Christmas at His Command (5 page)

She raised her head now and looked at Flynn, and the mercurial eyes were waiting for her, their depths as smoky as his voice had been. ‘Her name is Tamara, the resident babysitter,' she said with a small smile. ‘Apparently she's five feet ten, blonde and blue-eyed, and has legs that go right up to her neck—so I've heard.'

‘The mutual friends again?' he asked quietly.

Marigold nodded.

‘Seems to me you could do with some new friends, too.'

She'd been thinking along the same lines; hence the increasing urge for a change. She was still too closely linked with Dean in London. They had had the same group of friends for years, went to the same restaurants and pubs, even their places of work were within a mile of each other. As yet she hadn't bumped into him but it was only a matter of time, and this whole thing—Tamara and the broken engagement—had brought about some deep introspection. And as she had examined her mental and emotional processes she'd discovered several things.

One, she could survive quite well in a world in which Dean wasn't the be-all and end-all. Two, there were only a handful of their so-called friends who were what she would
really
term friends. Three, if it wasn't for Dean and their marriage plans she would have spread her wings and gone self-employed ages ago, and probably moved away from the big city now she had enough contacts within the business world to have a healthy shot at working for herself. Four, she needed to do something for
herself
right now, and, whether she succeeded or failed in the world's eyes, the doing would be enough for her. It was time to move on.

Marigold's thoughts had only taken a few moments but when her eyes focused on Flynn again she saw that his gaze had narrowed. ‘About to tell me to mind my own business?' he asked mildly, surprising her.

‘Not at all.' She hesitated a moment, and then told him exactly what she had been thinking, including the change in her working lifestyle. The whole evening had taken on something of a surreal quality by now; whether this was due to the painkillers making her light-headed or the fact that somehow she'd found herself in this pa
latial house with this extraordinary man, Marigold wasn't sure. Whatever, she could talk quite frankly and he was a good listener—probably partly due to his line of work, she supposed.

He had folded his arms over his chest and settled himself more comfortably in the chair as he studied her earnest face, and when she had finished he nodded slowly. ‘Do it,' he said softly, just as the housekeeper opened the door, holding a pair of metal crutches.

‘Here we are,' Bertha said brightly. ‘These will do the trick. And dinner's ready, if you'd like to come through to the dining room.'

Marigold found it a bit of a struggle as she made her way out of the drawing room and into a room at the end of the hall. Like the magnificent drawing room, this room was a mix of modern and traditional but done in such a way the overall effect was striking. Pale cream voile curtains hung on antique gold poles. The maple-wood floor complemented the intricately carved table and chairs, which were upholstered in a pale cream and beige, with a splash of vibrant colour here and there in the form of a bowl of scarlet hot-house roses and a magnificent five-foot vase in swirling cinnamon, coral and vermilion hues.

The table was large enough to accommodate ten diners with ease, but two places had been laid close to the roaring fire set in a magnificent fireplace of pale cream marble. Marigold eyed the two places with trepidation as it suddenly dawned on her she would be eating alone with Flynn. ‘This really wasn't necessary…'

‘I always eat in here when I'm home.' Flynn's voice was just behind her. ‘Bertha has merely set another place.'

Did that mean he normally ate alone? Marigold didn't
like to ask outright but it appeared that was what he had meant, and she found it curiously disturbing. This massive house and all the luxury that went with it, and yet he ate alone. But she hadn't for a moment assumed he was married, she realised suddenly. Why was that? She frowned to herself as she carefully sank down onto the chair Flynn had pulled out for her.

‘You are allowed just one glass of wine with those pills.' Flynn indicated the bottle of red and the bottle of white wine in front of them. ‘Which would you prefer?'

‘Red, please.' Marigold answered automatically because her brain had just informed her why she'd sensed Flynn was a bachelor. There was an innate aloofness about him, a cool detachment that spoke of autocratic autonomy, of non-involvement. He would have women, of course, she told herself as she looked into the dark, handsome face. His need for sexual satisfaction was evident in the sensuous mouth and virile body. But he was the sort of man who always kept something back; who gave just enough to keep his lovers satisfied physically but that was all.

And then she caught her errant thoughts self-consciously, telling herself not to be so ridiculous. How on earth did she know anything at all about this man? She had never set eyes on him before today, and she wasn't exactly the greatest authority on men! She had had the odd boyfriend before Dean but they had never got beyond a little fumbling and the odd passionate goodnight kiss, and even with Dean she had insisted they keep full intimacy as something special for their wedding night. She was enormously glad about that with hindsight. Even the degree of intimacy they
had
shared made her flesh creep now when she knew he had been making love to other women whilst they were engaged.

‘To chance encounters.' Flynn had filled her glass and then his own, and now he raised the dark red liquid in a toast, a wry smile on his face as he added, ‘And mistaken identity.'

It was the first time he had referred to her deception since his initial outburst, and Marigold's cheeks were pink as she responded in like fashion, glad he seemed to be taking things so well.

He turned out to be a charming dinner companion; attentive, amusing, with a dry, slightly wicked sense of humour she wouldn't have suspected at their initial meeting.

Bertha served a rich vegetable soup to start with, which was accompanied by delicious home-made crusty rolls, followed by honey and mustard lamb with celeriac stuffing, and for dessert a perfectly luxurious, smooth and velvety chocolate terrine topped with whipped cream and strawberries. Beans on toast couldn't even begin to compete with Bertha's cooking, Marigold thought dreamily as she licked the last of the chocolate off her spoon.

At the coffee stage her ankle was beginning to hurt again, and she didn't demur when Flynn insisted on her taking another pill—a sleeping tablet this time, he informed her. She was soon more tired than she had ever felt in the whole of her life, the accumulation of the exhausting day, the week or so before when she had worked her socks off to get away a couple of days before Christmas Eve when the roads would be horrendous, and not least the emotional turmoil of the last few months catching up with her in a big way.

Whether it was Flynn's professional eye or the fact that he had had enough of her company for one day, Marigold didn't know, but as she finished the last of the
dregs of her coffee-cup he said quietly, ‘You need to go straight to bed and sleep for at least nine hours, young lady. Bertha will show you to your room; it's on the ground floor so you haven't got any stairs to negotiate.'

He rose as he spoke and as though by magic Bertha appeared in the next instant. As Flynn helped her to her feet and positioned the crutches under her arms Marigold was terribly aware of his touch in a way that made her jittery and cross with herself. She was a grown woman, for goodness' sake, she told herself irritably as she stitched a bright smile on her face and thanked him for the meal and his hospitality very politely.

‘You are welcome,' he said drily, his face unreadable.

She stared at him for a moment, aware she had never really apologised for misleading him about who she was. And it must have made him feel a fool in front of Bertha's husband. Although…somehow she couldn't imagine Flynn Moreau ever feeling a fool. She spoke quickly before she lost her nerve, conscious of Bertha waiting to lead her to her room. ‘I…I'm sorry about earlier,' she said quietly, feeling her cheeks beginning to burn. ‘I should have explained the situation properly rather than letting you assume I was Emma.'

He smiled the devastating smile she'd seen once before, stopping her breath, before saying lazily, ‘I should have known better.'

‘Better?' she asked, puzzled.

‘Than to let my brain tell my senses that what they were saying was untrue.'

She still didn't understand and her expression spoke for itself.

‘The Emma I've heard about is a pert, brash, modern miss with about as much soul as the average Barbie
doll,' Flynn said coolly. ‘The girl I met on the road didn't tie up with that description at all.'

Marigold stared at him, utterly taken aback by the unexpected compliment. She tried to think of something to say but her brain had put itself on hold, and all she managed was a fairly breathless, ‘Thank you.'

‘Goodnight, Marigold.' His eyes were unreadable and his voice wasn't particularly warm, but she was conscious of tiny little flickers of sensation racing along every nerve and sinew in a way that was alarming.

‘Goodnight.' She began to hobble to the door Bertha was now holding open for her, finding the crutches were a lot more difficult to manipulate than she'd imagined. She turned in the doorway, glancing back at Flynn, who was standing by the fireplace, looking at her. He appeared very dark and still in the dim light from the wall-lights and with the glow from the fire silhouetting his powerful frame. She swallowed hard, not understanding the racing of her pulse as she said, ‘I'm sure I'll be all right to go to the cottage tomorrow if you wouldn't mind Wilf driving me there? I don't want to intrude, and you must have plans for Christmas.'

He shrugged easily. ‘A few house guests are arriving on Christmas Eve, but one more makes no difference,' he assured her quietly. ‘We always bring in the tree and dress it in the afternoon and decorate the house; perhaps you'd like to join in if you're still here then?'

He didn't sound as if he was bothered either way and Marigold said again, her voice firmer, ‘I'm sure I'll be fine to go tomorrow, but thank you anyway,' before turning and following Bertha along the hall.

Marigold was conscious of a faint and inexplicable feeling of flatness as Bertha led her to the far end of the house. She would leave tomorrow no matter how her
ankle was, she told herself fiercely. She just wanted to get to the cottage and be alone; to read, to rest, to eat and sleep and drink when
she
wanted to.

‘Here's your rooms, lovey. You'll see it's more of a little flat,' Bertha said cheerfully as she pushed open a door which had been ajar and stood aside for Marigold to precede her. ‘I understand the previous owner had it built on for his old mother, who lived with them for a time before she died, but it's handy for any guests who don't like the stairs. I've lit a fire and—
Oh, you!
'

The change in tone made Marigold jump and nearly lose her control of the crutches, and she raised her head to see Bertha scooping a big tabby cat up in her arms who had been lying on a thick rug in front of a blazing fire in what was clearly a small sitting room.

Bertha continued to scold the cat as she picked it up from in front of the fire and put it outside in the small corridor which led into the main hall of the house.

‘My cats wouldn't dream of sneaking in here,' the housekeeper said fussily as she bustled back into the room and put another log on the fire while Marigold sank down onto a comfy chair. ‘But that one has an eye for the main chance all right. He's straight upstairs if you don't watch him, looking for an open door so he can lie in comfort on one of the beds.'

Bertha's tone was full of self-righteous disapproval, and Marigold said, a touch bewilderedly, ‘Whose cat is he?'

‘Oh, he was Maggie's,' Bertha said, ‘Emma's grandmother, you know? Mr Moreau heard the animals were all going to be put down so they came here.'

‘All of them?' Marigold asked in astonishment, remembering something about chickens and an old cow.

Bertha nodded, bringing her chin down into her neck
as she looked at Marigold. ‘All of them. Old Flossie, Maggie's collie dog, is no trouble—she's taken to Wilf and goes everywhere with him—and the chickens and cow are outside in the paddock with the barn for when it snows, but that cat!' She shook her head, making her double chin wobble. ‘He takes liberties, he does. Rascal, Maggie called him, and it's Rascal by name and Rascal by nature.'

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.