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His to Command: the Nanny: A Nanny for Keeps
Cara Colter
Liz Fielding
Jennie Adams
At his command… Whatever he needs…The Nanny Jacqui Moore is on the run - from her emotions - until she meets little orphaned Maisie and is railroaded into becoming her nanny! But the master of the house, Harry Talbot, also steals Jacqui's heart. And now there's nowhere to run…Feisty redhead Prudence Winslow is down to her last cent when she meets Ryan Kaelan, a real-life prince, and his motherless children who need her. Pru takes the job, thinking it wasn't Ryan's jaw-dropping sexiness that convinced her… Max Saunders is shocked to discover he has twin sons. He needs a nanny; Phoebe Gilbert doesn't relish the thought of living with Max, but the boys want her!Max thinks Phoebe could be a convenient wife. Will she marry him for the twins… ?




His to Command: The Nanny
A Nanny for Keeps
Liz Fielding

The Prince and The Nanny
Cara Colter

Parents of Convenience
Jennie Adams

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

A Nanny for Keeps
Liz Fielding

About the Author
LIZ FIELDING started writing at the age of twelve, when she won a writing competition at school. After that early success there was quite a gap—during which she was busy working in Africa and the Middle East, getting married and having children—before her first book was published in 1992. now readers worldwide fall in love with her irresistible heroes, adore her independent-minded heroines. Visit Liz’s website for news and extracts of new books at www.lizfielding.com

CHAPTER ONE
JACQUI MOORE peered through the low, swirling cloud, intent on keeping her precious car on the lane snaking between dry-stone walls that were much too close for comfort, and wished, not for the first time that day, that she was better at saying no.
‘It’s just a flying nanny job, Jacqui. A piece of cake for someone as experienced as you.’
‘I’m not a nanny, flying or otherwise. Not any more.’
‘A couple of hours, max,’ Vickie Campbell continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘I wouldn’t ask but this is an emergency and Selina Talbot is a very special client.’
‘Selina Talbot?’
‘Now I have your attention,’ Vickie said, with satisfaction. ‘You know she adopted an orphaned refugee child?’
‘Yes, I’ve seen her photograph in Celebrity…’
‘We supply all her staff.’
‘Do you?’ Jacqui jerked herself back from the brink of temptation. ‘So why doesn’t she have one of your wonderful nannies to take care of her little girl?’
‘She does. At least she will have. I’ve got someone lined up, but she’s on holiday—’
‘Holiday! Now, there’s a coincidence. You do recall that you asked me to drop by on my way to the airport…’ she laid heavy emphasis on the word airport ‘…since I was passing the door anyway. You had something for me, you said,’ she prompted.
‘Oh, yes.’ Vickie opened her desk drawer and handed her a padded envelope. ‘The Gilchrists sent it.’
Jacqui took the envelope with its Hong Kong postmark and, heart beating like a drum as she tore it open, tipped out the contents. The supple silver links of the bracelet curled into her palm. A card fluttered to the ground.
With a feeling of dread she picked it up, turned it over and read the message.
‘Jacqui?’
She shook her head, blinking furiously as she bent over her bag, pushing it out of sight. Unable for a moment to speak.
‘What is it? Did the Gilchrists send you a keepsake?’
Unable to tell her exactly what the Gilchrists had done, she said, ‘Something like that.’
Vickie took it from her. ‘Oh, it’s a charm bracelet and they’ve started your collection with a little heart. How sweet.’ Then, ‘It seems to be engraved,’ she said, holding it closer to the light and squinting to read the tiny words. ‘I really must get my eyes tested, but I think it says…“…forget and smile…”.’ She frowned. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s a quotation from Christina Rossetti,’ Jacqui said, numbly. “‘Better by far you should forget and smile, Than that you should remember and be sad.”’
‘Oh. Yes…Well. I see.’ Then, gently, ‘Maybe that’s good advice.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘I know how much it hurt to lose her, Jacqui. She’ll never forget you. Everything you did for her.’
Jacqui knew exactly what she’d done. That was why she could never take the risk again.
‘Do you want me to fasten it for you?’
And because it would have looked odd if she’d stuffed it away out of sight with the card that had come with it, she allowed Vickie to fasten the chain about her wrist. Then, because she had to get out of there, she cleared her throat and said, ‘Right, well, if that’s all, I’d better be getting on my way.’
‘Don’t rush off. Your plane doesn’t leave for hours.’ Vickie smiled. One of those full-blooded, come on, I understand that you were upset, but it’s time to move on, smiles. ‘And, since you’re flying by a no-frills airline from some airport in the back of beyond, you undoubtedly need the money. You haven’t worked for months.’
‘I haven’t worked for you for months,’ she corrected. ‘Which was quite intentional. But I have been working as a temp in a jolly nice office. Regular hours, no weekends and the money isn’t bad, either.’
Vickie rolled her eyes in a give-me-strength look, not fooled for a minute.
OK, ‘jolly’ probably overstated it.
‘They’ve asked me to stay on,’ she said. ‘Permanently.’
‘It’s not even as if you’ll have to put yourself out,’ Vickie continued, treating this statement with the contempt it probably deserved and completely ignoring it.
Jacqui had done a very good job for her temporary employers, doing all the dull, repetitive jobs that no one else wanted and doing them well. She’d hated every minute of it, but it was her penance and for six months she’d punished herself. But it hadn’t helped. She was going to have to try something different and maybe her family were right, a couple of weeks on her own, with no pressures, would give her time to decide what she was going to do with the rest of her life.
‘You practically pass the house,’ Vickie persisted, crashing into her thoughts and forcing her to concentrate on the immediate problem. But then she hadn’t attracted all those crème-de-la-crème clients by allowing herself to be put off at the first obstacle.
‘Is that so? The motorway runs right through Little Hinton, does it?’
‘Not exactly through it,’ she admitted, ‘but it’s a very minor diversion. The village is no more than five miles from the nearest exit.’
‘Five? Would that be as the crow flies?’
‘Six at the most. I can show you on the map.’
‘Thanks, but I’ll pass.’
‘OK, OK, I’ll be totally honest with you—’
‘That would make a nice change.’
‘I’m counting on you.’ Oh, help…‘Selina Talbot will be arriving at any moment and it could be hours before I can find someone else to do this for me.’
‘If you go in for Machiavellian subterfuge, Vickie, you should always have a back-up plan.’
‘Please. It’s only a little job and you wouldn’t want to leave a small child here, in my office, bored to tears, would you?’
She pressed her hand over the chain on her wrist until it dug in painfully. ‘I could live with it,’ she said. ‘Whether you could is another matter.’
‘Please, Jacqui. I’ve got meetings, interviews—’
‘And an office full of your own staff—’
‘Who are all fully occupied on vital work. Just drop Maisie off at her grandmother’s house and then you can head for the sun and spend the next two weeks without a thought for the rest of us slaving away in the cold and rain.’
‘You think you can make me feel guilty?’ she enquired, with every appearance of carelessness.
The holiday hadn’t been her idea. It was her family who kept insisting that she needed a break. Not that she needed telling. She had to face herself in the mirror every morning. Vickie, she suspected, thought she knew better and had manufactured this ‘crisis’ purely for her benefit. It was about as blatant a piece of in-at-the-deep-end amateur psychology as she’d ever witnessed and it would serve her right if she walked out and left her lumbered with a spoilt brat causing chaos in her well-run office.
‘I’ll pay you double—’
‘That is desperate.’
‘—and when you come back,’ Vickie continued, as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘we can have a little chat about your future.’
‘I don’t have a future,’ she declared forcefully, cutting her off before this whole thing got completely out of hand.
She’d only agreed to come into the office on her way to the airport because it gave her the perfect chance to tell Vickie face-to-face that she must remove her from her books once and for all. Finally. Irrevocably. Put a stop to the tempting little job offers that she kept leaving on her answering machine.
At least in Spain she’d be safe from these sneaky little raids on her determination.
‘Not as a nanny,’ she said as she headed for the door. ‘I’ll send you a postcard—’
Vickie leapt to her feet but before she could fling herself between Jacqui and freedom, Selina Talbot swept in; tall, golden and clearly worth every cent of the millions of dollars she earned as a supermodel. The fortune she was paid as the face of a famous cosmetic company.
Maisie, her six-year-old adopted daughter—familiar from endless full-colour ‘happy family’ spreads in lifestyle magazines and the object of Vickie’s unsubtle strategic planning—was at her side.
The little girl was not wearing the wash-and-wear clothes any sensible nanny would have dressed her in for travelling. Instead she was togged out in the full fairy-princess kit: a white, full-skirted voile dress with a mauve satin sash, opaque white tights and satin Mary Janes, the perfect foil for her beautiful chocolate-dark skin. A sparkly tiara perched on top of her jet curls completed the picture. Only the wings were missing.
One of her hands was in fingertip contact with her mother. From the other dangled a small white linen tote bag on which the words ‘Maisie’s Stuff’ had been applique´d in the same mauve satin as her sash.
The designer’s logo embroidered in the same colour suggested that the outfit was a one-off creation for his favourite model’s little girl.
Most small girls of her acquaintance—and she’d known enough to be certain of this—would have been crumpled and grubby within five minutes of being dressed in such an outfit.
Not Maisie Talbot. She looked like an exquisite doll. One of those collector’s editions that was kept in a glass case so it wouldn’t get spoiled by sticky fingers.
Most children faced with the prospect of being left in the care of complete strangers—and once again Jacqui had plenty of experience as a flying nanny to back up her theory—would have been clinging tearfully to their mother at this point.
Maisie remained still, silent and composed as Selina Talbot air-kissed her daughter from about three feet above her head and—having acknowledged Vickie’s introduction to ‘Jacqui Moore, the very experienced nanny I told you about’ by the simple expedient of handing over the matching white holdall that contained her daughter’s belongings—departed with an unnerving lack of maternal fuss.
A tug of something very like compassion for this doll-child slipped beneath Jacqui’s defences; a dangerous urge to pick her up and give her a cuddle. The impulse was stillborn as Maisie’s dark eyes met hers and, with all the poised hauteur of her mother on a Paris catwalk, warned her not to think of doing any such thing.
Then, having firmly established a cordon sanitaire about her person, Maisie said, ‘I’d like to go now, Jacqui.’ And headed for the door, where she waited for someone to open it for her.
Vickie Campbell mouthed the words ‘please’ as Maisie tapped her foot impatiently and Jacqui was sorely tempted to walk away, leaving Vickie to deal with the fallout. It wasn’t Vickie’s mute appeal that made the difference. She just couldn’t bring herself to reject a child who, despite her cool, in-charge exterior, seemed very much alone.
And she was practically passing the door.
‘You owe me, Vickie,’ she said, surrendering, helpless in the face of this two-pronged attack.
‘Big time,’ Vickie replied, with a grin that had better be of relief. ‘Come and see me when you get back and I’ll have the kind of job waiting for you that will make you drool.’
Aaah…She’d nearly fallen into the carefully set trap. Once money had exchanged hands…
‘On second thoughts, have this one on me,’ she replied. Then, giving her full attention to her unexpected charge, she said, ‘OK, Maisie, let’s go before my car gets clamped.’
‘Is this it?’ the child demanded, unimpressed, as they reached the street and she was confronted by a much cherished, but admittedly past its best, VW Beetle.
‘This is my car,’ Jacqui agreed, opening the door.
‘I never travel in anything but a Mercedes.’
At which point she began to understand Vickie’s anxiety not to be left alone with Miss Maisie Talbot for any length of time.
‘This is a Mercedes,’ she said, briskly.
‘It doesn’t look like one.’
‘No? Well, it’s a dress-down-at-work day.’
Maisie’s little forehead wrinkled as she considered this outrageous statement. Then she asked, ‘What’s a dress-down-at-work day?’
It was too late to wish she’d kept her mouth shut. Something to bear in mind, though, next time she thought of being smart with a six-year-old.
‘It’s a day when you’re allowed to go into work wearing jeans instead of a suit,’ she explained.
‘Why would anyone want to do that?’
‘For fun?’ she offered. Then, because Maisie’s idea of fun was dressing up, not down, ‘OK, well, sometimes, to raise money for charity, grown-ups pay for the pleasure of wearing whatever they want to work. Wouldn’t you like to wear your princess outfit to school instead of your uniform and raise some money for a good cause at the same time?’
‘I don’t go to school.’
‘You don’t?’
‘I have a home tutor.’ Then, ‘Is that why you’re not wearing a proper uniform? Because you’re dressing down for charity?’
Jacqui, who had never worn a uniform, proper or otherwise, pretended she hadn’t heard as she busied herself brushing down the back seat, retrieving a couple of toffee papers from the floor before she tossed in the white linen holdall next to her own bag and said, ‘OK, Maisie, hop in and I’ll buckle you up.’
Maisie stepped aboard, like a princess boarding a Rolls-Royce, and spread her skirts carefully across the seat. Only when she was satisfied with the result did she permit Jacqui to fasten her seat belt.
‘So,’ she said, in an effort to move the conversation along a little, make a connection. ‘Are you planning to be a model when you grow up? Like Mummy?’
‘Oh, please,’ Maisie said, giving her a look that would have withered nettles. ‘I’ve already done that and it’s sooo boring.’
‘I’d heard that,’ Jacqui said, getting behind the wheel and starting the car.
‘When I grow up, I’m going to be a doctor just like…’
‘Like?’ she prompted, checking the road and pulling out. But Maisie didn’t answer, she had already got out her personal CD player from the bag containing her ‘Stuff’ and clamped the headphones to her ears, plainly indicating that she had no further interest in conversation.
It was fine, Jacqui told herself. She’d got used to journeys without endless kindergarten chatter. Eventually. You could get tired of making up new verses for ‘The Wheels on the Bus’.
‘We’re nearly there, Maisie,’ she said, as she took the exit from the roundabout marked Little Hinton.
‘No, we’re not,’ Maisie replied, without bothering to look up. It certainly made a change from the more usual, ‘Are we there yet…? Are we there yet…? Are we there yet…?’
But then there was nothing ‘usual’ about Maisie.
Unfortunately the child knew what she was talking about.
The village itself was nearer ten miles than six from the motorway, but it was easy enough to find and it certainly lived up to its name. There was a village shop with a post office, a pub, a garage and a small school, where a group of children were playing a skipping game in the playground, and a scattering of houses huddled around an untidy patch of grass masquerading as a village green. It took all of five minutes to check them all out, but it didn’t come as a complete surprise to discover that High Tops was not among them.
The clue, of course, was in the name.
The village nestled in a small valley. Behind it rose a range of hills that were mostly obscured by low cloud. It didn’t take a genius to work out where a house called High Tops was likely to be.
‘So much for the “minor” in diversion,’ she muttered, pulling up outside the village shop. ‘You can forget the postcard, Vickie Campbell,’ she muttered to herself.
‘I told you we weren’t nearly there,’ Maisie said.
‘So you did.’
‘It’s miles and miles and miles. Up there,’ she added, pointing in the direction of the mist-covered hills.
‘Thank you for that, Maisie. Please don’t move while I ask for directions.’
‘I know the way. I told you, it’s up there.’
‘Lovely. I won’t be long.’
The child shrugged and clamped the headphones back in place.
‘High Tops? You’re going up to High Tops?’ The doubtful look she received from the woman behind the shop counter was not reassuring.
‘If you could just point me in the right direction?’ she prompted.
‘Are you expected?’
The city girl in Jacqui resisted the urge to enquire what possible business it could be of hers; this was, after all, deep in the country, where, according to folklore, everyone considered it their right to know everyone else’s business. Besides, she really needed directions.
‘Yes, I’m expected,’ she said.
‘Oh, well, that’s all right, then. Could you take their post for me?’
The woman didn’t wait for her to reply, just handed her a carrier bag full of mail.
‘Right, well,’ she said, ‘if you can give me directions. I’m running a bit late.’
‘All the same, you city folk. Just don’t go racing up that lane. You never know what’s on the road up there. I saw a llama once.’ She didn’t wait for an answer, which was just as well, since Jacqui couldn’t hope to top a stray llama, but led the way out of the shop to point her in the right direction. ‘It’s simple enough. Carry along here, take the first turning left past the school and keep going until you get to the top. It’s the only house up there. You can’t miss it.’
‘Thank you so much. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘Just be careful how you go. The cloud’s low today and that lane is so full of ruts and potholes it really isn’t fit for anything but a Land Rover.’ She gave the VW a doubtful look and then did a swift double take as she caught sight of Maisie sitting in the back. ‘Is that…?’ Then, obviously deciding that it was, ‘Proper little doll, isn’t she? Her mother was just the same at that age.’ Then, ‘Well, obviously not the same…’ Perhaps realising that she was treading a dangerous line, she said, ‘She always looked like a little princess, too. I swear if she’d fallen in a midden she’d have come out smelling of roses.’
Jacqui thought that extremely unlikely, but didn’t say so. Instead she smiled and said, ‘Well, thanks for the directions. And the warning. I’ll watch out for the potholes. And the llama.’
She was definitely watching. Easing carefully over another deep rut as the wipers swatted away the moisture clinging to the windscreen, she gritted her teeth and continued to inch her way up the lane in low gear.
‘Nearly there,’ she said reassuringly, although more to herself than Maisie, who was ignoring the jolting with as much composure as a duchess. A lot more composure than she felt, as the bottom of the car ground on the edge of a deep, water-filled pothole that stretched most of the way across the lane. A broken exhaust was the last thing she needed.
The torture continued for another half a mile, ratcheting up the tension and tightening her shoulders. Finally, when she was beginning to think that she must have missed the house in the mist or that she’d taken the wrong lane altogether, an old, lichen-encrusted gate that looked as if it hadn’t been opened in years loomed out of nowhere, blocking the way. On it were two signs. One might have once said ‘High Tops’ but was so old that only the odd letter was still clear enough to read. The other was new. It read ‘Keep Out’.
She climbed out, and doing her best to avoid the mud and puddles, lifted the heavy metal closure and put her weight behind it, anticipating resistance…and very nearly fell flat on her face as it swung back on well-oiled hinges.
Maisie didn’t say a word as Jacqui scraped the mud off her shoes and climbed back behind the wheel, apparently still totally enraptured by the CD she was listening to. But she was wearing a thoroughly selfsatisfied little smile that betrayed exactly what she was thinking:
Little Princess, 1—Dumb Adult, 0.
Jacqui put the car into gear and a hundred yards or so further on the shadowy outline of a massive, ivyclad stone house, towers at each corner, the crenellated roof suggesting a fortified stronghold rather than the home of someone’s grandma, appeared out of the swirling mist.
Despite the fact that she’d never been anywhere near High Tops before, it looked vaguely familiar and Jacqui felt an odd sense of foreboding. It was, doubtless, caused by the combination of mist and mud.
She might not be totally in the mood for sun, sand and sangria, but given the choice she knew which option she’d choose. She almost felt sorry for Maisie.
Totally ridiculous of course, she told herself. At any moment the vast door would be flung open and the child enfolded in a loving welcome from her grandma, who must surely be looking out for them.
The door remained closed, however, and rather than expose Maisie’s satin shoes to the elements unnecessarily she said, ‘You’d better wait here while I ring the doorbell.’
Maisie looked as if she was about to say something, but instead she just sighed.
Jacqui was enfolded in the cold, damp air as she ran up the steps to a pair of iron-studded front doors that offered no concessions to the twenty-first century. There was nothing as remotely modern as an electric bell. Just an old-fashioned bell pull.
As she lifted her arm the silver bracelet slid down and the heart caught the light and flashed brightly. For a moment she froze, then she tugged hard on the bell pull and a long way off she heard the jangle of an old-fashioned bell.
From somewhere a dog raised its voice in a mournful howl.
Jacqui looked around nervously, half expecting a near relation of the Hound of the Baskervilles to come bounding out of the mist. Ridiculous. This was not Dartmoor…But nevertheless she shivered and, grasping the bell pull rather more firmly, she tugged it again.
Twice.
Almost before she let go there was a thud as a stiff bolt shot back. Then, as one half of the door opened, she realised why the house seemed familiar. She’d seen it—or at least something very like it—in a book of fairy stories she’d been given as a child; the one with all those terrifying tales about witches and trolls and giants.
This was the house where the big bad giant lived.
He still did.
Half an inch short of six feet—without her socks—Jacqui was tall for a woman but the man who opened the door loomed threateningly above her. OK, she was a step lower than him, but it wasn’t just his height; he was broad, too, his shoulders filling the opening, and even his hair, a thick, dark, shaggy lion mane that clearly hadn’t been near a pair of scissors in months, was, well, big. Gold eyes—which might have been attractive in any other setting—and three days’ growth of beard only added to the leonine effect.
‘Yes?’ he demanded, discouragingly.
It was a little late to wish she’d stuck to her original plan; the one where, exhaust safely in one piece, she’d be heading down the motorway with nothing more challenging ahead of her than lying on a Spanish beach for two weeks.
Instead she did her best not to think about the giant in her book who’d scared her witless as he ground little kids bones to make his bread and, with what she hoped was a bright smile and a professional manner, she offered her hand in a friendly gesture.
‘Hello. I’m Jacqui Moore.’ Then, since he clearly required more information before he committed himself to a handshake, ‘From the Campbell Agency?’
‘Are you selling something? If you are I’m afraid you’ve risked your exhaust for nothing—’
‘More than risked it,’ she responded, a shade more testily than was professional as she let her hand drop, unshaken, to her side. There had been a throaty sound from the car’s rear in those last couple of hundred yards to the house, suggesting that it hadn’t quite cleared that last pothole. ‘Shouldn’t you do something about that lane?’
‘I rather think that’s my business, not yours. Be more careful on the way down.’ And he stepped back and began to close the door.
For a moment she was too shocked to do or say anything. Then, as the gap narrowed, she did what any resourceful nanny would do in the same situation. She stuck out her foot. It was just as well she was wearing ankle boots beneath her jeans. If her footwear had been less substantial, it would have been crushed.
The giant looked at her foot and then at her. ‘There’s something else?’ he enquired. ‘You didn’t just come to complain about the state of the lane?’
‘No, I’m not a masochist, neither am I selling anything. I’m a flying nanny.’
‘Really?’ He opened the door a little wider, releasing her foot. She didn’t move it, even when his predator’s eyes took their time over a toe-to-head inspection that under any other circumstances would have invited a slap. Even if she’d been feeling that reckless, one look at the hard line of his upper lip was all it took to warn her that taking such liberties would not be wise. Finally, he shook his head. ‘No. I’m not convinced. Mary Poppins wouldn’t have left home without her umbrella.’
OK, that was it. She was here as a favour to Vickie, as a kindness to a child. She had other places to be and she’d just about had it with the giant.
‘Could you please tell Mrs Talbot that I’m here?’ she replied, in her best I’m-so-not-impressed manner. ‘She is expecting me.’
‘I rather doubt that,’ he said. Nothing much happened to the upper lip, but a shift in his expression deepened the lines about his mouth, drawing attention to its lower, shockingly sensuous companion.
‘Yes…’ Momentarily mesmerised, she had to force herself to focus on the job. ‘I’ve, um, brought Maisie…’ She turned away, not so much to indicate the child as to give herself some breathing space.
The giant in her story book had never had that effect on her.
Maisie’s response to this attention was to slump down further in the seat until all that could be seen of her was the sparkly little tiara.
‘So I see,’ the giant responded unenthusiastically after the briefest of glances and instantly losing the almost smile. ‘Why?’
‘To stay. Why else?’
‘With Mrs Talbot?’
Now he sounded perplexed. Which might have been good, since it meant she had company, except, from the way he was looking at her—as if she were crazy—she was almost certain that it wasn’t good at all.
‘With Mrs Kate Talbot. Her grandmother,’ she elaborated with exaggerated patience. Maybe it was be-cause he was so tall, but it seemed to be taking an inordinately long time for a very simple message to reach his brain. ‘I was engaged by the Campbell Agency, on behalf of Ms Selina Talbot, to bring her daughter to High Tops. I’m actually on rather a tight schedule so I’d be grateful if I could hand her over and get on my way.’
‘I’m sure you would, but that won’t be possible. I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey, Jacqui Moore.’ He didn’t sound one bit sorry. ‘My aunt—’
‘Your aunt?’
‘My aunt, Mrs Talbot, Maisie’s grandmother,’ he responded, in blatant mockery of her own earlier explanation, ‘is at present visiting her sister in New Zealand.’
‘What? No…’
Jacqui took a deep breath. Obviously there was some simple misunderstanding here.
‘Obviously there is some simple misunderstanding here,’ she said, in an effort to convince herself. Vickie might be devious but she wasn’t stupid and she took her business very seriously indeed. ‘Ms Talbot brought her daughter into the office this morning. I was there when she arrived.’
‘Lucky you.’
‘I was simply pointing out that she wouldn’t have done that if her mother was away. She must have spoken to her. Checked that it was convenient.’
‘You might have done that. I would certainly have done that…’
The giant’s mouth once more offered something that might have been a smile, except that this time no hint of amusement reached his eyes. The effect was rather more a lip-curl of contempt than a good-humoured chuckle. She dragged her gaze from his mouth…
‘…but even as a child, Sally—Selina—had a tendency to assume her wish was her mother’s command. She never did learn to ask nicely like everyone else. Perhaps when you look the way she does you don’t have to.’
‘But—’
‘Nevertheless, on this occasion she’s going to have to put her social life on the back burner and for once play at being mother for real.’
‘But—’
But she was speaking to a closed door.
Harry Talbot closed the door and collapsed briefly against it, the sweat trickling down the back of his neck nothing to do with his recent battle with a recalcitrant boiler.
Damn Sally. Damn Jacqui Moore. Damn everyone…
He straightened, took slow, deep, calming breaths and turned to face the door, anticipating further irate jangling on the bell, but whatever game his family thought they were playing, he wasn’t joining in.
Taking care of Sally’s menagerie of rescue animals was a small price to pay for solitude. They didn’t talk. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t stare at him, wondering if he’d lost his mind.
Maisie was something else.
That woman was something else.
The bell, unexpectedly, remained silent, but he didn’t fall into the trap of believing, hoping, that they had gone. She hadn’t started her car and once she’d phoned her office for instructions he knew that Miss Jacqui Moore—who, in clinging jeans and a skimpy top that clung to curves that Mary Poppins could only dream of, looked nothing like the nannies that had graced his childhood nursery—would be back demanding refuge for her charge and a little civility for herself.
She’d have to make do with one out of two. And that only as a temporary measure.
Meanwhile he wasn’t going to hang around waiting on her convenience. He had a boiler to fix.
Behind her the car door squeaked open and Jacqui turned just in time to see Maisie carefully avoiding a puddle as she eased herself to the ground.
‘Maisie, stay in the car—’ She needed to think. No, she needed to call Vickie. She’d have to get someone out here to take over from her…
‘I have to go to the bathroom,’ the child said. ‘Right now.’
With some children that would mean RIGHT NOW! With others it was more in the nature of an early warning. Although she suspected that Maisie was a child who thought that everything she wanted should be handed to her RIGHT NOW, she was counting on the fact that she wouldn’t wait until the last moment to announce her need for the bathroom. She wouldn’t take the slightest risk of spoiling her pristine appearance.
Or maybe that was simply what she hoped, putting off the evil moment when she’d have to confront the giant again.
She regarded the bell pull with misgivings. Given the choice between giving it another tug and instructing Maisie to cross her legs, she’d have chosen the latter course. Unfortunately this wasn’t about her. She was going to have to be brave. Soon…
‘Just hold on for a second or two, Maisie,’ she instructed, aware that any sign of weakness would be taken advantage of, then, pushing a strand of damp hair off her cheek and shivering a little as the cold mist seeped into her clothes, she dug her mobile out of her bag and punched in the office number. Before she bearded the giant again, she wanted to speak to Vickie and find out what the heck was going on.
‘And I want a drink,’ Maisie added, taking no notice of the instruction to stay put.
‘Please,’ she corrected automatically.
Maisie sighed. ‘Please.’
‘There’s some juice in my bag on the front seat—’
‘A hot drink.’
Little Princess, 2—Dumb Adult yet to score.
But the child had a point. She was beginning to feel the need of a cup of something warming herself. And now the idea had been put into her head, she’d welcome a comfort break, too.
‘Look, just give me a minute, will you? I need to make a phone call and then we’ll sort something out.’
Maisie shrugged and she turned her attention back to the phone.
‘Come on, come on…’ she muttered impatiently, getting clammier and colder by the minute. ‘You really should wait in the car, Maisie; it’s colder up here and your dress will go all limp in this weather,’ she said, appealing to the child’s priorities.
When there was no reply she looked around and was just in time to catch a flash of white frock disappearing around the side of the house.

CHAPTER TWO
‘OH, HECK!’
Jacqui had no choice but to abandon the call and take off after Maisie, vaguely registering a huge paved courtyard with a stable block on the far side as she rounded the back of the house.
She finally caught up with Maisie just as she stepped through the back door, which, despite the weather, was standing wide open.
‘What are you doing?’
‘No one ever uses the front door,’ Maisie said, matter-of-factly.
‘They don’t?’
‘Of course not. I’d have told you if you’d asked me.’
And, completely untouched by the mud that seemed to be clinging liberally to her own shoes, her dress as fresh as it had been when they left the office, Maisie walked into the house as if she owned it.
Jacqui, given no choice in the matter, followed her through an extensive mud room littered with boots, umbrellas and an impressive array of waxed jackets that looked as if they’d been handed down for generations—they probably had—and into a huge farmhouse kitchen warmed by an old-fashioned solid-fuel stove.
There was a large dog basket beside it, companionably shared by a buff-coloured chicken, feathers fluffed up to keep in the heat, and two, or possibly three, silver-tabby cats. They were so entwined—and so alike—that it was impossible to tell. A large, shaggy and de-pressed-looking hound was lying beside it, drying his muddy paws.
But for the chicken, she might have been tempted to lie down and join him. Instead she turned to Maisie and said, ‘You know, sometimes it’s better not to wait until you’re asked. Just in case the person who should do the asking doesn’t catch on to the fact that there’s a question.’
Jacqui stopped herself. Clearly this was not the kind of conversation that your average nanny had with six-year-olds in their care.
But then she was no longer a nanny.
And Maisie, who was not exactly your average six-year-old, responded with a casual shrug. ‘You didn’t listen when I told you I knew the way,’ she pointed out. ‘I didn’t think you’d listen about the door.’
Why, Jacqui silently appealed to whatever deity was responsible for the welfare of lapsed nannies, was there never a midden handy when you needed one?
‘Come on.’ And, not hanging around to debate the matter, Maisie opened another door, leaving Jacqui with no choice but to abandon the warmth of the kitchen and follow the child into a draughty inner hallway from which an equally draughty staircase—the kind constructed for servants to use in the days when people who lived in houses like this had servants—rose to the next floor. ‘It’s this way.’
‘What is?’ she snapped as the cold emphasised the dampness of her clothes. Then, closing her eyes and reminding herself that Maisie was only six, that she was the adult and needed to get a grip, said, ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.’
‘S’OK.’
No, it wasn’t. It was just the latest in a long series of mistakes she’d made that day, the biggest of which had been to respond to Vickie’s call. Fooling herself into believing that it would give her a chance to convince the woman that she meant it when she said she was finished as a nanny. She’d broken all the rules and she’d been punished for it, but not as hard as she was punishing herself. And then Vickie had said that she had a package for her and she’d discovered she wasn’t quite as detached, or as strong as she thought.
She took a deep, calming breath, opened her eyes and discovered she’d just made mistake number umpteen, because while she wasn’t paying attention Maisie had disappeared.
‘Oh, terrific!’
Clearly six months working in an office had dulled her instinct for trouble. Computers didn’t get into mischief, or disappear, the minute you took your eyes off them. She’d lost the precious edge that kept her in control…
Looking around, she had half a dozen doors to choose from and, picking the nearest, she opened it to find a large pantry lined with shelves and stacked with enough of the basic essentials to feed a large family for months. But no Maisie.
As she moved to the next door the phone in her hand began to squawk loudly. She glanced at it and realised that in her mad dash after the runaway princess, she hadn’t stopped to disconnect her call to the office.
She put the phone to her ear and without preamble said, ‘Vickie, you’ve got a problem…’
‘Jacqui? Is that you?’
‘Yes, Vickie, it’s me, Jacqui,’ she confirmed, opening door two on a butler’s pantry. ‘Jacqui,’ she repeated, ‘who you’ve sent on a fool’s errand.’
Door three, slightly ajar, revealed a small and very hard-used sitting room. Two elderly cream Labradors were in possession of the sofa and from the quantity of pale hair clinging to the fabric, considered it their personal property.
‘Relax, boys,’ she said, in response to anxious wags from two tails. Then, returning to her theme, ‘Jacqui,’ she continued, since Vickie had clearly cottoned on to the fact that she was seriously irritated and had decided to let her get it all off her chest in one go without interruption, ‘who will be invoicing you for a new exhaust.’
‘A new exhaust!’
She’d been sure that one would get a reaction.
‘Jacqui, who’s stuck in the middle of nowhere with a precocious six-year-old who not only dresses like a princess, but also thinks she is one…’
At which point she stopped of her own volition as she belatedly realised what was going on.
What a simpleton!
Vickie had said that the new nanny she’d picked for Ms Selina Talbot was on holiday prior to taking up her appointment. Clearly Jacqui was the nanny she’d picked; she just hadn’t told her yet, hoping that she could snare her with her wiles…
What a fool! She’d even remarked on the coincidence and still hadn’t twigged. ‘Take her to her grandmother’s house…’ That was all she’d been asked to do. Not ‘take her to her grandmother’. There never had been a grandmother, not in this hemisphere anyway.
And when—shock, horror—it turned out that there was no sweet and cuddly old lady standing by to offer hearth and home, only a deeply grouchy male who wouldn’t let them past the front door, Vickie was counting on Jacqui’s nurturing back-up system to kick in and take over. Knew she’d abandon her holiday to look after the child until her mother returned. After all, what else could she possibly do?
‘Jacqui? Are you still there.’
‘Oh, yes, I’m still here, but not for much longer. I’ve been a bit slow on the uptake, but you’ve finally been rumbled, Vickie Campbell, and I’m telling you, it won’t work.’
‘What are you talking about?’
She sounded so innocent! As if she really hadn’t a clue…
‘Your devious little plan to get me back on your books, earning you money, darling, that’s what! I won’t do it any more, Vickie. I told you. I can’t—’
‘Jacqui, you seem distraught. Have you had an accident? Is Maisie all right?’
‘Maisie? Excuse me? You’re worried about Maisie?’
Actually, good point. Where was Maisie? She opened another door. This time it was a small, untidy office. A small, untidy, unoccupied office. She wasn’t sure which of a number of feelings claimed priority: gratitude that she had so far avoided the resident ogre, irritation with Maisie for doing a disappearing act or just plain annoyance at herself for being so gullible.
‘I’m worried about both of you,’ Vickie said, reclaiming her attention and settling the matter. This was all her fault.
‘Me too, but mostly I’m worried about missing my flight,’ she said. ‘It was a cheap last-minute deal and I won’t get a refund from the airline. I’m giving you due warning that I’ll be looking to you to make good my losses.’ Then, syrup-sweet, ‘I do hope Ms Selina Talbot will understand why a simple two-hour job has cost her so much.’ Finally, giving up the search and resorting to lung power, she called, ‘Maisie! Where are you?’
‘Jacqui? Have you lost her?’ Vickie was beginning to sound genuinely worried, which was marginally cheering.
‘Only temporarily. I’ll have her safe and sound by the time you arrive to pick her up.’
‘Me? I can’t pick her up, I’ve got a meeting with the bank…’ Then, when Jacqui didn’t fill the silence with reassurance, ‘Where are you, exactly?’
‘Exactly? I’m in the inner hallway at High Tops, Maisie is somewhere at High Tops, too, but exactly where I don’t know. The one person who isn’t at High Tops is Maisie’s grandmother.’
‘I don’t understand. Where is she?’
‘In New Zealand.’
‘What’s she doing in New Zealand, for heaven’s sake?’
‘At a guess I’d say she’s having a holiday…’
‘OK, OK, I’m sorry—’
‘Don’t be sorry. Be here. It’ll take you an hour and a half and if you leave now there’s a chance I’ll make my flight and if that happens I might even forgive you. Eventually.’
‘Jacqui, be reasonable. I can’t leave right now—’
‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to. The clock’s ticking. You’ve just wasted a minute—’
‘Give me ten minutes! I’ll try and get hold of Selina, find out what’s going on.’
‘Nice try, but I’ve got you sussed and I’m telling you now, there is nothing you could say, nothing you could offer that would induce me to accept a post as Maisie Talbot’s nanny.’
‘But—’
‘The ogre was a nice touch, by the way. Where did you find him? No, don’t tell me. He was left over from the local Christmas production of Jack and the Beanstalk. Typecasting. With that scowl he wouldn’t even need make-up.’
‘OK, just give the phone to a nurse so that she can tell me which hospital you’re in—’
‘Jacqui! Where are you? I’ve got my tights all twisted up…’
Maisie’s yell for help from the floor above jerked her back to reality. ‘High Tops, Little Hinton, Vickie. Not quite the minor diversion I was led to believe, but they’ll give you directions—and submit you to the third degree—in the village shop. Just watch out for your back axle on the way up,’ she advised. ‘The potholes are deep and once you leave civilisation the natives aren’t exactly—’ as she turned for the stairs she realised that she was no longer alone. The ogre, no doubt alerted to her presence by Maisie’s yell for help, was blocking her way ‘—welcoming.’
Jacqui prided herself on being a thoroughly modern, sensible young woman who never succumbed to nervous palpitations or fits of the vapours, whatever the provocation, but her heart noticeably lurched at his unexpected appearance—apparently out of thin air.
He just was so physical. So heart-poundingly male. So clearly irritated to find himself under invasion.
And from somewhere—she very much feared it was her own mouth—came a small, but expressive, squeak. The kind of squeak that a mouse might make on coming face-to-face with not so much a well-fed domestic moggy, as a very wild and very hungry tiger…
‘You’re still here,’ he said, rescuing her from this bizarre train of thought. It was a statement, not a question. He clearly wasn’t pleased to see her, but it was also plain that he wasn’t altogether surprised.
‘Maisie needed the bathroom,’ she said. ‘Obviously I wouldn’t have just walked in, but I’m afraid she rather took matters into her own hands…’ or should that have been feet? ‘…and used the back door.’
‘Leaving you with little choice but to follow. I’m familiar with the way she operates. She learned it from an expert.’
‘It is her grandmother’s house,’ Jacqui pointed out, hating the fact that she was apologising when he was the one who was behaving boorishly. Maisie had every bit as much right to be there as he did. And what was he doing there, anyway?
‘Unfortunately,’ he replied, ‘as you can see, her grandmother isn’t here to take care of her.’
‘There’s clearly been some misunderstanding.’
‘That’s something you’ll have to take up with Sally. I’m fully occupied looking after her four-legged waifs and strays while her mother’s away.’
Which answered that question.
‘Yes, well, I’m doing my best,’ she said, showing him the phone in her hand, giving it a little wave to indicate that her intentions were good even while she was wondering where he’d appeared from so suddenly.
Obviously she’d known he was in the house somewhere and common sense suggested that he would hear Maisie’s cry for help. Not that there was a great deal of sense—common or otherwise—in evidence. But how on earth had he got behind her?
‘I’ll leave you to it, then. I’ve got something of a crisis going on down in the cellar.’ And he turned away from her to push open a door that was concealed in the panelling. Beyond it a flight of worn stone steps led down beneath the house.
With her imagination working overtime and her heart doing a fair imitation of a pile driver, she didn’t ask what sort of crisis. She really didn’t want to know. She just wished he’d go back to it. Whatever it was.
‘Jacqui! Where are you?’
The giant glanced up the stairs. ‘You’d better not keep her highness waiting,’ he advised, clearly recognising an imperative command when he heard it.
‘No.’ She backed in the direction of the stairs. ‘You’re right,’ she said, aware that she sounded like someone attempting to soothe a beast with an uncertain temper; one who, given half a chance, would almost certainly bite. Absolutely ridiculous, of course. While he clearly wished he’d never set eyes on her, there was nothing overtly threatening in his manner. It was just the fact that he was unnervingly…big. And here.
Although, come to think of it, she should be grateful for that. If the house had simply been locked up, she’d have had no option but to turn straight round and drive back to London. And wave goodbye to any chance of her two weeks in the sun. Not that a rise in temperature was likely to ease her heartache, but she needed to get away from family and friends tiptoeing around her. Treating her as if someone had died.
And they could probably do with the break, too.
‘I’d, um, better go and help Maisie,’ she said, taking another step back. It was one too many and she stumbled against the bottom of the stairs, lost her balance and dropped her phone as she grabbed for the banister in an attempt to save herself.
Her hand closed on air but, just as she accepted that nothing could save her, the giant reached out and caught her, holding her suspended in what, despite all her misgivings, appeared to be a very safe pair of hands.
Safe…and very large.
It was utterly foolish to imagine that they were actually spanning her waist; her waist was not of the cinched-in hand-span variety, but a rather more practical model that came equipped with a pair of sensible hips useful for propping small children on. But for one giddy moment she felt as if they did and finally understood why sane, level-headed women had allowed themselves to be laced into agonisingly small corsets in pursuit of the appearance of fragility.
Gazing up into a pair of gold tiger’s eyes, she felt very fragile indeed. Utter nonsense, of course, and she knew that she really should make an effort to stand up before she did untold damage to the poor man’s back.
She didn’t have to. He was more than capable of doing it for her and before she knew it she was upright, her face pressed against the soft wool of his shirt, immersed in the heady scents of clean laundry, fresh male sweat, hot oil…
A lot of men—and she’d worked, very briefly, for some of them—would, at this point, have taken advantage of the situation, pulling her up close to cop a cheap feel. The giant, however, wasted no time in putting clear space between them.
His very capable hands did remain firmly about her waist, but there was nothing about his manner to suggest it was anything but a precautionary measure while she regained her balance and caught her breath. Not very flattering, actually, considering it was taking a lot longer than it should have done. She put it down to the fact that it was an unusual experience to be looking up at anyone, even a man and she had to admit, as giants went, on closer inspection he was well worth looking at.
It wasn’t just his extraordinary eyes, or the breadth of his shoulders, although they were built on an impressive scale. Or even his height. Now she was standing on the same level as him, his size didn’t seem quite so overwhelming. It was true that even in high heels she’d still have to look up, but not that far, and for the first time since she’d outgrown all the girls in her class at school—and all the teachers—she felt as if she was in the right place. Which was madness, as he’d be the first to remind her. She should move…
Before she could put the thought into deed, he said, ‘OK now?’
‘Fine,’ she managed, although without much conviction and he didn’t immediately release her.
‘Sure?’
She found herself considering a feeble whimper…
‘Really,’ she insisted, pulling herself together and standing up straight.
‘You could do with something for your nerves, Jacqui Moore,’ he said, finally letting her go.
‘It’s been a trying day,’ she replied. It wasn’t getting any better and she shivered as the damp, clinging to her clothes and hair, made itself felt.
‘Any day that involves my cousin tends to be that way.’ Then, ‘You’re cold.’
‘A bit. It’s the damp. The mist is very penetrating. It can’t be healthy, living in a cloud.’
‘There are worse places, believe me, and the hill fog does have certain advantages. Unwanted visitors, for instance, rarely outstay their welcome.’
‘That I can believe and you can trust me when I say that I’ve no wish to trespass on your hospitality a moment longer than necessary,’ she replied stiffly. Whatever had she been thinking of…? ‘I’ve got a plane to catch.’
‘Then you’d better stop dithering around, falling over your own feet, and get yourself sorted out, hadn’t you?’
Charming. Just charming. But then the giant in her fairy story hadn’t been a bundle of laughs, either, she reminded herself. Definitely not the kind of bedtime reading she’d have inflicted on any child in her care.
‘I’d better sort out Maisie before I start making phone calls,’ she said, getting back to reality and making a move to retrieve her cellphone. No matter how inconvenient he found the situation, his little niece was her first priority.
He beat her to it, picking it up and handing it to her so that she got a good look at those hands. And nearly dropped it again as his long fingers brushed against hers.
‘You’d better dry yourself off, too, while you’re at it. You’ll find plenty of towels in the bathroom.’
She tried to speak, intent on demonstrating that if his manners were lacking in polish she at least knew how to behave, but was forced to clear her throat before she could manage a simple, ‘Thank you, Mr…’ Which might have worked if she’d known his name. ‘Mr…Um…?’ she prompted.
‘Talbot,’ he replied.
She waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t. As if she cared. She wasn’t in the slightest bit interested in his given name but common civility required she call him something other than ‘um’, since she was clearly going to be there for longer than either of them wanted. If he preferred to keep it formal, she wasn’t going to object.
‘It runs in the family,’ he added.
‘Right,’ she said, firmly resisting the temptation to point out that just because Selina was his cousin, it didn’t follow that he would have the same name. She was sure he knew that and was simply taking the opportunity to renew hostilities.
Clearly he’d only saved her from falling to avoid giving her any further excuse to delay their departure. Tough. Now she was in the house she was going nowhere until she’d sorted out Maisie’s immediate future.
‘Well, Mr Talbot, I can only apologise for imposing on your hospitality in this way, but, since it’s going to take a while to sort out this mess and disturbing you seems inevitable, I wonder if I could possibly impose on you for a cup of tea?’ She waited for him to assure her that it would be no trouble. When this didn’t happen, she added, ‘While I go and sort out Maisie.’ Then, ‘Or maybe you’d rather I left you to sort her out on your own while I go and catch my plane.’
‘You can’t leave her here with me.’
Well, no. Obviously she couldn’t do that. But was he simply uttering the panic-stricken response of a child-phobic male? Or did he know what he was talking about?
She had to admit that he didn’t sound panic-stricken. On the contrary, he sounded like a man who knew his own mind and spoke it without fear or favour. Whether he knew or cared about child-protection regulations, they weren’t an issue for him; he was simply telling her the way it was.
‘You are the only close family member immediately available,’ she pointed out. It made no difference, of course; she couldn’t leave Maisie in his care without Selina Talbot’s explicit authority. Unlike a completely irresponsible mother, the agency couldn’t just dump the child and run.
This was a ‘hold until relieved’ situation but, with luck—and she was surely due a little luck—he might not realise that and there was a heartening pause while he appeared to weigh up the alternatives.
Then, with something that might have been a shrug, he said, ‘Indian or China?’
She just about managed to keep the ‘gotcha’ smile from her face as she said, ‘Indian, please. This is definitely a moment for bracing and cheerful, rather than fragrant and refined, don’t you think?’
She didn’t hang around to find out if he agreed. Instead, having first taken the precaution of turning round so that she could look where she was going, she headed up the stairs in search of her charge.
Maisie, hands on hips, tights in a wrinkled heap around her ankles, scowled at her from the bathroom doorway. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been waiting hours!’
‘Actually it was minutes, but if you’d waited for me instead of disappearing—’
‘I told you I had to go!’
‘I know you did,’ she said, more gently. ‘But don’t disappear on me again, OK?’ Then, when there was no response, ‘Maisie?’
‘OK,’ she muttered.
‘I mean it.’
‘OK! I heard you, all right?’
‘All right.’
And hopefully, having established that simple ground rule, she tugged Maisie’s tights into place, then, while the child was washing her hands, took advantage of Talbot’s grudging invitation to help herself to his towels, dabbing at the bits of herself that had been exposed to the elements. With luck her clothes would dry out in the warmth of the kitchen and she wouldn’t catch pneumonia but, the way her day was going, she wasn’t counting on it.
‘OK, Maisie, let’s go and see if we can sort this mess out.’
‘What mess?’
‘Well, your grandmother isn’t here…’
‘I know.’
‘You do?’
‘I heard,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter. I can stay here until my mother comes home. I’ve got a room of my own, you know, in one of the towers. It was decorated especially for me. The walls are mauve and the curtains are lace and it looks out over the paddock where the pony and the donkeys live.’ Then, ‘The pony’s mine.’
‘Really? I had a little pony when I was your age.’
‘Did you?’
‘Mmm. My Little Pony was the one called Applejack. She was the orange one, with apples painted on her bottom.’
Maisie regarded her with pity. ‘My pony is real. His name is Fudge. Would you like to meet him?’
‘I don’t think there’s going to be time, Maisie. The thing is you need more than a room—’
‘I’ve got more—’
‘More than a room and a pony. You need someone to take care of you.’
‘There’s Harry…’ Harry? His name was Harry? ‘…and Susan—’
‘Susan?’ The giant had a wife? Well…great. If Harry Talbot was married, or even if this woman was his partner, things might just work out. Always assuming Vickie could reach Selina Talbot before she left the country. ‘Who’s Susan?’
‘She comes in every morning to clean up and stuff.’
‘Oh. Great!’ No! Not great. And, ditching the smile—she had absolutely nothing to smile about—said, ‘Look, Maisie, obviously there’s been some kind of mix-up over the arrangements, but it’s nothing for you to worry about. Mrs Campbell, at the agency, is going to talk to your mother and sort something out.’
Maisie sighed. ‘She won’t be able to do that. My mother will be on a plane by now and you have to turn off your mobile phone when you’re in a plane.’
‘So you do.’
Bedknobs and broomsticks…
‘It’s a total pain, my mother says, but they mess with the electricity and if that gets messed up you can’t watch the movie.’
‘I can see the problem.’ Actually, Jacqui was fairly sure that if the ‘electricity’ got messed up you wouldn’t be watching anything ever again, but in view of her own imminent flight decided not to dwell on it. She had enough on her plate without worrying about some idiot deciding to phone home just for the fun of saying ‘I’m on the plane…’. ‘Do you know where your mother is going?’
‘Of course. She’s doing a fashion shoot on the Great Wall of China. That’s right on the other side of the world, you know.’
‘I had heard.’
‘It takes forever to get there, she said.’
Not exactly forever, but it was certain that Ms Talbot wouldn’t be taking personal calls before tomorrow.
Maisie looked up at her, eyes huge and very solemn, and said reassuringly, ‘It’s OK. You can stay and look after me.’
No! No…
‘Why don’t we wait and see what Mrs Campbell says?’ she suggested, brushing off the ridiculous notion that this child was in on the conspiracy.
That was bordering on paranoia.
Besides, it was not that much more than two hours since her mother had dropped her off at the agency. While normal mortals would need all of that time to get to the airport and check in, she was pretty sure that for people like Selina Talbot time was infinitely more flexible and it was possible that her plane hadn’t yet taken off.
‘Don’t you want to look after me?’ Maisie demanded, reclaiming her attention.
‘It isn’t a question of what I want,’ she said. In another time, another life—
Maisie regarded her steadily, her dark eyes wide and innocent, and said, ‘Is it because I’m not my mother’s own little girl? Because I’m a different colour from her?’

CHAPTER THREE
JACQUI felt as if all the wind had been knocked out of her.
The fact that Maisie was black had been the last thing on her mind, but it was possible that her high-profile adoption by the luminous Selina Talbot had exposed her to all kinds of unpleasant remarks from the jealous, or the just plain thoughtless.
And she’d been so wrapped up in her own problems that she’d allowed herself to be fooled by this little girl’s apparent self-assurance into believing her unaffected by what was happening to her.
It didn’t matter a damn that the last thing in the world she needed right now was to be responsible for someone else’s child. With her mother flying off on some major assignment and her grandmother on holiday on the other side of the world, it only left the giant to care for her. And that was never going to happen. Maisie needed reassurance and she was going to get it, no matter how it messed up her own plans.
‘No, Maisie. It’s got absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you’re adopted,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s simply that—’
Maisie lifted her head and looked straight into her eyes. ‘I think that’s why Harry doesn’t want me,’ she said.
Jacqui was shocked to the core, and her automatic response was, ‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not true.’ But even as she said the words she remembered the way he’d looked at Maisie as she’d waited in the car. His blank, emotionless response. Remembered the way Maisie had slid down in the seat as if to hide from him.
If she’d given the matter any consideration at all, she’d have assumed that even bad-tempered giants in story books had family feelings…
OK, so she was family by adoption. Jacqui tried to remember everything she’d read about that. There had been plenty of coverage in the lifestyle magazines at the time, but precious little in the way of detail that she could recall…
Not that who Maisie was, or where she came from was any excuse for Harry Talbot’s behaviour.
Harry.
The name didn’t suit him at all, she decided. It had a warm, cuddly feel to it. It was the name of a man who’d give you a hug when you were miserable, tell you good stories, know the words of every single nursery rhyme. It wasn’t the name of a man who’d reject a little girl because she was adopted…
Actually, she couldn’t think of a name horrible enough for a man like that and she wanted to hug this little girl so hard…Show her that at least one person in the world cared what happened to her. In other words, a straight-from-the-heart emotional reaction to the situation.
Not good.
Fighting it, she folded herself up and, instead of enveloping the child in a hug, sat on the lowest step so that she was level with Maisie. Then, taking her hands, she held them in her own and in the most matter-of-fact voice she could muster, said, ‘Just you listen here, Maisie Talbot. It wouldn’t make one jot of difference to me if you were sky-blue-pink with green hair and purple spots, do you understand?’
Maisie regarded her steadily for long moments. Then she gave a couldn’t-care-less little shrug and said, ‘OK.’
Not an overwhelming endorsement of trust, but what did she expect? There were no instant results with children. Trust had to be earned. She’d just have to show the child that she was genuine and, since she suspected that glossing over the situation was not going to impress Maisie one bit, she’d start with the truth.
‘You’re a smart girl, so I’m not going to mince words. We’ve got a problem. This is the way it is. The plan was simply for me to bring you here and hand you over to your grandmother. You know that I wasn’t supposed to stay here, not even for a little while, don’t you?’
She shrugged again, this time staring at her shoes and refusing to meet her gaze. ‘I s’pose.’
‘It’s not because I don’t like you, it’s not because you’re black, it’s because I’m supposed to be catching a plane in…’ she glanced at her watch and realised that time was fast running out ‘…well, quite soon.’
‘Like my mother.’ It was a flat, expressionless statement that suggested she was someone else who was flying off and abandoning her. Not fair. But then, in Maisie’s shoes, she probably wouldn’t give a hoot about what was fair, either.
‘Well, no.’ Nothing like Selina Talbot, who’d be flying first class—probably with a sky bed—and would arrive in Beijing looking a lot fresher and more relaxed than she would after being crammed in like a sardine for three hours on a charter flight. ‘Your mother is working, which is really, really important. I was only going as far as Spain…’ already she was talking about it in the past tense ‘…for a holiday.’
‘Oh.’ She seemed momentarily crestfallen, but immediately brightened and said, ‘Do you have to go to Spain? It’s nice having holidays here.’ Then, presumably remembering that Harry was in residence. ‘Usually.’
‘I’m sure it is. For you. When your grandma is here.’ Then, because this didn’t seem enough, somehow, ‘And you’ve got your lovely pony to ride.’
‘There are loads of other animals. We don’t have any at home because London isn’t a good place for them, but my mother is always rescuing them and sending them here because Grandma has loads of room. There are dogs and cats and chickens and ducks and rabbits…’ Her little face suddenly lit up as she raised her hands in an expansive gesture. ‘Even some donkeys that are worn out from giving children rides on a beach somewhere.’ Then, ‘But if you have to go…’ Her little hands dropped and the bright expression faded. ‘I’ll understand.’
Double bedknobs′
‘Thank you, Maisie, but I’m not going anywhere until you’ve got someone to take care of you, OK?’
She didn’t look up, but instead jabbed one satin toe into the threadbare carpet. ‘Even if it means you miss your plane?’
‘Even if it means I miss my plane,’ she assured her. What choice did she have?
‘You promise?’
I promise.
Two little words that once uttered to a child must never, ever be broken. Two little words that had to be used with the utmost care and forethought because sometimes it was beyond your power to keep them…
But Maisie was waiting anxiously for her response and the truth was that she wasn’t going anywhere until she was happy with the arrangements for this child’s care. It wasn’t a lifetime commitment.
‘I promise, Maisie.’
‘OK.’ Then, ‘And if you can’t find anyone else, you’ll stay and look after me until my mother comes home, won’t you?’
‘Did you find everything you needed?’
Jacqui didn’t think she’d ever be pleased to see Harry Talbot; she wasn’t, but she was very glad of the interruption and she stood up quickly.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘You’d better go on through to the kitchen, then and warm up.’ He looked down at the child from his great height and she thought of the men in her own family who would have swooped down, picked her up, made her laugh. ‘Hello, Maisie.’
Jacqui felt Maisie’s hand creep into hers as she dropped her eyes and said, ‘Hello, Harry.’ Then, ‘Can I see Meg’s puppies?’
Puppies, rabbits, donkeys and her own special pony. It was easy to see why Maisie wanted to stay here…
But what had happened to the llama?
‘She’s out in the stables. I’m not taking you out there dressed like that.’
‘She could change,’ Jacqui said. ‘If you’d be kind enough to fetch her bag in from my car. It’s not locked.’
Harry Talbot gave her the kind of look that warned her not to take him for a fool and said, ‘I’ll bring the puppies into the kitchen.’ Then, while she was still trying to come up with a response that was fit for the ears of a six-year-old, he turned and walked away.
But he had made a pot of tea and there was a tempting cut-and-come-again cherry cake on the table. ‘Do you like tea, Maisie? Or would you rather have milk?’
‘Tea, please. And some of Susan’s cake.’
She poured out the tea, adding plenty of milk to Maisie’s cup. Then, as she was cutting the cake, her mobile phone began to ring. It was Vickie.
She handed Maisie a plate, then, taking the phone into the little office so that she could speak freely, she answered the call.
‘OK, Vickie, what gives?’
‘I couldn’t raise Selina, but I’ve left a voice mail asking her to get in touch with me urgently. As soon as she does I’ll know what alternative arrangements she wants me to make.’
‘Nice try, but according to Maisie her mother is on her way to China. It’ll be tomorrow at the earliest before she’ll be picking up her messages.’
‘Oh…’ She let slip a word that no self-respecting nanny would ever use, not even in the privacy of her own room.
‘What’s the matter, Vickie? Did you think I wouldn’t find out?’
‘I swear I didn’t know where she was going. This was just a simple delivery job.’ Then, ‘China?’
‘Where the silk comes from,’ Jacqui replied, just a touch acerbically. ‘She’s going to drape herself over the Great Wall dressed in the kind of clothes that neither of us will ever be able to afford, even in our wildest dreams. You must have an emergency contact.’
‘Of course I do.’ She cleared her throat. ‘It’s her grandmother. At High Tops.’
‘Oh, come on…’
‘Honestly!’ Then, ‘Look, I really want you back on my books, you were born to take care of children, but I’m not stupid enough to think that I could trick you into it.’
‘Excuse me? So why am I here?’
‘OK, I’ll put my hands up to being a little underhand getting you to deliver Maisie. I simply wanted to remind you what you were put on this earth for before you went off to lie on a beach to contemplate your future career path. And I admit I hung on to that package until I had the right job to tempt you—’
She wished the woman had stuffed it in a drawer and forgotten all about it.
‘I could probably sue you,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry but I was desperate. I didn’t know how else to make you see that this is what you’re made for, but I’m not a fool. The last thing I want is for you to be so ticked off that you’ll never even talk to me again, let alone work for the agency.’
‘Then you’re not doing very well, are you?’
‘I can see how it must look, but you have to believe me…’
She’d think about it, but not now. This was just wasting time.
‘So what’s gone wrong? While the perfect mother-and-daughter spreads in the lifestyle mags might be a touch over-the-top, I can’t believe that Selina Talbot is this casual about Maisie. She must have spoken to her mother before despatching the child to stay with her.’
‘Frankly? I haven’t a clue. Maybe her secretary or agent or one of an absolute host of minions she employs to deal with the boring details was supposed to have made the arrangements and the wires got crossed somewhere. So who’s at the house now?’
‘Selina’s cousin and leaving her with him is not an option. I haven’t seen anyone else although Maisie assures me that there’s a woman who comes in every day to cook and clean.’
‘And you have a plane to catch.’
‘And I have a plane to catch. So where are you? I assume you’re well on your way by now?’ she prompted, without any real confidence. The signal was too steady, too clear to be via a hands-free car phone.
‘Jacqui, please, try and understand. If I could have got away of course I would have, but I’ve already had to put back a vital meeting while I try and sort this out. I won’t be able to get away from the office before six at the earliest and…’
She stopped abruptly.
‘And?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Oh, right. How big a “nothing”?’
‘I’ve been given tickets for the Covent Garden Opera by a grateful client, if you must know. It’s a gala, but honestly if I could have got away in time to make any difference I would have sacrificed…’
‘Stop! Please don’t perjure yourself on my account. The fact of the matter is that unless the real Mary Poppins puts in an appearance in the next half an hour, I can forget two weeks with my toes up by a swimming pool. Yes?’ she prompted, when there was no immediate answer.
‘I’m sorry. Really. Of course Selina Talbot will reimburse you for the cost of your holiday—’
‘You’re very free with her money.’
‘If she ever wants domestic help from this agency again, she’ll pay up with a smile.’
‘Yes, well, since this particular circumstance isn’t likely to be covered by my holiday insurance she’s going to have to, but my missed flight is the least of our problems right now, wouldn’t you say? There’s a little girl here and no one to take care of her.’
‘You’re there. And since your holiday has been wrecked, you could do worse than see the job through.’
Well, surprise, surprise.
She didn’t even offer to try and find a replacement. Not that it mattered, because she’d promised Maisie that she’d stay.
‘And how long is that going to be?’
‘I don’t actually know. I told you, this was just a delivery job, but I’ll speak to Selina tomorrow. Until then, I’m in your hands, Jacqui.’
‘The giant is not going to like it,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t like company.’
‘Giant? This is the man you wouldn’t leave Maisie with? Are you going to be all right there? Maybe you should take Maisie to the nearest hotel until I can check him out with Selina.’
‘Maisie wants to stay even though she doesn’t like him, which suggests he’s grouchy rather than dangerous…’ Her voice petered out as she remembered his eyes, his hands, the touch of his shirt against her cheek and swallowed. There was dangerous, she thought. And then again there was dangerous…‘We’ll stay out of his way as much as possible while you sort something out with Selina.’
‘You’re a star, Jacqui. I’ll make sure your worth is reflected in the hourly rate.’
‘Oh, no, you don’t get me that way. I’m on holiday. I told you six months ago that I would never do this for money ever again and I meant it.’
‘But—’
‘But nothing. Just concentrate on getting hold of Selina Talbot and find out what in the world she was thinking, what she’s going to do about her daughter and, even more important, when she’s going to be home. In the meantime I have to go and break the good news to Harry Talbot that he has house guests.’
‘I owe you, Jacqui.’
Yes, you do, she thought as she clicked off the phone and looked up to find Maisie standing in the doorway, her face alight with joy as she held up a wriggling bundle of black Labrador puppy for her to see.
‘Look, Jacqui! He’s so cute!’
‘And beautiful,’ she said, crouching down beside the child and stroking his silky head with her finger. ‘You match.’ Her reward, as she let the puppy snuffle at her fingers, was to have Maisie lean trustingly against her. Her arm, of its own volition, reached out to encompass both child and puppy. ‘What’s his name?’
‘I don’t think he has one.’
‘Well, maybe you should give some thought to that,’ carefully unfurling her arm and standing up, to put a little distance between them. ‘But he’ll be missing his brothers and sisters.’ And there was no point in putting off giving Harry Talbot the bad news. ‘Meantime, I have to speak to Mr Talbot.’
‘He’s gone back down the cellar.’ She carried the pup back to the kitchen and placed him in a basket containing a number of wiggling look-alikes. ‘He’s fixing the boiler, I expect.’
‘Is he?’
‘It’s a waste of time. Grandma says it’s definitely on the blink. It’s why she…’ Maisie stopped.
‘Why what, Maisie?’
‘Why she’s going to buy a new one.’
‘Oh, right.’ But, grateful for this temporary reprieve, she said, ‘In that case perhaps we’d better not disturb him again. I’ll just go and fetch our things in from the car.’
‘You could drive round to the back to save carrying them. It’s what everyone else does.’ Then, looking up from the wriggle of puppies, ‘I thought I should tell you that in case you didn’t ask.’
‘Smart thinking, Maisie.’
‘You can put it in the coach house if you want.’
‘Maybe I’d better wait for an invitation from Harry, first.’ She’d see how he reacted to the fact that she’d moved in before she started getting really pushy and helping herself to garage space. ‘I won’t be a minute. Don’t move from that spot while I’m gone. And don’t touch anything.’ Then, as Maisie opened her mouth to protest, ‘Except the puppies.’
‘No, Jacqui.’
‘Promise.’
The child looked up and smiled, and in that instant Jacqui knew that her fate was sealed. She wasn’t going anywhere until Maisie had done with her.
‘I promise,’ she said.
Harry Talbot lifted his head as he heard the sound of a car starting, attempting to squash a lick of guilt as the throaty roar proclaimed only too loudly that its exhaust had suffered in the journey up the lane.
He’d promised his aunt he’d get it sorted while she was away. And he would. Just before she came home. The last thing he wanted was the neighbourhood dropping by, being neighbourly. He’d even persuaded the postman to leave the mail at the shop for collection.
Dammit, he had come here to avoid company. Be alone. Was it too much to ask?
He slammed the wrench into the side of the boiler and then slammed it down and headed for the stairs. If Jacqui Moore drove back down the lane with her exhaust bouncing around, there’d be nothing left of it when she got to the main road.
But by the time he’d reached the front door, there was no sign of her or her car.
He listened, but couldn’t hear the sound of her retreat either, which, despite the muffling effect of the mist, surprised him. He should have felt relief, but instead walked to the gate, half expecting to find her stopped a few yards down the lane.
No relief, just guilt. Tomorrow. He’d do something about it tomorrow. And in the meantime he’d call the garage in the village and have them look out for her and offer assistance.
One of the dogs—a lanky, cross-bred creature with pretensions to deer hound—joined him, in expectation of another run.
‘Forget it, mutt,’ he said, returning to the house, grabbing his collar to stop him taking a short cut through the front door. ‘Round the back with you. Susan will kill us both if we trail mud over her polished floor.’ He pulled it shut and then followed the dog around the back.
He came to an abrupt halt when he saw the VW pulled up in the courtyard. He should have realised it was too good to be true.
Jacqui Moore, alerted by the dog, who’d rushed over to her looking for a fuss, straightened from the back seat as if caught out in a guilty act. Forgetting, for a moment, that his intention had been to stop her, that he was intent on an errand of mercy, he said, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Which was stupid, because he could see what she was doing. She was unloading the car.
‘Would you mind not using that language in front of Maisie?’ she replied, passing the child a small white bag.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, moving closer, calling the dog to heel before both females were covered in mud, further delaying their departure. ‘I’ll rephrase the question. What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Jacqui leaned into the car, ostensibly to pick up the matching white holdall, but in reality to gain breathing space.
She understood that Harry Talbot didn’t want them cluttering up his life. She understood and was sorry to be such an annoyance, but her first concern was Maisie. She hated confrontation as much as anyone, but since it was clear that she wasn’t being offered a choice, she might as well get it over with. The sooner he realised that she couldn’t be bullied, the sooner he’d stop.
‘Take your bag inside, Maisie, and stay in the warm,’ she said. And only then did she give her full attention to Harry Talbot. It wasn’t that difficult. The grey wool shirt hung loosely from his shoulders suggesting that he had, however impossible it seemed, actually lost weight and muscle. That he’d once been even broader than he was now. The washed thin denims he wore still clung to powerful thighs, however, and stretched over a hollowed stomach that only emphasised…
‘Well?’ he demanded, bringing her sharply back to reality.
She swallowed. ‘Well, Mr Talbot,’ she said, trying to erase the errant thoughts from her mind. ‘This is a car and this is a bag and what I’m doing is taking the latter out of the former.’
Sarcasm, Harry realised, had been a mistake.
He’d known it from the moment he’d opened his mouth. Regretted it the moment he’d opened his mouth. The fact that she was blonde, with curves in all the right places, didn’t make her dumb.
Despite a full lower lip that drooped enticingly and the kind of earthy sex appeal that sent out a siren call to man’s most basic instinct, she was still a nanny and nannies didn’t take nonsense from anyone. As if to confirm it, she gave him a look from grey eyes as cool as her mouth was hot, leaving him in no doubt that she wasn’t in the mood to take any from him.
‘Why?’ he demanded. It was a fair question.
‘Extraordinary,’ she replied, shaking her head, so that her misted hair swung in a soft invitation to touch. How long was it since he’d touched a woman’s hair…?
He curled his fingers tight against his palms, but she was already leaning back inside the car to pick up a second bag.
‘You don’t look stupid,’ she said, turning to him as she straightened.
He wasn’t about to debate it. He’d already had all the conversation he could handle.
‘You can’t stay here.’
She smiled. ‘There! I was right. You knew the answer all along.’
‘I mean it.’
‘I know you do, and I’m sorry, truly. But the car is damaged, Maisie is tired and, as you’ve already said, you can’t manage her on your own.’
‘That’s not what I…’ He stopped, suddenly aware of a yawning chasm opening in front of him. If he declared himself more than capable of looking after one small girl—this small girl above all others—she’d walk away and leave him to do just that.
He’d come to High Tops for solitude. Peace. To seek some kind of future for himself. She had to go and take the child with her. Now.
‘Didn’t you say something about catching a plane?’ he enquired.
‘There’s always another plane.’ Then, putting out a hand as if to touch his arm, reassure him, ‘Don’t worry, Mr Talbot, we’ll keep out of your way as much as possible.’
He moved before she could make contact. ‘This is intolerable. I’ll speak to Sally, make her see reason.’
‘You’ll have to stand in line,’ she replied. ‘There’s a queue. But no one will be speaking to your cousin until tomorrow. She’s on her way to China.’
‘China?’
‘Where the silk comes from.’ They both turned to look at Maisie, who was standing in the doorway, and once she had their full attention, she gave a little shrug and said, ‘That’s what Jacqui said when she was on the phone, anyway.’
‘You were listening?’ Jacqui asked her, not angry, not accusing the child of something bad, just distractedly; Harry suspected she was trying to remember what she’d said that she wouldn’t have wanted Maisie to overhear.
‘No.’
Maisie looked up at her, a picture of innocence. Something he’d seen her do a hundred times. She’d been listening…
‘I was waiting until you’d finished, that’s all.’ With that, she turned and flounced inside. The dog followed her.
‘When is Sally due to arrive,’ he asked, reclaiming her nanny’s attention, ‘in China?’
‘I have no idea,’ she said, adding a carrier bag to her load, which she held in one hand as she shut the car door. ‘Tomorrow some time, I would imagine. She might pick up her messages earlier if she has a stopover. Of course it’ll be the middle of the night here so she’ll probably wait until the time zones connect before she calls.’
Harry doubted that the difference in time zones would stop his cousin. It would be the sure and certain knowledge that if she called home she’d be expected to do something about the mess she’d made, rather than consideration. That and the fact that the longer she delayed, the more likely it was that someone else would have sorted it out for her by the time she did call. He didn’t say that.
He said, ‘In other words I’m stuck with the pair of you for the night.’
‘Thanks for the welcome,’ she said and smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. Not the kind of smile that would make a person feel warm inside, a smile acknowledging how hard this was for him. It was a smile that suggested, in the fullness of time, he’d regret being so thoroughly ill-mannered. ‘And the tea. That at least was lukewarm when I drank it. What time do you have dinner?’
‘Whenever you feel like making it, Miss Moore. Tea is about as domestic as I get.’ He didn’t bother to cross his fingers at this blatant lie. He just wanted her to go and he didn’t care what he had to do to make it happen.
She stared at him. ‘Did someone programme you?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘So am I, but we’ll let that pass. I mean did someone take you into a laboratory and fit a chip, preprogrammed with chauvinist cliche´s, into your head?’
‘Is that necessary?’ he enquired. ‘I’d always been led to believe that it was genetic.’
‘That’s just something mendacious men made up to avoid doing their share of the housework.’
‘Possibly,’ he admitted. ‘Although my personal theory is that it was made up by pathetic women to excuse their inability to control them. No matter how hard they try.’
Her eyes, he noticed with interest, had heated up to the colour of molten silver, but that was the only indication that her temper was on a short fuse.
‘I only asked what time you eat,’ she continued, with impressive outward calm, ‘so that we won’t disturb you. You are, of course, more than welcome to join us for nursery tea at five o’clock.’
‘You won’t find any fish fingers in my freezer.’
‘No? Well, I’m sure we’ll manage.’
He shrugged. ‘Maisie has a room of her own in the east tower,’ he said, resisting his natural inclination to take the bags and carry them up for her. The worse her opinion of him, the more likely she was to keep out of his way. ‘She knows where it is. You can have the room next door. Don’t get comfortable, you’re not staying a minute longer than necessary.’
‘Extraordinary! I’d have said we didn’t have a thought in common, but do you know that’s exactly what I promised Maisie?’ He must have frowned be-cause she added, by way of explanation, ‘That I’d only stay until we could find someone she liked to take care of her.’ And she smiled again, as if she knew something that he didn’t.
He ignored the smile and said, ‘I’m glad to hear it. Give me your keys and I’ll put your car in the coach house.’
‘Oh, right,’ she said, clearly caught off balance by such unexpected thoughtfulness. ‘Well, thank—’
‘Nothing that old should be left out overnight in the cold and damp. I’ll take a look at your exhaust while I’m about it. I wouldn’t want anything to delay you in the morning.’

CHAPTER FOUR
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…

CHAPTER FIVE
‘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.

CHAPTER SIX
MAISIE, having finally settled on pink taffeta, was not impressed with the alternatives Jacqui had found.
‘They smell,’ she said, wrinkling her nose in disgust.
‘Only because they haven’t been worn in a long time. I’m not asking you to put them on until they’ve been washed. I just want to make sure they fit.’
‘They won’t.’
‘Probably not,’ she agreed. ‘I think your mother must have been taller than you.’
‘No, she wasn’t. I’m exactly the same height as she was, she told me.’
Pride…so predictable.
‘Oh, well, these were hers, so that’s all right.’
‘Oh, please.’ Maisie, quickly recovering from her mistake, picked up a sweatshirt featuring a cartoon character and held it at arm’s length. ‘My mother wouldn’t ever have been seen dead wearing something like this.’
Having anticipated this reaction, Jacqui produced a photograph that she’d found pinned to a display board in the nursery. It was curling at the edges, very faded and had doubtless been pinned up because of the puppy a very young Selina Talbot was cuddling, rather than for any aesthetic reason.
Or maybe it was because, behind her, an older, taller, protective presence, stood her big cousin, Harry.
The reason didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was wearing that sweatshirt.
‘Why would she keep a dumb sweatshirt?’ Maisie demanded, giving her back the picture, not thrilled to be proved wrong.
‘Haven’t you ever kept a favourite dress, even when it doesn’t fit you any more,’ she asked, ‘just to remember how you felt when you wore it?’
Maisie shrugged. ‘I s’pose.’ Then, ‘Is that Harry with my mother?’
She looked at the photograph again and then offered it back to the child. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’
‘No,’ she said, fiddling with a button rather than take it. ‘It’s him.’
‘Unless he’s got a twin brother,’ she agreed.
On second thoughts, there was no question in her mind why Selina had kept the photograph where she could see it. The man might have some serious flaws, but the boy had been built for hero-worship. And his hand on her shoulder would have made the sweatshirt special, too.
Probably.
Or maybe that was emotional transference…
‘OK, it’s miserable outside at the moment so you can’t go out to play, but in the meantime I’ll put this through the wash and then maybe, if the cloud lifts this afternoon, I could take a photograph of you wearing it.’
No response.
‘With one of the puppies? You could give them both to your mother when she comes home. I’m sure she’d like that.’
‘Only if Harry will be in it, too,’ Maisie insisted, aware that she’d painted herself into a corner, but giving it one last shot. ‘So that it’s exactly the same.’
‘That’s a lovely idea,’ she said. Although whether Harry Talbot would think so was another matter entirely.
‘Will you ask him for me?’
There was a whole world of want—need—in those few words and she said, ‘Yes, sweetheart. Of course I’ll ask him.’
‘First. Before I put that on.’
She should have seen that coming.
Maisie was little, but she was bright and she knew when she was being sold a pup—in every sense of the word.
Jacqui was saved any immediate challenge to her negotiating skills, since—unsurprisingly—Harry wasn’t hanging around waiting for a chat. Once breakfast was over she left Maisie ‘helping’ Susan with some baking and went to call Vickie.
As she opened the office door, Harry looked up from the pile of post he’d tipped out of the carrier bag, his eyes so fierce that she took a step back.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
‘Your presence in the house disturbs the very air,’ he declared. Then, after what might have been a deep breath, or possibly a ten-count while he regained his composure, ‘I accept, however, that there’s nothing you can do about it so will you please stop tiptoeing around me?’
‘It would help if you didn’t look as if you were offended by the mere sight of me,’ she pointed out.
‘I’m not…’ he began irritably, then stopped, perhaps unwilling to perjure himself and dismissing the matter with a gesture that suggested she was being oversensitive. Then did what any man who knew he was wrong would do; went on the attack. ‘Did you leave this pile of garbage here?’
‘If you’re referring to the mail, then yes. The woman running the village shop asked me to bring it up. When I stopped for directions.’
‘Then when you leave I suggest you give it back to her and tell her—’
‘I’ve got a better idea, Mr Talbot,’ she said, fed up with being the butt of his ill-humour. Whatever trauma he’d suffered, she wasn’t to blame. ‘Why don’t you…’ breathe, Jacqui, breathe ‘…tell her yourself?’ Then, be-cause she wasn’t averse to a little subject changing when she’d overstepped her own aggression threshold, ‘Have you heard from your cousin?’
He shook his head. ‘No joy from your agency, I suppose?’
‘I was just about to ring them.’
‘Help yourself.’
He pushed the telephone towards her and she lifted the receiver, then jiggled the button a couple of times. ‘There’s no dial tone.’
He took it from her and listened as if he didn’t believe she knew her dialling tone from her elbow. The man, she thought, had a very underdeveloped sense of self-preservation.
‘Am I mistaken?’ she asked, with deceptive sweetness.
It was, of course, possible that his rudeness was a shield against unwanted pity.
If so, it was working.
He muttered something beneath his breath. She didn’t ask him to repeat it; she didn’t think it was anything she was meant—or would want—to hear.
‘It happens all the time up here,’ he went on. ‘Just as well you’ve got a cellphone.’
‘I’ll report the fault, shall I?’
‘If you must.’
She bit back her first thought, which was that, no, actually, she was quite happy to leave him without contact with the outside world and that she was sure the outside world would thank her.
No point in going out of her way to aggravate the man when she was doing such a good job of it without any effort at all, especially as she had a favour to ask him. For Maisie.
But not yet.
Phone call first.
If the news was good, he’d be in a better mood.
That was the theory, anyway. There was only one problem with it; she couldn’t find her cellphone.
Leaving Harry alone in his office, she checked her pocket, which was where her phone lived during the day. Then checked the bedside table, which was where it usually spent the night.
But yesterday hadn’t been usual in any sense of the word: witness the silver chain lying where her phone should be. She picked it up and fastened it around her wrist—just for safety—then checked beneath the bed in case it had fallen on the floor, before retracing all her moves without any luck.
It wasn’t in the kitchen either, and Maisie, enveloped in a huge apron and with smears of flour across her cheeks, just looked blank when asked if she’d seen it.
The office was the only place left and, since it was the last place she actually remembered having it, she had no choice but to enter the lion’s den for the second time that morning. This time she took the precaution of tapping on the door before opening it.
Harry looked up. ‘Well?’
‘Not so’s you’d notice,’ she said. ‘I can’t find my phone. If it isn’t in here I don’t know where else to look.’
‘I didn’t see it, but then I wasn’t looking.’ He indicated the mail spread across the desk—most of it of the junk variety and still apparently untouched. ‘Dig in. You might find anything under this lot.’
She picked up a handful of the stuff and went through it tossing most of it into the waste basket unopened—having brought it to the house, it was the least she could do—leaving personal mail and bills in separate piles to one side. When she looked up, she realised that he was watching her.
‘What?’
He shook his head. ‘Carry on, you’re doing a fine job.’
‘It’s good to know I’m useful for something, even if it is only getting rid of the rubbish.’ But she began to feel self-conscious as he continued to watch her. ‘You can put a block on most of this stuff, you know. It’s almost your duty, in fact. One phone call to save the planet…’ Then, as she binned the last of the circulars, straightened the papers on the desk, ‘All you need is a phone. It’s not on the desk, is it?’ Then, beginning to feel a touch desperate, ‘This is ridiculous. It’s got to be here somewhere. Would you mind standing up?’
She dug around the back and sides of a chair warmed by his body, totally aware that the taut backside and thighs just inches from her face were the source of that heat.
‘It’s not here,’ she said, backing off.
‘Maybe it fell on the floor.’
She’d already dropped to her knees before she realised that instead of standing aside and leaving her to it, he’d done the same. Looking up, expecting to be confronted by nothing more dangerous than his knees, she found herself looking straight into his eyes.
The cool thing would have been to smile, and carry on looking. She didn’t feel cool. This close, his tawny eyes generated enough heat to sear her entire body and she reared back, crashing against the edge of the desk and falling back to her knees with a whimper of pain.
The next thing she knew she was sitting in his chair and he was crouched in front of her, looking into her eyes. ‘Jacqui?’
‘It’s OK…’ she said, making a move to rise. ‘I’m OK.’
His hand on her shoulder kept her in the chair. ‘Don’t move for a minute. You took quite a knock.’
‘No, really.’ But her head felt as if it had just exploded and her legs were kitten-weak. Despite her protest, she stayed where she was. ‘I’ll be all right in a moment.’
‘Look at me.’ Oh, right. That was what had caused the trouble in the first place…‘How many fingers am I holding up?’
Having satisfied himself that she wasn’t seeing double, he stood up and began to gently part her hair, just above her forehead, taking a closer look at the damage.
‘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…’
‘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.

CHAPTER EIGHT
AS HARRY approached the kitchen, he heard the sound of laughter. It stopped abruptly as he walked in.
‘Susan, a word,’ he said, rather more brusquely than he’d intended.
‘I’m just off,’ she said, taking a headscarf from her pocket. ‘I should have been gone half an hour ago.’
‘It won’t take a minute. I just wanted to ask you to take more care when you’re vacuuming.’
She bridled. ‘I do my best with the dog hairs. The dogs aren’t supposed to go into the library, or the drawing room. The missus won’t have it when she’s at home. Of course, if I had one of those new cleaners—’
‘I’m not talking about dog hairs, woman!’
Harry was confronted by three pairs of female eyes—one pair narrowed with disapproval, one pair dark and very round, one pair framed with slightly raised brows. He ignored the ‘could do better’ look and concentrated on Susan.
‘I know you work extremely hard cleaning up after Sally’s strays, but that isn’t the problem.’
He had the strangest impression of breath being collectively held behind him.
‘Quite the contrary,’ he went on. ‘In your effort to do a thorough job you appear to have knocked the telephone jack out of the socket in the library. It’s why we haven’t been able to make or receive calls all morning.’
She frowned. ‘But I haven’t…’
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a movement but by the time he’d turned to look at Jacqui she was doing nothing more suspicious than tucking her hair behind her ear.
She gave him that ‘What?’ look.
A question he didn’t want to answer and he turned back to Susan, who, with rare meekness, said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Harry. I’ll be more careful in future.’
‘No!’ Maisie, who’d been sitting at the kitchen table, leapt to her feet, knocking over her chair and sending the hen squawking for safety. ‘No!’ she repeated. ‘You mustn’t blame Susan.’ She glared at him. ‘It was me, OK?’ she said, sounding more like a belligerent teenager than a six-year-old. ‘I did it.’
Maisie?
It was deliberate?
He looked at Jacqui in a bid for some kind of sense and realised that she’d known. Her eyes were liquid, pleading with him to understand, to be kind…
Something that Susan, leaping to Maisie’s protection and taking the blame, clearly thought him incapable of.
‘What did you do, Maisie?’
‘I unplugged the phone.’
‘In the library?’
‘In the library,’ she said, with a touch of defiance. ‘In the office. In the kitchen…’
He walked across to the kitchen phone and traced the line to a socket hidden behind a sagging sofa, the plug lying loose on the floor. He didn’t ask how she knew what to do—he could well imagine Sally yanking out a plug when she didn’t want to take a call—he simply replaced it and stood up.
She might be a little demon, but at least she wasn’t prepared to let someone else take the blame for her.
He knew exactly why she’d disconnected the phones, of course. Jacqui kept telling him why. She didn’t want him talking to Selina or Aunt Kate and making other arrangements for her. She wanted to stay here. If he allowed Maisie to tell him that, he’d never be able to send her away…
‘Thank you for being so honest,’ he said. ‘That was very brave of you.’ Then, turning to Susan, ‘And you are a lot kinder than she deserves. Just leave a note about that cleaner on my desk and I’ll see to it.’
There was a sharp rap at the back door, a call of, ‘Anyone about?’
‘That’s the mechanic come to sort out your car,’ he said to Jacqui. A welcome distraction. ‘Can I trust you to call your agency while I talk to him?’ He didn’t bother to conceal his anger with her. She was a grown-up and didn’t deserve kid gloves. ‘They must be very concerned not to have heard from you. Or was the story about the missing cellphone fiction, too?’
He didn’t wait for her answer. He wasn’t interested in her answer.
She’d known.
She’d looked at him with those big grey eyes, held out the telephone for him to listen to the silence and all the time she’d known what Maisie had done.
As he walked away, he heard the telephone begin to ring. It did not, as anticipated, signal relief. On the contrary, it had a hollow knell-like sound.
‘Morning, Dr Talbot.’
The mechanic had loaded Jacqui’s car onto the back of his pick-up and was wiping his hands on a rag.
‘Mike.’ Then, concentrating on the car, ‘You’re taking her down to the garage?’
‘Better get her up on the ramp, have a proper look. Nothing worse than a job half done.’
‘No.’
‘Do you want me to hang on to it until your visitor leaves? She won’t want to be bashing her nice new exhaust to bits going back down the lane, will she?’
He hadn’t said anything about a visitor, or that the VW belonged to a woman. But then she’d asked directions at the village shop; the local equivalent of a tabloid headline.
‘When will it be ready?’
The sooner it was done, the sooner he could get her disturbing presence out of here. Get back to normal. Or the nearest approximation of it that he could manage.
‘Ah, well, I tried to ring earlier. Did you know your phone’s out? I did report it.’
‘Then your call must have done the trick. It’s back on now.’
‘Oh, right. Well,’ he said, gesturing at the car, ‘the problem is that this is an old model. It’s going to take a day or two to get hold of the parts, but since I had to come up to tell you, I thought I’d save a trip and take it back with me. Is the delay going to be a problem?’
‘Will it make any difference if I say yes?’
‘No, but I could organise a rental in the meantime. Something with a higher clearance. If the lady needs a runabout?’
He resisted the temptation. Even if he provided her with alternative transport, where would she go? He had considered suggesting she take Maisie home with her. If she declined, there was no way he could insist. Besides, she might not have room. And if she had, would she admit it?
‘We’ll manage. Just do it as quickly as you can. And Mike, you’d better ask your brother if he’ll fill and roll the potholes in the lane as a temporary measure.’ His purpose in neglecting it had been to keep people out, not have them stuck up here unable to leave. ‘I’ll talk to him about something more permanent as soon as the weather improves.’
‘Don’t leave it too long. He’ll be starting work on the new houses after Easter.’
‘New houses?’
‘Nice little development. Your Aunt Kate is a canny woman. Pushed through the planning permission on that bottom field by the road. The low-cost housing she insisted on did the trick. It’ll keep the youngsters here and save the village school. Mean work for all us.’ He nodded in the direction of the house. ‘Will you be sending your little girl there?’
His words, so casually spoken, struck like a knife wound straight to the heart.
‘No. She’s not staying. Give me a call when the car’s ready.’ And, not waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away. Not back to the house, but up the hill and into the mist.
Jacqui, replacing the receiver, caught sight of her precious car being loaded onto the back of the garage pick-up and, since Harry was nowhere in sight, went outside to find out what was happening.
The mechanic finished securing it and then looked up. ‘Morning, miss. This your little beauty?’
She smiled. ‘She is lovely, isn’t she?’
‘A credit to you. Shame you had to bring her up here.’
Unprepared to commit herself, she asked, ‘Where are you taking her?’
‘Mike’s Garage. I’m Mike, by the way.’ He extended his hand, then, realising that it was less than clean, thought better of it. ‘You’ll find us down the lane behind the village shop. I told Dr Talbot that it’ll be a couple days before we can get a part. It’s her age, you see. Not standard stock. I did offer him a rental in the meantime, but he said not to bother.’
‘He did?’ Her heart did a little flip-flop that she couldn’t quite decipher. Maybe because it meant he wouldn’t be bundling her out of the door at the first chance he got. After the way he’d looked at her when he realised she’d known about the phone she’d expected to be thrown out, bag and baggage, at the first opportunity.
‘If that doesn’t suit you, miss, you just say the word.’
‘What? Oh, no.’ Then, ‘No, really, if I need to come down to the village I’m sure Harry won’t mind me borrowing the Land Rover. And I quite understand about the spares. I’ve had problems in the past. There’s no special rush.’
For some reason that appeared to amuse him, but he just said, ‘Whatever you say, miss. Do you want to close the gate after me?’
‘Of course.’
She waited until he’d driven through then closed it after him before turning back to the house. The mist had thinned sufficiently for her to see how it nestled comfortably in a fold in the hill. No longer threatening, but a sturdy refuge from the worst of the weather.
Beyond it, a movement caught her eye and she saw the dark shape of a man moving swiftly in fierce, angry strides toward the summit.
He had every right to be angry. She should have told him about Maisie’s stunt with the phones.
And now she’d compounded her duplicity by encouraging Mike to take his time about fixing the car.
Not that it would make any difference one way or the other since all Vickie had been able to tell her in their brief exchange was that Selina Talbot hadn’t responded to her messages, but ‘not to worry’, she was ‘on it’.
Maybe she should make a thorough job of it, call her back and tell her to take her time, too, although she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that it wouldn’t make any difference.
Selina Talbot must have known her mother was in New Zealand since it wasn’t exactly a last-minute, off-the-cuff trip. She’d been there for five months, for heaven’s sake. It would take a desperately casual attitude to communications to miss that one.
Maybe it was paranoia, induced by the bang on her head, but she was beginning to get the strongest feeling that Selina Talbot had known exactly what she was doing. That Harry had been the only responsible adult available and rather than give him the opportunity to say no—and he’d certainly have said no—he’d been presented with a fait accompli.
Left holding the baby—nanny included.
Because once she’d come to that conclusion it was equally obvious that, in spite of all her protestations to the contrary, Vickie Campbell—who was not casual about anything to do with her business—must have known exactly what the situation was.
The only thing that completely flummoxed her was the fact that no one had thought to pack some sensible, mucking-about-in-the-country clothes for Maisie.
‘The rabbits now. You must come and see the rabbits.’
Jacqui was being given a tour of the menagerie. They’d said hello to the puppies and their mother. Given Fudge an apple and brushed his mane. Taken carrots to the donkeys, who looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, but, bearing in mind Harry’s trouble with them, she’d kept a tight hold of Maisie’s hand when she headed for the gate. She had no intention of chasing donkeys all over the hill.
Now she was being dragged into a small paddock behind the stables, where the rabbits and chickens had large and comfortable quarters.
Her reluctance was more to do with the chickens than an unwillingness to visit the rabbits. They were loose, a mix-and-match assortment, busily stalking any worm foolish enough to put its head above ground. She didn’t like their sharp little beaks, their beady little eyes or that head-jutting way they walked.
They made her nervous.
The rabbits, more dawn-and-dusk explorers, were taking their time about being tempted to leave the comfort of the hutch and venture into the run.
‘Try a carrot, Maisie. Rabbits like carrots, don’t they?’
‘Not as much as dandelion leaves.’
She jumped as Harry spoke from a few feet behind her. The soft grass had muffled his approach and she’d been so busy keeping an eye on the chickens that she hadn’t seen him. She turned round. It was impossible to tell if his hard walk had blown away his temper. His face was giving nothing away.
‘Why didn’t you tell me, Jacqui?’
Not wanting Maisie to witness what was clearly going to be an awkward conversation, she left her poking a carrot through the wire mesh of the run and walked across to the dry-stone wall at the bottom end of the paddock.
Harry, taking the hint, followed, turning his back to the wall and leaning against it. Waiting for her explanation.
‘I knew about the phone no more than five minutes before you. I apologise for not telling you but, having realised it must be Maisie, and aware how much you loathe having her here, I was hoping to save her from your anger.’ She looked at him. ‘I had intended to deal with it myself at the first opportunity. Would have done it straight away except that you decided to settle in the library.’
‘You thought I’d shout at her?’
‘It seemed a reasonable assumption.’ She glanced at him. ‘But actually you don’t shout, do you?’
‘Despite all appearances, Jacqui, I’m not an ogre.’
She reached out, touched his arm, very lightly as if this would somehow show him that she knew that she’d got it all wrong. Of course he wasn’t an ogre. He was unhappy. But then wasn’t that the case in most fairy tales?
‘I meant, you keep everything bottled up inside. It might be better if you did yell at Maisie. I’m sure she could deal with an emotional outburst a lot better than being frozen out.’ She shrugged. ‘Whether you can is something else.’
‘Amateur psychology I can do without,’ he said.
‘I’m just telling it the way I see it, but maybe next time you take off into the mist you should try just opening your mouth and letting rip. It’s supposed to be therapeutic.’
She held his mocking challenge, refusing to back down, and in the end he was the one who turned away, looking out into the misty void.
‘I can’t expect you to understand how desperately difficult I find it…’ He made a helpless gesture.
‘She’s just a little girl, Harry. That she’s adopted, a different colour from you, doesn’t make her different. She so much wants you to accept her—’
She was going to say ‘love her’, but thought that might be an emotion too far.
He was already frowning.
‘Colour?’
Jacqui swallowed, wishing she hadn’t chosen now, this minute, when things were going so well, to bring up the subject. But the words could not be withdrawn. ‘She told me.’
‘What?’ He looked genuinely perplexed. ‘What did she tell you?’
And suddenly she had that hideous sinking feeling that came when you realised that you were digging a hole with your mouth. But there was no going back.
‘When I tried to explain that I couldn’t stay here she asked me if it was because she was adopted. Because of her colour…’
And she looked across at Maisie, crooning to the rabbits, coaxing them out to play. She looked so happy, so relaxed, so different from the little girl who’d delivered that straight-to-the-heart appeal.
‘What did she say, Jacqui?’
She held her hand up in front of her, holding him off with a little wave, unable, for a moment, to speak…
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I can probably work it out all by myself. She said that I didn’t love her, didn’t want her because she’s adopted, or different. Is that the gist of it?’
She nodded. Then, because she had to know, ‘Is it a problem for you?’
He didn’t say anything for a while, just stared down at the ground on the far side of the wall. Then, not looking at her, ‘Yes, it’s a problem.’
What?
She didn’t say the word out loud, but maybe her expression was enough.
‘When I look at her all I can feel is—’
‘No. Not another word.’ She took a step back, putting a yard of clear air between them. If he registered the fact it didn’t show in his expression. Nothing showed…‘Here I am,’ she said, slowly, ‘dying of embarrassment for maligning you if only in my thoughts, and you’re actually going to stand there and tell me that it’s true?’
‘I—’
‘Look, Jacqui!’ Maisie, eyes alight, ran up with something clasped in her hand.
Jacqui gathered herself, then turned round and folded herself up to child height so that she could see what she was holding. Forced herself to smile. To speak normally…
‘What have you got there, sweetpea?’
Maisie opened her hands to show a tiny yellow chick. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s pooped on me…’
‘That’s all we need,’ Harry muttered from somewhere far above them. ‘Chicks on the loose. Fox heaven—’
‘Where did you find it, Maisie?’ Jacqui said, interrupting Harry before he said something that would seriously upset the child. Trying to ignore what he’d just told her as she dug a tissue out of her pocket to clean up the mess. Getting a peck for her trouble. Even cute fluffy chicks had beaks…
‘Over by the hedge. There are lots of them. Come and see.’ She didn’t wait, but began to stomp back across the paddock in boots that were at least two sizes too big for her.
‘Wait! Be careful, Maisie. You don’t want to step on them.’
She might not like chickens much, but she wouldn’t want to see one stomped on.
Maisie froze, one leg comically in the air. She was happy, really happy, and Jacqui thought her heart might break for the child…
‘We’re going to need a cardboard box to put them in. I’m sure I saw one in the mud room.’ She turned to Harry, who was still standing by the wall. ‘Do you want to get that?’
‘You don’t want to know what I want,’ he said.
‘I already do, but don’t hold your breath, it’s not going to happen any time soon.’
‘That sounds as if you know something I don’t.’
‘First the chickens,’ she said. ‘Then the bad news.’

CHAPTER NINE
JACQUI, while grateful for the distraction of rounding up the chicks, nevertheless held her breath as Maisie offered one up to Harry when he returned with the box.
He looked so huge beside her. She looked so vulnerable and she knew he could so easily crush her with an unkind word. But he didn’t. After a long moment, he crouched down, placed the box on the ground in front of him and let Maisie tip the chick into his hands.
She looked anxiously up at him for approval.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ he asked. ‘Go and find some more.’
Not exactly praise, but Maisie rushed off, tripping over her boots in her eagerness to please him. As Jacqui watched he reached out a hand as if to steady her, but her momentum carried her out of his reach as, the pink ruff of her skirt bouncing, she rushed back to the hedge.
It was over in a second, but the look on his face as he watched her gave the lie to all the hideous feelings of shock and disgust that were whirling around inside her.
As he watched her go, forgetting her prima-donna princess act and just dizzy with excitement like any other six-year-old, his true feelings were etched on his face for the briefest of moments.
Behind the cold, uncaring mask there was exasperation. Amusement, too. But most of all love.
By the time he looked across at her, it had been wiped out, obliterated, but she wouldn’t be fooled again.
‘Ouch! Cut it out.’ She shook off the annoyed mother hen who had taken exception to their rescue operation and was pecking at her ankles. ‘We’re taking care of your babies, OK?’
‘I told you to wear wellies,’ Maisie told her in passing—and sounding exactly like a grown-up telling some little kid ‘I told you so’.
Harry caught her eye. ‘That had better not be a smile,’ she warned him.
‘Not even close,’ he assured her.
Hmm.
Ten minutes later, as she placed the last chick in the box, she said, ‘That seems to be the lot. Where do we put them?’
‘In the stables. Here, take the box.’ He pushed it into her arms and she thought he was done, but he said, ‘I’ll go and look for some boards to keep them penned in.’
‘They’ll need food and water,’ Maisie reminded him, still buzzy with excitement and forgetting to be cool and distant.
‘You’re right. Do you want to see to that?’
Her shoulders went up to her ears in an absolute paroxysm of joy at being given something important to do by Harry, and she rushed off.
‘What are you looking so pleased with yourself for?’ he demanded, looking up and catching her in a grin that, unlike him, she was not quick enough to hide.
‘Me?’ Jacqui asked.
‘The words “Cheshire” and “cat” come to mind.’
Not quite the image she was striving for, but she kept the smile glued to her face and said, ‘I have a naturally sunny disposition, Harry.’ Then added, ‘You’d better get used to it.’
‘Is that your way of telling me that you’re going to be around for some time?’
‘That’s the bad news, yes. Your cousin hasn’t responded to the messages left by the agency, so unless you have some better plan, you’re stuck with us.’
He didn’t leap to assure her that her self-sacrifice was appreciated. He didn’t say anything.
‘Of course,’ she went on, ‘she may have decided to get in touch with you direct. It’s entirely possible that while you’ve been wherever it is you’ve been and we’ve been out here having a good time with these adorable chickens, she’s left a message on your answering machine.’ She was finding it increasingly difficult to keep up the businesslike manner in the face of his totally blank expression. ‘It’s even possible that she didn’t wait to call us, but boarded a plane home the minute she picked up the first message.’
‘I hope you’re not holding your breath on that one,’ he said, finally.
‘No. Taking my cues from those who know and love her, I’ve kept breathing in and out on a regular basis.’
‘Smart woman,’ he said. Then, ‘Will you stay?’
He was asking her? Actually asking her to stay?
‘Can you stay?’ he went on, when she didn’t immediately answer. ‘I realise that we’re all taking you completely for granted.’
‘No…’
‘No?’
‘Yes…’ She gathered herself. ‘You’re not taking me for granted. That honour belongs to someone else. And yes, of course I’ll stay for as long as I’m needed.’ And she discovered she was smiling again.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’ll book a replacement holiday for you myself as soon as things are back to normal.’
She shrugged. ‘Maisie said this is a good place for a holiday and, despite the weather and the chickens, I can see why she likes it. Besides, the sun is so bad for your skin.’
‘It isn’t always like this,’ he said, turning away and heading for the paddock gate, opening it and standing back so that she could go ahead of him. She turned in the opening, blocking his way. What she had to say could wait, but he would keep taking to the hills.
‘While you’re here, can I just get a few things straight?’
‘Will anything I say stop you?’
She ignored the rudeness—now she recognised it as a defence mechanism it was easy to ignore—and smiled, as if he’d said something amusing.
‘Since I’ll be here for a while, I’m going to have to ask you to let me know when you’re going to disappear the way you did at lunchtime.’
‘I was under the impression that you were Maisie’s nanny, not mine.’
‘Were you?’ She wasn’t anyone’s nanny, but she didn’t see any need to tell him that. Then, ‘It’s just a question of next of kin, in the event of an accident, illness, that’s all. I’ll also need a list of essential telephone numbers, a designated vehicle to use in an emergency—my own motor insurance will cover me—and a set of keys for both the house and the car.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You missed lunch. You’ll find some sandwiches in the fridge when you’re done.’
With that she turned and walked away.
‘Jacqui…’ She halted, waiting for the explosion. When none came, she glanced back. ‘How’s your head?’
She looked back over her shoulder. He hadn’t moved and for a moment she was tempted to do a ‘Maisie’, wince a little, get him closer to have another look. But she just said, ‘You did a good job, doc.’ Her voice was a little husky and she was forced to clear her throat before she added, ‘I’ll recommend you to all my friends.’

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