Christmas at His Command

Bertha continued to bustle about as she opened a door and showed Marigold the attractive double bedroom and en suite, a tiny cloakroom containing just a loo and minute corner handbasin and a small but compact kitchen. All the other rooms led directly off the sitting room in a fan layout. It was an extremely comfortable and charming little home in itself and overall was about the size of Marigold’s flat in London.

After Bertha had left her, Marigold stood for a moment just glancing around her. This huge house and a flat in London! Talk about how the other half lived! But there was clearly a softer side to Flynn, as his taking in Emma’s grandmother’s waifs and strays had proved.

She tottered into the bedroom, which was beautifully decorated in soft creamy shades of lilac and lemon, and sank down on the broderie-anglaise bed cover.

Did he have a girlfriend? Had he ever been married even? She realised she knew practically nothing about him at all, whereas he had drawn out quite a lot about her during the delicious and leisurely meal. She didn’t even know how old he was, and although doing what he did for a living must put him over thirty he had the sort of face and muscled physique that could put him anywhere between his late twenties to early forties.

Marigold suddenly frowned to herself. What on earth was she doing, thinking like this, anyway? Flynn’s love life was absolutely no concern of hers. Once she left here tomorrow she would never see him again.

She reminded herself of that several times as she got ready for bed when she found her mind wandering again, but once she had snuggled under the covers all thoughts of Flynn and anything else were gone. She was asleep almost immediately; a deep, dreamless slumber that even her swollen ankle couldn’t disturb.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE next day dawned clear and bright, and when Marigold limped to the window and looked out into the crystal-white world beyond she was relieved to see the snow was only three or four inches deep. Nevertheless, the feathery mantle on the trees and bushes beyond the window had turned the small garden—which was obviously the flat’s own private domain—into a scene from a Christmas card.

Someone, probably Wilf, had brought her suitcase in from the car the night before and placed it in a corner of the bedroom, but the box she had packed her toiletries and make-up in was still on Myrtle’s back seat.

The dressing-table mirror told her she resembled a small, white-faced panda, and she groaned slightly as she looked at her reflection. She had only worn a little mascara and foundation the day before, but a little mascara went a long way when it wasn’t removed properly and she had only washed her face with soap and water before climbing into bed.

Her injured ankle was throbbing with enough force to make her grit her teeth as she contemplated hopping into the en suite, but just as she rose from the dressing-table stool the door opened and Bertha stood there with a breakfast tray. ‘Oh, my, you’re up bright and early,’ the housekeeper said cheerfully as she walked further into the room. ‘I thought you’d sleep till I woke you after that pill Mr Moreau gave you—when I dislocated my knee he gave me one, and I nearly slept round the clock. How is the ankle feeling this morning?’

‘Not too bad,’ Marigold lied firmly, determined she wouldn’t stretch Flynn’s hospitality another day.

‘That’s good. Well, you nip back into bed and eat your breakfast,’ Bertha said, for all the world as though Marigold was five years of age instead of twenty-five. ‘And when you’ve eaten there’s two more of the painkillers on the tray. I think Mr Moreau thought you’d need them.’

She certainly did, Marigold thought wryly, once she was back in bed again. Even the light duvet seemed like a ten-ton weight on her foot.

However, a good breakfast, followed by the painkillers, and then a somewhat wobbly hot shower helped Marigold’s sense of well-being, and to her delight she found a gentle facial cleanser in the bathroom cabinet, which took care of the last of the mascara. After creaming her face, again courtesy of the bathroom cabinet, she hobbled into the bedroom and blow-dried her hair, and by the time she had delved into her suitcase and donned fresh underwear, jeans and jumper, she felt a hundred times better than when she had first woken.

At least her face had a little natural colour again, she thought critically as she surveyed herself from head to toe before leaving the room an hour or so later, but there was no way she could manage to wear a shoe, or even one of the socks she had packed, on her bad foot. But it didn’t matter. She would manage somehow, she determined as she wound the bandage in place.

She found she could manage the crutches much better as she made her way out of the little annexe and into the main hall of the house, but then she nearly went sprawling when Flynn suddenly appeared in the doorway of a room to the right of the drawing room where she was making for.

‘Good morning.’ He smiled at her, a polite smile, and Marigold forced herself to return it as she grappled for control of her brain, which had decided to scramble itself. She had been unconsciously preparing herself for this moment ever since she had first opened her eyes this morning, but it didn’t make it any easier when it was actually happening. He was wearing a black denim shirt and jeans, the shirt open at the neck and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing muscled arms dusted with soft black hair, and he seemed to fill the doorway with his dark, flagrant masculinity.

He probably didn’t mean to be so intimidating, Marigold told herself silently, but there was a magnetic quality to his good looks which drew even as it repelled. His whole persona gave off an air of remoteness and cool detachment, yet there was a seductiveness there that would make any woman worth her salt wonder what it would be like to be made love to by this man.

She killed the last thought stone dead as she replied very formally, ‘Good morning. I must thank you again for all your kindness yesterday.’

‘Not necessary.’ His gaze moved over her steadily as he said, ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Fine.’ She had noticed the smoky quality to his voice yesterday, she remembered, but today it was more obvious.

Probably because at this moment in time he wasn’t angry with her! ‘There’s really no need for me to impose upon you any longer,’ she said quickly, ‘but if Wilf could help me take everything to the cottage that would be an enormous help.’

‘I’m sure something can be arranged.’

Marigold was cross to find she felt hot and flustered, and it didn’t help that Flynn, in stark contrast, was the epitome of contained coolness. ‘Thank you.’ She forced another smile. ‘I’ll wait for him in my rooms, then, shall I?’

‘I know we got off to an unfortunate start yesterday, Marigold, but I don’t actually bite, you know.’

‘What?’ For a moment she wondered if she had heard right. Her eyes shot to his face and she saw there was a disturbing gleam at the backs of his eyes. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You’re like a cat on a hot tin roof as soon as you set eyes on me,’ he said coolly, ‘and I know for a certainty that the ankle is not at all “fine”. In fact it must be giving you hell.’

‘Not at all.’ It wasn’t so bad, in truth, now the pills had dampened down the worst of the pain.

‘Even if you were Maggie’s granddaughter you would be welcome to stay until you felt better,’ Flynn continued, his gaze tight on her flushed face. ‘As it is, there is absolutely no need for you to scurry away like a nervous little mouse.’