Christmas At His Command. Helen BrooksЧитать онлайн книгу.
familiar welling of tears made itself felt deep in her chest and she gritted her teeth resolutely. No more crying. No more wailing after what was dead and finished. She had made herself that promise a couple of weeks ago and she’d die before she went back on it. She wanted nothing to do with the opposite sex for the foreseeable future, and if this cottage was really as far away in the backwoods as Emma had suggested she might just make her an offer for it now. Emma had confided she was thinking of putting it on the market in the new year.
Marigold began walking, hardly aware of the snowflakes swimming about her as her thoughts sped on. She’d been thinking for some time, ever since the split with Dean at the end of the summer, in fact, that she needed a complete change of direction and lifestyle.
She had been born and bred in London, gone to university there, where she’d started dating Dean in the last year of her art and design degree, and after her course ended had found a well-paid job in a small firm specialising in graphic design. She had worked mainly on posters and similar projects to start with, but when the firm had decided to diversify into all manner of greetings cards her extensive portfolio of work—accumulated throughout her training years—had come into its own, and she had found herself in the happy position of working solely on the new venture. Dean had proposed about the same time—twelve months ago now—and she had thought her future was all set. Until Tamara Jaimeson came on the scene.
‘Ow!’ As though the thought of the other girl had conjured up an evil genie, Marigold suddenly found herself falling full length as her foot caught in what was obviously a pothole in the rough road. The snow cushioned her landing to a certain extent but when she tried to stand again she found she’d wrenched her ankle enough to make her grimace with pain, and now all thoughts of a remote little studio, somewhere where she could freelance both to her present firm—who had already expressed interest in such a proposition—and others, couldn’t have been further from Marigold’s mind.
She could only have been limping along for ten minutes before she heard the magical sound of a car’s engine behind her, but it had seemed like ten hours, such was the pain in her foot.
It was still quite light but she dug into her knapsack and brought out the torch nevertheless, moving to the edge of the road by the snow-covered hedgerow. She couldn’t risk the driver of the approaching vehicle missing her in the atrocious weather conditions.
The massive 4x4 was cutting through the snow with an imperious regality which highlighted its noble birth and also underlined poor Myrtle’s less exalted beginnings, but the driver had already seen her and was slowing down, even before she switched on the torch and waved it frantically.
‘Oh, thank you, thank you.’ She almost went headlong again as she stumbled over to the open window on the driver’s side. ‘My car’s broken down and I don’t know how far I’ve got to go, and I fell over and I’ve twisted my ankle—’
‘OK, slow down, slow down.’
It wasn’t so much the cold, impatient tone of his voice which stopped Marigold in full flow, but her first sight of the big dark man sitting behind the steering wheel. He was handsome in a rather tough, rugged way, but it was the cool grey eyes which could have been formed in a block of hard granite that caused her to be momentarily lost for words.
‘I take it that’s your car back there, which means you could only be making for Sugar Cottage.’
‘Does it?’ Marigold stared at him stupidly. ‘Why?’
‘Because it’s the only other house in the valley apart from mine,’ he replied—obviously, Marigold’s mind emphasised a second too late.
‘So you must be Emma Jones; Maggie’s granddaughter,’ the chilly voice continued flatly. ‘I—’
‘I understand you came once before to look over the cottage when I was abroad. I was sorry to have missed you then.’
The words themselves could have been friendly, however, the tone in which they were spoken made them anything but, and Marigold blinked at the quiet enmity coming her way.
‘I promised myself after that occasion that if I ever had the chance to give you a piece of my mind, I would,’ he said with soft venom.
‘Look, Mr…?’
‘Moreau,’ he provided icily.
‘Look, Mr Moreau, I think I ought to explain—’
‘Explain?’
Marigold had heard of incidents where one person could freeze another into silence and she hadn’t actually experienced it until now, but in the last moment or two he had shifted slightly in his seat and now the grey eyes had taken on a silver hue which turned them into two flares of cold white light.
‘Explain what?’ he continued curtly. ‘The reason why not one of your family, you included, saw fit to visit an old lady in the last twelve months before her death? The odd letter or two, the occasional phone call to the village shop that delivered her groceries every week was supposed to suffice, was it? Messages delivered secondhand can’t compare to flesh and blood reality, Miss Jones. Oh, I know she could be difficult, recalcitrant and obstinate to a point where you could cheerfully have strangled her, but didn’t any of you understand the fierce plea for independence and the pride behind it? She was an old lady, for crying out loud. Ninety-two years old! Didn’t any of you have the imagination and the sensitivity to realise that behind her awkwardness and perversity she was crying out to be told she was still loved and wanted for the woman she was?’
‘Mr Moreau—’
‘But it was simpler and easier to write her off as bigoted and impossible,’ he bit out savagely. ‘That way you could all get on with your nice, orderly lives with your consciences clean and unsmirched.’
Anger was beginning to surface inside Marigold, not least because of this man’s arrogant refusal to allow her to get a word in edgeways. He had clearly been seething about what he saw as the neglect of Emma’s family towards the old lady for a long time, but he wasn’t giving her a chance to explain who she was or what she was doing here!
‘You don’t understand. I’m not—’
‘Responsible?’ Again he cut her off, his eyes like polished crystal. ‘That’s too easy a get-out clause, Miss Jones. It might suit you to give out the air of helpless femininity in the present situation in which you find yourself, but it doesn’t fool me. Not for a second! And while you are considering how much you can make on selling your grandmother’s home—a home she fought tooth and nail to keep going, I might add—you could consider the blood, sweat and tears that went into her remaining here all her life. And there were tears, don’t fool yourself about that. And caused by you and the rest of your miserable family.’
‘You have absolutely no right to talk to me like this.’ Marigold was at the point of hitting him.
‘No?’ His voice was softer now but curiously more deep and disturbing than its previous harsh tone. ‘So you aren’t looking to sell the old lady’s pride and joy, then? The home she fought so hard to keep?’
Marigold opened her mouth to fire back a rejoinder but then, in the next instant, it dawned on her that that was exactly what Emma was planning to do and for a moment the realisation floored her.
‘I thought so.’ She was at the receiving end of that deadly stare again. ‘How someone like you can have the same blood as that courageous old lady flowing through their veins beats me, I tell you straight. You and the rest of your family aren’t worthy to lick her boots.’
Marigold stared at him through the snowflakes that had settled on her eyelashes. She was about to tell him she didn’t have the same blood, that she was in fact no relation at all to Emma’s grandmother, when the hot rage which was bubbling checked her words. Let him think what he liked, the arrogant swine! She would rather struggle on all night than ask him for help or explain he’d got it all wrong. The man was a bully, whatever the facts behind all he had said. He knew she’d had to abandon her car and that she had hurt herself,