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‘Lord Geoffrey Nash no less…’
‘You’ve heard of him, then?’
‘Is that what I said…?’ He gave a low, amused laugh which for some reason annoyed her.
‘Is there a phone here I could use?’
‘The land lines are all dead.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders and continued to look at her, though this time with speculation. ‘Thanks to this blizzard. And I don’t expect them to be up and running for some time yet. The weather forecasts weren’t too good for the next couple of weeks ahead.’
‘Next couple of weeks ahead?’ Where, she wondered, appalled, did that leave her?
‘Fortunately, I have a cellphone.’ He raised his eyebrows expressively and Miranda scowled at him.
‘May I borrow it? Please?’ she added when he made no effort to move. ‘I want to call my dad to let him know that I’m safe and to tell him to get in touch with Freddie and the rest of my friends who might be worried…’
‘Why, of course.’ He gave a mock bow which further set her teeth on edge, and produced a fist-sized cellular phone which he handed to her with a flourish.
Miranda rapidly tapped in her father’s direct office number and after a few seconds was connected to him, smiling as she listened to his frantic overreaction to her situation, which she played down as much as she possibly could. She and her father were members of the mutual adoration society. He doted on her and she adored him. Which was why she guiltily omitted to mention the cause of her predicament, namely an argument with Freddie, whom her father contemptuously referred to as a foolish fop with more money than brains.
‘And who is this man you’re staying with at the moment?’ he rasped down the end of the telephone and Miranda put her hand over the receiver to ask for a name.
‘Hand me the phone.’ He walked over to her and extended his hand and after a few seconds of internal debate, she let him have it, resenting the way he spoke in a low voice with his back to her, even having the nerve to head out of the sitting room so that all chance of eavesdropping was squashed.
What could he have to talk to her father about? For so long? She impatiently waited for him to return and, when he did, she snatched the phone off him to say goodbye to her father, then she rested the mobile on the table next to her.
‘What were you talking to Dad about?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘And what’s your name? Why couldn’t you just tell me?’
‘Fond of asking questions, aren’t you?’ He threw another log on the fire and turned to look at her. ‘I thought it wise to reassure your father that you weren’t going to come to any harm here. My name, by the way, is Luke Decroix.’
‘And how did you manage to reassure him?’ Miranda asked tartly. ‘Did you tell him what a nice, charming, inoffensive gentleman you are?’
‘Oh, I think he gathered that from my voice. I also told him that you would call him every day just to fill him in on how you were. The fact is, I’m stuck with you at least until this blizzard has eased off a bit…’
‘You’re stuck with me?’
‘That’s right.’ He gave her a long, measured look. ‘I mean, you arrive in a heap on my doorstep and, face it, there’s not much you’re going to be able to do for yourself for a few days, is there? Not with that ankle of yours?’
‘I don’t intend to let you take care of me, so you needn’t worry.’
‘Oh, is that right…? Well, you won’t be able to shovel snow and chop logs, will you?’
‘You know I can’t.’
‘What about cleaning…?’
Miranda looked around her—for the first time since she had arrived at the cabin. Downstairs comprised the sitting room, which was quite big with low bookshelves fronting the open fireplace and several battered chairs in addition to the sofa. Through one open door she could glimpse a kitchen and there were a couple of other rooms at the back as well. Wooden stairs led up to a galleried landing which overlooked the downstairs, and off the landing were several rooms, probably bedrooms.
‘You’ve never so much as lifted a duster, have you?’ he asked quietly and she flushed. ‘What about cooking? Can you cook?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You suppose so?’
‘I—I’ve never needed to cook. Ethel looks after Dad and me…’ Even to her own ears, her résumé sounded woefully inadequate, and she tossed her hair back and glared at him. ‘I guess I could try my hand at doing something in the kitchen. It can’t be that difficult…’
‘What do you do?’ Luke asked with mortifying curiosity.
‘I—I’m a trained interior designer, if you want to know.’ Except, she did precious little of that, she thought with a stab of guilt. Her father had funded her course and had even provided her with her first clients, but her enthusiasm had gradually waned; she realised that she had not done anything to further her career for years now. Socialising had left little time for the more serious business of working and, without the need to earn a living, she had found it easy to be diverted.
‘That must keep you busy. Does it?’
‘Have I asked you what you do?’ Miranda retorted hotly feeling defensive at the realisation that, if he knew the truth about her idle lifestyle, he wouldn’t be very impressed.
‘So it doesn’t keep you busy, I take it,’ he replied calmly.
‘I never said that!’
‘Oh, but your lack of answer tells me that you don’t spend your days earning a crust as an interior designer. Which leads me to conclude that you really do nothing with your life except…what…party? Have fun holidays wherever the in crowd happens to be? I know your type.’
‘It’s important to enjoy life,’ Miranda said for the sake of argument, even though she knew that she was on losing ground.
‘You’d better go and get changed.’ He stood next to her and then grasped her arm with his fingers, help that she reluctantly accepted. ‘You can borrow some of my clothes, even though they’re probably not quite up to your standard, and then I’ll cook us something to eat.’
‘Thank you,’ she muttered, out of good manners—though she was looking forward to putting on dry clothes. Whenever she tried to stand, even slightly, on her hurt foot, she could feel her whole body flinch in discomfort. The bandage had made it feel better, or at least had given her the illusion of thinking that it did, but who cared whether she could hop, skip and jump in the morning? She would still be stuck here in ferocious bad weather with this unbearable man who moved from hostility to contempt with the ease of a magician. Through the little panes of the window she could see the snow whipping around outside and she could hear it as well. The low howl of wind and the soft spitting of the snowdrops. It was a nightmare.
‘Don’t be too proud to ask for help,’ he threw in casually, as she clung to the banister and tried to heave herself up, and Miranda looked at him sourly. Blue eyes, a deeper more piercing shade than her own aquamarine-blue and infinitely more opaque, met hers. His eyebrows were dark, the same raven darkness of his hair. But, close to him like this, she noticed his eyelashes, which were thick and long and unexpectedly attractive.
‘If you wouldn’t mind…’ she said, looking away, and he obligingly swept her off her feet and carried her upstairs as though she weighed less than a feather. A huge wave of exhaustion swept over her and she had to fight to keep her eyes open.
It felt so comfortable being carried like this. She could feel the strength of his body against her, like steel. The hands supporting her were large and powerful, like the rest of him; and, unlike most of the men she socialised with, he smelt not of expensive aftershave but of something more masculine and tangy. Very rough and ready, she thought. He would be if he lived here and spent his life chopping logs and skiing.
‘There’s just the one bathroom,’ he said, pushing open the door with his foot and then settling her on the chair by the bath. ‘So make sure you leave it just as you found it. I don’t intend to have to clean up after you.’
Without bothering to give her a second glance, he began running the bath, testing the water with his hand, squatting by the side of the bath so that his shirt lifted slightly to reveal a slither of hard brown skin.
‘I’d better get you undressed.’ He turned towards her and she was propelled out of her lazy observation of him.
‘No, thank you!’
‘You mean you can do it all yourself? With that ankle of yours?’
‘I’m very grateful to have been rescued by you,’ Miranda said stiffly, ‘but if you lay a finger on me, I swear I’ll scream this place down.’
‘Oh, will you?’ He leaned over her, caging her in with his hands and making sure that there was no place for her to look but at his face. His features were blunt and overpoweringly masculine and she cringed back into the chair like a startled victim of a bird of prey. ‘And who do you think will hear you? But…’ as quickly as he had leaned over her, he stood back, straightening to his massive height, and looked at her with an insolent lack of respect ‘…far be it from me to invade your maidenly privacy. Just make sure you clean up after yourself. I don’t want to find any of this…’ without warning he lifted some strands of her hair between his fingers so that the long fine white-blonde hair trailed over his wrists ‘…clogging up my plug hole.’
It took one full hour for her to complete her bath. Struggling out of her layers of ski gear was a feat along the lines of running five marathons in a row. And then, when she finally decided that her body would shrivel from overexposure to bath water, she got out and was confronted with the further indignity of yelling for him from the top of the stairs with a towel wrapped around her and her hair hanging limply wet down her back.
‘I wonder if I might borrow those clothes you mentioned?’ she told him when he finally surfaced at the bottom of the stairs with a saucepan in his hand.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I asked whether I might borrow those clothes you mentioned?’ Miranda repeated tersely. The towel barely covered her body. He must have known how awkward she felt standing here like this but either he didn’t give a damn or else he frankly enjoyed her discomfort. Or both.
‘I heard that bit. I’m waiting for you to finish your request.’
‘Please.’
‘That’s much better.’ He deposited the pan on the small wooden table at the bottom of the stairs and then headed up towards her. ‘You can use the spare bedroom,’ he said, pushing open a door to reveal a small, cosy room with its own open fireplace. There was just enough space for the single bed, a dressing table with a mirror and a chest of drawers. Miranda propped herself up against the door frame and looked around it. She was used to sleeping in a double bed. Even when she stayed in hotels, she always insisted on a double bed, however much extra the room might cost. She liked having a lot of space when she went to sleep. Single beds reminded her of hospitals and hospitals reminded her of her mother who had died in one when she had been barely knee-high to a grasshopper.
‘Not good enough for m’lady?’ For a big man, he moved with disconcerting stealth, she thought, swinging around to face him and finding a bundle of clothes shoved into her hands.
‘It’s fine. Thank you.’
‘Good. Because the only king-sized bed is in my room and my excessive hospitality does have its limits. Now, shall I help m’lady inside?’ Without giving her time to answer, he placed his hand squarely around her waist, leaving her no option but to clutch the loosening towel with one hand and place the other around his neck.
‘Now…’ He stood back and looked down at her with his arms folded ‘…you can get changed, and I’ll be up in fifteen minutes with something for you to eat. M’lady.’ He gave a mock salute.
‘Could you please stop calling me that?’
‘M’lady?’ His dangerous blue eyes widened with an expression of ridiculously inept innocence. ‘But why?’
‘Because it’s not my name.’
He didn’t bother to answer that. Instead he moved across to the dead fireplace. ‘Cold in here, isn’t it? But then, I wasn’t expecting company or else I would have lit this fire and had the room warm and ready. You’d better get dressed. You’re trembling. I’ll put your clothes to dry in front of the fire downstairs.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And I’ll bring some logs up later and get this fire going.’
‘I would appreciate that.’ Miranda could feel goose pimples on her arms from the abrupt change in temperature after the warm bathroom. ‘You needn’t worry, Mr Decroix…’
‘Luke, please. Why stand on formality when we’ll be living together?’ He inclined his head to look at her over his shoulder, and she realised, with a little start, that it wasn’t simply his face that was attractive, but the whole package. In a primitive, masculine sort of way. He had the kind of unchiselled, powerful good looks that drew stares, and she immediately looked away just in case he thought that she was staring.
‘My father will more than compensate you for any trouble.’
This time, he turned slowly to look at her and an expression of contemptuous amusement gathered itself in the corners of his mouth and glittered in the blue, brooding eyes. ‘How reassuring. And you think that I might need the compensation, do you?’
Miranda edged her way inelegantly to the bed and slipped under the covers with her towel still in place and the bundle of clothes still in one hand; then she drew the duvet all the way up to her chin. If he insisted on ignoring her chattering teeth and continuing the conversation, then she might as well be warm.
‘It’s only fair after putting you to all this trouble. But most people wouldn’t say no to a bit of financial help,’ she finally said, awkwardly.
His blue eyes narrowed coldly on her face. ‘Oh, dear. Would you have reached that conclusion by any chance because of my ragged clothing?’
‘I hadn’t noticed the state of your clothing,’ Miranda plunged on. ‘I have no idea about your financial circumstances…I don’t know what you do for a living. But, well…’ His shuttered look was hardly encouraging but now that she’d started, she felt compelled to reach some sort of conclusion to her speculations. ‘…there can’t be that many well-paid jobs that you could do from this remote location…can there…?’ Her voice trailed off into silence while Luke continued to observe her with embarrassing intensity.
He shook his head with a low laugh, ‘I don’t live here all the time, Miranda.’ He paused for a moment, looking as if he was pondering something very deeply. ‘In fact, I’m just looking after this place actually—for the time being.’
‘Oh, I see!’ That would explain a lot. His English accent, for a start. He was probably one of these nomadic types who made their way round the world doing manual chores for people. Earning a crust.
He didn’t say anything. After a few minutes his expression lightened and he shrugged. ‘I’ll bring you up something to eat. Your foot will feel much better in the morning.’
He didn’t call her m’lady again, although he more than made up for the thoughtful omission by bowing grandly at the door before he left; but Miranda no longer had the energy to feel annoyed. She was too sleepy. She would just close her eyes for a few minutes before she changed and he returned with her food.
CHAPTER TWO
THE room was warm. That was the first thing Miranda noticed when she next surfaced. A warm room and she was changed. Her eyes flickered open and for a few seconds she experienced the disorientation that sometimes attacks when the surroundings are new and unfamiliar. Then her memory returned with a crash and the image of Luke’s dark, striking and unpleasantly cynical face filled her head.
It was as though the thought had been enough to summon him, because just at that moment her bedroom door was pushed open and she saw the object of her wandering mind filling out the doorway, with a tray in his hands. Sleep had not managed to diminish his suffocating masculinity. In fact, she literally drew her breath in as he dwarfed the small room, primitively forceful despite the tea towel slung over his shoulder.
‘So you’re up at last.’ He moved across to the curtains and yanked them open, exposing a watery grey light and the sight of fast-falling snow. ‘Breakfast.’ He deposited the tray on the bed and Miranda struggled up into a sitting position.
‘How long was I asleep?’ She stretched and the sleeves of the oversized grey tee shirt rode down to expose her slender, pale forearms.
‘Over ten hours.’
‘Over ten hours!’
‘I dutifully came with your supper only to find you sound asleep and snoring…’
‘I do not snore!’
‘How do you know that?’ he asked snidely, pulling up a chair so that he could sit and watch her. ‘It’s not the sort of thing a lover might bring to your attention. Anyway, I lit the fire to get the icicles off the ceiling and left you.’ He linked his fingers together and looked as she bit into the toast and then hungrily began demolishing what was on the plate: A fried egg, bacon, baked beans, just the sort of breakfast she had always avoided.
‘After I’d changed you, of course.’
Miranda paused with the last bit of toast en route to her mouth and started at him. ‘You change me?’
‘Shocking, isn’t it?’ He clasped his hands behind his head and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. ‘Do you think that Daddy might refuse me my much needed financial compensation if he knew?’
‘You’re not funny!’ She had somehow assumed that she had changed herself, even though she had no recollection of doing any such thing, but she could tell from the gleam in his eyes that the man wasn’t lying. He had unwrapped the towel from her and had pulled on a tee shirt, and somewhere along the line those big hands of his had touched her shoulders, her stomach, her breasts. ‘You had no right!’
‘I do beg Your Highness’s pardon, but going to sleep with a wet towel around you in a damp room would just have compounded the sprained ankle with a healthy dose of pneumonia.’
‘You still had no right! You should have awakened me!’
‘I’ll try and remember the next time, if you try and remember to stick to the nursery slopes so that there won’t be a next time. You haven’t eaten all your egg up.’
‘I’ve lost my appetite.’ She closed her knife and fork and reclined back on the pillow.
‘In which case, you’d better try and find it. You’re building your strength up and step one is eating all that breakfast, meticulously prepared by my own fair hands.’ He leaned forward. ‘Maybe you’d like me to feed the rest to you…’
Miranda gave a little yelp of denial and hurriedly ate what was left on her plate, then she wiped her mouth with the paper napkin and folded her arms.
‘Now,’ he said implacably, standing up to remove the tray and then whipping the duvet off her so that she yelped even louder, this time in enraged discomfort, ‘the next thing I advise you to do is test that foot of yours.’
‘And would you like to hear what I advise you to do?’
‘Not really. Here, hold my hand and stand up.’
