Christmas at the Castle
Marion Lennox
Holly and the brooding new Earl of Castle Craigie… Angus Stuart is more used to managing boardrooms than castles, but when his father dies he finds himself thrust into an unfamiliar world. Returning home, he intends to sell the estate as quickly as possible. However, with Christmas around the corner, fate has other plans.… Showing up on his doorstep, Australian chef Holly McIntosh is bursting with festive cheer. But she’s desperate for a job, and she’s not taking no for an answer! Not usually one for taking a risk, Angus offers her a temporary position. But if anyone can melt this brooding earl’s heart this winter, it’s Holly!
“You’ve made me stand in six inches of snow while you’ve checked out my résumé and I’ve had enough. Merry Christmas. Bah humbug.”
And she turned and stalked off.
Or she would have stalked off if she’d had sensible shoes with some sort of grip, but the canvas trainers she was wearing had no grip at all. The cobbles were icy under the thin layer of freshly fallen snow. She slipped and floundered, and then she started falling backwards.
She flailed—and Angus caught her before she hit the ground.
One minute she was stomping off in righteous indignation. The next she was being held in arms that were unbelievably strong, gazing up into a face that was…that was…
Like every fairytale she’d ever read.
Christmas
at the Castle
Marion Lennox
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
MARION LENNOX is a country girl, born on an Australian dairy farm. She moved on—mostly because the cows just weren’t interested in her stories! Married to a “very special doctor”, Marion writes for Mills & Boon
Medical Romance
and Mills & Boon
Cherish
. (She used a different name for each category for a while—readers looking for her past romance titles should search for author Trisha David as well.) She’s now had more than seventy-five romance novels accepted for publication.
In her non-writing life Marion cares for kids, cats, dogs, chooks and goldfish. She travels, she fights her rampant garden (she’s losing) and her house dust (she’s lost). Having spun in circles for the first part of her life, she’s now stepped back from her “other” career, which was teaching statistics at her local university. Finally she’s reprioritised her life, figured what’s important and discovered the joys of deep baths, romance and chocolate. Preferably all at the same time!
For Di and for Kevin
With thanks for the dancing and friendship.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE (#uad383d33-6b5c-5e23-8d28-4677b7ff8e87)
CHAPTER TWO (#u00b7aa44-abdb-555c-a525-2f688044ae7a)
CHAPTER THREE (#u5b9ef309-cee6-51fc-8e31-4f70c30968fd)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
‘PLEASE, MY LORD, we really want to come to Castle Craigie for Christmas. It’s where we were born. We want to see it again before it’s sold. There’s lots of room. We won’t be a nuisance. Please, My Lord.’
My Lord. It was a powerful title, one Angus wasn’t accustomed to, nor likely to become accustomed to. He’d intended to be Lord of Castle Craigie for as short a time as possible and then be out of here.
But these were his half-brother and -sisters, children of his father’s second disastrous marriage, and he knew the hand they’d been dealt. He’d escaped to Manhattan, and his mother had independent money. These kids had never escaped the poverty and neglect that went with association with the old Earl.
‘Our mum’s not well,’ the boy said, eagerly now as he hadn’t been met with a blank refusal. ‘She can’t bring us back just for a visit. But when you wrote and said it was being sold and was there anything she wants... She doesn’t, but we do. Our father sent us away without warning. Mary—she’s thirteen—she used to spend hours up on the hills with the badgers and all the wild things. I know it sounds dumb, but she loved them and she still cries when she thinks about them. There’s nothing like that in London. She wants a chance to say goodbye. Polly’s ten and she wants to make cubby huts in the cellars again, and take pictures to show her friends that she really did live in a castle. And me... My friends are at Craigenstone. I was in a band. Just to have a chance to jam with them again, and at Christmas... Mum’s so ill. It’s so awful here. This’d be just...just...’
The boy broke off, but then somehow forced himself to go on. ‘Please, it’s our history. We’ll look after ourselves. Just once, this last time so we can say goodbye properly. Please, My Lord...’
Angus Stuart was a hard-headed financier from Manhattan. He hired and fired at the highest level. He ran one of Manhattan’s most prestigious investment companies. Surely he was impervious to begging.
But a sixteen-year-old boy, pleading for his siblings...
So we can say goodbye properly... What circumstances had pushed them away so fast three years ago? He didn’t know, but he did know his father’s appalling reputation and he could guess.
But if he was to agree... Bringing a group of needy children here, with their ailing mother? Keeping the castle open for longer than he intended? Being My Lord for Christmas. Angus stood in the vast, draughty castle hall and thought of all the reasons why he should refuse.
But Angus had been through the castle finances now, and he’d seen the desperate letters written to the old Earl by the children’s mother. The letters outlined just how sick she was; how much the children needed support. According to the books, none had been forthcoming. This family must have been through hell.
‘If I can find staff to care for you,’ he heard himself say.
‘Mum will take care of us. Honest...’
‘You just said your mum’s ill. This place doesn’t look like it’s been cleaned since your mother left three years ago. If I can find someone to cook for us and get this place habitable, then yes, you can come. Otherwise not. But I promise I’ll try.’
Angus Stuart was a man who kept his word, so he was committed now to trying. But he didn’t want to. As far as Christmas was concerned, it was for families, and Lord Angus McTavish Stuart, Eighth Earl of Craigenstone, did not do families. He’d tried once. He’d failed.
As well as that, Castle Craigie was no one’s idea of a family home, and he didn’t intend to make it one. But for one pleading boy... For one needy family...
Maybe once. Just for Christmas.
* * *
Cook/Housekeeper required for three weeks over the Christmas period. Immediate start. Apply in person at Castle Craigie.
The advertisement was propped in the window of the tiny general store that serviced the village of Craigenstone. It looked incongruous, typed on parchment paper with Lord Craigenstone’s coat of arms imprinted above. The rest of the displayed advertisements looked scrappy in comparison. Snow could be shovelled, ironing could be taken in, but there was no coat of arms on any advertisement except this one.
Cook/Housekeeper... Maybe...
‘I could do that,’ Holly said thoughtfully, but her grandmother shook her head so vigorously her beanie fell off.
‘At the castle? You’d be working for the Earl. No!’
‘Why not? Is he an ogre?’
‘Nearly. He’s the Earl. Earl, ogre, it’s the same thing.’
‘I thought you said you didn’t know the current Earl.’
‘The acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree,’ her grandmother said darkly, retrieving her beanie from the snow and jamming it down again over her grey curls. ‘His father’s been a miserly tyrant for seventy years. His father was the same before him, and so was his father before him. This one’s been in America for thirty-five years but I can’t see how that can have improved him.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Thirty-six.’
‘Then he’s been in America since he was one?’ Holly said, startled.
‘His mother, Helen, was an American heiress.’ Maggie was still using her darkling tone—Grandmother warning Grandchild of Dragons. ‘They say that’s why the Earl married her, because of her money. Money was his God. Heaven knows how he persuaded such a lovely girl to come to live in his mausoleum of a castle. But rumour has it His Lordship courted her in London—he could be devastatingly charming when he wanted to be—then married her and brought her to live in this dump. What a shock she must have had.’
Holly’s grandmother glared back along the slush-and sleet-covered main street, through the down-at-heel village and beyond, across the snow-covered moors to where the great grey shape of Castle Craigie dominated the skyline.
‘She stuck it out for almost two years,’ she continued. ‘She had gumption and they say she loved him. But love can’t change what’s instilled deep down. Her husband was mean and cold and finally she faced it. She disappeared just after Christmas thirty-five years ago, taking the baby with her.’
‘Didn’t the Earl object?’
‘As far as anyone could tell, he didn’t seem to notice,’ Maggie told her. ‘He had his heir and it probably suited him that he didn’t need to do a thing to raise him. Or spend any money. He never talked about her or his son. He lived on his own for years, then finally got his housekeeper pregnant. Delia. She was always a bit of a doormat.’
‘She was a local?’
‘She was a Londoner,’ Maggie said. ‘A poor dab of a thing. He brought her here as a maid at the time of his first marriage. She was one of the few servants who stayed on after Lady Helen left. Finally, to everyone’s astonishment, he married her. Rumour was it stopped him having to pay her housekeeper’s wages, but she did well by the old man. She worked like a slave and presented him with three children. But he didn’t seem interested in them, either—they lived in a separate section of the castle. Finally the old man’s behaviour got too outrageous, even for Delia. She had shocking arthritis and the old man’s demands were crippling her even more. She left for London three years ago, taking the children with her, and no family has been back since.’
‘Until now,’ Holly ventured.
‘That’s right. The old Earl died three months ago and two weeks ago the current Earl turned up.’
‘So what do you know about him, other than he’s an American?’ Holly’s feet were freezing. Actually, all of her was freezing but she and Maggie had determined to walk, and walk they would. And if this really was a job... It had her almost forgetting about her feet. ‘Tell me about him.’
‘I know a bit,’ Maggie said, even more darkly. ‘His American family is moneyed, as in really moneyed. There was an exposé in some magazine fifteen years or more back when his fiancée was killed that told us a bit more.’
‘Fifteen years ago?’
‘I think it was then. Someone in the village saw it in an American magazine and spread it round. According to gossip, he’s been brought up with lots of money but not much else. His mother seems to have become a bit of a recluse—they say he was sent to boarding school at six, for heaven’s sake. He’s now some sort of financial whizz. You see him in the papers from time to time, in the financial section. But back then... Gossip said he started moving with the wrong crowd at college. His fiancée was called Louise—I can’t remember her last name but I think she was some sort of society princess. Anyway, she died in Aspen on Christmas Eve. There was a fuss; that’s why we saw it, a hint of drugs and scandal. Apparently she was there with Someone Else. The headlines said: Heir to Billions Betrayed, that sort of thing. He was twenty-one, she was twenty-three, but that’s almost all I know. Then he went back to making money and we haven’t heard much since. I have no idea why he’s here, advertising for staff. I thought the castle was for sale; that he was here finalising the estate.’ Maggie was starting to sound waspish, but maybe that was because she was cold, too. ‘You’d best leave it alone.’
‘But it’s a paying job,’ Holly said wistfully. ‘Imagine... A nice scuttle full of coal for Christmas... Mmmm. I could just enquire.’
‘You’re here for a holiday.’
‘So I am,’ Holly said, and sighed and then chuckled and tucked her arm into her grandmother’s. ‘We’re a right pair. You’re playing the perfect Christmas hostess and I’m playing the perfect Christmas guest. Or not. We’ve been idiots, but if we’re not to be eating Spam for Christmas, this might be a way out.’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘What do I have to lose?’
‘You’ll be worked to death. No Earl in memory has ever been anything but a skinflint.’ Maggie turned back to stare at the advertisement again. ‘Cook/Housekeeper indeed. Castle Craigie has twenty bedrooms.’
‘Surely this man wouldn’t be thinking of filling the bedrooms,’ Holly said uneasily.
‘He’s the Earl of Craigenstone. There’s no telling what he’s thinking. No Earl has done anything good by this district for generations.’
‘But it’s a job, Gran,’ Holly said gently. ‘You and I both know I need a job. I have to get one.’
There was a loaded silence. Holly knew what her grandmother was thinking—it was what they both knew. They had the princely sum of fifty pounds between them to last until Gran’s next pension day. Talk about disaster...
And finally Maggie sighed. ‘Very well,’ she conceded. ‘We do need coal and it’s a miserly Christmas I’ll be giving you without it. But if you’re planning on applying, Holly, love, I’m coming with you.’
‘Gran!’
‘Why not? You’ve cooked in some of the best restaurants in Australia, and I’ve been a fine housekeeper in my time. Together...’
‘I’m not asking you to work—and it’s only one position they’re advertising.’
‘But I might even enjoy working,’ Maggie said stoutly. ‘I know it’s twenty years since I’ve kept house for a living and I’ve never kept a castle. But there’s a time for everything, and surely even the Earl can’t serve Spam for Christmas dinner, which is all I can afford to give you.’ She grinned, her indomitable sense of humour surfacing. ‘I can see us in the castle kitchen, gnawing on the turkey carcass on Christmas Day. It might be grim but it’ll be better than Spam.’
‘So you’re proposing we play Cinderella and Fairy Godmother in the servants’ quarters, mopping up the leftovers?’
‘Anything that gets spilt is legally ours,’ her grandmother said sternly. ‘that’s servants’ rules, and at Christmas time servants can be very, very clumsy.’ She took a deep breath and braced herself. ‘Very well. Let’s try for it, Holly, lass. This Earl can’t be any worse than his father, surely. What do we have to lose?’
‘Nothing,’ Holly agreed and that was what she thought.
How could she lose anything when she had nothing left to lose? She and her grandmother both.
‘Okay, let’s go home and write a couple of résumés that’ll blow him out of the water,’ Holly said. ‘And he needn’t think he’s paying us peanuts. He’s not getting monkeys; he’s getting the best.’
‘Excellent,’ Maggie agreed, and Holly thought they probably had a snowball’s chance in a bushfire of getting this job, especially as they were insisting it was two jobs. But writing the résumés might keep Maggie happy for the afternoon, and right now that was all that mattered.
Because, right now, Holly wasn’t thinking past this afternoon. She was even avoiding thinking past the next hour.
* * *
If no one applied as Cook/Housekeeper over the next couple of days, Lord Angus McTavish Stuart, Eighth Earl of Craigenstone, could fly back home for Christmas.
Home was Manhattan. He had a sleek apartment overlooking Central Park and Christmas plans were set in stone. Since Louise had died he’d had a standard booking with friends for Christmas dinner at possibly the most talked about restaurant on the island. He’d make his normal quiet drive the next day to visit his mother, who’d be surrounded by her servants at her home in Martha’s Vineyard. She loathed Christmas Day itself but reluctantly celebrated the day after with him. Then the whole fuss of Christmas would die down.
‘If no one applies by tomorrow, I’m calling it quits,’ he told the small black scrap of canine misery by his side. He’d found the dog the first day he’d been here, cringing in the stables.
‘It’s a stray—let me take it to the dog shelter, My Lord,’ his estate manager had said when he’d picked it up and brought it inside, but the scruffy creature had looked at him with huge brown eyes and Angus had thought it wouldn’t hurt to give the dog a few days of being Dog of the Castle. Angus was playing Lord of the Castle. Reality would return all too soon.
The little dog looked up at him now and he thought that when he left the dog would have to go, too. No more pretending. Meanwhile...
‘Have another dog biscuit,’ Angus told him, tossing yet another log onto the blazing fire. The weather outside was appalling and the old Earl had certainly never considered central heating. ‘This place is on the market so we’re both on borrowed time, but we might as well be comfortable while we wait.’
The little dog opened one eye, cautiously accepted his dog biscuit, nibbled it with delicacy and then settled back down to sleep in a way that told Angus this room had once been this dog’s domain. But his father had never kept dogs.
Had his father ever used this room? It seemed to Angus that his father had done nothing but lie in bed and give orders.
Who knew which orders had been obeyed? Stanley, the Estate Manager, seemed to be doing exactly what he liked. Honesty didn’t seem to be his strong suit. Angus’s short but astute time with the estate books had hinted that Stanley had been milking the castle finances for years.
But he couldn’t sack him—not now. He was the only servant left, the only one who knew the land, who could show prospective purchasers over the estate, who could sound even vaguely knowledgeable about the place.
Angus had decided he’d do a final reckoning after the castle was sold and not before. His plan had been to get rid of the castle and all it represented and leave as fast as he could. This place had nothing to do with him. He’d been taken away before his first birthday and he’d never been back.
But first he had to get through one Christmas—or not. If he could find a cook he’d stay and do his duty by the kids. Otherwise, Manhattan beckoned. The temptation not to find a cook was huge, but he’d promised.
A knock on the great castle doors reverberated through the hall, reaching through the thick doors of the snug. The little dog lifted his head and barked, and then resettled, duty done. If this castle was to be sold, then there was serious sleeping to be got through first.
Stanley’s humourless face appeared around the door. ‘I’ll see to it, My Lord,’ he said. ‘It’ll be one of the villagers wanting something. They’re always wanting something. His Lordship taught me early how to see them off.’
He gave what he obviously thought was a conspiratorial nod and closed the door again. His footsteps retreated across the hall towards the great door leading outside.
Angus opened the snug door and listened.
‘Yes?’ Stanley’s voice was as dry and unwelcoming as the man himself. As apparently the old Earl had encouraged him to be.
‘I’m here about the advertisement for help over Christmas.’ Surprisingly, it was a woman’s voice, young, cheerful and lilting, and Angus leaned on the door jamb and wondered how long it had been since he’d heard a woman’s voice. Only two weeks, he conceded, but it seemed as if he’d been locked in this great grey fortress for ever.
He could see why his mother had fled. The wonder of it was that she’d stayed for two years.
‘You look very young to be a cook,’ Stanley was saying dourly, to whoever it was outside the door. Stanley’s disapproval was instant and obvious, even at a distance. ‘Do you have any qualifications?’
‘I’m not a cook; I’m a chef,’ the woman said. ‘I’m twenty-eight and I’ve been working with food since I was fifteen. I’ve worked in some of the best restaurants in Australia so I’m overqualified for this job, but I have a few weeks to spare. If you’re interested...’
‘Can you make beds?’ Stanley asked, even more dourly.
‘No.’ The woman sounded less confident now she wasn’t talking of cooking. ‘Or at least I can pull up a mean duvet but not much more. My grandmother, on the other hand, used to be the housekeeper at Gorse Hall, and she’s interested in a job, too. She can make really excellent beds.’
‘This is one job,’ Stanley snapped. ‘His Lordship wants someone who can cook and make his bed.’
‘So is it just His Lordship I’m cooking for? Can’t His Lordship make his own bed?’
‘Don’t be impertinent,’ Stanley retorted. ‘You’re obviously not suitable.’ And, with that, Angus heard the great doors starting to creak closed.
That should be the end of it, he told himself with a certain amount of relief. He’d agreed to advertise for a cook. He’d put the advertisement in the window of the general store and no one had replied until now. So be it. Once Stanley had got rid of her he could ring his half-brother and say regretfully, Sorry, Ben, I couldn’t find someone suitable and I can’t put you up for Christmas without staff. I’ll arrange to fly you and your family up to do a tour before the castle is sold, but that’s all I can do.
Easy. All he had to do was keep quiet now.
But... Can’t His Lordship make his own bed? What was it about that blunt question that had him stepping out of the snug, striding over the vast flagstones of the Great Hall, intercepting Stanley and stopping the vast doors from closing.
Seeing for himself who Stanley was talking to.
The girl on the far side of the doors looked cold. That was his first impression.
His second impression was that she was cute.
Very cute.
She was five feet three or five four at most. She wasn’t plump, but she wasn’t thin—just nicely curved, although she was doing a decent job of disguising those curves. She was wearing faded jeans, trainers, a thick grey sweater and a vast old army greatcoat without buttons. She wore a red beanie with a hole in it. A few strands of burnt-copper curls were sneaking through. Her lack of make-up, her clear green eyes and her wide, generous mouth which, at the moment, was making a fairly childlike grimace at Stanley, made him think she couldn’t possibly be twenty-eight.
Maybe Stanley was right to reject her out of hand. What sort of person applied for a job wearing what looked like charity rejects?
‘Are you backup?’ she queried bitterly as he swung the door wider. Whatever else she was, this woman wasn’t shy, and Stanley’s flat rejection had seemingly made her angry. ‘Are you here to help Lurch here tell me to get off the property fast? I’ve walked all the way from the village on your horrible pot-holed road. Of all the cold welcomes... You could at least look at my résumé.’
Lurch? The word caught him. Angus glanced at Stanley and thought the woman had a point—there were definite similarities between his father’s estate manager and the butler from the Addams Family.
‘It is only the one job,’ he said, and found himself sounding apologetic.
‘Chef and Housekeeper for this whole place?’ She stood back and gestured to the sweep of the vast castle. The original keep had been built at the start of the thirteenth century, but a mishmash of battlements, turrets and towers had been added ad hoc over the last eight hundred years. From where she was standing, she couldn’t possibly take it all in—the great grey edifice was practically a crag all by itself. ‘This place’d take me a week to dust,’ she said and then stood back a bit further. ‘Probably two. And I’m not all that skilled at dusting.’
‘I don’t want anything dusted,’ Angus told her.
‘I’m not serving my food on dust.’
‘Forgive me.’ He was starting to feel bemused. This woman looked a waif but she was a waif with attitude. ‘And forgive our cavalier treatment of you. But you don’t look like a cook to us.’
‘That’s because I’m a chef,’ she retorted. Her cheeks were flushed crimson and he thought it wasn’t just the cold. Stanley’s rejection was smarting.
‘Can you prove it?’
‘Of course.’ She hauled a couple of typed sheets from the pocket of her greatcoat, handed them over and waited while he unfolded and skimmed them.
He felt his brows hike as he read. This was impressive. Really impressive. But...
‘You’re asking us to believe you’re a chef from Australia—yet your résumé is typed on letterhead paper from the Craigenstone Library.’
‘That’s because Doris, the librarian, is a friend of my grandmother,’ she said patiently. ‘I’m here on holiday, visiting my Gran, and Gran doesn’t have a printer. For some weird reason, I failed to bring copies of my résumé with me.’
‘So why are you applying for a job?’
‘It seems I’m not,’ she said. ‘Lurch here has told me you’re not interested, so that’s it. Meanwhile, I’m freezing. You’ve made me stand in six inches of snow while you’ve checked out my résumé and I’ve had enough. Merry Christmas. Gran was right all along. Bah, humbug to you both.’
And she turned and stalked off.
Or she would have stalked off if she had sensible shoes with some sort of grip, but the canvas trainers she was wearing had no grip at all. The cobbles were icy under the thin layer of freshly fallen snow. She slipped and floundered, and she started falling backward.
She flailed—and Angus caught her before she hit the ground.
* * *
One minute she was stomping off in righteous indignation. The next she was being held in arms that were unbelievably strong, gazing up into a face that was...that was...
Like every fairy tale she’d ever read. This was the Lord of Castle Craigie. She could see why the old Earl had been able to coerce women to marry him, she thought, dazed. If Gran was right, if the acorn hadn’t fallen far from the tree, if this guy was like all the Earls before him...
Tall, dark and dangerous seemed an understatement. This guy was your quintessential brooding hero, over six feet tall, with lean, sculpted features, hard, chiselled bone structure, deep grey eyes, strong mouth and jet-black hair.
He was wearing a gorgeous soft tweed jacket. What was more, he was wearing a kilt! Oh, my...
But Gran had told her the current Earl was American. What was an American doing wearing a kilt?
According to Gran, he’d been an indulged but lonely child. Apart from some scandal with a dead fiancée, he seemed only interested in making money. He’d sounded aloof, alone, like his father before him.
She’d been prepared to dislike him on sight, but sight wasn’t being very helpful right now. None of his background stood out on his face. None of those things seemed important.
Oh, that kilt...
‘Are...are you really the Earl?’ He was cradling her as if she were a child, and for some reason it was the only thing she could think of to say. Are you really the Earl? How stupid was that?
‘Yes,’ he said and the edges of his wide mouth quirked into what was almost a smile. ‘But only for a few weeks.’
‘You’re American.’
‘Yes.’
‘So why are you wearing a kilt?’
What was she doing? She should be saying, Thank you for stopping me falling but you can put me down now. She should say any number of things regarding the way he was holding her, but he’d scooped her up, he was holding her against his barrel-strong chest and, for a moment, for just a moment, Holly was letting herself disappear into fantasy.
She’d tell this to Maggie. He swept me up into his arms, Gran, and oh, he was gorgeous...
Maggie would toss a bucket of cold water over her.
Reality hit as hard as her grandmother’s imaginary water, and she wriggled with intent. Reluctantly, it seemed, he set her onto her feet again, but he didn’t let her go. The ground was still slippery and his hands stayed firmly on her shoulders.
‘American or not, for now I’m Laird of the Castle,’ he told her, smiling down at her. It was a killer smile. It made her insides...
Well, enough. She had enough to tell Maggie without letting her imagination take her further.
And Maggie would remind her sharply—as she’d told her last night, ‘He’s not our Laird. Most owners of estates in Scotland are referred to as Lairds or Himself, because they care for the land, and for the people they employ. Not him. We’ve never had a Lord who came close to being Himself. Don’t you trust him an inch, lass. Not one inch.’
‘We’ve been showing buyers over the estate,’ he was saying, cutting over her thoughts. ‘International buyers. For some reason, the realtor thinks it’s important for me to look Scottish. My father has a room full of family tartan, kilts for all sizes, so I’ve been striding along beside would-be buyers, grunting, trying not to sound American, while Stanley here has been answering questions in his broadest Scottish brogue. Which is why I’m looking like the Lord of All He Surveys, off to round up my trusty men for a spot of pillaging of the surrounding villages. Pure fantasy.’ He grinned. ‘Right. I’ve told you mine, now it’s your turn. Holly McIntosh, if you’re a skilled chef, why are you standing on my doorstep asking for a job wearing sodden canvas trainers and a greatcoat that looks like it was worn during World War One?’
‘Because I’m indulging in my fantasy of not freezing for Christmas,’ she said, so flustered she let honesty hold sway. Don’t trust, Gran had told her. She should have added, Keep twenty feet away. ‘Can you let me go? I need to get home before my feet drop off from frostbite.’
‘Come in,’ he said, gently now, almost seductively, and she shivered.
‘I need...’
‘To get warm. You came to apply for a job. Let’s think about both. I have a blazing fire inside, hot tea or whisky if you prefer, cake—bought fruit cake admittedly, but at least it’s cake—and Stanley will drive you back to the village when we’re finished.’
‘Finished what?’ she demanded, maybe stupidly, but, to her astonishment, his smile broadened. The twinkle in those dark eyes seemed pure mischief. Dangerous mischief.
‘When I’ve had my wicked way with you. Of course, being Lord of Castle Craigie, I’ve had my wicked way with every maiden in the village.’ And then he chuckled, a lovely deep chuckle that matched his smile exactly. ‘Sorry,’ he said as he saw her expression. ‘there’s my fantasies running away with me again. That’s the man in the kilt speaking, not me.’
‘You’re...’ She could barely get her voice to work. ‘You’re not usually into wicked ways?’
‘Nope. That’s my kilt-wearing dark side. The normal me wears chinos, and I swear I’m not into pillaging at all.’ He held up his hands as if to say, Look, I’m unarmed and innocent—which he didn’t look at all. ‘But I’m leaving my dark side out in the snow for now. I’ll change back into Angus Stuart, Corporate Financier from Manhattan, if it reassures you. It’s what I’ve been up to now and I’ll be again soon. But please, Miss McIntosh, come in and get warm and let me reread your résumé.’
Whoa. She took a deep breath, trying to recover from the way his arms had felt—were feeling. From the way that beguiling smile made her feel. From the sheer size and presence of the man. And the way that kilt...
Aagh. Stick to your guns, she told herself, desperately. Don’t trust. You’re here to apply for a job—two jobs—and you’re useless unless you stick to what you intended.
Useless.
The adjective swirled, bringing her back to reality with a sickening thud. Useless was the word that had been hanging over her for months. That and stupid.
Stick to what you need.
‘It’s two jobs or nothing,’ she managed.
‘Sorry?’ Angus said, confused.
‘I said, this is two jobs. I’m only interested in one, and I’m only interested if you accept us both. I won’t clean. I’ll cook all you like but nothing else. Gran’s attending a funeral or she’d be here with me but she’s applying as well. I have her résumé with me, too.’
‘It’s just the one job!’ All this time Stanley had been standing to the side, glaring at this intrusion to his territory, but now he’d decided it was time to intercede. ‘We advertised one position, My Lord. I’m sure we can find some other woman to take the role.’
‘Not before Christmas, we can’t,’ Angus said. ‘No one’s applied since we’ve had the advertisement up.’
‘It’s still the one job,’ Stanley said flatly.
‘Right,’ Holly said, reality slamming back. Oh, her feet were cold. ‘That’s that then. Thank you for your offer of whisky and fruit cake—and even taking your kilt off!—but we’re wasting each other’s time. Merry Christmas to you both and goodbye.’
And with that she hauled away from Angus’s hold, turned and stomped—gingerly—away.
* * *
‘If you’d really wanted a cook you should have used the newspapers,’ Stanley said dourly as they watched her go.
He should have, he conceded. If he’d really wanted a cook.
He didn’t want a cook. If he found a cook he’d be obliged to have his half-siblings here for Christmas. He’d be obliged to turn this castle into a home, even if it was only for three weeks.
He didn’t want to.
Why?
Because, kilt or not, this place wasn’t fantasy as much as tragedy. Black tragedy. His mother had pleaded with him not to come, and she’d be devastated if he extended his stay.
And he did not want a family Christmas. He didn’t do Christmas. Had Louise’s death and his mother’s tragedy taught him nothing?
He was watching Holly stomp back across what had once been the site of a drawbridge but was now a snow-covered cobbled path and something inside him was twisting. He watched the determined set of her shoulders and he thought how she’d walked all the way from the village in canvas trainers to apply for a job he didn’t want to give.
He should have said no to Ben.
He shouldn’t even have come himself. He’d been stunned by his mother’s reaction, her emotion as raw as if the tragedy had happened last week rather than over thirty years ago.
‘Don’t go near that place. Sell it fast, to the highest bidder. You don’t need it. Give the money to charity—I don’t care—just get rid of it, Angus.’
But he’d wanted to see.
He was the new Earl of Craigenstone. He had no intention of taking up the title, but still he wanted to see what he was letting go—as his half-brother and -sisters wanted to revisit what they were letting go. They’d lived in this place until three years ago. Their father had barricaded the place against them when their mother left, but they’d have memories and they wanted to see.
Please... The plea had been heartrending.
This wasn’t about him, he thought savagely. The old Earl had had four children. Why was it just him making the decisions?
So... He’d just been offered staff. Why refuse? Personal selfishness? Just like his father?
He was watching Holly McIntosh march away from the castle with as much dignity as she could muster and he was thinking of his father’s reputation. Mean. Selfish.
He was not like his father. Surely.
This was only for three weeks and then it’d be done. Surely his mother could cope if he explained. Surely it was time they both rid themselves of demons.
Decide now, he told himself, and he did.
‘Holly...’ His voice rang out over the crisp white snow, and she heard even though she was two hundred yards away.
She turned and glared, her hands on her hips. This was no normal employee, he thought. If he hired her, he’d be hiring spirit.
Christmas spirit? Holly. The thought had him bemused.
‘It can be two jobs,’ he conceded, but her hands stayed on her hips and her belligerence was obvious.
‘Wages?’ she called, not moving.
‘What’s the standard wage around here for a cook?’ he demanded of Stanley and Stanley glared at him as if he was proposing spending Stanley’s money instead of the estate’s. The figure he threw at him sounded ridiculously low.
And...I’m a chef.
Holly’s words had been an indignant claim to excellence and pride had shown through.
If he employed her he’d have a chef for Christmas. And a housekeeper. Christmas. He thought of his father’s reputation and he looked at Stanley’s dour face and he thought that some things had to change, right now.
‘I’ll pay you three times basic cook’s wages and I’ll hire you and your grandmother as a team,’ he called. And then, as Holly’s expression didn’t change, he added, ‘I’ll pay the same rate to you both.’
‘My Lord!’ Stanley gasped, but he was ignored. Holly’s expression was changing. She was trying not to look incredulous, he realised, but she was failing. ‘Each?’
‘Yes.’ He grinned, seeing her inner war. ‘Eight-hour days and half days off on Sunday. It’s three weeks of hard work, but the money will be worth it. I can’t say fairer than that.’
She took a deep breath. He could see she was searching for the indignant, assertive Holly he’d seen up until now, but his offer seemed to have sucked all indignation out of her.
‘Are...are meals and accommodation included?’ she ventured, sounding cautious. Very cautious. As if he might bite.
‘I guess. But why do you need accommodation?’
‘We don’t have a car,’ Holly told him. ‘And, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s snowing and your driveway is a disgrace. It took me half an hour to trudge up here and Gran’s not as young as she used to be.’ She tilted her chin and met his gaze head on. ‘And our accommodation has to be heated.’
‘Heated!’ Stanley gasped, as though the word was an abomination, and Angus thought of the freezing, musty bedrooms throughout the castle, and the great draughty staircases and how much effort and expense it would take to get this place warm by Christmas. The snug had the only fireplace that didn’t seem to be blocked.
But Holly was glaring a challenge and all of a sudden he was thinking of his half-brother and -sisters, who’d lived for years under these conditions, with the old man’s temper as well, and he thought...maybe he could put the effort in. Maybe he could make the place less of a nightmare for them to remember. He was not his father.
‘Done,’ he said. ‘With one proviso.’
‘Which is?’
‘That you come in now, dry out and tell me why you’re wearing those stupid sodden shoes.’
‘I need to get back to Gran.’
‘We’ll drive you back in a few minutes,’ he said, goaded. ‘But I’ll dry you out first. I believe I just hired you. You’re therefore my employee. You can sue me if you’re injured on the way to and from work, so I’m looking after my investment. Come into my castle, Miss McIntosh, and we’ll talk terms.’
‘And have some of that fruit cake?’ For heaven’s sake, he thought, stunned. She sounded hungry!
‘I believe that can be arranged.’
‘Then your offer is gratefully accepted,’ she said and trudged back towards them. She reached the front steps and Angus walked down to meet her. He held out his hand to steady her as she climbed the icy stone steps. She stared at his hand for a long moment and then she shook her head.
‘I’ll do this on my own terms, if you don’t mind,’ she said briskly. ‘I need your job. I’d also quite like your fruit cake, but I don’t need anything else.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing.’ She peeped a smile at him and he saw the return of a mischief that he suspected was a latent part of this woman. ‘So any thought that you might be having your wicked way with the hired help, put out of your mind right now, Lord Craigenstone. Just leave that dark side you’re talking about outside. I might be coming to live in your castle, but I know my rights. Also, I’ve just been burned. Ravishment isn’t in any employment contract I intend to sign, now or ever.’
CHAPTER TWO
INSIDE, ENSCONCED IN one of the huge fireside chairs in the snug, her hands cradling a mug of hot chocolate, Holly seemed even younger than first impressions. And even more cute. Once she’d ditched the army greatcoat, he could see even more of her. Her cropped copper curls rioted as soon as she took off her beanie. They matched her cheeks which, in the warmth of the snug, grew even more flushed than they’d been when she was losing her temper out in the snow.
She concentrated on her hot chocolate and fruit cake. She ate three slices while Angus reread her résumé and then read her grandmother’s.
This might work. According to the résumés, Holly could definitely cook and her Gran could definitely clean. They might even have the skills to provide him with a decent Christmas.
But her appearance didn’t fit. He glanced again at her résumé. She was a cook—no, a chef—but she was looking like something the cat had dragged in. The little dog had sidled across to her when she sat down. He’d leaped up on her knee and she was fondling him while still cradling the last of the warmth from the hot chocolate.
They looked waifs and strays both.
‘If you’re who you say you are,’ he said slowly, ‘you must be one of the best paid chefs in Australia.’
‘I am,’ she said and then corrected herself. ‘I was.’
‘Can I verify this?’
She glanced at her watch. ‘Yes,’ she said decisively. ‘I’d like you to. It’s midday here. That makes it nine at night in Sydney. I have contact numbers for the head chefs for all of the last three but one of the restaurants where I’ve worked. On a Monday night at this time of year, most chefs will be in their kitchens. Phone them. I’ll wait.’
‘But I can’t phone the last?’ he asked, homing in on detail.
‘The last place I owned myself,’ she said bluntly. ‘With my partner. It didn’t work out.’ She hesitated and then decided on honesty. ‘He was my fiancé and business partner. He robbed me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. Ring the others.’
He glanced at her and saw her face set in a mulish expression. She wanted him to ring, he thought, and with a sudden flash of insight he knew why. She was looking like a waif and she knew it. Putting herself on a professional footing would be important for her pride.
So he rang as she ate yet more fruit cake, and he received an unequivocal response from all three chefs. Three variations of a common theme.
‘If you have Holly McIntosh you have a godsend. I’d hire her back in a minute. We’ve heard her place here has gone belly-up. Tell her the minute she gets back to Australia there’s a job waiting.’
He disconnected from the last call. She was watching him gravely, and he could see she’d settled. She was on a more solid footing now.
‘You want to explain the trainers?’ he asked. She’d kicked off her sodden shoes and the socks beneath. She’d done it surreptitiously, kicking them under the chair and then tucking her feet up under her, but it hadn’t been surreptitious enough. Her feet would be freezing, he thought. She’d been standing in sodden canvas on ice. ‘Why the soaking footwear?’
‘I arrived here two days ago,’ she said. ‘But my baggage is still cavorting somewhere around the world. The airline says they’ll find it—eventually. None of Gran’s clothes fit so I’m stuck.’
‘You don’t think you should buy yourself some decent footwear while you wait?’
‘I don’t have any money,’ she said flatly. ‘That’s why I need the job.’
‘Not even enough for a pair of wellingtons?’
She took a deep breath, stared into the remains of her hot chocolate and then laid her mug down on the side table with a decided thunk. Those clear green eyes met his with an honesty he was starting to expect.
‘I’m a chef,’ she said. ‘A good one. I and my...my ex-partner decided to set up on our own. We bought a restaurant, a great little place overlooking Sydney Harbour. We did the finances and were sure we could do it. We put everything we owned into it, or rather I did because it turned out Geoff didn’t have the money he said he did. He was my fiancé. I trusted him, but I was a fool. I thought we had double the capital we had but he lied. Anyway, a month ago the creditors moved in and Geoff moved out. Fast. I don’t know where he is now, but my credit cards are maxed out, I’m in debt to my ears and I’m suffering from a bad case of shattered pride. Not to mention a broken heart, although it’s a bit hard to think I loved someone who turned out to be a toe-rag.’
‘So you came to Scotland?’ he asked incredulously. ‘How does that make sense?’
‘See, here’s the thing,’ she said slowly. ‘I’m only Scottish through my Scottish dad—the rest of me’s pure Australian—but I have Scottish pride and so does my very Scottish Gran. My parents died in a car crash when I was twelve. My mother’s mother took me in, but she died last year. Now Maggie’s the only relative I have left and when I rang her last month and sort of implied I was in trouble and due to have a dreary Christmas I didn’t need to tell her exactly how broke I was. She guessed. So, Maggie being Maggie, she went out and bought me a plane ticket to visit.’
‘She sounds great.’
‘She is great,’ she said warmly, and then managed a grin. ‘And she’s an awesome housekeeper.’
‘Yet another reference,’ Angus said and smiled back and thought, That smile...
Whoa...
‘Unfortunately,’ Holly went on, seemingly oblivious to the crackling electricity generated by that smile, ‘what I didn’t know is that Maggie’s only renting her cottage. I’ve always thought she owned it, but no. She’s not exactly known for saving, my Gran—as in the extraordinary gesture of my plane ticket. Anyway, it only took me five minutes after I’d landed to find out her landlord has put her house up for sale. She’s desperately scraping enough money together to pay for a deposit to rent somewhere else, and she’s as broke as I am. She thought if I flew over we could share Christmas expenses, but how do you share nothing? So that’s that. We had a problem but you’ve solved it. You see me here in sodden trainers, but they’ll dry out. You’ve promised us heating and we’ll have a very nice Christmas because of you. Now, if you could tell me when you want me to start...’
‘Do you have your airline ticket with you?’ he demanded and she looked confused.
‘What? Why?’
‘Is it still in your purse?’ he added, gesturing to her capacious handbag. ‘You haven’t thrown it out?’
‘No, but...’
‘Can I see it?’
‘You want to prove that, too?’ She was still confused.
‘Indulge me,’ he said, and she frowned and shifted the little dog, but not very far. She fumbled in her bag and found a crumpled booking sheet and airline ticket.
‘Keep those toes warm while I do some more phoning,’ he said, and she listened and hugged the dog some more while he phoned.
He was ringing the airline.
When she’d tried, she’d been put on hold for hours, but the Earl of Craigenstone was not put on hold. It seemed he was a member of some sort of platinum club and within seconds he was talking to...a person! Holly’s jaw just about dropped to her ankles. How did you ring an airline and get a person? Oh, to be an Earl.
What was more, the person on the end of the line seemed inclined—even eager—to assist. Angus sent a few incisive questions down the line, then handed the phone over to her.
‘All sorted,’ he said. ‘Listen.’
So Holly listened, stunned.
‘We’re so sorry, miss,’ the man on the other end of the line said. ‘This should have been explained to you. Seeing your baggage has been missing for over twenty-four hours, you can spend what you need right away and you’ll be reimbursed within four working days. It also seems your grandmother has paid an extra ten pounds insurance for baggage cover so there’s no loss at all—you’ll get full reimbursement if the baggage isn’t found, plus a small amount extra for inconvenience. I apologise that this wasn’t explained to you two days ago.’
‘I...thank you,’ she managed and Angus took the phone from her grasp, added a few contact details and disconnected.
‘So now you can buy wellingtons,’ he said.
‘I...’ She fought for something to say and couldn’t. She stared at her feet. ‘Um...’
‘Just how broke are you?’ he asked gently and she flushed, but there seemed no point denying things now.
‘Um...really, really broke,’ she whispered. ‘Geoff maxed out my credit cards. I owe money to everyone and Gran used her grocery money to buy my plane ticket. I...thank you but I still can’t buy wellingtons because no shop will take an airline’s promise that the money’s coming. But I can wait four days.’
‘You can’t. Here’s a loan to tide you over.’ He hauled out his wallet, counted out a wad of notes and held them out.
‘No.’ What was she thinking? For some reason, her Gran’s warning came slamming back and she stood up and backed to the door. ‘You’ve given me a job. I can’t take any more.’
‘This isn’t a gift,’ he said mildly. ‘When the airline pays you, you can pay me.’
‘You don’t know me. How can you trust me?’
‘You’re my employee.’
‘Yes, and Geoff was my partner and look what he did,’ she snapped. ‘I could walk out the door and spend this on riotous living and you’d never see me again.’
‘In Craigenstone?’ He grinned. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s not a lot of riotous living to be done in this place.’
He was looking at her oddly. She caught herself—she needed to make an effort to recover.
Wicked ways. Kilts and brawny arms and a wicked smile. Her imagination and the reputation of the Earl of Craigenstone were doing stupid things to her senses. Pull yourself together, she told herself and somehow she did.
‘I had...I had noticed,’ she said and managed to smile. She looked down at the proffered notes. Warm feet...
‘This is...wonderful. I could buy myself some wellingtons and a woolly jumper and some coal.’
‘You have no heating?’
‘Um...no.’
‘I’ll run you back to the village and we’ll collect some coal on the way.’
‘You’re kidding. You’re an Earl!’
‘I didn’t think Australians held with the aristocracy,’ he said, bemused. ‘Americans certainly don’t.’
‘Yet you are one.’
‘Only until this place is sold,’ he said, humour fading. ‘I intend the title to disappear with it.’
‘So Gran’s ogre disappears?’
‘I’m an ogre?’
‘That’s why I’m not letting you buy coal or drive me home,’ she said. ‘It’s very nice of you, as is lending me this money, and I appreciate it very much, but if Gran opened the door and an Earl was standing on her doorstep, loaded with coal, she’d have a palsy stroke. Whatever that is.’
‘A palsy stroke?’ he said dubiously.
‘I hear that’s what they had in the olden days,’ she explained. ‘When Earls knew their place and servants knew theirs. Swooning and palsy strokes were everywhere and I don’t have my smelling salts with me. So no. I know my place. Gran and I will keep to the servants’ quarters and cook and dust while you’re all elsewhere and I’ll keep to my kitchen, and you’ll hand over menus of twenty courses to be cooked in two hours, and Gran will creep in at dawn and light your fires...’
‘You’ve been reading too many romance novels if you think I want servants creeping in at dawn...’
‘That’s as it may be,’ she said with asperity. ‘But Gran has a very clear idea of what’s right and wrong and we’ll do this her way or not at all. So thank you but we’ll buy our own coal. When would you like us to start?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow!’
‘It’s two weeks until Christmas,’ he said and looked ruefully round the room. ‘This room and my bedroom seem the only places that are habitable. The castle’s been under dust-sheets since my stepmother left. Any cooking’s been done by Stanley on a portable gas ring—heaven knows if the range still works.’
‘I need a stove!’
‘That’s why I want you tomorrow—we may need to order one fast. Meanwhile, I need to get the place warm...’
‘That’ll take a year!’
‘I’ll do my part,’ he said. ‘Can you do yours, Miss McIntosh?’
‘Holly,’ she said, ‘My Lord.’
‘Angus,’ he said back.’
‘It’s Holly and My Lord,’ she said primly. ‘Gran won’t stand for anything else. The British Empire was built by those who knew their place and didn’t step out of it.’
‘So you intend to be subservient.’
‘That’s the one,’ she said cheerfully. ‘As long as you do what I tell you, I’ll be as subservient as you like.’
‘As long as I do what you tell me...’
‘If I have a cooking range that hasn’t been used for years I’ll be telling you right, left and centre,’ she said and rose and shoved her feet determinedly back into her soggy trainers. ‘Thank you very much, My Lord. Gran and I will see you at nine tomorrow, and Christmas will begin then.’ She reached out and shook his hand, then reached down and patted the little dog. ‘Goodbye until then,’ she said. ‘Twenty courses or not, suddenly we’re going to have a very yummy Christmas.’
* * *
Angus stood in the doorway and watched her go. She’d refused his offer to drive her; she’d refused his offer to send Stanley and she was trudging down the road towards the village looking like a bereft orphan thrown out into the snow.
A bereft orphan with spirit.
‘You’ve made a mistake, My Lord,’ Stanley said gloomily. He’d appeared—gloomily—behind him. ‘She’ll cost you a fortune.’
‘Tell me, Stanley,’ Angus said, in a voice any of his colleagues would have recognised and snapped to wary attention. ‘How much do we have in the petty cash account?’
‘I...’
‘We have the rent roll from the cottages for the last month, I assume,’ Angus said. ‘That should cover our costs nicely. I suspect it’s far too late to get central heating installed into this place by Christmas but I want every chimney swept, I want coal in every fireplace and I want oil heaters in every room. After Christmas I may need to reforest a small nation to nullify any environmental impact, but this castle will be warm by Christmas. Can I leave that to you, Stanley?’
His voice was silky-smooth. He was watching Stanley’s face and he knew exactly what the man was thinking.
The rent rolls for this place were colossal. They were supposed to come into a cash account at the start of the month, then roll over at the end of the month into one of his father’s income-bearing accounts. What he suspected Stanley was doing and seemed to have been doing for years was siphoning the rent roll into his own account for the thirty days. Angus’s father must never have noticed, but Angus thought of the interest Stanley must have earned over the years he’d been employed...
However...Stanley had put up with his father, and somehow he’d held the estate together. And he couldn’t sack him now—he needed him. But then he thought of Holly in her soggy trainers and he thought of the misery caused by dishonesty everywhere.
Stanley would need to scramble to get that money back into the account, he thought, hit by a wave of sudden anger. The reputation of the miserliness of the Earl of Craigenstone stopped right now. Dishonesty stopped now, too. Up until now he’d tolerated a bit of petty theft, he’d tolerated Stanley’s surliness because to change things in the short time he had here had seemed pointless. But now... Now things did need to change. Suddenly Castle Craigie was aiming for a Very Merry Christmas.
* * *
‘He’s nice... He’s lovely and he’s hired us both. At such a salary! Each!’
Holly practically bounced into the kitchen, where Maggie had been disconsolately staring at a packet of pasta and an unbranded can of tomatoes. Now she stared as if her granddaughter had lost her mind.
‘What?’
Holly told her the salary and then repeated it for good measure. ‘And we start tomorrow. We get to stay in the castle and we get to stay warm.’
She grabbed her grandmother and hugged her and then, because she was excited, she did a little jig, dragging Maggie round the kitchen with her.
But Maggie had to be dragged. There was no matching excitement in her, and finally Holly stopped and let her go.
‘What?’
‘There’s a catch,’ Maggie said flatly. ‘There’s always a catch.’
‘There’s not. He’s getting a chef and an awesome housekeeper and he’s prepared to pay. I was getting those sort of wages in Sydney before...’
‘Before you trusted Geoff,’ Maggie retorted. ‘Have you learned nothing? Men!’
‘Gran, he rang the airline and got a real person. And look.’ She dug her hand into her greatcoat and hauled out the banknotes. ‘This is an advance on what the airline is paying me. It seems you bought me insurance. Gran, this is...’
‘Give it back!’
‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘He’s the Earl of Craigenstone. You never, ever trust such a man. We’ll be indebted. He’ll be demanding... You know what he’ll be demanding?’
‘Droit de seigneur? Any village maiden he wants?’ Holly stared down at the notes in her hand and couldn’t suppress a giggle. ‘Gran, this is not the Dark Ages. This means dry shoes. And you know, for dry shoes I might even agree to a bit of...’
‘Holly!’
‘Okay, sorry,’ she said, settling again. ‘You needn’t worry; after Geoff, I am not the least bit interested in unswerving servitude, or even interest, but we do have a job and we can walk away at any time.’
‘And this money?’
‘Will be repaid as soon as the airline pays me. We’re not walking into the lion’s den. Come on, Gran, it’ll be awesome.’
‘How many people are we catering for?’
That stopped Holly in her tracks. She stared at Maggie, who stared straight back.
If they were in front of a mirror they would have seen a weird reflection, Holly thought. Maggie looked like Holly with fifty years added. They looked like two curly-haired Scotswomen, the only difference being the colour of their hair—copper versus grey—a few wrinkles and an Aussie accent versus a broad Scottish burr.
‘I don’t know,’ Holly admitted, hauling her attention back to catering. ‘The butler said...’
‘Who?’
‘The man who opened the door. Dour, lean and mean. He looks like Lurch from the Addams Family.’
‘Stanley,’ Maggie snapped. ‘Estate manager. Reminds me of a ferret. Lurch used to make me laugh. Stanley doesn’t.’
‘Well, he implied we’ll only be cooking and making beds for His Lordship.’
‘If he’s paying these sort of wages, he’ll have invited half of New York.’
‘We can cope,’ Holly said belligerently and then went back to thinking about the man she’d just left. ‘Gran, he’s gorgeous.’
‘There’s no gorgeous about it,’ Maggie snapped. ‘The man’s the Earl, and he’s had deceit and tyranny bred into him for generations. I’m glad I’m coming with you, lass, or heaven knows what trouble you’d get into.’
‘So you will do it?’
‘We don’t have much choice,’ Maggie said grimly. ‘It’s follow His Lordship’s orders or starve. Nothing’s changed in this village for five hundred years, and it seems it’s not changing now.’
* * *
He made three phone calls. The first was to his mother, who was as upset as he’d thought she might be.
‘I’m staying here until after Christmas,’ he told her. ‘I know how you feel about the place, Mom, but I’ve told you about these kids. This place is important to them. It’s the least I can do. I’ll give them Christmas here and then it’s done.’
‘You won’t turn into an Earl?’ She’d tried to say it as a joke but it didn’t work. He heard her fear. ‘That place traps you.’
‘My father trapped you, not the castle,’ he told her. ‘I will come home after Christmas.’ He hesitated. ‘Mom, why not come over, too? We could lay a few ghosts. We have an awesome cook and housekeeper. If you don’t mind meeting Delia...’
‘I don’t mind meeting Delia. Contrary to first wife, second wife mores, I don’t hate her. She was my only friend in the castle. I understand why she married him and I feel sorry for her, but I still won’t come. That place holds nothing but bad memories.’
‘Hey, I was born here. Isn’t meeting me a good memory?’ He was trying to lighten things but she wouldn’t be lightened and he hung up with a sigh.
Then he rang his friends and got the opposite reaction.
‘You’re spending Christmas as an Earl? In a Scottish castle? Awesome! How about making it a party?’
‘I’ll be looking after kids.’
‘But a party!’
He disconnected fast before he found himself with a castle full of American financiers for Christmas, and then finally he rang the kids. Expecting joy.
But, instead of joy, he was met with silence.
‘I almost hoped you wouldn’t ring,’ Ben said flatly.
To say he was surprised would be an understatement. After the pleading the kid had made on behalf of his family...
‘Don’t you want to come any more?’
‘Yes, but now we can’t,’ the boy said. ‘There’s something wrong with Mum’s back. The doctor says something’s hitting a nerve and she has to go into hospital on Friday for an urgent operation. Gran says Mum can’t look after herself afterwards, so we all have to go to Gran’s apartment ’cos Gran won’t move, and it’s even smaller than this one. And I have to sleep with my sisters and there’s no one there we know and it’ll be the pits. I asked Mum could we go to the castle by ourselves and she said no, not if you’re even remotely like our dad, and we looked you up on the Internet and you do look like him and it’s hopeless.’
There was a long silence. Angus stared down at the ancient flagstones in the hall and the ragged little dog wound himself round his ankles and looked up at him. Expectantly?
I’m not my father. He didn’t say it out loud but he thought it really, really loudly.
‘Let me talk to your mum,’ he said at last and, moments later, he was talking to Delia. He could hear her wariness—and her weakness and her pain.
‘I have a cook and a housekeeper,’ he told her. ‘If the kids really want to come...’
‘I can’t let them,’ she said and took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t know a thing about you. I only know you’re the Earl and that’s hardly a recommendation.’
‘But the kids...’
‘They’ll cope without this reunion Ben’s set his heart on. Kids are resilient.’
Yes, Angus thought. This lot had needed to be. And then he thought he’d hired Holly and Maggie for nothing.
‘It’d be different if you were married,’ Delia was saying. ‘If... If I could meet your wife... I just want someone there I can trust. And I hate Stanley. You’re not married?’
‘No.’
‘There you are, then.’
‘I’m employing...’
‘I don’t care who you’re employing. No.’
‘But I am engaged. My fiancée will be here and she’s lovely. Your kids will like her and you can trust her even if you can’t trust me.’
What had he just said? The words seemed to have come from nowhere. He didn’t think them through; they were just...there. But then he had this vision...
Holly, going down to see this woman. Holly, pleading the kids’ cause.
Delia was right, he thought grimly. He looked too much like his father to engender trust, but Holly could talk the leg off an iron pot. Anyone would trust Holly.
If she agreed...
But he’d already said it. What had he done?
‘What’s her name?’ Delia asked, sounding suspicious.
‘Holly McIntosh.’ What was he doing?
‘How do I know what she’s like?’
‘She’s great,’ he said warmly. ‘Well, I would say that, wouldn’t I? I’ll need to ask if she’ll come down to London to meet you.’ He needed to at least concede that. ‘But if she’s happy to do it, I’ll pop her on the train to London the day after tomorrow. If you like her, as I’m sure you will, she could bring the kids back with her. Then you could concentrate on your health. If you’re better in time to travel, maybe you and your mother could still join us for Christmas Day.’
There was a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line. Angus understood it. He was doing sharp intakes of breath all over the place himself.
He’d just landed himself with a fiancée! What had he done?
He’d lied.
But Ben’s voice was still echoing. He hadn’t been able to deny him.
But what hourly rate would Holly demand for this? He thought of facing her with this new job description, and suddenly he found himself grinning. He might even enjoy the bargaining.
‘I never wanted to come back to the castle,’ Delia said. ‘I only said I would when Ben begged.’
‘I can understand that,’ Angus said gently. ‘But, with Holly here, I think you’ll find it a very different place. Holly will make it different.’
‘You sound like you love her.’ Delia sounded astounded and Angus thought: join the club. You sound like you love her? Astounded was too small a word for it.
‘And Ben looked you up on the Internet,’ Delia was saying. ‘You’re not engaged. Or...it says you were, years ago, but your fiancée was killed in a ski accident.’
Delia was sounding suspicious again, and Angus decided, lies or not, engaged or not, it was time to turn back into the aloof financier he was.
‘My private life is private,’ he said curtly. ‘Thankfully, not everything’s on the Internet. But, if you agree, I’ll have Holly with you the day after tomorrow. No pressure. If you don’t like her and trust her then we’ll leave it but I think you will.’
‘Really?’
‘I promise. As long as Holly agrees to come to London.’
And as long as Holly agreed with all the rest.
* * *
Holly and Maggie had steak for tea. With chips. With apple pie afterwards. They also had a bottle of wine and then started on another. They’d stoked the fire up, courtesy of Angus’s loan, they sat back by the fire after dinner and they grinned at each other like Cheshire Cats. Two well fed, warm Cheshire Cats.
‘He’ll probably work us into the ground,’ Maggie said, trying to sound pessimistic and failing.
‘We’re both used to hard work and if he works us too hard we walk out and leave him to it,’ Holly retorted and then she thought of the man she’d just left and added, ‘but he won’t.’
‘He’s the Earl.’
‘He’s a nice man.’
‘I thought you said there was no such thing as a nice man.’
‘Well, a nice person,’ Holly conceded.
‘But you think he’s gorgeous. Every generation there’s scandal in that castle because some silly girl thinks the Earl is gorgeous.’
‘He’s just nice,’ Holly said stubbornly, but gorgeous did pop into her mind and waft around for a bit.
‘We’ll see,’ Maggie said darkly and poured another glass of wine for them both. Then she giggled. ‘I see you and me in the servants’ hall for Christmas and I don’t see us gnawing on the turkey carcass. I see us carving the best bits for us.’
‘Gran!’
‘We might even have fun,’ Maggie conceded. ‘If we can avoid the Earl.’ And then she paused.
She needed to pause. The knock on the cottage’s thick wooden door reverberated around the living room, imperative, urgent. Maggie frowned. ‘It’s nine at night. Who... One of the neighbours?’
She half rose but Holly was before her. ‘Let me.’
‘Take the poker, Holly, love,’ Maggie said but Holly, sated with apple pie, wine and heat, was in no mood for axe-murderers. Without the aid of a poker, she opened the door. A blast of snow rushed in, but not as much as she might expect.
The snow was blocked.
On the doorstep stood Maggie’s greatest fear. Their new employer. The Earl of Craigenstone himself.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you so late at night,’ he said, while Holly stared at him stupidly and thought...What? ‘But I have an additional position to fill and I wondered if you’d add it to your position as cook...as chef.’
‘What?’ Holly said, thoroughly confused.
‘I’m in a bit of trouble,’ the Earl said. ‘I’ve made a promise I intend to keep but, to do so...Holly, I need a fiancée. Just for Christmas. I need you, temporarily, to agree to marry me.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘I KNEW IT.’ The first reaction—of course—didn’t come from Holly. It came from Maggie, hissing behind her. ‘Didn’t I tell you? Talk about a fairy tale. Slam the door in his face, Holly. He’s not having his wicked way with you.’
Holly turned and looked at Maggie and then looked at the wine glass in her grandmother’s hand. She gently removed it and set it on the hall table.
‘Wicked way?’
‘He’s an Earl.’ Maggie glowered.
Holly turned back and looked at Angus in astonishment. He looked embarrassed, she thought. And more. ‘He looks cold,’ she told her gran.
‘Slam the door, Holly,’ Maggie demanded again.
‘I can’t do that. Even if he is crazy, he looks freezing.’
‘Holly...’
‘He gave me hot chocolate,’ Holly said reasonably. ‘And enough money to buy us coal. He might be out of his mind but I’m not turfing him out into the night.’ She tried to peer through the snow and failed. ‘Unless your car’s here.’
‘I walked,’ Angus said. ‘It’s snowing too hard to trust the road and I needed to walk. I needed to think.’
‘So you’ve given us no choice but to invite you in and warm you up,’ Holly said. ‘Which we’ll do as long as you don’t make any more ridiculous propositions. Gran and I have had a bottle and a half of very nice wine and maybe you have, too.’
‘I’m sensible,’ he said stubbornly and Holly gazed up at him and thought he looked anything but sensible.
Gorgeous was the adjective Maggie had used. Every generation there’s scandal in that castle because some silly girl thinks the Earl is gorgeous.
But still...
He was wearing the most fabulous man’s coat she’d ever seen—thick grey cashmere, tailored to fit. A gorgeous black scarf. Long black boots, moulded to calves that... Okay, don’t go there. His after-five shadow was dark, his hair was darker still, and his eyes... They gleamed with what she thought suddenly looked like dangerous mischief and she thought... Maybe Maggie’s right. Maybe I should slam the door.
But this man had been good to her. This man was saving her Christmas. Maybe a small bit of eccentricity was allowable.
So she ushered him into the living room and she left Maggie in charge in case he needed a straitjacket and she made them all hot chocolate—no more alcohol for anyone tonight!—while Maggie glowered in the background and Angus filled her tiny living room with his presence.
And with his personality. He was trying to charm Maggie, trying to make her smile while Holly made the chocolate. She watched them through the kitchen door. He wasn’t succeeding. Maggie was growing more and more suspicious.
Enough. She took the chocolate in, settled on the edge of a fireside stool—she decided it might be wise not to make herself comfortable—and fixed him with a look that said: Don’t mess with me.
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