Читать книгу His to Command: the Nanny: A Nanny for Keeps - Cara Colter - Страница 8

JACQUI was shaking so much from her confrontation with Harry Talbot that her legs were jelly as she climbed the stairs.

Thankfully, Maisie was skipping along happily in front of her, leading the way up a second flight of stairs to her own special bedroom and not in the slightest bit bothered, apparently, at the lack of welcome. And hopefully not fully understanding the less than edifying exchange between them.

What on earth had she been thinking?

She’d always known that the giant wasn’t going to be happy about them staying, although even she hadn’t been prepared for quite such a hostile response.

Not that she’d exactly helped matters.

If Harry Talbot had been a wasp’s nest, she would have been the idiot poking it. Which wasn’t like her at all.

Usually she was the soul of tact. Was always prepared to see the other person’s point of view. Even to the point of being walked all over—witness the way Vickie Campbell had stitched her up like a kipper…

Pouring oil on troubled waters was something she usually managed without thinking, but Harry Talbot’s attitude made her see red, and instead of pouring the oil she’d set fire to it and tossed in a couple of metaphorical hand grenades for good measure.

It was within her job description to stand up to him, if necessary, for Maisie’s sake. Unfortunately she’d done rather more than that.

Not that it was entirely her fault. He had seriously provoked her.

She couldn’t have made it plainer that she didn’t want to stay, but honestly, from the way he’d looked at her, anyone would have thought she’d planned the whole thing just to annoy him.

As if she’d really choose to abandon a holiday in the sun—no matter how cheap and cheerful—in order to stay on some cold, fogbound hilltop in a less than spring-like English spring with a bad-tempered bigot.

‘This is my room,’ Maisie announced, opening the door, forcing her to push Harry Talbot to the back of her mind and concentrate on the job in hand.

Jacqui instantly saw the attraction; understood why the child would want to stay despite Harry Talbot’s miserable attitude. The room, at the top of the tower, was pure princess fantasy, from the lace-draped little four-poster bed and matching looped-back curtains, to the hand-painted furniture, where flora in all shades through mauve to deepest purple had been relieved by a green tracery of stems and leaves.

And Harry Talbot must have fixed the boiler because the room was warm and, despite the miserable weather, the bed didn’t feel in the slightest bit damp.

‘It’s lovely, Maisie. Did your grandmother do all this just for you?’

‘Don’t be silly. My mother got in a decorator.’

Of course she did. Go to the back of the class, Jacqui told herself, slapping at her own wrist as the child flounced across to the window.

‘You can see Fudge’s field from here.’

Jacqui, fully prepared to heap admiration on some fat little pony, followed her, but the mist pressed against the glass, obliterating the view.

‘It’s not very nice out there.’ Maisie frowned. ‘He’ll be cold.’

‘Won’t he be tucked up in the stables, where it’s warm and dry?’

‘Maybe. Can we go and make sure?’

Jacqui would have rather stayed away from the outbuildings. Harry Talbot had said he’d look at her car and she had no wish to run into him until he’d had a chance to forget some of the things she’d said. Until she’d had a chance to forget them, come to that. But somehow she didn’t think that Maisie was in the habit of taking ‘no’ for an answer.

‘Well, all right, but I think you ought to change first. Have you got anything more…’ she baulked at the word ‘sensible’. It seemed unlikely that Maisie knew the meaning of the word, but not even the most thoughtless mother would allow her child to ride in a frilly frock and satin shoes ‘…suitable? You know, for riding.’

Even as she said the word she had an image of little Bonnie Butler in Gone With the Wind, dressed in a velvet riding habit and ostrich feathers. Or had she just imagined the feathers…?

‘Trousers, for instance?’ she offered, more in hope than expectation, unzipping the child’s holdall to look for herself.

The white voile dress, she discovered as she unpacked—shaking out dress after dress and putting them on the mauve satin padded hangers she found in the wardrobe—was, by Maisie’s standards, restrained.

She’d even packed a pair of tiny designer fairy wings for those extra-special occasions. Embroidered and beaded in silver and the inevitable mauve. Very pretty, but not, by any stretch of the imagination, sensible.

There were no jeans. Not even a pair of designer jodhpurs or handmade boots, which would have been more Maisie’s style. No trousers of any kind, in fact. No boots. No hard hat. Not even a pair of mauve, sparkly waterproof wellington boots to keep her feet dry. Just more pairs of satin slippers to match her frocks.

‘There are wellingtons and coats in the mud room,’ Maisie offered. ‘You just try them on until you find stuff that fits.’

‘Right, well, I’ll just put my bag next door and we’ll go and sort something out.’

‘Next door’ hadn’t had the benefit of a decorator any time in the last fifty years if the faded floral wallpaper was anything to go by. But it was warm and, if the comfort was shabby, it was genuine.

She’d search out the linen cupboard and make both their beds later.

Petting the pony—since no matter what Maisie’s views on the subject, she wouldn’t even be sitting on him without a hard hat—obviously, was far more important.

Ten minutes later they were walking across the courtyard. Jacqui, well shod in ankle boots, declined to join in Maisie’s hunt for a pair of wellies that fit, but she had borrowed a waxed jacket so old that all trace of wax had pretty much worn away.

The smallest one in the mud room was still too big for Maisie. With the sleeves folded back it did the job, but Jacqui had to stifle a smile at the sight of her stomping happily across the courtyard in a pair of slightly too large green wellington boots, a froth of white skirt sticking out from beneath the jacket, sparkly tiara still perched atop her dark curls.

Maisie Talbot might be precocious, but she certainly wasn’t dull.

‘Where are you two going?’ Harry Talbot appeared in the entrance to the coach house, wiping oily hands on a rag.

‘Maisie wanted to say hello to Fudge.’ Why did she have to sound so defensive? ‘Her pony?’ she added when he didn’t appear to know what she was talking about.

‘That’s what he’s called?’ His expression suggested that never had pony and name been more aptly matched. ‘All right. Just don’t go wandering off in this mist. It’s easy to get disorientated.’

‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of you getting lost, is there?’

She knew she shouldn’t have said that even before he stilled. Said, coldly, ‘Is that your idea of a joke?’

If it was—and she wasn’t prepared to examine exactly what her comment was meant to be—it had fallen distinctly flat, because he certainly wasn’t laughing.

‘Yes…No…I’m sorry.’ And she was. ‘Really.’

He used his head to indicate the far end of the yard. ‘The pony’s in the end stall. Don’t give her sugar; she’s old and her teeth can’t take any more abuse. You’ll find some carrots in a net on the wall.’

Maisie ran on, but Jacqui stayed put. Nothing could wipe out what, in retrospect, seemed a deeply callous remark that was completely alien to her nature, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of running away.

‘What’s the verdict on the car?’

‘I’m no mechanic but I’d say your exhaust has taken its last journey. I’m just going to give the garage a call. Don’t worry, I’ll put it on my account.’

‘Thank you.’

He shrugged. ‘I think you’ve probably suffered enough at the hands of the Talbot family for one day.’ Then, ‘Hadn’t you better go and make sure that Maisie doesn’t get trampled by her pony?’

‘It wouldn’t dare,’ she said.

And finally got what might just have been a smile from the man.

For a moment neither of them moved.

‘I’d better go and give the garage—’

‘I should go and keep an eye—’

He moved first, peeling away and striding back to the house without another word. She watched him for a moment, then, jerking her hormones back into line—they had no taste—she went after Maisie.

‘Did you find something? For Maisie’s tea?’

Jacqui looked up from the sauce she was gently stirring on the stove. She hadn’t seen Harry Talbot since he’d left her standing by the coach house. Hadn’t been much relishing their next encounter, but he didn’t look as if he was about to do anything particularly ogre-like.

If she could just stop herself from saying something stupid long enough to get him on her side…

‘Yes, thank you. I’m making spaghetti carbonara for both of us.’ Then, ‘Well, penne carbonara. It’s easier for little ones to manage.’

His eyebrows rose. ‘Nursery tea has certainly improved since my day. The best I could hope for was macaroni cheese.’

‘Nannies move with the times, just like everyone else, Mr Talbot. And so do children. Apparently it’s one of her favourites and since all the ingredients were to hand…’ Then, ‘But I do a mean fish finger when I put my mind to it. Not the frozen variety, of course. I make my own.’

‘I didn’t know you could.’

The temptation to respond with some smart-alecky remark was strong, but she restrained herself. Maisie wanted to stay here and making him angry wasn’t helping her cause.

‘You probably call them goujons. And pay an exorbitant price for them in restaurants.’ Not that he looked as if he was in the habit of frequenting expensive restaurants. ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked, concentrating on the sauce, so that she didn’t have to look at him. ‘I’ve made more of this than we can eat.’ And, since she didn’t want him to refuse, she gave him an escape route. ‘I’ll leave a dish in the fridge for you to heat up when we’re out of your way if you prefer.’

She sensed that he was hesitating. Caught between the desire to eat something he hadn’t poured out of a tin—and since the pantry was full of tins, she was pretty sure that was what he’d been doing—and telling her to get lost.

But all he said was, ‘Thank you.’

It wasn’t exactly disappointment that made her heart sink. But she had, for just a moment, hoped that he might pull out a chair, sit down at the table and join them. Imagined a little bonding between Maisie and Harry over the comfort food, with her playing the good fairy.

Pathetic.

Maisie was the only one around here with wings.

Although he was still in the kitchen. She was giving her entire attention to the sauce, but she could feel him behind her.

‘You’ll find ice cream in the pantry freezer, if Maisie wants some,’ he said. ‘Unless, of course, you’ve managed to whip up some fancy pudding as well?’

He’d almost been nice there. Almost. For a moment. She was going to reward him with a smile, but when she turned round, he’d gone.

She bathed Maisie and got her ready for bed, tucking her in with a teddy and reading her a story from one of the many books on the shelf. A jolly story about a little bear’s bedtime. Nothing to cause nightmares.

She was asleep before little bear, and Jacqui sat there for a while, watching her breathing. Smoothed the cover. Turned the light down until it was little more than a glow.

Somewhere, on the other side of the world, another child would soon be starting a new day. Crumpled and grumpy from sleep, reaching out for a cuddle from another woman…

She blinked fiercely, touching the bracelet as she swallowed down the ache. A bath. She needed to soak in warm, lavender-scented water. Forget and smile. Not even remotely possible, but maybe she should try concentrating on the joy, rather than the heartache…

Since she was travelling light and hadn’t bothered with a bathrobe, she helped herself to a robe hanging behind the bedroom door before going down to the kitchen to make herself something warm to drink.

Only the concealed lighting above the worktops was switched on, leaving the centre of the room barely lit. The chicken stirred and clucked disapprovingly from the basket. She gave it a wide berth. She didn’t much like chickens—even when they were house pets.

The cats didn’t twitch more than a whisker. It was the dog, always hopeful of food, slithering across the quarry-tiled floor that made her turn.

Harry Talbot had apparently been sitting at the kitchen table, finishing his supper. Now he was on his feet and it was a moot point which of them was most surprised.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d be long finished.’

‘Yes, well, I would have been but those wretched donkeys don’t know when they’re well off. The ungrateful little beasts made a mass dash for freedom when I went out to feed them,’ he said, pushing back the chair. ‘By the I’d time I’d rounded them all up I was plastered with mud.’

Which explained why his dark hair was now slickly combed back, although where it was drying it was already beginning to spring back into an unruly mop of curls. Why he was wearing fresh jeans and a dark blue collarless shirt. And looked good enough to eat himself.

‘What about the llama?’ she asked. ‘Is that an ungrateful beast, too?’

‘Who told you about the llama?’

‘The woman in the village shop warned me to watch out for it on the road.’

‘It was looking for company. Kate found it a home with a small herd on the other side of the valley.’

‘Oh. I thought she’d made it up.’

‘I wish.’ Then, ‘Well?’ he demanded, when she didn’t move. ‘What do you want?’

‘Nothing. At least, I’ll come back. I don’t want to disturb you.’

‘You already have, so you might as well make a proper job of it. What do you want?’ he repeated.

Nothing different about his manners, then. They were just the same.

‘I was going to make myself a hot drink and take it upstairs.’

‘Do whatever you like. I’ve finished,’ he said, abandoning his half-eaten meal and making a move to leave.

‘Can I make you something?’ she asked, feeling dreadful about interrupting his meal even though she had, moments before, been wishing it would choke him. It was only polite to make the offer. One of them should probably make the effort and it clearly wasn’t going to be him.

‘Playing the domestic goddess isn’t going to change my mind, Miss Moore,’ he replied, as if to prove her point. ‘I’m quite capable of making my own coffee.’

‘Obviously you’d have to be,’ she replied, ‘or go without.’

So much for politeness. She’d been so determined not to let him annoy her, but apparently all he had to do was speak…

‘I’m actually making tea,’ she continued, in an effort at appeasement. After all, she had not only matched his rudeness, but also trumped it. ‘However, while acknowledging your undoubted competence, it would be no trouble to make you a pot of coffee at the same time. Since I’m boiling the kettle anyway. You can come back when I’ve gone upstairs and help yourself if you don’t want to stay.’

There was a moment of absolute silence when the air was thick with words waiting to be spoken. Not even the dog moved.

Harry felt as if his feet were welded to the floor. His brain was urging him to walk out. He couldn’t handle people. Couldn’t handle this woman who one minute was all soft curves and temptation, and the next disapproval and a sharp tongue. It was too complex. Too difficult. His only thoughts had, for so long, been simple, one-dimensional, fixed on survival, locked on one goal because he’d known that if he lost sight of it, even for a moment, he’d lose his mind.

He had to be alone. It was the only way he could survive…

But his body, which he’d been driving so hard and so long on sheer will-power, seemed suddenly unable to carry out the simplest of commands. It had demanded the food she cooked and now he seemed unable to walk away; trapped between the possibility of heaven and the certainty of hell.

As Jacqui waited the silence seemed to stretch like elastic until she feared it might snap. She couldn’t for the life of her imagine what he was finding so difficult about answering what had been a very simple question, yet she could see the battle waging inside his head.

She jumped as he finally moved, picked up his plate, carried it over to the sink, scraping the remnants into the disposal unit and rinsing it off before stowing it in the dishwasher.

‘You’re a very irritating woman, do you know that?’ he said, slamming the door so that the rest of the crockery rattled.

That was a matter of opinion. She thought he more than matched her in that respect, but good manners—and her well-honed survival instincts—suggested it would be wiser not to say so. Instead she crossed the kitchen, picked up the kettle and began to fill it.

‘A good cook, but irritating,’ he continued, elaborating on his theme.

‘One out of two isn’t bad. I might have been irritating and a terrible cook.’ She switched on the kettle and turned to face him. ‘No redeeming features whatever.’

On that, apparently, he was not prepared to venture an opinion. Instead he asked, ‘Is Maisie in bed?’

‘It’s nearly ten o’clock. Of course she’s in bed.’

‘There’s no “of course” about it. She’s usually up half the night, flouncing around, being spoilt by Sally’s ridiculous friends.’

‘Is she?’ Why was she not surprised? ‘Well, she’s had a big day. She didn’t even make the end of the story before she fell asleep.’

‘Amazing.’

‘You don’t like her very much, do you?’

‘Sally should stick to rescuing dumb animals,’ he said, which didn’t answer her question. But then you could often tell more from what people didn’t say. And what he hadn’t said would, she suspected, have filled volumes. ‘She can abandon them up here once she’s done the photo-call and there’s no harm done.’

What…? Was he implying…?

‘Maisie hasn’t been abandoned,’ she declared.

‘No? What would you call it?’

‘I’m sure that what happened today is nothing more than an unfortunate misunderstanding.’ Not one that she’d have made, but she wasn’t passing any judgements until she was in possession of all the facts. ‘Actually, I did want to ask you something. Do you know if she keeps any clothes here? Outdoor play clothes? There was nothing in her room, but then it is something of a fairy grotto. Denim would undoubtedly spoil the illusion.’

‘Undoubtedly. I’m afraid I can’t help you. But she won’t need them, since she isn’t staying.’

Jacqui wasn’t a violent woman, but if he’d been an inch or two smaller, she might just have seized his shoulders and shaken him. As it was, he’d probably laugh and his face might crack in two. Safer not to risk it. She’d have to start smaller. Try and tease out a smile…

She stopped. No point in wasting time worrying about ‘smile’ therapy; she would be more usefully employed in seizing the moment, reasoning with him. The kettle boiled just then, distracting her and by the time she’d poured water over a tea bag in a mug for herself, and made coffee for Harry Talbot, she’d thought better of it.

If she reasoned and failed, then he’d just end up more stubbornly fixed in the position he’d adopted. Every time he said ‘she isn’t staying’ the words would became harder to retract.

And Maisie wanted to stay.

Better not give him the chance, she decided, dunking the tea bag.

Better to just wait until Vickie had spoken to Selina Talbot, at which point everything would doubtless resolve itself. And in the meantime she’d deal with the situation on the ground. One crisis at a time.

At least he seemed disinclined to rush off for once. She wouldn’t get a better chance to talk to him. Nothing to threaten him—which was rather an odd thought under the circumstances; he was the ogre, not her—but just in the hope of finding common ground.

They hadn’t, so far, had what could be described as a normal conversation.

‘Does that chicken actually live in the kitchen?’ she asked, saying the first thing that came into her head. Normal? ‘Or is she sick?’

‘The story is that one of the cats brought her in out of the rain when she was a chick and treated her as part of her litter.’

‘Are you suggesting that she thinks she’s a cat?’

‘That’s Aunt Kate’s theory.’ The look he gave her suggested otherwise.

‘You’re not buying that?’

‘I haven’t noticed any identity problem when the cockerel’s preening his feathers, but if the choice was a basket in front of the stove or slumming it with the rest of the birds in the hen house, which would you choose?’

‘That’s a deeply cynical point of view.’

‘And your answer is?’

‘She’s a smart hen.’ Then, ‘I’ll bet the eggs confuse the heck out of the cats, though.’

There! She nearly had him with that one. He didn’t actually smile, but there was definitely a giveaway crease at the side of his mouth. What he did do, was pick up the cafetière and pour himself a mug of coffee.

Classic distraction behaviour, she thought. She’d have done the same thing herself if she’d being trying to hide laughter. Or tears.

Maybe there was hope for him yet.

‘Where were you going?’ he asked, glancing sideways and catching her watching him.

‘Nowhere,’ she said, slightly flustered. She hadn’t moved…

He turned and leaned back against the worktop, still looking at her. ‘For your holiday?’

Oh, that. She’d forgotten all about Spain. Besides, it was warm enough in here to toast her skin. Not that he was crowding her. There was clear space between them, but the plush, wrap-around robe was much too warm.

And not nearly respectable enough.

It was too short, of course. They always were, but she’d never actually thought of her ankles as something she needed to cover up. But now her bare ankles seemed to suggest bare legs, which suggested all kinds of other possibilities.

And it felt much too tight.

While it was supposed to be her size, it had obviously been washed often and she had the unsettling feeling that somewhere down around her thighs it might be gaping open, just a bit.

She didn’t dare look down.

To do so would simply draw attention to the fact. Not that he seemed interested in her legs.

On the contrary, his gaze seemed to be riveted on the deep vee where the wrap crossed over her breasts.

Not in any sense of the word leering. Just looking at her as if trying to remember something…

Which was crazy.

She was crazy.

She was, she reminded herself, a picture of modesty beneath this barely adequate robe.

When there was every likelihood that you’d have to turn out in the middle of the night, half-asleep, to tend to a disturbed child, it didn’t take long to discover that smart nannies wore sensible PJs.

Not that it was a problem now, but she couldn’t af-ford to toss out perfectly good nightwear and there was nothing in the least bit flimsy about the jersey sleep shorts and vest she was wearing. OK, this one just happened to be a vest top with shoestring straps—she’d seen a pack of three in a sale and treated herself for the holiday—but even so she’d have been wearing a lot less on a Spanish beach.

But then this wasn’t a beach.

This was an isolated house with a man she didn’t know. And he was staring at her cleavage.

Bad enough.

But her cleavage was responding…