Christmas At His Command. HELEN BROOKS

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ on the end of his arm, her hood falling off her hair as she twisted against him. He almost overbalanced, too, saving himself just in time and gathering her against him in seconds as he half lifted her against his hard male frame.

      Marigold had always bewailed the straight, sleek silkiness of her hair, which utterly refused to allow itself to be curled or put up in elegant, sophisticated styles, but now as the rich chestnut veil swung over her hot face she was immensely glad of the thick, concealing screen. Her reluctant good Samaritan was swearing under his breath, but then, as the world steadied and righted itself and his voice died away, she nerved herself to flick back her tousled hair and look at him.

      He was looking at her too and his face was just inches away. Close to, his lips appeared more sensuous than hard, she found herself thinking—totally inappropriately—and the lines carved into the tanned skin radiating from his eyes and his mouth added a depth to the good looks he wouldn’t have had in his teens and early manhood. And his eyelashes; she hadn’t realised how long and thick they were—utterly wasted on a man.

      Marigold felt her nerve-ends begin to prickle and it was the subtle sexual warning that enabled her to draw back in his arms, forcing more space between them, as she said breathlessly, ‘I’m all right now, really. I’m sorry, I just lost my footing…’

      ‘Can you walk?’ His eyes had moved to her hair and then back to the wide violet eyes, and there was a smoky quality to his voice which hadn’t been there before. It caused the most peculiar sensations to flutter down every nerve and sinew.

      ‘Yes, yes…’ She tried to prove it by pulling free and hobbling a step, but found to her dismay that the brief period of inactivity in the car 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 СКАЧАТЬ