Christmas At His Command. Helen Brooks
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housekeeper shook her grey head doubtfully as she looked at the puffy red and blue flesh, and then bustled off to get two bowls of hot and cold water—‘to bring the bruise out’, she informed Marigold before she left.
Marigold thought it was coming out pretty well all on its own. She lay back on the sofa, her foot now propped on a leather pouffe, and shut her eyes, trying to ignore the sickening pain in her foot. What a pickle, she thought despairingly. She was an unwelcome guest in the home of a man who loathed her—or loathed the person he thought she was at least—and if she wasn’t careful she’d impose on him over Christmas. But she wouldn’t, no matter how her ankle was tomorrow, she promised herself fervently. She’d make sure she went to the cottage tomorrow if she had to crawl every inch of the way. But it was going to be a pretty miserable Christmas by the look of it. At least she’d had the foresight to call her parents from a big old-fashioned red phone box at the side of the road just after the pub, and let them know she was within a few miles of the cottage and that she was all right but that she wouldn’t be calling them again.
Once she’d got herself sorted at the cottage she could sit in front of the fire and read Christmas away while she nursed her ankle. There were people in much worse situations than she was in, and she had plenty of food in the car, and now she was going to have an excess of fuel by the sound of it. She’d pay him for the logs and coal, and his trouble, she thought firmly. If nothing else she could do that. And thank him. She twisted uncomfortably on the sofa, more with the realisation that she hadn’t even acknowledged his—albeit reluctant and grudging—kindness in offering her sanctuary for the night.
‘When Bertha said it was bad, she meant it was bad.’
Marigold’s eyes shot open as she jerked upright. Flynn had reappeared as quietly as a cat and was now standing surveying her through narrowed silver eyes. For a moment she thought he was going to be sympathetic or at least compliment her on her stoicism, but she was swiftly disabused of this pleasant notion when he continued, his tone irate, ‘What the hell were you thinking of, trying to walk on it once you’d hurt yourself so badly? Didn’t you realise you were making it a hundred times worse with each step, you stupid girl?’
‘Now, look—’ a moment ago she’d been feeling weak and pathetic; now there was fire running through her veins ‘—I didn’t know you were going to come along, did I? What was I supposed to do? Hobble back to the car and freeze to death or try and reach the cottage where there was—?’
‘Absolutely no heat or food,’ he cut in nastily. ‘And why didn’t you try phoning someone anyway? Anyone! The emergency services, for example. Do you have emergency insurance?’
‘Yes.’ It was a snap.
‘But you didn’t think of asking for help? It was easier to march off into the blizzard like Scott in the Antarctic?’
She bit hard on her lip. He was just going to love this! ‘I’d left my mobile at home,’ she admitted woodenly.
He said nothing at all to this—he didn’t have to. His face spoke volumes.
‘And my ankle’s not that bad anyway,’ she added tightly.
‘It’s going to be twice the size it is now in the morning and all the colours of the rainbow,’ he said quietly.
The cool diagnosis irritated her. ‘How do you know?’ she returned churlishly. ‘You’re not a doctor.’
‘Actually I am.’ She blinked at him, utterly taken aback, and the carved lips twitched a little at her amazement.
The knowledge that he was laughing at her brought out the worst in Marigold, and now she said, in a tone which even she recognised as petulant, ‘Oh, really? A brain surgeon or something, I suppose?’
‘Right.’
Her eyes widened to blue saucers. Oh, he wasn’t, was he? Not a neurosurgeon? He couldn’t be!
She said as much, but when he still continued to survey her steadily and his face didn’t change expression she knew he wasn’t joking. And of course he couldn’t have been a normal doctor, could he? she asked herself acidicly. A nice, friendly GP dealing with all the trials and tribulations that the average man, woman and child brought his way. Someone who was overworked and underpaid and who had a vast list of patients demanding his attention.
She knew she was being massively unfair. She knew it, but where this particular individual was concerned she just couldn’t help it.
She forced herself to say, and pleasantly, ‘Not your average nine-to-five, then?’
‘Not quite.’ He was still watching her intently.
‘Do you work from a hospital near here or—?’
‘London. I have a flat there.’
Well, he would have, wouldn’t he? Marigold nodded in what she hoped appeared an informed sort of way. ‘It must be very rewarding to help people…’ Her words were cut off in a soft gasp as he knelt down in front of her, taking her foot in his large hands—hands with long, slim fingers and clean fingernails, she noted faintly, surgeon’s hands—and gently rotating it in his grasp as he felt the bruised flesh. How gently she wouldn’t have believed if she hadn’t felt it. Suddenly his occupation was perfectly feasible.
She wanted to snatch her foot away but in the state it was in that wasn’t an option. She glanced down at the thick, jet-black hair which shone with blue lights and found herself saying, ‘Moreau… That’s not English, is it?’
‘French.’ He raised his eyes from her foot and Marigold’s heart hammered in her chest. ‘My father was French-Italian and my mother was American-Irish but they settled in England before I was born.’
‘Quite a mixture,’ she managed fairly lucidly because he had now placed her foot back on the pouffe and stood to his feet again and wasn’t actually touching her any more.
Bertha bustled in with the basins of water and a towel draped over one arm, and Flynn glanced at his housekeeper as he turned and walked to the door. ‘Five minutes alternating hot and cold, Bertha, and then I’ll be back to strap it.’
He was as good as his word. Bertha had been making small talk while she bathed the ankle and Marigold had been relaxed and chatting quite easily, but the moment the big, tall figure appeared in the doorway she felt her stomach muscles form themselves into a giant knot and her voice become stilted as she thanked the housekeeper for her efforts.
As Bertha bustled away with the bowls of water Flynn walked across to the sofa. ‘Take these.’ He held out two small white tablets with a glass of water.
‘What are they?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Poison.’ And at her frown he added irritably, ‘What do you think they are, for crying out loud? Pain relief.’
‘I don’t like taking tablets,’ she said firmly.
‘I don’t like having to prescribe them but this is not a perfect world and sometimes they’re necessary. Like now. Take them.’
‘I’d rather not if you don’t mind.’
‘I do mind. You are going to be in considerable pain tonight with that foot and you won’t get any sleep at all if you don’t help yourself.’
‘But—’
‘Just take the damn tablets!’
He’d shouted, he’d actually shouted, Marigold thought with shocked surprise. He didn’t have much of a bedside manner. She took the tablets.
Along with the tablets and water, the tray he was holding contained ointment and bandages, and she steeled herself for his touch as he kneeled down in front of her again. His fingers were deft and sure and sent flickering frissons radiating all over her body which made her as tight and tense as piano wire. And angry with herself. She couldn’t understand how someone she had disliked on sight, and who was the last