bad anyway,’ she added tightly.
‘It’s going to be twice the size it is now in the morning and all the colours of the rainbow,’ he said quietly.
The cool diagnosis irritated her. ‘How do you know?’ she returned churlishly. ‘You’re not a doctor.’
‘Actually I am.’ She blinked at him, utterly taken aback, and the carved lips twitched a little at her amazement.
The knowledge that he was laughing at her brought out the worst in Marigold, and now she said, in a tone which even she recognised as petulant, ‘Oh, really? A brain surgeon or something, I suppose?’
‘Right.’
Her eyes widened to blue saucers. Oh, he wasn’t, was he? Not a neurosurgeon? He couldn’t be!
She said as much, but when he still continued to survey her steadily and his face didn’t change expression she knew he wasn’t joking. And of course he couldn’t have been a normal doctor, could he? she asked herself acidicly. A nice, friendly GP dealing with all the trials and tribulations that the average man, woman and child brought his way. Someone who was overworked and underpaid and who had a vast list of patients demanding his attention.
She knew she was being massively unfair. She knew it, but where this particular individual was concerned she just couldn’t help it.
She forced herself to say, and pleasantly, ‘Not your average nine-to-five, then?’
‘Not quite.’ He was still watching her intently.
‘Do you work from a hospital near here or—?’
‘London. I have a flat there.’
Well, he would have, wouldn’t he? Marigold nodded in what she hoped appeared an informed sort of way. ‘It must be very rewarding to help people…’ Her words were cut off in a soft gasp as he knelt down in front of her, taking her foot in his large hands—hands with long, slim fingers and clean fingernails, she noted faintly, surgeon’s hands—and gently rotating it in his grasp as he felt the bruised flesh. How gently she wouldn’t have believed if she hadn’t felt it. Suddenly his occupation was perfectly feasible.
She wanted to snatch her foot away but in the state it was in that wasn’t an option. She glanced down at the thick, jet-black hair which shone with blue lights and found herself saying, ‘Moreau… That’s not English, is it?’
‘French.’ He raised his eyes from her foot and Marigold’s heart hammered in her chest. ‘My father was French-Italian and my mother was American-Irish but they settled in England before I was born.’
‘Quite a mixture,’ she managed fairly lucidly because he had now placed her foot back on the pouffe and stood to his feet again and wasn’t actually touching her any more.
Bertha bustled in with the basins of water and a towel draped over one arm, and Flynn glanced at his housekeeper as he turned and walked to the door. ‘Five minutes alternating hot and cold, Bertha, and then I’ll be back to strap it.’
He was as good as his word. Bertha had been making small talk while she bathed the ankle and Marigold had been relaxed and chatting quite easily, but the moment the big, tall figure appeared in the doorway she felt her stomach muscles form themselves into a giant knot and her voice become stilted as she thanked the housekeeper for her efforts.
As Bertha bustled away with the bowls of water Flynn walked across to the sofa. ‘Take these.’ He held out two small white tablets with a glass of water.
‘What are they?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Poison.’ And at her frown he added irritably, ‘What do you think they are, for crying out loud? Pain relief.’
‘I don’t like taking tablets,’ she said firmly.
‘I don’t like having to prescribe them but this is not a perfect world and sometimes they’re necessary. Like now. Take them.’
‘I’d rather not if you don’t mind.’
‘I do mind. You are going to be in considerable pain tonight with that foot and you won’t get any sleep at all if you don’t help yourself.’
‘But—’
‘Just take the damn tablets!’
He’d shouted, he’d actually shouted, Marigold thought with shocked surprise. He didn’t have much of a bedside manner. She took the tablets.
Along with the tablets and water, the tray he was holding contained ointment and bandages, and she steeled herself for his touch as he kneeled down in front of her again. His fingers were deft and sure and sent flickering frissons radiating all over her body which made her as tight and tense as piano wire. And angry with herself. She couldn’t understand how someone she had disliked on sight, and who was the last word in arrogance, could affect her so radically. It was humiliating.
‘You should start to feel better in a minute or two,’ Flynn said dispassionately as he rose to his feet, having completed his task.
‘What?’ For an awful minute she thought he had read her mind and was referring to the fact that he wasn’t touching her any more, before common sense kicked in and she realised his words had been referring to the painkillers and the support now easing her ankle. ‘Oh, yes, thank you,’ she said quickly.
‘I’ll get Bertha to bring you a hot drink and a snack.’ He was standing in front of the sofa, looking at her steadily, and she could read nothing from his face. ‘Then I suggest you lie back and have a doze until dinner at eight. You must be exhausted,’ he added impersonally.
She stared at him. He seemed to have gone into iceman mode again after shouting at her and she rather thought she preferred it when he was yelling. Like this he was extremely intimidating. ‘Thank you,’ she said again, as there was really nothing else to say.
‘You’re welcome.’
She rather doubted that but she didn’t say so. In truth she was feeling none too good and the thought of a nap was very appealing.
Flynn turned and walked to the door, stopping at the threshold to say, ‘You’ve got severe bruising on the ankle, by the way; you’ll be lucky to be walking normally within a couple of weeks.’
‘A couple of weeks!’ Marigold stared at him, horrified.
‘You were very fortunate not to break a bone.’
Fortunate was not the word she would have used to describe her present circumstances, Marigold thought hotly as she protested, ‘I’ll be able to hobble about if I’m careful tomorrow, I’m sure. It feels better already now you’ve strapped it up.’
He said nothing for a moment although her remark had brought a twisted smile to his strong, sensual mouth. Then he drawled, ‘Fortunately I think we have a pair of crutches somewhere or other; a legacy of last summer, when Bertha was unfortunate enough to have a nasty fall and dislocate her knee.’
Oh, right. So when Bertha hurt herself it was just an unfortunate accident; when she hurt herself it was because she was stupid! Marigold breathed deeply and then said sweetly, ‘And I could
