Christmas at His Command by Helen Brooks Page A

pushed the covers aside and reached for the new thick, fleecy white robe she had treated herself to as an early Christmas present. It was the sort of thing she’d seen some of the stars of the silver screenwear in fashionable magazines, and although it had cost an arm and a leg it made her feel wonderfully feminine and expensive. And since Tamara she’d needed to feel feminine.
    She tested her weight gingerly on her poorly foot and when it felt bearable she limped carefully to the door without bothering to use the crutches, wondering if Wilf was outside with Myrtle. She brushed her cloud of hair from her eyes and opened the door.
    â€˜Good morning.’
    It was snowing again, she thought dazedly as she stared into a pair of crystal eyes above which jet-black hair was coated with a feathery covering of white, before forcing herself to answer, ‘Good morning.’
    â€˜I got you out of bed.’ He didn’t sound at all sorry; in fact his eyes were inspecting her with a relish that made Marigold feel positively undressed rather than wrapped round in an armour of fluffy white towelling.
    â€˜Yes,’ she agreed vaguely, wondering how any one man had the right to look so sexy when she hadn’t even brushed her teeth. ‘I didn’t bother to set my alarm.’
    â€˜I’ve brought you something.’ He indicated with his hand at the side of him and she looked down to see a cute little Christmas tree sitting on the step. ‘We’ve just brought in the one for the house and this was close by and it seemed the right size for the cottage. Bertha’s sorted out a few decorations and what have you. It’s in a tub and you’ll need to keep it damp so it can go back outside after Christmas.’
    â€˜Right.’ She knew she wasn’t sounding very grateful but she was acutely conscious of her tousled hair and make-up-free face.
    â€˜How’s the foot?’
    â€˜The foot?’ Marigold made an effort to pull herselftogether. ‘Oh, the foot. It seems a bit better, thank you,’ she managed fairly coherently.
    â€˜Good.’ He paused, looking down at her with glittering eyes. ‘There’s not any coffee going, is there?’
    Marigold flushed. After his open-handed generosity she could hardly refuse him a cup of coffee, but he looked so immaculately groomed, with every hair in place, and she… Well, she wasn’t, she reflected hotly. Although he had nicked himself shaving. Her eyes focused on a tiny cut on the square male chin and she found herself suddenly short of breath.
    â€˜Marigold?’
    â€˜What?’ She blinked, realising he had said something else and she hadn’t heard a word.
    â€˜I said, if it’s too much trouble…’
    Marigold’s flush deepened. ‘Of course not,’ she said crossly, and then moderated her tone as she added, ‘Please come in, and you can put the tree in the sitting room by the fireplace if you don’t mind. It…it’s very nice.’
    â€˜Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ he agreed meekly, but she had glanced into the silver eyes again and they were laughing at her.
    Once in the sitting room, Flynn looked somewhat accusingly at the faint glow from the embers of the fire. ‘It’s nearly out. You see to the coffee and I’ll see to the fire,’ he offered, shrugging off his leather jacket and slinging it onto the sofa as he spoke. ‘Have you come across the old bucket Maggie used for the hot ashes?’
    â€˜It’s in the broom cupboard; I’ll get it,’ Marigold said hastily. She’d discovered the broom cupboard in an alcove in the kitchen the day before. ‘You wait here.’ The kitchen was old-fashioned and with barely enough roomto swing a cat; the thought of herself and Flynn enclosed in such a small space was daunting to say the least.
    She hobbled her way into the kitchen and opened the cupboard door, grabbing the bucket