His to Command: the Nanny: A Nanny for Keeps
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‘Excuse me?’ she said, but nowhere near as in-your-face what-the-heck-do-you-think-you’re-doing as she’d intended. ‘Are you a doctor?’
‘Yes, and I can tell you that the prognosis is a headache and a lump the size of an egg.’
‘I could have told you that…’ Wince. Oooch. Too much talking…‘Are you really a doctor?’
‘I’m somewhat out of practice,’ he admitted, ‘but I think I can handle a minor bump on the head.’
‘Minor!’ she exclaimed.
‘See? You’re almost back to normal. I’ll go and get an ice-pack.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘You’re disputing my diagnosis? Are you a doctor, too?’
‘Sarcasm is so unattractive.’ Then, ‘Besides, you’ve read my CV. You know exactly what I am.’
‘I’ve got a fair idea, although I’d still like to know why you dropped out of your nursing course at university.’ She took a breath to speak but he raised a warning finger that didn’t quite touch her lips. ‘Save it. Keep quiet and don’t move. I’ll be right back.’
‘I was just going to tell you to mind your own business,’ she muttered rebelliously, but only after he’d left the room.
Obviously he knew what he was talking about when he’d advised her to keep quiet, because she wished she’d obeyed him.
‘Susan is making you a cup of tea,’ he said, returning a minute or two later with crushed ice wrapped in a cloth. He laid it gently against her forehead and said, ‘How’s that?’
‘Cold?’ she offered. Then, because that sounded ungrateful, ‘Wonderfully cold.’ It was certainly a lot better than the thought of tea, the very idea of which made her feel sick. She didn’t tell him that; Dr Harry Talbot would be diagnosing concussion and whisking her off to hospital before she could say Jack Robinson and wouldn’t that make him a happy bunny…? ‘Thank you,’ she added, reaching up to take over the job of holding the ice-pack in place, her fingers getting entangled in his as they changed over.
‘What’s Maisie doing?’ she asked, more as a distraction than out of any deep concern.
‘Being Maisie.’
Weirdly, she understood exactly what he meant, but, feeling guilty as well as stupid, she said, ‘Damn it! What have I done with my phone? I was sure I’d put it in my pocket.’
‘Maybe it’s fallen out somewhere. You’ll find it when it rings.’
‘But I want it now!’ Then, blushing—that sounded sooo like Maisie at her very worst—‘Sorry…I just need to know what’s happening. Maisie shouldn’t be left out on a limb like this.’
‘I thought you said she wanted to stay.’
‘That’s not the point.’ Then, leaning her elbows on the desk, both hands clutching the ice-pack as she rested her head against it and trying to think through the pain…‘But you’re right. She seems happy enough.’
‘But of course you want to get on with your own life.’
‘I didn’t say that.’ She looked up at him from under her hands. ‘Did I say that?’
‘No.’ He looked as if he was going to say something but clearly changed his mind. Then, after a moment, ‘Did you find her anything more practical to wear in the meantime?’
‘Yes. And then again no.’
‘Well, that’s clear.’ He doubled up opposite her as if to check that her eyes weren’t glazing over.
‘I found her some stuff,’ she said, rousing herself, ‘but she really doesn’t see herself as a sweatshirt and jeans girl.’
‘She can’t spend her entire life in party dresses,’ he objected, not moving. ‘She must have some ordinary clothes.’
‘Your confidence does you credit. But yes, I suppose you’re right. There’s obviously been some kind of a slip-up on the packing front. Fortunately I found this.’ She dug around in her shirt pocket and fished out the photograph she’d found. Her fingers were wet and she wiped it on her sleeve before handing it to him. ‘It’s her mother wearing the same stuff.’
He stared at it for a moment, then returned it to her, without comment. ‘Did it do the trick?’
‘Would you exchange pink taffeta frills for denim bib overalls without a fuss?’
‘Fortunately, I’ve never had to make that choice.’
Was that a smile? Just the tiniest hint of one?
Encouraged, she said, ‘Actually, I had a bit of a brainwave and suggested I take a photograph of her exactly like this one. That seemed to do the trick.’
‘So what’s the problem? You need a camera? There’s got to be one around here somewhere.’
‘Thanks, but I have a camera. I was going on holiday,’ she reminded him.
‘Then why is she still in the pink frilly thing? I mean, there’s no shortage of puppies.’
‘No. But it’s not just the puppy.’ She wasn’t likely to have his undivided attention again any time soon. Best not waste it. ‘You were in the original photograph and she wants one exactly like it.’ Then, because she didn’t want him to say no without giving it some thought, she quickly added, ‘There’s no rush. The clothes are in the wash and it’s not exactly fit to take photographs out there this morning.’ Even if she could see straight. ‘In the meantime I’d better go and have another look for my phone.’
‘Jacqui…’
She made an effort to stand, but her knees didn’t feel quite up to it. It was nothing to do with the way he’d said her name. Very softly, not as if he wanted to make sure she was listening, but just because he wanted to say it…
‘I’m sorry.’
Her mistake.
‘What for?’ There were so many things to choose from…‘It wasn’t your fault I banged my head.’
‘About your holiday.’
Oh, that…
‘I promise I won’t say another word about it if you’ll let Maisie have her photograph.’
‘You provide the sun—’ he didn’t exactly growl, the embryo smile had gone but he didn’t seem bothered by her blatant attempt at a little emotional blackmail ‘—and I’ll turn up for the photo call.’
Which implied that he knew something about the prevailing weather conditions at Hill Tops that she didn’t.
It didn’t matter. He’d promised. And the sun had to shine eventually, if she stuck around for long enough—it had been shining in that old photograph she’d found, hadn’t it?—which was why, instead of responding with something snippy like ‘you’ve got a deal’, she smiled—a real smile this time—and said, ‘Thank you.’ Then, rather more weakly, ‘Now we’ve sorted that out, is there any chance of a couple of aspirin?’
‘Only if you’ll lie down for an hour and give them a chance to do their job.’
‘Are you sending me to bed?’
No, no, stupid thing to say. The way she felt at that moment, he’d have to carry her and she didn’t think that lying against his chest listening to his heart being put through its paces—she wasn’t stick-thin like his glamorous cousin—would do her condition any good at all.
‘What about Maisie?’ she demanded, in an attempt to shift that image from her brain.
‘Susan will take care of her.’
‘She’s got other things to do. Chickens, house-work…’
‘That isn’t your problem.’
OK, so she’d been hoping he might have a complete change of heart and volunteer to take care of Maisie himself, but her head hurt too much to worry about it.
‘All right. But there’s no way I’m going to bed. You’ll have to ask those dogs to budge up and let me share their sofa.’
‘I could, of course, insist that you go to the local A&E for an X-ray, since you’re obviously not in your right mind.’ Then, taking pity on her, ‘Come on. You can put your feet up in the library.’
‘The library? You mean you’re letting me back into the posh bit of the house? After this morning?’
She blinked. Had she really said that? The crack to her skull must have been harder than she’d thought.
He clamped his jaw down hard, presumably because it was against medical ethics to yell at someone in pain. Demand that they shut up.
She actually saw the slow breath he took, although if he counted to ten he did it mentally, before he said, ‘I think “posh” might be stretching it a bit, but at least you won’t get covered in dog hairs.’
She thought she should probably say something, but couldn’t think of anything sensible, so left it and he put a hand beneath her elbow, eased her to her feet.
‘Can you walk?’
‘Of course I can walk,’ she said, doing her best to ignore the fact that the room was spinning and clutching the ice-pack to her head. ‘I’m not an invalid.’
‘No, just a pain in the backside. Don’t you ever give your mouth a rest?’
‘Of course I…’ She stopped. ‘That was a trick question, wasn’t it?’
He didn’t answer, possibly to demonstrate that one of them had some control over their mouth, although if she had been a betting woman she might have had a mild flutter on the chance that it was because he was trying not to laugh. Definitely trying not to laugh. Almost definitely.
And, OK, doing a pretty good job of it.
She had a quick glimpse of panelled hall, the bottom of the substantial oak staircase that led to his bedroom and then she was in a room that had the perfect air of shabby comfort only attained through generations of occupation by the same family.
Velvet curtains that had once been green, but which now, except in the deepest folds, had faded to a silvery grey. A richly patterned Persian rug, worn practically threadbare. A huge Knole sofa standing four-square to a handsome fireplace which was laid with logs and only needed a match to send the reflection of flames flickering off the bookshelves that lined the walls.
Not a bit like the bare stone interior of the horrible giant’s house in her childhood story book.
First impressions could be so wrong…
Harry crossed to the hearth and hunkered down to put a match to the fire, although the room wasn’t cold. She perched on the edge of the sofa as he coaxed the fire to life, watching his deft movements, quick reaction as a log fell into the hearth, his broad back. And forgot her own pain as her stomach wrenched in empathy for pain she could not even imagine. And she closed her eyes.
‘Jacqui?’ She jerked them open. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes,’ she said, but without conviction.
‘You look a bit pale. Do you feel sick?’
She did, but not as a result of the bang on the head. ‘I’m fine, really.’
He continued to look at her for a moment, before turning back to the fire. When he was sure it had caught, he placed a guard in front of it.
‘Shall I take that?’
She looked down at the ice-pack, which was beginning to melt into her lap. ‘None of this is necessary,’ she protested. ‘I should be—’
‘What?’
Looking for her phone. Chasing Vickie to find out what was happening. But then, as Harry had pointed out, Maisie was happy enough. This was what she’d wanted. So why was she getting her knickers in a twist, instead of doing as she was told, lying back and letting everything work itself out?
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘Right answer.’
And this time the crease at the corner of his mouth was deep enough to qualify as a smile. Lopsided maybe. A trifle wry, even. But a heart-stopping improvement on the alternative.
She could live with ‘wry’.
‘Now all you have to do is put your feet up and I’ll go and get some aspirin.’
And to prevent any further argument, he bent, picked her feet up in one hand, pulled off her shoes and placed them on the sofa.
CHAPTER SEVEN
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…’