Christmas At His Command. Helen Brooks
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had made the ankle feel ten times worse, not better.
As her lips went white with the pain he swore again, lifting her right off her feet with the same effortless strength he had shown on the road. She was being held close to the broad masculine chest for the second time in as many minutes, and she found it more than a little surreal as he strode over to the gate, kicking it open with scant regard for Emma’s property and striding up the snow-covered path towards the front door.
He didn’t glance down at her again until they reached the door, and then he said crisply, ‘Key?’
‘What?’ She had seen his lips move and heard the sound but somehow the word hadn’t registered in her brain. She was conscious of being held by him, of the leashed power in the hard male frame next to her and the subtle and delicious smell of his aftershave, and everything else seemed to have faded to the perimeter of her awareness.
‘The key. For the door.’ It was said with a derisive patience that brought her out of the stupor more effectively than a bucket of cold water.
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ She knew she was as red as a beetroot. ‘You…you’ll have to put me down. It’s in my pocket and I can’t reach it.’
‘Stand on one foot; I’ll hold you. And don’t try to walk until we’ve taken a look at that ankle.’
We? We? If her pulse hadn’t been thudding so crazily and her throat hadn’t been so strangely dry she might have challenged him on the ‘we’, but as it was she assumed a pose she had seen the pink flamingos adopt in a recent wildlife documentary as he lowered her gently down, and fumbled for the key. She was horribly conscious of his hands round her waist, and although she told herself he was only steadying her it didn’t help.
The trouble was he was too male a man, she thought distractedly. It wasn’t just that he was big, very big, but he was larger than life somehow. Very tall, very hard and handsome and muscled, very everything in fact. In the most disturbing and unnerving way.
‘Here it is.’
He adjusted his stance slightly, sliding one arm round her, positioning her against his masculine thigh as he took the key from her nerveless fingers. It was ridiculous, truly ridiculous, she told herself feverishly, in view of all the layers of clothing between them, but it felt shatteringly intimate.
As the door swung open he picked her up again and stepped into a small square hall, clicking on a light switch to one side of the door as he did so. He obviously knew his way around the cottage, Marigold thought, and this was borne out in the next moment when he opened a door to their right and entered what was clearly the sitting room, turning on the light again as he did so. The room was crowded with old, heavy furniture, smelt fusty and damp and had an unlived-in air which was chilling in itself as he placed her on a sofa in front of an empty fireplace.
It was awful. Marigold cast despairing eyes over her temporary home. Absolutely awful. And so cold. And no doubt the bedroom was just as damp and chilly. Whatever was she going to do? She looked sideways at the man standing to one side of the sofa and saw he was looking at her in an uncomfortably speculative way.
‘Lovely,’ she said brightly. ‘Well, I think I can manage perfectly well now, thank you, and I’m sure you want to get home—’
‘Sit still while I light a fire; the place is like a damn fridge. We’ll attend to the ankle in a moment.’
He had disappeared out of the door before she could bring her startled mind to order, and as she heard another door open and close she called desperately, ‘Mr Moreau? Please, I can manage now. I would much prefer to be left alone. Mr Moreau? Can you hear me?’
It was a minute or two before he returned, and then with a face as black as thunder. ‘There’s no coal or wood in the storehouse,’ he said accusingly. ‘Did you know?’
She could have told him it was because Emma and Oliver had had coal fires every night when they’d been here—despite it having been high summer. ‘So romantic, darling,’ Emma had cooed. ‘And Oliver just loves to enter into the whole country thing.’
Instead she just nodded before saying, ‘There’s some in my car.’
‘But your car isn’t here,’ he ground out slowly.
‘I can see to it in the morning.’
He shut his eyes for a moment as though he couldn’t believe his ears, before opening them and pinning her with his gaze as he said, ‘Ye gods, woman! This isn’t the centre of London, you know. There’s not a garage on every other corner.’
‘I’m well aware of that,’ Marigold said as haughtily as she could; the effect being ruined somewhat by her chattering teeth. ‘I’m hoping Myrtle will be all right tomorrow.’
The eagle eyes narrowed, a slightly bemused expression coming over his dark face. ‘One of us is losing the plot here,’ he murmured in a rather self-derisory tone. ‘Who the hell is Myrtle?’
Marigold could feel her face flooding with colour. ‘My car.’
‘Your car. Right.’ He took a long, deep and very visible pull of air, letting it out slowly before he said, in an insultingly long-suffering voice, ‘And if…Myrtle decides not to fall in with your plans, what then? And how are you going to walk on that foot? And what are you going to do for heat tonight?’
Marigold decided to just answer the last question; of the three he’d posed it seemed the safest. ‘Tonight I’m just planning on a hot drink and then bed,’ she said stoutly.
‘I see.’ He was standing with his legs slightly apart and his arms crossed, a pose which emphasised his brooding masculinity, and from her perch on the sofa he seemed bigger than ever in the crowded little room. ‘Let me show you something.’
Before she could object he’d bent down and picked her up again—it was getting to be a habit to be in his arms, Marigold thought a trifle hysterically as he marched out of the sitting room and into the room next to it. This was clearly the bedroom and boasted its own share of clutter in the way of a huge old wardrobe, ancient dressing table and chest of drawers, two dilapidated large cane chairs with darned cushions and a stout and substantial bed with a carved wooden headboard. If anything this struck damper and chillier than the sitting room.
‘That mattress will need airing for hours even if you use your own sheets and blankets,’ he said grimly. ‘Did you bring your own?’
He looked down at her as he spoke and she felt the impact of the beautiful silver-grey eyes in a way that took her breath away.
This man was dangerous, she thought suddenly. Dangerous to any woman’s peace of mind. He had a sexual magnetism that was stronger than the earth’s magnetic field, and she’d sensed it even when he was being absolutely horrible on the road earlier. And he was ruthless; it was there in the harshly sculpted mouth and classic cheekbones, along with the square, determined thrust to his chin and the piercing intensity of his eyes. The sooner he left the more comfortable she’d feel.
‘Well?’
Too late Marigold realised she’d been staring up at him like a mesmerised rabbit, and now she shook her head quickly, her cheeks flushing. ‘No, Em—I mean, I didn’t think I’d need any with there being bedding here,’ she said quickly as he turned abruptly, striding through to the sitting room, whereupon he deposited her on the sofa again.
‘Your grandmother kept a fire burning in the sitting room and bedroom day and night from October to May,’ he said flatly, ‘and the cottage was always as warm as toast when she was alive. But this is an old place with solid walls; not a centrally heated, cavity-walled little city box.’
He was being nasty again; his tone was caustic. Marigold tried to summon up the requisite resentment and anger but it was hard with her body still registering the feel and smell of him. ‘Be that as it may, I’ll be fine, Mr Moreau,’ she managed fairly firmly. ‘I noticed one of those old stone bed warmers on the chest of drawers in the other room; I’ll