Christmas at His Command by Helen Brooks

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 wasas 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?
    She sat for some minutes, staring into space, before sliding down into the warm cocoon again. No, it was an impossible idea. Even if she forgot about all the practical difficulties there was still Flynn. Her heart began to pound with reckless speed at the thought of Flynn as her nearest neighbour, and she spoke to it sternly, telling it to behave.
    She wasn’t going to think about this any more tonight. She turned over onto her side, adjusting her legs so that her good foot protected her aching ankle, and shut her eyes determinedly. It was Christmas Eve tomorrow, she was in a snug little cottage with snow all around her and masses of food and drink, and it was nice to be on her own for once. It was . She’d enjoy her Christmas—quietly perhaps, but she’d still enjoy it—and she wasn’t going to think about anything more challenging than when the next glass of wine or meal was due. She probably wouldn’t even see Flynn Moreau again anyway…
    She was asleep within minutes, and it didn’t occur to her, as she drifted away into a deep, dreamless slumber, that she hadn’t given a single thought to Dean and Tamara for hours.
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    It was about ten o’clock the next morning when the sound of someone banging on the front door of the cottage brought Marigold jerking awake. For a moment or two she didn’t know where she was and then, as it all flooded back, she