Читать книгу The Prince's Outback Bride - Marion Lennox, Marion Lennox - Страница 7

Marc spread it out on the kitchen table and both of them studied it. Marc was an intelligent little boy, made old beyond his years by the death of his parents. Sometimes Pippa thought she shouldn’t talk to him as an equal, but then who else could she talk to?

‘I wrote the twins and two thousand and two and stuff when I learned to write,’ Marc said and Pippa hugged him and kept reading.

‘Etienne was your great-great-grandfather,’ she told him, following the line back. ‘Look, there’s Max. His grandpa and your great-grandfather were the same. Louis. I guess Louis must have been a prince.’

‘Why aren’t I a prince?’

‘Because your grandma was a girl?’ she said doubtfully. ‘I think princes’ kids are princes but princesses’ kids aren’t.’ She hesitated and then admitted: ‘Actually, Marc, I’m not sure.’

Marc followed the lines himself, frowning in concentration. ‘Why is there a question mark beside Max’s name?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is Max a prince?’

‘He didn’t say he was a prince.’

‘It’d be cool if he was.’

‘I hope he’s not. I don’t have a tiara to wear,’ Pippa said and Marc giggled.

Which Pippa liked. He was too serious, she thought, hugging him close. He’d had too many dramas for one small boy. She should treat him more as a child. It was just…she was so lonely.

And thinking about it didn’t help.

‘Will he come back?’ Marc said anxiously and she gave herself a mental shake.

‘Of course he will. I’ll sweep the floor while we wait.’

‘You’re always working.’

‘Working’s fun.’

Or not. But working stopped her thinking, and thinking was the harsher alternative.

Max finally returned, followed by Duncan with a trailer of firewood, followed by Bert Henges with his tractor. It had only taken a promise of cash to get Bert out in the rain. Three men and a tractor made short work of hauling the truck from the pit. They heaved planks over the broken grid and Bert departed—bearing cash—while Duncan and Max drove cautiously across to the house. The kids had been watching from the veranda but as soon as they drove closer they disappeared. Duncan began tossing wood up to Max, who started stacking it next to the back door.

They’d unpacked half a dozen bundles when Pippa emerged. She was holding her broom like a rifle, and the three children were close behind.

She looks cute, Max thought inconsequentially. Defensive—have broom will shoot!—but cute.

‘What’s going on?’ she demanded; then as she saw what they were doing she gasped. ‘Where did that come from?’

‘My shed,’ Duncan said, unaccustomed profits making him cheerful. ‘Seems you’ve got a sugar-daddy, Pippa, love.’

‘I do not have a sugar-daddy,’ she said, revolted. ‘I can’t afford this.’

‘It’s paid for. You’ve struck a good’un here.’ He motioned to Max with a dirty thumb and tossed another bundle.

‘Will you cut it out?’ She looked poleaxed. ‘How did you get the vehicles here?’

‘Bert hauled your truck out of the pit.’ The wood merchant was obviously relishing enough gossip to keep a dreary country week enlivened until the rain stopped. ‘Courtesy of your young man.’

‘You didn’t get Bert out into the rain?’ she demanded of Max, appalled. She stepped into his line of tossing to stop the flow of wood. ‘He’ll charge a fortune and I can’t pay. Of all the stupid…It was just a matter of waiting.’

‘You don’t need to pay.’ Max handed her his bundle of wood. ‘I already have. Can you start the fire with this? There are firelighters and matches in the grocery sacks. Most of the groceries are in the trunk. I’ve backed right up so we can unpack without getting wet.’

‘Most of the groceries…’ She stared at him, speechless, and he placed his hands on her shoulders and put her aside so Duncan could toss him another bundle.

The feel of him…the strength of him…She felt as if she’d been lifted up and transported into another place.

She gasped and tugged away. ‘I can’t take this,’ she managed, staring down into the stuffed-full trunk of his car. There were chocolate cookies spilling out from the sacks. Real coffee!

‘Why not? The farmhouse is freezing and it’s no part of my plan to have you guys freeze to death.’

‘Your plan?’

‘My plan,’ he said. ‘Can you light the fire and we’ll talk this through when we’re warm?’

She stared blindly at the wood, confusion turning to anger. ‘You can’t just buy us. I don’t understand what you want but you can’t have it. We don’t want your money.’

‘Pippa, I’m family and therefore I have the right to make sure you—or at least the children—are warm and well fed,’ he said, gently but firmly. He fielded and stacked another bundle. ‘Please. Get the fire lit and then we can talk. Oh, and the fish and chips will be here in fifteen minutes. Home delivery.’

‘Home delivery?’ she gasped. ‘When did they ever…’

‘They’d run out of potatoes at the pub,’ he said apologetically. ‘But Mrs Ryan says Ern can go out and dig some and she’ll have fish and chips here by three.’

‘I bet he paid her as much as he paid me,’ Duncan said cheerfully and he winked at her. ‘You’re on a winner here, love.’

She stared, open-mouthed, at them both. She couldn’t think of a thing to say.

‘Light the fire,’ Max said—and Pippa stared at him wordlessly for a full minute.

Then she went to light the fire.

It seemed she had no alternative.

She might not like it—well, okay, she liked it but she might not trust it—but he was right; she had no choice but to accept. He was related to the children, which was more than she was.

So she unpacked and as the kids whooped their joy she felt dizzy.

‘Sausages,’ they shouted, holding each item up for inspection. ‘Eggs. We haven’t had this many eggs since the fox ate our last chook. Marmalade. Yuck, we don’t like marmalade. But there’s honey. Honey, honey, honey! And chocolate. More chocolate. Lemonade!’

Distrust it or not, it was the answer to her prayers, and when Max appeared at the kitchen door, dripping wet again, she even managed to smile.

‘Wow,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe you’ve done this.’

‘My pleasure. Do you have a laundry? Can Duncan and I have access?’

‘To our laundry?’ He was dripping wetly onto the linoleum. ‘Do you both want to strip off?’

‘I don’t have any more clothes,’ he told her. ‘Donald’s waterproofs weren’t quite as waterproof as I might have liked. But we now have a clothes dryer.’

‘A clothes dryer.’ What was he talking about?

‘I know. I’m brilliant,’ he told her, looking smug. ‘A little applause wouldn’t go astray.’

‘Where did you get a dryer?’

‘MrsAston and MrAston paid for their daughter Emma to install central heating just last week,’ he said, and his voice changed.

‘Those nappies were too much, I said to Ern, I said. They’ll be the death of her, with those twins, and young Jason’s only just out of nappies and none too reliable. We didn’t have any money when we had kiddies but we have now, what with superannuation and all, so the least we can do is pay for central heating. So we did, and now…what does my Em want with a great hulking tumble-dryer when there’s a whole new airing cupboard that can take three times as many nappies? You’re very welcome to it.’

Max’s accent might be French, but he had Mrs Aston’s voice down to a T. Pippa stared—and then she giggled.

‘You bought us Emma’s tumble-dryer.’

‘Applause?’

She smiled and even raised her hands to clap—but then her smile died and her hands dropped. ‘Max, this is crazy. We really can’t accept.’

‘My clothes go in first,’ he said. ‘That’s the price I’m demanding. Oh, and I need something to keep me decent while they dry. Can you find me something?’

She gave up. ‘I…sure.’

‘Two minutes,’ he said. ‘Me and Dunc are hauling this thing into your laundry and then I want another hot shower. I’ll throw my clothes out; you put them in your brand new tumble-dryer and Bob’s your uncle.’

‘Bob?’

He frowned, intent. ‘Bob’s your uncle? I don’t have that right?’

‘It’s not a French idiom.’

‘I’m not French.’

‘You’re from Alp d’Estella?’

‘Let’s leave discussion of nationalities until I’m dry. I only brought one change of clothes and now everything’s wet. Can you find me something dry to wear in two minutes?’

It was more than two minutes. Duncan helped Max cart in the dryer, but as Max disappeared towards the shower Duncan headed for the kitchen and a gossip.

‘Who is he?’ he wanted to know.

‘He’s a relation of Gina’s from overseas,’ she told Duncan. ‘Gina never heard a word from that side of the family and they surely didn’t help when Gina and Donald were killed. If he’s being generous now then maybe it’s a guilty conscience.’

‘You didn’t tell Mr Stubbins that Max might be a prince,’ Marc whispered as Duncan finally departed with as much information as she was prepared to give.

‘Rain or no rain, if I said that we’d have every busybody in the district wanting to visit.’ Pippa lifted a packet of crumpets from the table and carried it reverently to the toaster. ‘And I’m not feeling like sharing. There’s crumpets and there’s butter and honey and I’m thinking I’m having first crumpet.’

‘Max says there’s fish and chips coming.’

‘I have crumpets right here,’ she said reverently. ‘Food now—or food later? There’s no choice.’

‘Don’t you want fish and chips?’

‘You think I can’t fit both in? Watch.’

‘Don’t you have to find Max some clothes?’ Marc said, starting to sound worried.

‘Yes,’ Pippa said, popping four crumpets into their oversized toaster. ‘But crumpets first.’ She handed plates to Sophie, butter to Claire and a knife to Marc. ‘Let’s get our priorities straight.’ She chuckled, but she didn’t say out loud her next thought. Which was that she had a hunk of gorgeous near-to-royalty naked in her bathroom right now—but what she wanted first was a crumpet.

Priorities.

A crumpet dripping with butter and honey and the arrival of fish and chips later, her conscience gave a sharp prod. She did a quick search for something Max could wear, but came up with nothing. She’d kept Donald’s waterproofs because the oversized garments were excellent for milking, but the rest of his clothes had gone to welfare long since. She hesitated, then grabbed a pair of her oversized gym pants—and a blanket.

The bathroom door was open a crack.

‘Mr de Gautier?’

‘It’s Max if you have clothes,’a voice growled. ‘If not go away.’

‘I sort of have clothes.’

‘What do you mean sort of?’

‘They might be a bit small.’

A hand came out, attached to a brawny arm. It looked a work hand, she thought, distracted. These weren’t the soft, smooth fingers of a man unused to manual work. She thought back to the deft way Max had caught and loaded the wood. Royalty? Surely not. She’d seen bricklayers catch and stack like that, with maximum efficiency.

Who was he? What was he?

She stared for a moment too long and his fingers beckoned imperatively. She gasped, put the clothes in his hand and the fingers retreated.

There was a moment’s silence. Then…

‘These aren’t just too small,’ he growled. ‘These are ridiculous.’

‘It’s all I have. That’s why I brought the blanket.’

‘The waterproofs?’

‘Belonged to Donald. Donald’s dead. We gave the rest of his stuff to charity.’

‘I need charity now.’

‘We have a tumble-dryer,’ she told him. ‘Thanks to you. If you hand out your clothes I’ll put them in.’

‘And I’ll sit in here until they dry?’

‘If you’re worried about your dignity.’ He definitely couldn’t be royalty, she thought, suppressing a smile. The idea was preposterous.

‘You have the fire going?’

‘It’s already putting out heat. And the fish and chips have just arrived.’ She gave a sigh of pure heaven. ‘There’s two pieces of whiting each, and more chips than we can possibly eat. Would you like me to bring you some?’

‘It’s cold in here.’

‘Then you have my gym pant bottoms and a blanket. Come on out.’

‘Avert your eyes.’

‘Shall I tell Claire and Sophie and Marc to avert their eyes as well?’

There was a moment’s baffled silence. Then: ‘Never mind.’ There was a moment’s pause while he obviously tugged on her gym pants and then the door opened.

Whoa.

Well-brought-up young ladies didn’t stare, but there were moments in a woman’s life when it was far too hard to be well brought up. Pippa not only stared—she gaped.

He looked like a body builder, she thought. He was tanned and muscled and rippling in all the right places. He was wearing her pants and they were as stretched on him as they were loose on her. Which was pretty much stretched. His chest was bare.

He should look ridiculous.

He looked stunning.

‘You can’t be a prince,’ she said before she could stop herself and the corners of his mouth turned down in an expression of distaste.

‘I’m not.’ The rebuttal was hard and sharp and it left no room for argument.

‘What are you, then?’

He didn’t reply. He was carrying his bundle of wet clothes in one hand and the blanket in the other. He was meant to put the blanket round his shoulders, she thought. He wasn’t supposed to be bare from the waist up.

He was bare from the waist up and it left her discomforted.

She was so discomforted she could scarcely breathe.

‘What do you mean, what am I?’ he demanded at last. ‘You mean like in, “Are you an encyclopaedia salesman?”?’

‘You’re not an encyclopaedia salesman.’

‘I’m a builder.’

‘A builder.’ The thought took her aback. ‘How can you be a builder?’

He sighed. ‘The same way you get to be an encyclopaedia salesman, I imagine. You find someone who’s a builder and you say, “Please, sir, can you teach me what you know about building?”’

‘That’s what you did.’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you build?’

‘Buildings. Did you say the fish and chips have arrived?’

‘They’re in the kitchen,’ she said with another long look at his bare chest.

‘Will you stop it?’

‘Stop what?’

‘Staring at my chest. Men aren’t supposed to look at women’s chests. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t look at mine.’

‘It’s a very nice chest.’

Whoops.

She’d been out of circulation for too long, she thought in the ensuing silence. Maybe complimenting a man on his chest wasn’t something nicely brought-up women did. He was staring at her as if he’d never experienced such a thing. ‘Sorry,’ she managed at last. ‘Don’t look at me like I’m a porriwiggle. I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘It was a very nice compliment,’ he said cautiously. ‘What’s a porriwiggle?’

‘A tadpole and it’s not a compliment.’ She hesitated and then thought maybe it was. But it was also the truth. ‘Anyway, it’s not what I should be saying. I should be saying thank you for the food.’

‘Why are you destitute?’ He smiled. ‘Tadpoles don’t have money?’

She tugged the door open to the rest of the house, trying frantically to pull herself back into line. ‘We’re not destitute,’ she managed. ‘Just momentarily tight, and if we don’t hurry there’ll be no chips left.’

‘I can always buy more.’

‘Then you’ll get wet all over again. That’s the very last garment in this house that you might just possibly almost fit into, so let’s stop playing in the rain and go eat.’

He sat by the fire in Pippa’s gym pants, eating fish and chips, drinking hot chocolate, staying silent while the life of the farm went on around him.

It was almost as if Pippa didn’t know where to start with the questions, he thought, and that was okay as he was having trouble with the answers. Any minute now he’d have to tell them why he was here, but for now it just seemed too hard.

Pippa had taken one look at the meat and the pile of vegetables he’d brought and said, ‘Pies.’ So now a concoction on the stove was already smelling fantastic. Meanwhile she was rolling pastry and Sophie and Claire were helping.

Marc was hanging wet clothes round the kitchen, on the backs of chairs, over something the kids called a clothes horse, over every available surface.

‘You can’t hang that over me,’ Max said as Marc approached him with a damp windcheater and Marc smiled shyly but proceeded to hang it over the arm of his chair.

‘The fire’s hot. Pippa says the clothes dryer costs money to run.’

‘I’ll pay,’ Max growled and Pippa looked up from her pastry-making and grimaced.

‘That’s enough. You’ve been very generous but there are limits. We’re very grateful for the dryer and we will use it, but only when we must.’

He stared at her, bemused. She had a streak of flour across her face. The girls were making plaits of pastry to put on the pies. They were surrounded by a sea of flour and she didn’t seem to mind. Had he ever met a woman who worried how much it cost to dry clothes? Had he ever met a woman who looked like she did and was just…unaware?

She was knocking him sideways, he thought, dazed. Which was dumb. He’d had girlfriends in his life—of course he had. He was thirty-five. He’d grown pretty damned selective over the years, and the last woman he’d dated had almost rated a ring. Not quite though. She’d been maybe a bit too interested in the royal connection.

So what was he thinking? He hated the royal connection, so any attraction to Pippa would be disastrous. It was only this weird domesticity that was making him feel like this, he decided. Here were echoes of his childhood at his grandparents’ farm. Time out from royalty. Family…

A boy who looked like Thiérry. Cute-as-a-button twins. A snoring old dog.

Pippa.

Pippa had flour on her nose. He had the weirdest desire to kiss…

‘Will you stay for dinner?’ Marc asked, and he thought no, he needed to say what needed to be said and go. Fast. But he just wanted to…

He bit back his stupid wants. What was he thinking? Launching himself across the kitchen past kids and dog and kissing her? You’re losing your mind, boyo.

‘I…Pippa, I need to talk to you.’

But she was focused on pies. ‘These are ready to put together as soon as I come in from the dairy.’ She wiped her hands on her windcheater and smiled ruefully at her floury fingerprints. ‘What a mess. No matter. The cows won’t mind. But they’ll be waiting. I need to start milking.’

‘I’ll bring the cows in for you,’ Marc said, but Pippa shook her head.

‘I’ll do them myself. Marc, can you look after the girls?’ Then she turned to Max, worry behind her eyes. ‘I need to go,’ she said. ‘I assume you’ll be leaving as soon as your clothes dry? I…I’ll leave Dolores here.’

She was torn, he thought. She needed to milk, but she didn’t want to leave the children alone with him. And she couldn’t kick him out until his clothes dried. He looked down at Dolores, who was sleeping off one steak and dreaming of another.

‘She’s a great watchdog.’

Pippa flushed. ‘I didn’t mean…’

‘I know you didn’t,’ he said gently. ‘Do you always milk alone?’

‘Marc helps me a bit. We have a place in the shed where the girls can play and I can watch them. But Marc’s just got over bronchitis and I don’t want him wet again.’

‘I can help,’ Marc protested, but Pippa shook her head.

‘I know you can but I don’t want you to. I want you and the girls to stay dry.’

‘Are they safe here alone?’ Max asked, and then as he saw Marc’s look of indignation he thought maybe it was an inappropriate question.

‘Marc’s more than capable,’ Pippa said, hurriedly before Marc could protest. ‘He’s had to be. But I do have an intercom. I listen in and Marc calls me if there’s a problem.’

‘There’s never a problem,’ Marc said stolidly and Max smiled at him. The more he saw of this kid, the more he liked him.