Christmas At His Command. HELEN BROOKS

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 borrow them for a while?’

      ‘No problem.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      He nodded and walked out, shutting the door behind him, and it was only at that moment that Marigold realised she’d missed the perfect opportunity to set the record straight and explain who she really was.

      CHAPTER THREE

      AFTER eating the toasted sandwich and drinking the mug of hot chocolate Bertha brought her a few minutes after Flynn had left, Marigold must have fallen immediately asleep; her consuming tiredness due, no doubt, in part to the strong painkillers Flynn had given her.

      She surfaced some time later to the sound of voices just outside the room, and for a moment, as she opened dazed eyes, she didn’t know where she was. She stared into the glowing red and gold flames licking round the logs on the fire in the enormous stone fireplace vacantly, before a twinge in her ankle reminded her what had happened.

      She pulled herself into a sitting position on the sofa, adjusting her foot on the pouffe as she did so, which brought forth more sharp stabs of pain, and she had just pulled down her waist-length cashmere jumper and adjusted the belt in her jeans, which had been sticking into her waist, when the door opened again.

      The room was in semi-darkness, with just a large standard lamp in one corner competing with the glow from the huge fire, so when the main light was switched on Marigold blinked like a small, startled owl at Flynn and the other man. ‘You’ll be glad to know Myrtle is safe and snug and tucked up in one of the garages for the night,’ Flynn said evenly as the two men walked across to the sofa. ‘This is Wilf, by the way. Wilf, meet Miss Jones, Maggie’s granddaughter.’

      ‘But she isn’t.’ Bertha’s husband was a small man with a ruddy complexion and bright black robin eyes, and these same eyes were now staring at Marigold in evident confusion.

      ‘What?’

      ‘This isn’t the same woman who was in the pub that day; the one who was all over that yuppie type and then made such a song and dance about being charged too much when Arthur gave them the bill,’ Wilf said bewilderedly, totally unaware he was giving Marigold one of the worst moments of her entire life.

      ‘I can explain—’

      Flynn cut across Marigold’s feverish voice, his own like ice as he said, ‘Perhaps you would like to introduce yourself, Miss…?’

      Marigold took a hard pull of air, reflecting if she didn’t love her parents so much she would hate them for giving her a name which had always been an acute embarrassment to her. ‘My name’s Marigold,’ she said a little unsteadily. ‘Marigold Flower.’

      ‘You’re joking.’

      She wished she were. She wished she could have announced a name like Tamara Jaimeson. ‘No,’ she assured Flynn miserably as he looked down at her, his expression utterly cold. ‘My name really is Marigold Flower. My mother…well, she’s a little eccentric, I guess, and when she married a Flower and then had a little girl she thought it was too good a chance to miss. My father was just relieved I wasn’t a son. She was going to call a boy Gromwell. They’re lovely pure blue flowers that my mother had in her rock garden at the time…’

      Marigold’s voice trailed away. She had been gabbling; Wilf’s slightly glassy-eyed stare told her so. Flynn’s eyes, on the other hand, were rapier-sharp and boring into her head like twin lasers.

      ‘I’m pleased to meet you and thank you for dealing with the car.’ She extended a hand to Wilf, who bent down and shook it before moving a step backwards as though he was frightened she would bite.

      ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to leave Miss…Flower and myself alone for a few minutes, Wilf, and inform Bertha we don’t want to be interrupted?’ Flynn said grimly, his gaze not leaving Marigold’s hot face.

      Wilf needed no second bidding; he was out of the room like a shot and Marigold envied him with all her heart. She watched the door close and then looked up at Flynn, who was still standing quite still and looking at her steadily; the sort of look that made her feel she’d just crawled out from under a stone. ‘I did try to tell you,’ she muttered quickly before he said anything. ‘Several times.’