Читать книгу His to Command: the Nanny: A Nanny for Keeps - Cara Colter - Страница 11

WHEN Harry returned a couple of minutes later with aspirin and a blanket, Jacqui was asleep. He watched her for a while. Her colour had returned and her breathing was good, but there were dark smudges beneath her eyes that had nothing to do with the crack on the head.

He’d noticed them last night when she’d come down—minus the make-up she’d used to conceal them—to make herself a drink. Jacqui Moore, he suspected, hadn’t been sleeping properly for some time. Something he knew all about.

No doubt there was a man at the bottom of it. Why else would she be going on holiday on her own?

He left the painkillers on the sofa table and, as gently as he could, covered her with the blanket.

‘How is she?’

He turned as Susan came in with tea.

‘She’s dropped off. Best thing for her.’

‘She shouldn’t be left. My sister’s boy fell out of a tree—’

‘Yes, thank you, Susan. I’ll stay and keep an eye on her. Just leave the tray.’

‘Right. Well, I’m off upstairs to do the bedrooms if you want me.’

‘Take Maisie with you. I don’t want her coming in here disturbing Jacqui.’

Susan made a sound that only women beyond a certain age could manage. She ‘humphed’. It said more clearly than words that she knew exactly what he didn’t want. Maisie disturbing him. Then she said, ‘She should be at school, playing with children her own age.’

‘Save the lecture for Sally when she turns up.’

‘I won’t hold my breath.’ Then, ‘I’m sure Mrs Jackson, the head teacher, would be happy to take her until the end of term.’

‘No doubt, but she’s not staying.’ He gave the final three words equal weight, hoping that someone would finally get the message.

‘If you say so.’ She put down the tray. ‘Well, I can’t stand about here gossiping. If you need anything you know where I am.’

‘Will you keep an eye out for Jacqui’s cellphone? It wasn’t in the office so she must have dropped it upstairs somewhere.’

‘I’ll do that.’

As she turned to leave they both saw Maisie, half-hidden by the open door, apparently afraid to venture closer.

‘Is she dead?’ she whispered. ‘Did I kill her?’

‘You?’ Susan exclaimed. ‘Why on earth would you think something—?’

He crossed swiftly to the door, bundling them both out. ‘She bumped her head on the desk, Maisie. It had nothing to do with you,’ he said, putting a stop to the discussion.

‘But she was looking—’

‘She’ll be fine. She just needs peace and quiet for an hour, that’s all. Go along with Susan, now.’

‘I’d rather go to school.’

Thank you, Susan′

‘Can I? In the village? Now? Pleeease…’

She was unusually twittery. He might even have said anxious…

‘I don’t think so. Maybe,’ he added, cruelly, ‘if your mother had packed something sensible for you to wear—’

‘Don’t blame her! It wasn’t her fault! I did it. I just wanted to look pretty so you’d like me!’

Then, as if horrified by what she had said, she turned and ran off.

Susan just looked at him. ‘You know, Mr Harry, it’s not my place to say so, but in my opinion that child needs a little order in her life.’

‘You’re right, Susan,’ he said. ‘It isn’t your place to say so.’

She sniffed, leaving him in no doubt what she was thinking, and went after Maisie.

The hound had taken advantage of Susan’s arrival to slip into the library and was lying as flat as possible in front of the fire, hoping not to be noticed.

He added another log and then turned to make sure Jacqui hadn’t been disturbed. She was curled up on her side, her cheek resting on her hands, a strand of silky hair slipping across her forehead.

He eased a finger beneath it, lifting it carefully out of her face. And that was when he noticed the silver chain about her wrist. Really noticed it.

He’d been aware of a bracelet sliding down her arm when she was holding the ice-pack.

What he saw now was the single charm, a silver heart. It was engraved with a message, tiny words that he knew were none of his business, but as he moved back the angle of the light changed and the words seemed to leap out at him—‘…forget and smile…’

He knew it from somewhere and he searched the shelves for a dictionary of quotations, finally found the couplet.

And he felt…something.

He’d shut out every emotion, every feeling for so long that he couldn’t say what it was. Only that it hurt. That if he didn’t blot it out the pain would become unbearable.

But then he’d recognised the danger the moment she’d jammed her foot in his door and refused to be shut out. He’d tried, but unlike most people, she seemed immune to his rudeness. It was almost, he thought, as if she understood what he was doing.

Ridiculous, of course. She didn’t know him or anything about him.

Yet she’d found a way into his house, into his life and he was afraid that she wouldn’t be content until she’d prised open the armour plating he’d donned to keep out the prurient, the intrusive, those seekers after the second-hand shiver of horror who’d demand every last detail if he weakened, let down the barrier…

Right now that seemed the least of his worries. The outside world he could keep at bay. It was what was locked up inside him that he couldn’t face.

Reeling away from the sofa, he took a biography from the shelves and settled into an armchair. Reading, watching. Watching…

Jacqui stirred. Winced as her forehead came in contact with the side of the sofa. Remembered. And risked opening her eyes.

The logs had burned down to a hot, almost translucent glow. The shaggy hound, who she was sure had no business in the library, was stretched out in blissful slumber in front of it. She gingerly felt for the damage to her scalp. It was tender, although the prophesied lump was barely noticeable, and, having decided that she’d survive, she eased herself carefully upright, taking care not to make any sudden moves. And that was when she saw that it was not just the dog who’d kept her company.

Harry Talbot was sitting in a high-backed armchair set to one side of the hearth. He’d been reading, but the book had fallen to the floor and he was fast asleep.

Most people—and she included herself in that ‘most’—looked slightly undefined in sleep; the curve of cheek and chin sagging a little as flesh succumbed to gravity. But there was no softness in Harry’s pared-to-the-bone features.

The difference was not in the letting go of muscle tone, but the absence of tension.

The strain had gone from his face and the change was such that she finally understood that it wasn’t her, or Maisie, he was battling to keep out with his rudeness. It was the entire world.

She didn’t disturb him, but instead tucked up her feet and, easing up the down-soft cushion that had been pillowed beneath her, curled up against the high side of the sofa.

The dog raised his head hopefully, but she put a finger to her lips and whispered, ‘Lie down.’

Maybe he understood, or maybe he was smart enough to realise that, since she was staying put, he had nothing to gain—and a warm place in front of the fire to lose—if he moved and disturbed the sleeping man. But he dropped his chin back onto his paws, rolled his eyes up at Harry and sighed.

Like Maisie, he was another soul yearning for a kind word, a tender touch from the object of adoration.

The thought took her somewhat by surprise. Why would Maisie yearn for attention from Harry? If he really had a problem with her adoption? Had there been something shady about that? He’d implied he knew about such things.

Yet that awkward, slightly aggressive way Maisie talked about him, acted around him, bore all the hallmarks of an unspoken need to be noticed, loved.

‘Penny for them?’

She jumped, dragged out of her thoughts by Harry’s voice.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. How’s the head?’

‘OK. A bit tender where I caught the corner of the desk, but actually—’ she smiled, although the nod that went with it might have been a mistake ‘—not bad. You looked as though you needed the sleep, too.’

He bent, picked up the book and rose to his feet. ‘Just resting my eyes,’ he said, dismissing her concern as he returned it to the shelves.

There had been a moment when, still drowsy, he’d forgotten the mask, but it was back in place now. She wouldn’t be fooled by it though; he could be as grouchy as he liked, she had his number. Quite what she was going to do with it was another matter.

‘I’m ready for that cup of tea now,’ she said, unwinding, carefully, from the sofa. Or she would be once she’d used the bathroom. ‘Can I make one for you?’ Then, as she spotted the tea tray set for two, ‘Oh.’ She reached out and touched the pot. It was stone cold. ‘How long have I been asleep?’

He checked his watch. ‘A couple of hours. You will let me know if you feel nauseous?’

‘You think I went to sleep because I have concussion? Nothing that exciting, I promise you. I was just tired. I’m afraid I didn’t sleep very well last night.’

Cue apology for low-status bedroom, query re mattress, general concern of host over comfort…

Clearly he needed a prompt. ‘Please, don’t apologise. Really. The bed was fine. I was just worrying about Maisie.’ Then, since that didn’t stir him to remorse, ‘Have you checked to see if the phones are back on?’

‘Not lately,’ he admitted. ‘Help yourself.’

He indicated a phone on a small writing desk standing by the window.

Unlike its more workmanlike counterpart in the office, this was free of all clutter and contained only a slender laptop computer and telephone. She lifted the receiver. There was no dial tone, but the dog, sensing the possibility of action, came across and then, when she didn’t move, began snuffling beneath the desk, rattling something against the skirting board.

Glancing behind the desk to see what he’d got, she realised that it was the phone jack. It wasn’t plugged into its socket, but was lying on the floor.

About to tell Harry, she caught sight of Susan and Maisie, in her ridiculous combination of frilly frock and rubber boots, hand-feeding carrots to a couple of donkeys who were leaning over the stone wall that divided the driveway to the house from a field, and, in a sudden flash of understanding, knew what had happened.

Maisie. She had done this. Gone round the house quietly disconnecting the phones. Hidden her cellphone. Just to gain a little time.

Was she really that desperate to stay?

‘Well?’ Harry asked.

She jumped at the nearness of his voice and practically collided with him as she swivelled round to block him from seeing what Maisie had done.

For a moment the room swam and she put out a hand to stop herself from falling.

Harry caught her shoulders to steady her.

‘Jacqui?’

As she looked up at him, his face no longer distant, withdrawn, angry, but showing only concern for her, the sensation of falling didn’t go away.

‘Are you feeling dizzy?’

No…Yes…Not in the way he meant…

‘I’m fine,’ she said, a little breathlessly. ‘Unlike the telephone.’

Cross as she was, all her protective instincts came rushing to the surface. Telling him what Maisie had done would only make things worse between them and she rationalised that a few more minutes wasn’t going to change things.

All she had to do was wait until Harry was safely out of the way, plug it back in and leave him assuming that the telephone people had been working on the line somewhere.

‘Is the line still dead?’ he asked.

That small voice that lived in the subconscious urged, ‘Tell him…’

She ignored it.

‘Er—yes,’ she said, fingers mentally crossed as she held up the receiver so that he could listen for himself. ‘Not a peep.’

Although this was technically true, she was well aware from Sunday School that this was something called ‘lying by omission’ and her voice had that slightly ‘peepy’ quality that her mother would have recognised instantly. Of course, that might have had more to do with Harry’s hand on her shoulder, his closeness, than a total inability to fib without her voice going up several octaves.

He took the receiver from her, but maybe he’d learned his lesson from the last time, because he didn’t bother to listen, simply replaced it on the cradle.

‘I’d better take another look at your scalp,’ he said.

He didn’t wait for her permission before he parted her hair with what, for a big bad giant, was exquisite gentleness. But agreeable as this might be, she leaned back—just sufficiently to show him that she could do this without falling over, but not far enough to break contact—and said, ‘Can I get this straight? When you say that you’re a doctor…’

‘Yes?’

‘You do mean that you’re a doctor of medicine?’

Jacqui finally got the smile she’d been waiting for. Genuine humour. The kind of creases around the eyes that looked so good on a man. The kind of creases around the mouth that were so unbelievably sexy…

‘That’s a very good question, Jacqui. It suggests your brain is still in good working order.’

Oh, good grief, that had to mean the answer was no…

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘Do you have an equally good answer? Or am I to accept from the fact that you evaded giving me one that you are, in fact, a doctor of philosophy? A scholar of some deeply obscure subject such as Babylonian cuneiform, perhaps? Or the breeding habits of natterjack toads? Or even…’

‘Relax, Jacqui. Your head is safe in my hands.’

It didn’t feel safe. He might know what he was doing, but his careful probing of the damage was sending very unsafe tingles skittering down her spine. But that was what a bang on the head would do for you. Knock things loose. Especially sense; he was the big bad giant who lived at the top of the mountain, she reminded herself…

‘Medicine is the family business. My greatgrandfather was the local doctor.’

‘Really? The village doesn’t look big enough to support its own surgery.’

‘It used to be in the days when farming was done by men rather than machines. It finally closed about ten years ago when my cousin was lured away to a large practice in Bristol that has its own dedicated team of support staff.’

‘Nice for him. Not much fun for the locals. What do they do now?’

‘Drive ten miles to the nearest town like most people in rural communities.’

‘Definitely no fun if you’re old or have a sick child.’

‘They should try living in a place where you have to walk for a week…’ His jaw clamped down on the words, cutting them off.

So, when he disappeared to foreign parts for months or years, he was working. Africa? Walking for a week to the nearest clinic sounded like rural Africa.

She didn’t press him for more details, just stored up the information to take out and examine later.

‘So,’ she said, verbally tiptoeing around the danger zone, ‘that was your great-grandfather. What did your grandfather do?’

‘What?’ He was back on the defensive, eyes shuttered, expression forbidding, and for a moment she quailed.

‘You said it was the family business,’ she reminded him.

For a moment she thought he was going to tell her to go to hell and take her busybody nosiness with her.

‘He’s a heart specialist,’ he said, abruptly.

‘Present tense?’

‘He still takes an active interest in his field,’ he said. Then, ‘My father is an oncologist and my mother is a specialist in paediatric medicine. Is there anything else you want to know?’

He sounded vaguely surprised to have said so much, she thought. As if he was unused to talking about himself or his family and couldn’t quite work out why he was doing it now, and she wondered where all these incredibly clever people were when he so obviously needed them.

‘They’re all, as you can see, very busy people.’

Like Selina Talbot, then. Obviously putting career before family ran in the family, too.

‘And you?’ she asked, again leaning back to look up at him.

‘I’ll just check your vision again.’ He took her chin in his hand before she could argue, so that she was forced to keep her head still as he moved his finger across her sight line while she followed it with her eyes. Then, her face still cradled in his hand, he finally answered her. ‘I’m a doctor who’s satisfied that you’ve done no serious damage on this occasion but who, if asked for his advice, would suggest taking rather more care when crawling about beneath furniture.’ Then, ‘And while I’m at it, to avoid walking backwards.’

‘That’s not what I asked, Harry.’

‘I know.’

His palm was cool against her neck and chin, his thumb, fingers gentle against her cheeks. And everything that was female in her responded with a powerful surge of longing. She wanted him to kiss her, she realised with a shock that left her dizzier than any bang to the head. To touch her. To enfold her in arms that were strong enough to hold off the entire world. Were holding off the entire world…

Maybe the blow to her head had done more damage than he thought, because she sensed an equally powerful response from him.

She could almost believe that if one of them didn’t speak they might stay like this forever, locked in some fairy-tale enchantment at the top of this misty mountain…

‘And?’ she persisted, shattering the spell. Fairy tales were for children.

He stirred, then released her. ‘I don’t have an answer to your question, Jacqui. I no longer know what I am.’

Before she could even begin to formulate a reply, he stepped back, letting his hand drop to his side, putting some space between them.

Now that he’d opened up—if as about as willingly as an oyster surrendering its pearl—she suspected that he felt exposed and vulnerable; that he needed to retreat into the protective shell he’d built around himself. Do some running repairs on the breaches in his defences.

As if to confirm her thoughts, he broke eye contact, looking over her head and out of the window at the safe nothingness offered by the blanket of mist. The distance, mental and physical, only served to demonstrate how close they’d been for that brief moment.

How cold it felt to be separated.

‘The mist is clearing. It seems as if you might get some sun after all, before you leave.’

‘I’ll have my camera ready,’ she said, heart sinking as she turned to follow his gaze.

Maisie and Susan were making their way back to the house. The mist was certainly less oppressive and as it swirled patchily she could almost have imagined she caught a glimpse of blue sky.

‘I’d better go and rescue Susan,’ she said.

And tackle Maisie about the phone. Vickie and Selina Talbot had to be tearing their hair out with frustration.

Not that she was behaving much more responsibly.

She really should have told Harry, but he’d be so angry with the child and a few minutes more or less wouldn’t make any difference. As soon as he went off to fiddle with the boiler, or do whatever else he did to fill his day, she’d have the phone plugged back in and Bob, as the saying went, would be her uncle.

She crossed the room, picked up the tray and Harry, as if regretting his earlier confidence and now anxious to be rid of her, crossed quickly to open the door.

‘It’s nearly lunchtime,’ she said. About to suggest he joined them, she thought better of it. She would do her best to bring Maisie and Harry closer together in what time she had, but if she was too obvious about it he’d see right through her. ‘Can I get something for you?’

‘You should be taking it easy.’

‘This is easy. I’ve spent the entire morning asleep in front of the fire while Susan’s been doing my job as well as hers.’

No! No…This wasn’t a job. She wasn’t getting paid. She was doing it because she hadn’t got any choice…

‘If it’ll put your mind at rest,’ she added, ‘I can assure you that it won’t be anything more exciting than something on toast or a sandwich. Which would you prefer?’

He regarded her through suspiciously narrowed eyes and she knew she’d been wise not to suggest he join them in the kitchen. Then, with something that might have been a shrug, or then again might not, he said, ‘If you’re making a sandwich, I’ll have one in here.’

He left her standing in the doorway, crossed to the desk and flipped open the laptop. Then, as if to demonstrate that he had no intention of moving for the rest of the day, he sat down, thus managing at a single stroke to scupper both her plans.

Double bedknobs, a broomstick and a dustpan and brush′

Harry turned on the laptop, determinedly not looking in Jacqui’s direction as she left the room.

But the softness of her skin clung to his fingers, the scent of her filled and renewed his body like the air on a soft spring day.

Scarcely appropriate thoughts for a doctor. But then he hadn’t thought of himself as that since he’d been shipped home six months earlier at the point of a breakdown. Could scarcely believe his own ears when he heard himself responding to Jacqui’s arch question with a ‘yes’. As if he’d wanted her to think well of him. He didn’t care what she thought of him.

But any more mishaps and he’d take her straight to A&E.

He pulled a face. So much for insisting on her leaving as soon as her car was fixed.

He could hardly insist that she drive back to London today even if the garage did come through with a spare exhaust for her car, the phone connection was restored and Sally could stir herself to make alternative arrangements for Maisie.

He dragged his hand over his face, felt the days-old growth of beard. Was it any wonder that when he’d opened the door to her, Jacqui had looked at him as if he were a monster?

He slammed down the lid of the laptop.

So what if she had.

Anything was better than the pity that had replaced it. He didn’t want her pity. He wanted…

The arrival of the garage pick-up rescued him from confronting what exactly he did want, but as he pushed back the chair, glad to escape his thoughts, he saw Jacqui’s bracelet lying on the floor beside the desk.

And then, as he bent to pick it up, he saw the telephone jack lying on the floor beside the socket.