Читать книгу His to Command: the Nanny: A Nanny for Keeps - Cara Colter - Страница 9

‘DO YOU want milk?’ she asked. She didn’t wait for his answer, but crossed to the fridge, taking her time about it, using the opportunity to wrap herself closer in the robe, pull the belt tighter while she had her back to him, before turning with the jug.

‘No, thanks,’ he said, when she offered it to him.

She had the feeling that he knew exactly what she’d done, but there was no sign of a self-congratulatory smirk. He just stared into his coffee as, discarding the tea bag, she splashed milk into her own mug.

‘Isn’t it rather late for black coffee?’

He didn’t answer, just gave her a look that suggested she was treading a very fine line, but then he’d been doing variations of it since she’d arrived. It was, she suspected, supposed to have her running for cover. It reminded her of an unhappy child, testing to the limits her resolve to love her. Testing her promise to stay…

‘Just my professional opinion,’ she added.

‘Keep it for Maisie, Mary Poppins.’

If he wanted her to duck for cover, he’d have to do better than that. Mary Poppins was, after all, ‘practically perfect in every way’. One of the good guys.

‘Lack of sleep can turn anyone into a grouch,’ she said, not backing down, even though holding his gaze seemed to be having a detrimental effect on her knee joints. Turning them to mush as a small voice in her head whispered, ‘Touch him. He needs someone to hold him…’

She cleared her throat to shut it up and said, ‘But you’re right, it’s absolutely none of my business. Just don’t blame me if you can’t sleep.’

‘Why not? I think we both know that you’ll be the one keeping me awake—’

He paused, as if the image his words evoked had caught him by surprise and he’d forgotten what he was about to say. Time slowed and the air pressed against her, making her conscious of every inch of her skin as her mind filled with a picture of him in a dimly lit room, bare shoulders propped up against the pillow, arms behind his head, wide awake. Thinking about her.

It wasn’t just her knees, but her entire body responded to this disturbing image with the heavy drag of sexual awareness, the ache of need. The swelling breasts, the taut, hard nipples almost painful against even the softest cloth. For so long immersed in a job that demanded everything of her, she’d forgotten how physical the demands of the body could be. How it could overpower the will, dominate all other thoughts…

‘Like a thorn in your mattress,’ she said, quickly, shattering the tension. Then, because she didn’t want to dwell on his mattress, she quickly reverted to his earlier question and, answering it, said, ‘Spain.’

‘Spain?’ Like her, he seemed to have come from somewhere deep inside himself. ‘Oh, your holiday.’ Then, ‘On your own?’

She didn’t think he’d have asked that question before and, while it would probably be wiser to just pick up her mug, say goodnight and retreat to the safety of her room, she’d be missing an opportunity to get to know him a little better.

For Maisie’s sake, obviously.

So she sipped her tea, because her mouth seemed rather dry, and said, ‘Does it matter?’

‘If you were going with your boyfriend I’d imagine he’d be pretty fed up.’

‘If I’d been going with a boyfriend, believe me, I’d be pretty fed up, but you needn’t worry about some irate male turning up on your doorstep to add to the mayhem.’

He didn’t look especially relieved, but then an irate male would probably have suited him very well. He was assuming he’d have an ally. She didn’t bother to explain that what he’d have would be one more house guest while they sorted out the Maisie situation.

‘At least there are plenty of flights to Spain.’ Harry Talbot seemed determined to keep her focused on what was important in life. ‘You’ll only have missed a day.’

Well, she hadn’t really thought he was interested in her well-being, had she? It was like the car. Getting it fixed was not thoughtfulness. Getting it fixed meant she had no excuse to stay.

‘It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. It was a cut-price last minute deal. If you don’t show, tough luck.’

‘You can’t reschedule?’

What planet was he on?

‘Don’t bother your head about it. The agency will sort that out with your cousin. They’ve promised I won’t be out of pocket.’

‘I’m glad to hear it, but you won’t get the money back for a couple of weeks, will you?’

She shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m just doing temporary work at the moment so I can schedule my break to suit myself.’ And she could think anywhere, after all. The sun would just be a distraction.

‘That doesn’t seem fair. If it would help I’ll cover your losses and sort it out with Sally later.’

‘Good grief, you are desperate to get rid of me.’ A woman with self-esteem issues might have crumpled at this point, but she pulled a face in an attempt to suggest she found his persistence amusing. ‘Paying to have my car fixed and now offering to sub me for a holiday.’

‘I’m just doing my best to be reasonable.’

Reasonable!

Reasonable would be him saying—I’m sorry you’ve been put to so much trouble. Just make yourself at home while my useless family sorts itself out…

Or words to that effect.

‘You really don’t get it, do you?’

‘Get what?’

She sipped her tea, then risked a glance at him over the rim of the mug. He looked, she thought, not so much uncaring as, well, a bit desperate, but she firmly quashed any feeling of guilt. She had done nothing to feel guilty about. He was the one behaving like a jerk.

‘You must see that I can’t go anywhere until I’m sure that Maisie is settled and safe.’

‘Then I’ve got another suggestion, Miss Moore. Go to Spain and take Maisie with you.’ He waited and, when he didn’t get the ecstatic response he’d no doubt counted on, added, ‘That way you’ll get paid by the hour for lying in the sun.’

She laughed. ‘You obviously have a very limited idea of what looking after a child entails.’

‘I’ll even pay for an upgrade.’

‘I’m truly sorry,’ she said. It was possible that she didn’t sound entirely sincere, but then she wasn’t. Despite what Maisie had told her, the man kept suckering her into thinking that he deserved some consideration. He deserved absolutely nothing. ‘Appealing as your offer sounds, there are two very good reasons why I can’t accept. One, I’d need her legal guardian’s written permission before I took Maisie out of the country—something that I’m sure even you’d agree is a basic essential. It’s not as if you know a single thing about me.’ And because, suddenly, she was really angry with him for being so completely lacking in family feeling, so irresponsible, she said, ‘Have you any idea how much cute little girls fetch on the illegal-adoption market?’

‘I have a rather better idea of the cost than you, I imagine.’ Then, while she was still trying to get her head around that one, ‘And because I’m not as stupid as you appear to believe, I called your agency this afternoon and the charming Mrs Campbell emailed me your CV along with all manner of glowing testimonials.’

‘She did?’

‘Why did you drop out of university in the middle of your second year?’

‘She did.’

She left it at that. He didn’t want an answer to his question; it had simply been a power play, a demonstration that he did indeed know all about her. While she knew next to nothing about him. And what she did know was all bad.

She wasn’t having a very good day.

Little Princess, 2—Giant, 1…

‘So,’ he continued, ‘now we’ve cleared up that small problem and, assuming that, using the wonders of modern technology, Sally faxes her written permission to your agency, what’s your second objection?’

Everything, she thought, comes to she who waits. Time for Dumb Nanny to break her duck.

‘Maisie wants to stay here,’ she said. ‘And my job—’ she decided this might not be a good moment to tell him that she wasn’t actually being paid for doing this ‘—is to keep her happy. Why don’t you phone your new friend, Mrs Campbell, and ask her if she’d be prepared to take a bet on me doing just that?’

Despite the warm glow that putting a dent in his plans gave her, she anticipated a negative reaction to this challenge and, judging that this might be a good moment to leave, wasted no time about it.

‘Goodnight, Mr Talbot,’ she said, heading for the door. ‘Sleep tight.’ Actually, the ‘sleep tight’ was probably a mistake and it was just as well that she was carrying a mug of hot tea or she might have been tempted to make a run for it.

Not cool.

She’d managed to get in the last word and now she was leaving him—with dignity—to chew on it.

But as she walked across what seemed like a mile of quarry-tiled floor between her and the door, for every self-conscious inch of it aware of his gaze locked on her back, she didn’t really expect to get away without some knife-edged parting shot.

‘It’s Harry,’ he said, just as she made the safety of the door. ‘Call me Harry.’ Which was totally unexpected and then, when he had her full attention, added, ‘I think we’ve traded sufficient insults to drop the formalities, don’t you?’

Now that she’d had a chance to assess some of his finer points, Jacqui had to admit that she was tempted. No doubt about it, cleaned up, the man was six feet four inches of raw temptation. With a decent haircut and the serious application of razor to chin, she suspected he’d be dynamite.

Such a pity that he didn’t have a heart to match his body.

‘Are you offering to surrender, Mr Talbot?’

His jaw tightened, momentarily, and she had the uneasy impression that she was the one whose tongue was doing the cutting.

Impossible that a man of his stature, his character, could ever feel vulnerable, but she wished she’d kept her mouth shut for once and responded to his invitation with an encouraging smile, giving him a chance to tell her exactly what he was offering.

But then he lifted his massive shoulders in something that might have been a shrug, and said, ‘No, Miss Moore. I’m simply suggesting a truce for the night.’

So that was all right, then. No damage done. He was just the same as ever.

She might be trapped on a fog-bound hill with the little princess and the big bad giant, but this wasn’t a fairy tale. And while her coffee was good, it was going to take a lot more than one cup of the stuff to transform Harry Talbot into Prince Charming.

But then a kiss was the traditional cure…

‘In that case,’ she said, quickly, ‘until the resumption of hostilities at dawn, goodnight. Harry.’

He looked, for a moment, as if he was about to respond and she waited, her hand on the edge of the door, hoping for some indication that he was relenting. Offering something more.

But all he said was, ‘Goodnight, Jacqui.’

After that, she had no choice but to close the door and walk away, but she climbed the stairs to the second floor with a hollow feeling of regret. There was nothing that she could put her finger on, just the niggling certainty that she’d come close to something important but had been too busy defending her own position to see it properly.

She looked in on Maisie, straightened her tumbled covers, watched her for a while before going to her own room.

Harry did not move for a long time. The coffee cooled in his mug. In the pot. And still he waited for the air to still, settle, return to the way it had been until Jacqui Moore had stirred everything up.

After a while, a cat stretched and moved to the door, a dark shadow heading out for the night’s hunt. The scruffy hound rose on long legs and padded across to nose at his hand, politely suggesting it was time for a walk.

The animals seemed unaware of the eddies created by her presence still spinning through the air, disturbing the atmosphere, disturbing the emptiness, disturbing him.

He moved swiftly, rounded up the rest of the dogs, not stopping to put on the coat he grabbed from the peg as he set off across the hill. The old Labradors turned back after a while, but the hound stayed with him as he covered the miles in his determination to dislodge her from his mind. From his heart.

Jacqui left Maisie deciding between pink taffeta and yellow silk and went downstairs determined to find something rather more practical for her to wear.

She glanced in the small office, but there was no sign of Harry Talbot. No sign that he’d even been in the room, since the bag of mail she’d left on the desk was exactly how she’d left it.

She had better luck in the kitchen, which was occupied by a motherly woman busy emptying the dishwasher.

‘Are you Susan?’ she asked, cheered by the sight of a possible ally. ‘I’m Jacqui. Maisie’s nanny. Temporarily.’ There seemed little point in confusing matters by trying to explain exactly what the situation was. ‘Did Mr Talbot explain about the misunderstanding?’

‘Mr Harry? No. But then I stay out of his way as much as I can,’ she said, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I only come up here every day because the missus refused to go until I promised her I’d keep an eye on everything. Make sure he’s got something to eat.’ Then, with a shrug, ‘Of course, I did hear that someone turned up with Miss Maisie yesterday afternoon.’

Since it was undoubtedly the hot item of gossip in the village shop, Jacqui wasn’t exactly surprised to hear that. They were, no doubt, panting for an update from their woman on the inside.

‘I was expecting to find Mrs Talbot here. The plan was for Maisie to stay with her while her mother’s away.’

‘Really? It’s news to me. She went to New Zealand, you know. To stay with her sister.’

‘Mr Talbot told me she was away.’

‘Paid for everything, he did. She went first class.’

‘That was generous of him.’

‘Possibly,’ she said, not committing herself one way or the other, although what doubt there could be, escaped Jacqui.

‘She didn’t say anything about Maisie coming to stay?’

‘Well, no. Miss Sally doesn’t make arrangements that far ahead.’

Jacqui frowned. Far ahead? ‘When did Mrs Talbot go to New Zealand?’

‘Last November.’

‘But that’s five months ago.’

‘That’s right. She took her time. Went by boat for part of the way. She got there in time for Christmas though.’

‘Oh.’

‘No point going all that way for five minutes, is there?’

‘Er—no. Is she due back soon?’

‘Not that I heard. In her last letter she said that as long as Mr Harry is happy to stay and keep an eye on things, she’ll stay on for a bit.’

‘And Mr Ha…Mr Talbot’s happy, is he?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say happy, exactly, but he’s in no hurry to leave. It’s the nearest thing he’s got to a home.’

It was?

She bit back the question hovering on her lips. One step further down that path would be gossip.

‘I don’t understand why Miss Talbot sent Maisie here. She must have known her mother wasn’t here to look after her.’

‘Lives in a world of her own, that one. Always has.’

‘Even so, it’s hard to see how anyone could have made such a mistake,’ she prompted, putting on the kettle. ‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’

‘Not now, thank you. I’m just going to give the chickens a bit of do. But I’ll have one when I come back if you like. It’s perishing out there this morning.’ She gave Jacqui a look that suggested she was two jumpers and a pair of long johns short of dressed and headed for the door.

Disappointed—she didn’t approve of gossip, but she had been hoping for a cosy chat around the teapot and some answers to any number of questions that had kept her awake half the night—she said, ‘No problem.’ Then, ‘Before you disappear, could I ask you something?’

‘You can ask,’ she replied, warily. ‘I can’t promise you an answer.’

‘It’s just that Maisie hasn’t brought any outdoor clothes with her. There are none in her room and Mr Talbot doesn’t seem to know whether she keeps spares here.’

‘Well, why would he?’

Jacqui was beginning to understand why a thwarted two-year-old might throw a tantrum. It was the same inability to communicate. Obviously there was an answer out there…she just couldn’t seem to frame the right question.

Old enough to know that throwing herself on the floor and drumming her heels—no matter how tempting—was not a constructive response to frustration, she tried again.

‘Actually, I don’t know. I don’t know anything.’

Maybe humility was the answer, because Susan said, ‘Well, he’s always off gallivanting to some foreign place or other, isn’t he? Never a word for months, years even, then he just turns up.’

Just her luck that their visits happened to coincide…

Much as she’d have liked to pursue this further, Susan was already heading for the mud room. ‘Do you know?’ she asked, a touch desperately.

The woman thought about it for a minute, then shook her head, reinforcing the message with a simple, ‘No.’

Blunt, but at least direct. ‘Maybe I could look around and check for myself,’ she suggested. ‘Where would be a good place to start?’

‘I told you, she doesn’t keep any clothes here.’ With that she reached into the mud room and unhooked a coat. ‘Her last nanny always packed everything she needed.’ The criticism was unspoken, but it was scarcely veiled.

‘I didn’t have that luxury. I’m having to manage with what I was given. Pink taffeta and wellington boots it’s going to have to be.’

‘I suppose you could take a look in the old nursery,’ Susan said, relenting as she took a headscarf from her pinafore pocket. ‘You might find something of Miss Sally’s in there. It’s up the stairs, and…’ she thought for a moment ‘…five doors down.’

‘Thank you, Susan.’ She smiled. ‘I expect you’ll be ready for a bacon sandwich when you’ve sorted the hens. To go with your tea.’

The woman grinned. ‘Go on, then. If you insist. I’ll be about half an hour.’

Which gave her plenty of time to scout the ‘old nursery’.

She climbed the first flight of stairs and, as instructed, turned right through an arch and immediately found herself in a wide corridor, lit on one side by a series of windows that must have offered a fine view when it wasn’t obscured by ground-level cloud.

The polished floor was bisected by a Turkey runner and the inner wall furnished with antique chests and some fine pictures, serving to remind her that, despite her first impressions, this was a substantial house. Slightly shabby on the outside, maybe, but very much what had once been called a ‘gentleman’s residence’.

Shame about the gentleman in residence she thought, counting the doors until she came to the fifth. It was near the top of a fine flight of stairs. The premier position in the house and scarcely where she’d have expected to find the nursery, but she shrugged and, opening the door, walked in. Since it was early and the hill fog, still clinging close to the house, made the rooms dark, she reached for the light switch.

An ornate overhead light fitting sprang into life and she immediately realised that she’d been right. This wasn’t a nursery, but the master bedroom and furnished in high style by the ‘gentleman’ whose residence this had been some time back in the Regency. Elegant, expensive and with an impressive four-poster bed dominating the room.

She turned, her intention to immediately withdraw. And found herself face to face with Harry Talbot, standing in front of a chest of drawers, apparently looking for underwear.

Bad enough that she’d walked into his room without even knocking, but then there was the small fact that he’d just stepped out of the shower and was naked but for a towel slung carelessly about his hips.

As he spun to face her it lost its battle with gravity.

He made no move to retrieve it and, despite opening her mouth with every intention of apologising for having blundered into his room, she found herself quite unable to speak.

He was beautiful.

Lean to the bone, hard, sculptured, his was the kind of body artists loved for their life classes. Even his hair, thick and heavy, had sprung into thick curls down which droplets of water ran in a slow, sensuous trickle. She watched one fall onto his shoulder, run down his chest until it became part of him.

He represented the perfection of Michelangelo’s David.

Which made the scars lacerating his back, scars which he hadn’t moved quickly enough to hide from her, all the more terrible.

Without thinking, she reached out, as if to touch him, take the pain into her own body. Before her fingers made contact, he seized her wrist and in one swift, savage movement thrust her out of the room.

Then he said, ‘Stay there. Don’t move.’ He didn’t wait to see if she obeyed him, but shut the door in her face.

She didn’t need him to tell her to stay put.

While all her instincts were to run, hide, her legs were beyond movement. Her entire body was trembling and she covered her mouth with her hand as if to stop herself from screaming.

What had happened to him? The ridges of scar tissue where his flesh had been ripped and torn were like nothing she had ever seen. Nothing she ever wanted to see again.

She groaned and leaned against the door arch, almost falling in on him as he opened the door, this time wrapped in a thick towelling robe.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, catching her, holding her arms so tightly to keep her at a distance that his fingers dug into her flesh. She didn’t complain. She didn’t for one moment believe it was intentional.

She didn’t ask what he meant, either. She just nod-ded and he relaxed his grip sufficiently for her circulation to be restored. But he didn’t let go.

Maybe, she thought, close enough now to see that the beginnings of a beard disguised just how gaunt he looked—as if he hadn’t slept in a long time—he’s the one who needs a prop.

‘So what did you want that couldn’t wait? Has Sally been in touch?’

So cool. So matter-of-fact. So do-not-even-think-about-mentioning-what-you-saw. But for the painful pressure points in her arms, she might actually have been fooled.

‘No. It’s too early to call the agency…’ Then, be-cause he wasn’t interested in what she hadn’t done, just what the devil she was doing bursting into his room unannounced, she took a rather shaky breath and did her best to match his tone as she continued, ‘I wasn’t actually looking for you. I was looking for the old nursery. S-Susan said there might be something more suitable for Maisie to wear. Up the s-stairs, fifth door along, she said…’

As if it mattered what Susan had said. Or whether Maisie played in the stables wearing a party frock, as long as she was warm enough. She had to know…

‘Harry—’

‘She assumed you’d be coming up the front stairs,’ he said, cutting her off before she could ask the question. ‘It’s this way.’ And he walked her back down the corridor, his hand gripping her firmly beneath her elbow as if to stop her bolting, or fainting, or saying one word about what she’d seen. ‘Help yourself,’ he said, opening a door. Then turned abruptly and walked away.

‘Harry!’

He stopped at the entrance to his room, not looking at her. ‘Don’t ask,’ he warned.

For a moment neither of them moved, neither of them spoke. Then, apparently satisfied that he’d made his point, he stepped inside and closed the door.