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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.’
