Christmas At His Command. HELEN BROOKS
rev behind her and fully expected the big vehicle to roar past her in a flurry of snow, so when it drew up beside her, keeping pace with her limping gait, she bit her lip hard but didn’t turn her head from the white landscape in front of her.
‘You said you fell over and twisted your ankle,’ the hateful voice said flatly at the side of her.
She ignored it, along with the urge to burst into tears as waves of self-pity made themselves known.
‘Get in.’ This time the touch of raw impatience was very obvious, but again Marigold ignored him, struggling on, her face set resolutely ahead.
‘Miss Jones, I think I ought to point out that you are extremely lucky I had an appointment elsewhere today which necessitated my leaving this morning. There is absolutely no chance of anyone else using this road and the cottage is at least another mile. Need I say more?’ he added condescendingly.
‘Get lost,’ she bit out through gritted teeth.
There was a moment’s pause and then his voice drawled, with disparaging amusement, ‘Out of the two of us I would say that’s a more likely occurrence for you. Get in the car, Miss Jones, and let’s cut out the drama. It might be unpleasant for you to be told the truth for once, but you are old enough, and I’m sure tough enough, to survive.’
‘I would rather freeze to death than accept a lift from you.’ She turned for just an instant to meet the silver-grey eyes and her face spoke for itself.
‘Now you are being ridiculous.’
‘Well, that’s just one more thing you can add to my list of crimes, then, isn’t it?’ she returned tartly.
‘Get in the car.’
At this point Marigold so far forgot herself as to come out with an expletive she had never used in her life before. He thought he could order her about, tell her what to do after he had spoken to her the way he had? OK, so he might think she was Emma, and Marigold had to admit she didn’t know all the ins and outs of this matter, but he had known she was asking for help and that she was hurt, and he had just left her standing in the snow while he’d given her a lecture on family responsibility. Nothing, but nothing would induce her to accept any form of assistance from this arrogant swine.
‘Don’t force me to make you get into the car, Miss Jones.’
‘You think you could?’ she spat derisively.
‘Oh, yes.’ It was cool and even and more than a little menacing, but the rage caused by his previous misplaced contempt and male arrogance was still hot enough to keep Marigold walking on, her head held high under its covering of wet plastic and the bottom of the cagoule flapping round her knees.
If he laid one finger on her, just one, he’d get a darn sight more than he’d bargained for, Marigold promised herself with silent fury as the vehicle drew level with her once again.
‘Your grandmother was a woman in a million.’
Marigold ignored him completely.
‘For her sake I don’t intend to leave the only child of her son to freeze out here, even if it is exactly what you deserve.’
‘How dare you?’ She glared at him again, her eyes narrowed and shooting blue sparks but her lips were bloodless with the pain she was trying to conceal and her face was as white as a sheet. He stared at her for a second, the piercing eyes taking everything in, and then he sighed irritably before springing out of the vehicle with an abruptness which took Marigold by surprise. One moment she was standing glowering at him, the next she found herself whisked right off her feet as he lifted her up into his arms as though she weighed nothing at all.
‘What on earth do you think you’re playing at? Put me down this instant!’ she hissed furiously, struggling violently as she pushed at the solid male chest.
‘Keep still,’ he muttered exasperatedly, striding round the vehicle and depositing her in the passenger seat none too gently. She immediately tried to scramble out again, catching her injured foot as she did so and crying out with pain before she could check the yelp.
‘Miss Jones, I have a length of rope in the back and I warn you I will have absolutely no compunction about securing you in your seat, all right?’ he ground out tightly. ‘You will sit there until we reach Maggie’s cottage and then as far as I am concerned it’ll be good riddance to bad rubbish, and I’ll have done my duty.’
‘You’re despicable!’ It was all she could manage with the pain now excruciating, but added to the physical discomfort was the shock which had gripped her in the last few moments. This man must be all of six feet four, and his tall, lean height and powerfully muscled body had convinced her she didn’t have a hope of fighting him, but close to—and she had been close, how close she didn’t dare dwell on right at this moment—he was aggressively and compellingly handsome with no sign of softness about him at all.
His face above the massive, thick oatmeal sweater he wore was darkly tanned and finely chiselled, his eyes of silver-grey ice set under black brows thrown into more startling prominence when taken with the jet-black hair falling over his forehead. He was…well, he was quite amazing, Marigold thought weakly after he had slammed the passenger door shut.
She watched him walk round the bonnet before he climbed in the open driver’s door, unconsciously shrinking away slightly as he slid into the vehicle. If he noticed the instinctive withdrawal he made no sign of it, merely easing the car forward—the engine of which he had kept running—as he said, his voice curt, ‘Did you arrange for food and fuel to be delivered to the cottage beforehand?’
No, because she hadn’t known she could. Emma hadn’t mentioned it when she’d offered her the use of the place over Christmas when Marigold had confided, a couple of weeks ago, that she was dreading the big family Christmas her parents always enjoyed. Their enormous, sprawling semi was always full of friends and relations over the holiday period right up until the new year—a kind of open house—which was great normally, but in view of her broken engagement and cancelled wedding was not so good. Everyone would be trying to be tactful and treading on eggshells. Poor, poor Marigold—that sort of thing.
‘Why don’t you tell them you’ve got the chance of a super little cottage with log fires and the full Christmas thing?’ Emma had suggested after she’d offered the cottage and Marigold had said her parents would expect her to go home. ‘I can understand they’d hate the thought of you staying in your flat by yourself, but if you say you and a friend are going away… And anyway, I’ll be coming up a couple of days after Boxing Day to make a list of the furniture and one or two things, so it won’t actually be a lie.’
Marigold thrust the reminder of her duplicity out of her thoughts as she answered the man at the side of her in as curt a tone as he had used, ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘And when was the cottage used last?’
She didn’t know that either. She thought quickly and then said airily, ‘Recently.’
‘Recently as in months or weeks?’ he persisted coldly.
She wanted to tell him to mind his own business but in view of the present circumstances it seemed somewhat inappropriate. She remembered Emma had said the cottage might strike a bit cold and damp in the winter because she had only ever visited it in the warmer months, and guessed, ‘Months.’
He nodded but said nothing more, concentrating on the road ahead, which was nothing but a cloud of whirling snowflakes in a landscape that was now a winter wonderland when viewed from the comforting warmth and security of the powerful car. Marigold privately admitted to a feeling of overpowering relief that she wasn’t still battling through what was fast becoming a blizzard, and along with the acknowledgement came a few pangs of guilt at her churlishness before she reminded herself that she shouldn’t feel guilty! He had been way, way out of line to talk to her as he had—even if he did believe she was Emma, and however much he had liked and respected the old lady. Rushing in and assuming this and that!
She risked a sidelong