watched him walk round the bonnet before he climbed in the open driver’s door, unconsciously shrinking away slightly as he slid into the vehicle. If he noticed the instinctive withdrawal he made no sign of it, merely easing the car forward—the engine of which he had kept running—as he said, his voice curt, ‘Did you arrange for food and fuel to be delivered to the cottage beforehand?’
No, because she hadn’t known she could. Emma hadn’t mentioned it when she’d offered her the use of the place over Christmas when Marigold had confided, a couple of weeks ago, that she was dreading the big family Christmas her parents always enjoyed. Their enormous, sprawling semi was always full of friends and relations over the holiday period right up until the new year—a kind of open house—which was great normally, but in view of her broken engagement and cancelled wedding was not so good. Everyone would be trying to be tactful and treading on eggshells. Poor, poor Marigold—that sort of thing.
‘Why don’t you tell them you’ve got the chance of a super little cottage with log fires and the full Christmas thing?’ Emma had suggested after she’d offered the cottage and Marigold had said her parents would expect her to go home. ‘I can understand they’d hate the thought of you staying in your flat by yourself, but if you say you and a friend are going away… And anyway, I’ll be coming up a couple of days after Boxing Day to make a list of the furniture and one or two things, so it won’t actually be a lie.’
Marigold thrust the reminder of her duplicity out of her thoughts as she answered the man at the side of her in as curt a tone as he had used, ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘And when was the cottage used last?’
She didn’t know that either. She thought quickly and then said airily, ‘Recently.’
‘Recently as in months or weeks?’ he persisted coldly.
She wanted to tell him to mind his own business but in view of the present circumstances it seemed somewhat inappropriate. She remembered Emma had said the cottage might strike a bit cold and damp in the winter because she had only ever visited it in the warmer months, and guessed, ‘Months.’
He nodded but said nothing more, concentrating on the road ahead, which was nothing but a cloud of whirling snowflakes in a landscape that was now a winter wonderland when viewed from the comforting warmth and security of the powerful car. Marigold privately admitted to a feeling of overpowering relief that she wasn’t still battling through what was fast becoming a blizzard, and along with the acknowledgement came a few pangs of guilt at her churlishness before she reminded herself that she shouldn’t feel guilty! He had been way, way out of line to talk to her as he had—even if he did believe she was Emma, and however much he had liked and respected the old lady. Rushing in and assuming this and that!
She risked a sidelong glance under her long lashes, aware she was dripping water all over the seat and that the melted snow from her boots had created a pool at her feet.
His face was hard, as though it had been carved from solid rock; he didn’t seem quite human. Marigold suddenly became aware she was completely at this fierce stranger’s mercy and she swallowed deeply. Somehow the idea of a noisy, crowded Christmas ensconced in the womb of her parents’ home didn’t seem so bad.
‘Don’t look so nervous; I wouldn’t touch Maggie’s granddaughter with a bargepole in case you’re harbouring thoughts of rape and pillage.’
The deep voice had a thread of amusement running through it and immediately it put steel in Marigold’s backbone. She reared up in her seat, her face, which had been pale a moment ago, now flushed with high colour, and her voice sharp as she lied, ‘Nothing was further from my thoughts.’
‘Hmm.’ It was just one low grunt but carried a wealth of disbelief.
Loathsome man! Marigold drew her usually soft, full lips into a tight line and warned herself not to respond to the taunt. In a little while she would be at the cottage and he would be gone. She could see about bathing her ankle and strapping it up, and then she would sort herself out for the night. This snowstorm wouldn’t last forever, and come morning she could make her way back to Myrtle and see if the little car could be persuaded to start. If not…well, she’d just have to carry everything to the cottage herself somehow. She didn’t dwell on the thought of how she was going to lug her suitcase and the bags of food, let alone the sack of coal and other things she’d brought with her, through deep snow with an ankle that was hurting more every minute and now so swollen she wondered how she was going to get her boot off.
Nor did she linger on the fact that if the snow continued to fall as it was doing, two inches could rapidly become two feet. Coping with this angry, aggressive individual at the side of her was more than enough for the moment.
The ground had been dipping downwards almost from the spot where she’d first heard the car, and now, as they turned a corner on the winding road, Marigold saw they were in a wooded valley and that to their left in the distance was what must be Emma’s cottage. It was set back some fifty yards from the track in its own garden, complete with neat picket fence and small gate. The cottage itself was painted white, from what Marigold could see, and it was the slate roof which was most clearly visible through the swirling snow.
She breathed a silent sigh of relief and gingerly flexed her injured ankle, knowing she had to climb out of the vehicle and walk to the cottage door in a few moments. The immediate stab of white-hot pain was worrying, but again she told herself it would be all right once she could strap it up.
‘Your inheritance.’ It was caustic.
She turned her head and looked at the granite profile. ‘What makes you think it might be put on the market?’ she asked evenly.
‘Well, apart from the fact that you and the rest of your family have already shown you have no soul, you were heard talking about it in the pub down the road when you came up before,’ he said shortly.
‘People eavesdropped on a private conversation and then had the gall to repeat it?’ Marigold asked with genuine disgust.
Her tone evidently rattled him. ‘From what I heard, this “private” conversation was all but yelled to the rafters after you and your partner had consumed a bottle of wine each. If you don’t want people to overhear what you say, don’t get drunk. You can perhaps moderate your voice better that way. And the comments about the “yokels” didn’t win you any friends in these parts either,’ he added scathingly.
Oh, Emma, Marigold winced inwardly. She’d known Emma for a little while, but since she had met her current boyfriend—a high-flier with a sports car and a big opinion of himself—she’d changed.
Fortunately the car had just pulled up outside the little garden gate and Marigold was saved the effort of having to think of a reply. She took a deep breath and prayed this could end right now and that she would never set eyes on this man again in the whole of her life. ‘Thank you for giving me a lift,’ she said stiffly, conscious of the drips of water trickling off the cagoule hood and hitting her nose.
‘A pleasure,’ he drawled with heavy sarcasm, un-hooking her knapsack, which had somehow managed to jam itself to one side of the controls, after which he opened his door and walked round the bonnet to open her door for her.
The courtesy surprised her, especially in view of the content of their conversation to date, and flustered her still more, highlighting, as it did, the dark attractiveness she had been trying to ignore for the last few minutes. She would have liked to ignore the outstretched hand, too, but in view of the pain in her ankle and the height of the
