‘You don’t need to worry,’ she assured him. ‘They’re more worried about you than you are about them.’
‘I doubt it.’ A cow lowed nearby, and he stepped back hastily. There was a squelching noise, and he swore again.
‘I should look where you stand,’ she advised, and brought forth a volley of muttered curses.
‘I should love to,’ he bit back, ‘but in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s as black as ink in here and I can’t even see the end of my nose.’
Nor could Jemima any more, and she realised that the last of the light had gone. A flurry of snow followed them in on the howling wind, and she shivered.
‘I’m sorry, I would help you,’ she told him, her compassionate nature overriding her sense of humour at last, ‘but the tractor really is out of commission at the moment and I don’t have a four-wheel drive. Is it worth trying to push it?’
He snorted. ‘I doubt it. It’s buried up to the windscreen in a snow drift.’
‘Oh, dear. Well, suppose we go and find some lamps and call the rescue people—I take it you do belong to a motoring organisation?’
‘Of course,’ he replied tartly. ‘Not that I ever need them.’
‘Of course not,’ she said blithely, tongue in cheek.
‘It hasn’t broken down,’ he growled, picking up on her dig.
‘No—and of course the snow drift was totally unexpected.’
Did she imagine it, or did he grind his teeth? Too used to having his own way—and his car wouldn’t dare break down, she was sure! Much too well-trained.
Unlike hers, but she couldn’t afford a recovery service, so she’d taken to making short journeys and then only if absolutely necessary. ‘We’ll go and ring them,’ she told him. ‘Follow me.’
‘I can’t see you, never mind follow you,’ he said bitterly.
Oh, dear. She reached out her hand and groped for his, coming up against a hard masculine thigh and—oops!
‘What the hell are you up to?’ he yelped, jumping backwards.
She giggled before she could stop herself. This whole thing was in danger of deteriorating into farce. ‘Sorry. I was trying to find your hand to lead you to the house,’ she explained lamely.
She reached out again, and after a second of distrustful silence she felt his fingers contact hers. They were cold, but not as cold as hers. They were also considerably softer.
‘You’re freezing, child,’ he muttered, and his fingers squeezed hers protectively.
‘I noticed, and I’m not a child. Come on.’
She tried to ignore the warmth and strength of his grip, but it was hard. It had been over a year since she’d had any male company, and she’d forgotten just how hard and strong a male grip could be. And warm. And gentle, on occasions—
‘Just stay close,’ she warned, and went through the barn door, sliding it shut behind her. She didn’t want the snow blowing in there before she got back with a lamp to finish the milking.
It was only a few steps across the yard to the cottage gate, but she managed to smack her shin on the tow-hitch of the muckspreader and blunder into the hawthorn hedge surrounding the garden before she found it. She pulled him up the path, stamped her feet off and threw open the door. ‘Come in, quick, and take your things off in here,’ she yelled over the barking of the dogs in the kitchen.
He followed her, shrugging off his coat and shoes in the little lobby, and trailed her into the kitchen. A flurry of fur and lashing tongues greeted them, and she bent down and patted the dogs automatically. ‘Hello, girls. Say hello nicely—’
They dodged past her and leapt at him and he backed away, crashing into something and swearing savagely.
‘Jess, Noodle, get down. Bad dogs! Don’t move, I’ll find some light,’ she told him, and reached for the torch and switched it on.
He was propped up in the corner in amongst the broom handles and dangling dog leads, clutching his groin and fending off the eager dogs.
‘What the hell is it with you lot that you keep attacking my genitals?’ he muttered through gritted teeth, swatting at Noodle yet again. Noodle, a Bichon Frisé and first cousin of the floor-mop he was leaning on, leapt up his leg again, grinning eagerly, the silky cords of her wild off-white coat falling around her like tangled spaghetti.
‘I’m sorry.’ She stifled a laugh and slapped her thigh. ‘Noodle, come here, sweetheart. Stop it.’ The dog came, quite unrepentant, and her guest straightened and looked at her. She couldn’t quite read his expression, so she shone the torch full in his face and he ducked his head, flinging his arm up to cover his eyes.
‘What the hell are you trying to do now—blind me?’ he snapped.
‘Sony,’ she said again, but she wasn’t. In that split second before she’d lowered the torch she’d seen enough to make her pulse do stupid and erratic things. His eyes were startling—dark blue, almost navy, stunning against the winter white of his skin and the dark slash of his brows, and just now they were spitting sparks. His hair was thick, upended by the wind so that he looked rumpled and sexy and gorgeous, and that mouth, if it wasn’t snarling—
She swung the torch round and hunted for the lantern and matches, then fiddled for ages trying to light it while he stood waiting in the shabby kitchen, frustration coming off him in tangible waves.
Thank God it was dark, she thought. Maybe by lamplight the tired room would look cosy and romantic—and maybe she’d look a bit more presentable and less as if she’d been tumbled in the haybarn, but it was unlikely. She finally got the wick to burn, and trimmed it and put the glass globe back. The flame spluttered and steadied, and she held it up and looked up at him—and up, and up...
‘You’re tiny,’ he said accusingly, as if it were a fault in her that she should have tried to overcome.
‘Sorry, but the best things come in little packages,’ she quipped, and tried to ignore the race of her pulse. ‘Now, why don’t you go in the parlour and ring the rescue people before it’s so bad they won’t come out?’
She handed him the lantern and pushed him towards the parlour door. ‘Phone’s in there.’
‘Where am I? I need to tell them how to get here.’
She met his eyes and knew this was going to be embarrassing. It had seemed fun at the time when she’d changed the name, but now—
‘Puddleduck Farm,’ she told him, and felt her chin rise challengingly.
‘Pu—right,’ he said, letting out his breath. Humour danced in his midnight eyes, but to his credit he kept it in—to a point. Then he blew it. ‘Don’t tell me—your name’s Jemima.’
She breathed in and drew herself up to her full five feet nothing. ‘That’s right,’ she told him, and dared him to comment
