Cara Colter - His to Command - the Nanny - A Nanny for Keeps

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.

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.’