A Funny Thing Happened.... Caroline Anderson
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sure! Much too well-trained.
Unlike hers, but she couldn’t afford a recovery service, so she’d taken to making short journeys and then only if absolutely necessary. ‘We’ll go and ring them,’ she told him. ‘Follow me.’
‘I can’t see you, never mind follow you,’ he said bitterly.
Oh, dear. She reached out her hand and groped for his, coming up against a hard masculine thigh and—oops!
‘What the hell are you up to?’ he yelped, jumping backwards.
She giggled before she could stop herself. This whole thing was in danger of deteriorating into farce. ‘Sorry. I was trying to find your hand to lead you to the house,’ she explained lamely.
She reached out again, and after a second of distrustful silence she felt his fingers contact hers. They were cold, but not as cold as hers. They were also considerably softer.
‘You’re freezing, child,’ he muttered, and his fingers squeezed hers protectively.
‘I noticed, and I’m not a child. Come on.’
She tried to ignore the warmth and strength of his grip, but it was hard. It had been over a year since she’d had any male company, and she’d forgotten just how hard and strong a male grip could be. And warm. And gentle, on occasions—
‘Just stay close,’ she warned, and went through the barn door, sliding it shut behind her. She didn’t want the snow blowing in there before she got back with a lamp to finish the milking.
It was only a few steps across the yard to the cottage gate, but she managed to smack her shin on the tow-hitch of the muckspreader and blunder into the hawthorn hedge surrounding the garden before she found it. She pulled him up the path, stamped her feet off and threw open the door. ‘Come in, quick, and take your things off in here,’ she yelled over the barking of the dogs in the kitchen.
He followed her, shrugging off his coat and shoes in the little lobby, and trailed her into the kitchen. A flurry of fur and lashing tongues greeted them, and she bent down and patted the dogs automatically. ‘Hello, girls. Say hello nicely—’
They dodged past her and leapt at him and he backed away, crashing into something and swearing savagely.
‘Jess, Noodle, get down. Bad dogs! Don’t move, I’ll find some light,’ she told him, and reached for the torch and switched it on.
He was propped up in the corner in amongst the broom handles and dangling dog leads, clutching his groin and fending off the eager dogs.
‘What the hell is it with you lot that you keep attacking my genitals?’ he muttered through gritted teeth, swatting at Noodle yet again. Noodle, a Bichon Frisé and first cousin of the floor-mop he was leaning on, leapt up his leg again, grinning eagerly, the silky cords of her wild off-white coat falling around her like tangled spaghetti.
‘I’m sorry.’ She stifled a laugh and slapped her thigh. ‘Noodle, come here, sweetheart. Stop it.’ The dog came, quite unrepentant, and her guest straightened and looked at her. She couldn’t quite read his expression, so she shone the torch full in his face and he ducked his head, flinging his arm up to cover his eyes.
‘What the hell are you trying to do now—blind me?’ he snapped.
‘Sony,’ she said again, but she wasn’t. In that split second before she’d lowered the torch she’d seen enough to make her pulse do stupid and erratic things. His eyes were startling—dark blue, almost navy, stunning against the winter white of his skin and the dark slash of his brows, and just now they were spitting sparks. His hair was thick, upended by the wind so that he looked rumpled and sexy and gorgeous, and that mouth, if it wasn’t snarling—
She swung the torch round and hunted for the lantern and matches, then fiddled for ages trying to light it while he stood waiting in the shabby kitchen, frustration coming off him in tangible waves.
Thank God it was dark, she thought. Maybe by lamplight the tired room would look cosy and romantic—and maybe she’d look a bit more presentable and less as if she’d been tumbled in the haybarn, but it was unlikely. She finally got the wick to burn, and trimmed it and put the glass globe back. The flame spluttered and steadied, and she held it up and looked up at him—and up, and up...
‘You’re tiny,’ he said accusingly, as if it were a fault in her that she should have tried to overcome.
‘Sorry, but the best things come in little packages,’ she quipped, and tried to ignore the race of her pulse. ‘Now, why don’t you go in the parlour and ring the rescue people before it’s so bad they won’t come out?’
She handed him the lantern and pushed him towards the parlour door. ‘Phone’s in there.’
‘Where am I? I need to tell them how to get here.’
She met his eyes and knew this was going to be embarrassing. It had seemed fun at the time when she’d changed the name, but now—
‘Puddleduck Farm,’ she told him, and felt her chin rise challengingly.
‘Pu—right,’ he said, letting out his breath. Humour danced in his midnight eyes, but to his credit he kept it in—to a point. Then he blew it. ‘Don’t tell me—your name’s Jemima.’
She breathed in and drew herself up to her full five feet nothing. ‘That’s right,’ she told him, and dared him to comment
His mouth twitched but he said not another word. ‘Nice to meet you, Jemima,’ he said with a courtly, mocking little bow. ‘Samuel Bradley. At your service.’
‘I thought I was at yours,’ she said drily.
His mouth twisted in a wry smile, and her heart did a crazy hiccup. ‘You are—and I’m very grateful. I’ll ring them.’
She left him to it and went back into the kitchen, filling the kettle and standing it on the hob by torchlight. She could hear his voice rising, but she guessed it was fruitless. Against the window she could see the swirling snow, bright in the torchlight, falling now in great fat flakes that would cut them off without doubt She threw the dirty crockery into the sink and ran hot water over it, trying to hide it.
Hopeless. She needed to spend hours in here, but there just wasn’t the time in the day, and by the evening she was bushed—
He stomped into the kitchen, a look of disgust on his face, and set the lantern down with a little smack. The flame flickered and steadied.
‘Problems?’ she said mildly. She knew there would be.
‘They can’t come,’ he growled. ‘They’re flooded with calls and they can’t do anything until tomorrow.’ He glanced at his watch, a thin flat disc of gold on a plain leather strap, simple and tasteful—and why was she even noticing?
‘Mind if I ring the people I’m going to? They’ll be expecting me and I don’t want them to worry.’
‘Of course. Be my guest. You can stay the night, if you like.’
‘Oh, that won’t be necessary. I’m sure I can walk to them from here; it can’t be far.’
‘In this?’ She shone the torch at the window again and he swore. He was doing that rather a lot. Obviously a man who liked things his own way. He’d better not take up farming, then, she thought with an inward sigh. She’d got thirty cows out there to milk without power, not to mention the calves to feed and water to fetch and eggs to collect, and it was going to be hell—starting shortly.
‘I’ll ring them,’ he muttered, and went back into the parlour with the lantern.
‘Hi, Gramps, it’s Sam. Look, I’ve had a minor hiccup. I’ve got the car stuck in a drift at Puddleduck Farm. How far is that from you? Can I walk?’
‘Puddleduck? Oh, that’s only—’
‘Puddleduck?’