crutches are by the bed, I suppose, but I'd rather manage without them if I can. The narrow doorways here are not conducive to an extra pair of legs.'

‘Nor anyone above the height of five feet six,' Flynn agreed easily. ‘It took me a few visits to see Maggie before I learnt to duck.'

Marigold swallowed and tried a smile. His body was so close it was forcing her to acknowledge her awareness of his male warmth, and the faint scent emanating from the tanned skin—a subtle, spicy fragrance—was causing a reaction in her lower stomach she could well have done without. The trouble was, Flynn was such a
disturbing
man that just being around him was enough to make her all fingers and thumbs, Marigold admitted to herself
crossly. Even when he was just being friendly and helpful, like now.

She held up the bucket, unconsciously using it as a defence against his nearness. ‘I'll…I'll put the kettle on,' she said a little breathlessly. ‘There's only instant coffee, I'm afraid; Maggie clearly didn't run to a coffee maker.'

‘No, Maggie was the proverbial cup of tea and hot buttered scones type.' A black eyebrow quirked. ‘There
are
some croissants in the bread bin, though, along with one of Bertha's home-made loaves, if you're offering?'

She hadn't been aware she was. She didn't answer immediately. ‘Breakfast seems like years ago when you've been working in the fresh air for a while,' he murmured with blatant scheming.

‘Oh, I'm sorry; I thought you'd brought in a couple of Christmas trees,' Marigold said severely, ‘not a whole forest.'

He grinned at her, utterly unrepentant at his persistence, and Marigold floundered. ‘Croissants it is, then,' she agreed quickly, just wishing he would move and put a little more space between them. ‘And I suppose you know where the preserves are, too?'

‘Left-hand cupboard above the sink,' Flynn answered meekly. ‘And I prefer blackcurrant.'

‘You'll get what you're given.'

‘Promises, promises…'

But he had taken the bucket and was walking out of the kitchen and she could breathe again.

‘And don't try to carry a tray or anything,' he called over his shoulder. ‘I'll come and see to it once the fire's blazing.'

By half-past ten Marigold was seated in front of a roaring fire which contrasted beautifully with the swirling snowflakes outside the sitting-room window, eating
croissants warmed in the kitchen's big old oven. Flynn demolished five to her two—his liberally covered with blackcurrant preserve—after which he said pensively, ‘Ever tried toast made over an open fire?'

‘You can't still be hungry!'

‘I burn off a lot of energy.' He eyed her over his coffee mug and she didn't ask how.

They found a toasting fork among the instruments hanging on a black iron stand on the hearth, and once Flynn had cut the bread and begun toasting it over the fire the smell was so wonderful that Marigold found herself eating a piece dripping with melting butter even though she was full up.

This was too cosy by half. She slanted a glance at Flynn under her eyelashes. He was busy toasting his second doorstep, crouched down in front of the fire in a manner which stretched the denim tight over lean, strong hips and muscled thighs. He had a magnificent body… The thought came from nowhere and shocked her into choking on an errant crumb.

How on earth had she come to be sitting here in her dressing gown, sharing breakfast with a man she had only known for a couple of days? Marigold asked herself faintly. But she knew the answer—because the man in question went by the name of Flynn Moreau. He was like a human bulldozer, she thought with a touch of desperate bewilderment—riding roughshod over any objections or difficulties in his path to get what he wanted.

Did he want her? She risked another glance and then stiffened as she met his eyes. ‘What's the matter?' he asked softly.

‘The matter?'

‘You were frowning.'

‘Was I?' she prevaricated feebly. She managed to di
vert him by making some excuse about twinges in her foot, before she quickly moved on to the fact she needed a hot bath and to get dressed.

‘Go ahead,' he offered blandly. ‘I'll wash up and then set up the Christmas tree.'

‘No, it's all right really.' The thought of Flynn in the cottage while she lay naked in the bath was unthinkable. ‘You must have lots to do back at the house, and didn't you say you had guests arriving today?'

‘Later,' he agreed smoothly.

‘Well, I'd like to have a really long, hot soak,' she persisted firmly, ‘and I shan't feel comfortable doing that if I know I'm keeping you waiting. It…it'll be good for my ankle,' she added.

He stared at her but the doctor in him won. ‘OK.' He stood up in one lithe, graceful male movement and she blinked. ‘I don't suppose it's any good my offering to wash your back?' he suggested softly.