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‘But he’s shaken your trust in the male of the species,’ Flynn said intuitively. ‘Hasn’t he?’
Yes, he had, and it was annoying that she hadn’t realised that till now either, Marigold thought irritably. Mr He-Who-Knows-All-Things here would just love it if she admitted that little golden nugget. ‘I’m sorry if that’s the only way you can accept that I don’t want to get to know you any further,’ she said primly.
‘So I’m not right?’
She took a deep hidden breath and lied through the pretty white teeth again. ‘No, you are not.’
He smiled; a predatory, shark-like smile if she thought about it, Marigold noticed uneasily. ‘I’m pleased you’re not an accomplished liar, Marigold,’ he said charmingly. ‘I really don’t like that in a woman. Now, there is a small lean-to and hut just outside the kitchen door; Maggie used to keep the chickens in there when the weather was bad. Wilf’s stocked it with logs and coal—more than enough for a couple of weeks’ fuel—and you must keep the fires going day and night. You know how to bank a fire, I suppose?’
She didn’t have a clue, but she nodded stiffly. ‘Of course I do,’ she said haughtily.
He eyed her mockingly. ‘Plenty of damp slack does the trick, along with tea leaves or vegetable peelings; that sort of thing. Pile it on thick just before you turn in and make sure as little air as possible is getting to the fire. That way you should still have enough glowing embers to get it going nicely in the morning once you’ve scooped the ash into a bucket.’
Quite the little downstairs maid, wasn’t he? Marigold thought nastily, and then felt immediately ashamed of herself when Flynn added, ‘Your groceries are all packed away in the cupboards and the fridge is stocked. There’s no freezer, I’m afraid.’
‘Right, thank you. Now, what do I—?’
‘If you mention payment once more I’ll take it,’ Flynn warned with a glint in his eye, ‘but it won’t be of the financial kind. Do you understand?’
She opened her mouth to protest, looked into his eyes and knew he meant it. Her mouth closed again. She was just eternally grateful he’d never know the way his words had made her flesh tingle and the blood sing through her veins.
‘Take these every six hours; no more than eight in twenty-four hours,’ he warned quietly, suddenly very much the professional as he brought a small bottle of the painkillers out of his pocket. ‘And no more than the odd glass of wine whilst you’re taking them.’
She nodded, wishing he’d just go. She needed time to sort out her whirling thoughts and utter confusion, and whilst he was here in front of her there was no chance of her racing emotions being brought under control.
He stepped closer again, lifting a hand to cup her chin as he said, ‘Goodbye, Marigold.’
‘Goodbye.’ Suddenly, and with an irrationality that surprised her, she wanted to beg him to stay. Which was crazy, she warned herself, wondering if he was going to kiss her again.
He didn’t.
What was wrong with her? Marigold asked herself crossly as she watched Flynn turn and walk to the door. She couldn’t be attracted to him; she wouldn’t let herself be. Her life was difficult enough at the moment and she had some major changes in view for the new year and the last
thing she needed was a complication like Flynn!
She followed him to the front door and watched the tall, dark figure stride across the snow where the path should have been. The blue sky above him was piercingly clear, and a white winter sun had turned the snow into a mass of glittering diamonds in which the indentation of his large footsteps stood out with stark severity. They were like him—utterly larger than life.
Marigold narrowed her eyes against the sunlight as her thoughts sped on. Flynn was one of those characters you came across just a few times in a lifetime; the sort of person who created atmosphere and life wherever they went, sweeping lesser mortals into their orbit for a short time until they moved on to pastures new. It would be fatal to get involved in any way with a man like that.
He had talked about meeting fire with fire, but he didn’t know her, not really. She was just ordinary—she wanted a home and family eventually, with the right man. Most of all she wanted someone who loved her, who was completely hers. Someone who thought she was wonderful just as she was and who would never look at a tall, beautiful blonde with legs that went right up to her armpits.
She watched the 4x4 move away, lifting her hand briefly in acknowledgement of Flynn’s wave, and it wasn’t until she hobbled back into the cottage and made her way into the kitchen, intending to make a reviving cup of coffee, that she even realised she was crying.
CHAPTER FIVE
WITH a determination Marigold didn’t know she was capable of, she put all thoughts of Flynn Moreau out of her mind for the rest of the day and evening. Admittedly he did have an annoying habit of invading her mind if she let her guard down even for a second, but, with the radio kept on pretty loudly and a book in front of her nose which she’d been promising herself she’d read for ages, she managed fairly well.
Once Flynn had gone she’d hobbled out to the kitchen and found the cupboards and fridge stocked with masses of stuff she hadn’t bought, along with several little luxuries that brought her eyes opening wide. Several bottles of a particular red wine that she knew cost the earth; an enormous box of chocolates; a mouth-watering dessert that was all meringue and whipped cream and fresh strawberries and raspberries, and which would easily have served eight people… The list went on.
Marigold viewed it all with a mixture of disquiet and pleasure, and when she poked her head out of the back door she saw there were enough logs and coal for two months, let alone two weeks. You couldn’t fault him on generosity. She bit on her lip hard as, the clock on the mantelpiece chiming eleven o’clock, she found her thoughts had returned to Flynn once more.
She had allowed herself one glass of the wonderful wine with her evening meal—a succulent steak grilled with mushrooms and tomatoes—and the taste of it was still on her tongue as she rose to prepare for bed. It was as different from the cheap wine she normally indulged in as chalk from cheese, and accentuated the difference in their ways of life more distinctly than anything else so far. He must have a cellar stocked with expensive wine, she thought dismally as she climbed into bed a few minutes later—a bed with crisp, scented sheets and the beautiful broderie-anglaise cover. From her brief glance in the bedroom the day before she remembered the bed had been piled with old, unattractive blankets and what had appeared to be a moth-eaten eiderdown in faded pink satin.
She had followed Flynn’s advice and banked down the fires as he’d instructed, and now the tiny blue and orange flames licking carefully round the base of the damp slack caused the shadows in the room to dance slightly, the odd crackle and spit from the fire immensely comforting. It was gorgeous having a real fire to look at whilst you were all cuddled up and snug in bed, Marigold thought sleepily. She could understand why Emma’s grandmother had fought to stay here for so long. With a certain amount of elbow grease to get things looking spick and span, a few tins of paint and a clearing out of some of the more dilapidated items of furniture, to give more space and to show off some of what Marigold recognised were really very nice pieces in the sitting room, the cottage could be transformed.
This bedroom was really very large, although packed as it was it didn’t seem so. With just the bed and perhaps a new, smaller wardrobe there would be heaps of room for a good working area by the window. She’d easily fit a chair and drawing board and everything else in…
Marigold stopped abruptly, sitting up in bed and flicking back her curtain of hair as she realised where her musing had led. Was she still seriously considering making an offer to Emma for her grandmother’s old home? What about all the inconveniences? What about the isolation? What about Flynn Moreau?
