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d once she’d said it if they met again in the future—heaven forbid—she couldn’t very well go back to Mr Moreau. And she needed to keep a distance between herself and this man; emotionally and mentally as well as physically. She didn’t dwell on the thought; she didn’t dare, not with Flynn right in front of her. She would examine it later when she was alone.
‘Not at all,’ he repeated with velvety sarcasm. ‘That’s twice you’ve said those words this morning and each time you’ve been lying through your pretty white teeth.’
‘How dare you?’ Marigold stared at him, her face flushed with guilty annoyance. ‘You’ve got no right to talk to me like that.’
‘Rights are something to be taken, not given,’ he said with silky emphasis. ‘Did you call the tune with your fiancé all the time? Train him to walk to heel, that sort of thing?’
‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this—’
‘Because it wouldn’t do with a real man, my sweet little warrior,’ he drawled coolly, his tone in direct contrast to her outraged voice.
‘And you’re a real man, are you?’ she shot back with furious indignation.
‘Oh, yes.’ He had walked round the other side of the desk to stand just in front of her, the crystal eyes vivid in the dark tanned face and his mouth twisted in a sardonic smile as he viewed her shocked rage. ‘And a real man is what you need, Marigold. Fire needs to be met with fire if it isn’t to gradually die and turn to ashes or, worse still, burn up itself and everything around it. For every woman who’s an out-and-out shrew there’s a weak man somewhere in the background.’
For the first time in Marigold’s life she was so furious that words failed her. Her eyes shooting blue sparks and her cheeks burning with angry, violent colour, she silently railed at the need to hold on to the crutches. She would have given everything she owned in that moment to be able to smack him hard across his arrogant, self-satisfied face, big as he was. However, there was absolutely no way she was going to risk falling flat on her face for the privilege!
She turned in one angry, sweeping movement and made for the door, but Flynn was there before her, opening it with a flourish as he said calmly, ‘I’ll get Wilf to bring your things down, shall I?’
‘Thank you!’ It was a bark, which made his lips twitch. Marigold saw the amusement he couldn’t hide and willed herself to ignore it, pattering down the hall as fast as she could and into the little corridor leading to her rooms. She opened the door to the sitting room with trembling fingers, so upset she didn’t know if she wanted to cry or scream and nearly losing her balance in the process.
In the event she neither screamed nor cried, but sat waiting for Wilf with a straight back and a burning face once she had closed the suitcase and slipped on her thick fleece. Impossible man! Utterly, utterly impossible man! And she hadn’t asked him for help in the first place. Well, reason interrupted, she had hoped for a lift to Emma’s cottage when she’d flagged him down on the road, but that was all. She hadn’t asked to come here. She hadn’t asked to spend the night. And she definitely hadn’t asked for his opinion on her, or her life.
It was a further ten minutes before Wilf knocked on the outer door, and by then Marigold was calmer, at least outwardly. Inwardly she still wanted to kick something—or someone to be exact. That someone was waiting in the hall when she followed Wilf into the main house, and as the other man continued outside with the suitcase Marigold said very stiffly to Flynn, ‘Would you thank Bertha for me for all her kindness?’
‘Certainly.’ He reached for a leather jacket on a chair near by and pulled open the front door—which had swung partially closed—to enable her to pass through.
‘And I’ll get Emma to pop the crutches back when she arrives,’ Marigold added tightly, hating the fact that he was coming outside to watch her depart.
Only he wasn’t.
The massive 4x4 was parked on the drive with the suitcase on the back seats, but Wilf was nowhere to be seen. Marigold reached the vehicle with Flynn just behind her, and as he said, ‘Here, let me help you,’ she found herself lifted into the passenger seat before she could utter any protest. He then proceeded to walk round the bonnet and climb into the driver’s seat, as cool as a cucumber.
‘What are you doing?’ She knew her voice was too shrill but she couldn’t help it.
‘I thought you wanted to go to the cottage? Have you changed your mind?’ he asked helpfully.
‘No, I have not changed my mind,’ Marigold snapped testily. ‘I thought Wilf was taking me.’
‘I don’t know who told you that. As far as I recall, I said nothing beyond Wilf would bring your case to the car.’
‘But I told you—’
‘Ah, but I won’t be told, Marigold, as I thought we’d already ascertained,’ Flynn said with unforgivable satisfaction. ‘I wouldn’t dream of delegating the responsibility of seeing one of my guests to her new accommodation to Wilf, not when I’m available,’ he added as the powerful engine kicked into life. ‘Wilf will drive your car over at some point in the next couple of days but, as you can’t possibly drive with that foot, there is no hurry, is there?’
It was so reasonable that Marigold felt like a recalcitrant child, which no doubt was exactly how Flynn wanted her to feel, she thought irritably.
The 4x4 ate up the short distance across the valley to the cottage before Marigold could blink, or at least that was what it felt like. She wouldn’t have admitted to a living soul that her spirit shrank at having to enter the damp, dark little house again, but the pale winter sunshine did light up the outside of the cottage beautifully, she thought as Flynn parked at the small gate and then walked round the car to help her descend.
She steeled herself for the rush of damp air and chilliness as Flynn opened the front door with the key she had given him the day before so Wilf could get some heat into the cottage, but instead of the dank, dismal air she remembered the tiny hall was warm and welcoming.
He opened the door to the sitting room for her, and the fusty, damp room of yesterday had been transformed into a still undeniably crowded but bright, warm and charming room. A crackling fire was burning in the grate, two bowls of sweetly perfumed, colourful flowers added a real homely touch, and, with the drapes at the windows pulled back to disclose the white wonderland outside, the cottage couldn’t have been more different from her memory.
‘We’ve kept the heaters on night and day so I’m afraid the electricity might be a bit heavy,’ Flynn said quietly at her side. ‘But it was necessary. Wilf took them away today; now it’s warmed through the fires in here and the bedroom will be enough to keep it up to temperature.’
‘It’s lovely.’ She couldn’t believe how a bright log fire and bowls of flowers could bring such enchantment to a place, but they had. Everything seemed different. She was suddenly seeing the cottage through the eyes of Emma’s grandmother, and her heart went out to the old lady who had fought so hard to remain in her home.
She limped through to the bedroom, where another glowing fire met her, along with fresh sheets and an exquisite broderie-anglaise bed cover in cream linen. Marigold recognised the design. ‘This is one of your bedspreads from the house, isn’t it?’ she said slowly, her eyes taking in more flowers on the dressing table and chest of drawers.
