His to Command: the Nanny: A Nanny for Keeps. Cara Colter
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bothered by her blatant attempt at a little emotional blackmail ‘—and I’ll turn up for the photo call.’
Which implied that he knew something about the prevailing weather conditions at Hill Tops that she didn’t.
It didn’t matter. He’d promised. And the sun had to shine eventually, if she stuck around for long enough—it had been shining in that old photograph she’d found, hadn’t it?—which was why, instead of responding with something snippy like ‘you’ve got a deal’, she smiled—a real smile this time—and said, ‘Thank you.’ Then, rather more weakly, ‘Now we’ve sorted that out, is there any chance of a couple of aspirin?’
‘Only if you’ll lie down for an hour and give them a chance to do their job.’
‘Are you sending me to bed?’
No, no, stupid thing to say. The way she felt at that moment, he’d have to carry her and she didn’t think that lying against his chest listening to his heart being put through its paces—she wasn’t stick-thin like his glamorous cousin—would do her condition any good at all.
‘What about Maisie?’ she demanded, in an attempt to shift that image from her brain.
‘Susan will take care of her.’
‘She’s got other things to do. Chickens, house-work…’
‘That isn’t your problem.’
OK, so she’d been hoping he might have a complete change of heart and volunteer to take care of Maisie himself, but her head hurt too much to worry about it.
‘All right. But there’s no way I’m going to bed. You’ll have to ask those dogs to budge up and let me share their sofa.’
‘I could, of course, insist that you go to the local A&E for an X-ray, since you’re obviously not in your right mind.’ Then, taking pity on her, ‘Come on. You can put your feet up in the library.’
‘The library? You mean you’re letting me back into the posh bit of the house? After this morning?’
She blinked. Had she really said that? The crack to her skull must have been harder than she’d thought.
He clamped his jaw down hard, presumably because it was against medical ethics to yell at someone in pain. Demand that they shut up.
She actually saw the slow breath he took, although if he counted to ten he did it mentally, before he said, ‘I think “posh” might be stretching it a bit, but at least you won’t get covered in dog hairs.’
She thought she should probably say something, but couldn’t think of anything sensible, so left it and he put a hand beneath her elbow, eased her to her feet.
‘Can you walk?’
‘Of course I can walk,’ she said, doing her best to ignore the fact that the room was spinning and clutching the ice-pack to her head. ‘I’m not an invalid.’
‘No, just a pain in the backside. Don’t you ever give your mouth a rest?’
‘Of course I…’ She stopped. ‘That was a trick question, wasn’t it?’
He didn’t answer, possibly to demonstrate that one of them had some control over their mouth, although if she had been a betting woman she might have had a mild flutter on the chance that it was because he was trying not to laugh. Definitely trying not to laugh. Almost definitely.
And, OK, doing a pretty good job of it.
She had a quick glimpse of panelled hall, the bottom of the substantial oak staircase that led to his bedroom and then she was in a room that had the perfect air of shabby comfort only attained through generations of occupation by the same family.
Velvet curtains that had once been green, but which now, except in the deepest folds, had faded to a silvery grey. A richly patterned Persian rug, worn practically threadbare. A huge Knole sofa standing four-square to a handsome fireplace which was laid with logs and only needed a match to send the reflection of flames flickering off the bookshelves that lined the walls.
Not a bit like the bare stone interior of the horrible giant’s house in her childhood story book.
First impressions could be so wrong…
Harry crossed to the hearth and hunkered down to put a match to the fire, although the room wasn’t cold. She perched on the edge of the sofa as he coaxed the fire to life, watching his deft movements, quick reaction as a log fell into the hearth, his broad back. And forgot her own pain as her stomach wrenched in empathy for pain she could not even imagine. And she closed her eyes.
‘Jacqui?’ She jerked them open. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes,’ she said, but without conviction.
‘You look a bit pale. Do you feel sick?’
She did, but not as a result of the bang on the head. ‘I’m fine, really.’
He continued to look at her for a moment, before turning back to the fire. When he was sure it had caught, he placed a guard in front of it.
‘Shall I take that?’
She looked down at the ice-pack, which was beginning to melt into her lap. ‘None of this is necessary,’ she protested. ‘I should be—’
‘What?’
Looking for her phone. Chasing Vickie to find out what was happening. But then, as Harry had pointed out, Maisie was happy enough. This was what she’d wanted. So why was she getting her knickers in a twist, instead of doing as she was told, lying back and letting everything work itself out?
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘Right answer.’
And this time the crease at the corner of his mouth was deep enough to qualify as a smile. Lopsided maybe. A trifle wry, even. But a heart-stopping improvement on the alternative.
She could live with ‘wry’.
‘Now all you have to do is put your feet up and I’ll go and get some aspirin.’
And to prevent any further argument, he bent, picked her feet up in one hand, pulled off her shoes and placed them on the sofa.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN Harry returned a couple of minutes later with aspirin and a blanket, Jacqui was asleep. He watched her for a while. Her colour had returned and her breathing was good, but there were dark smudges beneath her eyes that had nothing to do with the crack on the head.
He’d noticed them last night when she’d come down—minus the make-up she’d used to conceal them—to make herself a drink. Jacqui Moore, he suspected, hadn’t been sleeping properly for some time. Something he knew all about.
No doubt there was a man at the bottom of it. Why else would she be going on holiday on her own?
He left the painkillers on the sofa table and, as gently as he could, covered her with the blanket.
‘How is she?’
He turned as Susan came in with tea.
‘She’s dropped off. Best thing for her.’
‘She shouldn’t be left. My sister’s boy fell out of a tree—’
‘Yes, thank you, Susan. I’ll stay and keep an eye on her. Just leave the tray.’
‘Right. Well, I’m off upstairs to do the bedrooms if you want me.’
‘Take Maisie with you. I don’t want her coming in here disturbing Jacqui.’
Susan made a sound that only women beyond a certain age could manage. She ‘humphed’. It said more clearly than words that she knew exactly what he didn’t want. Maisie disturbing him. Then she said, ‘She should be at school, playing with children her