The Christmas Stranger

by Campbell, Anna

  “Your godfather?”

  She sounded shaky, and he didn’t like it. He liked it much better when she stood up to him. He nudged her wineglass toward her, and this time she did take a sip.

  “He and my father went to Jesus College at Oxford together.”

  “Is your father still alive?”

  “Yes, he and my mother live in Sussex.”

  She didn’t look quite so lost anymore, thank God. “What are you doing in wildest Yorkshire over Christmas? Don’t you want to be with your family?”

  Not when they plagued him every minute God sent about finding a wife. That was the problem with happily married couples. They wanted everyone else to be happily married, too.

  Joss had long believed that he was too gruff and uncouth to arouse the matrimonial ambitions of any well-bred maiden. But it seemed the combination of an earl for an uncle, the fortune he’d inherited from a great-aunt, and his thriving, if unconventional architectural practice more than made up for the deficiencies in his manners. His mother had devoted the last two years to producing a stream of eligible girls, who turned up eager to impress him. So far, all the candidates had been suitable, pretty, and as dull as bad Palladian architecture.

  He was sick to the stomach of chits who giggled and stammered and batted their eyelashes at him. Miss Carr had done none of those things yet. By Jove, perhaps if he got desperate, he should marry her.

  “Now you’ve gone quiet,” she said, sounding worried.

  Joss summoned a smile and reached for the bread and meat she’d cut for him. “I’ve got six brothers and sisters, and a crowd of nieces and nephews. Nobody will miss me.”

  “But you might miss them,” she said in a small voice.

  Right now, looking at this pretty girl, he couldn’t imagine why he would. This pretty girl who seemed to have nobody in the world to care for her.

  Curiosity ate at him. How had this jewel of a woman ended up here, hidden away from the world?

  While he was perfectly prepared to break social rules and ask intrusive questions, he wasn’t ready to keep her up when she looked so tired and drawn. And distressed.

  How he regretted mentioning that Uncle Thomas might sell the house. Perhaps his godfather wanted to turn this isolated pile into an example of the fashionable gothic purely for his own pleasure.

  But Thomas Black rarely left Oxford, and never unless he absolutely had to. During his years in business, Joss had developed a sixth sense about his clients and their intentions. Something in his godfather’s letter hinted that his sudden decision to renovate his neglected property indicated an end of some kind.

  “Oh, I shouldn’t be sitting here like this.” She jumped to her feet and began to clear the table. “Let me show you to your room, sir.”

  Miss Carr seemed determined to treat him as her better, when he suspected she was his social equal in everything but fortune. She certainly sounded like his social equal, with that low, precise voice. “Don’t you think we’ve progressed beyond sir?”

  She picked up the meat dish and stubbornly shook her head. “Not at all, sir.”

  “And there’s no need to make me up a room at this hour. If I put two chairs together, I can sleep in here. It’s nice and warm, and the cat can keep me company.”

  Again she shook her head, this time so emphatically that she released a couple of tendrils of rich red hair from her ferociously tight coiffure. While he stabled Emilia, she’d pinned that thick plait up behind her head, and the dress she wore wouldn’t disgrace a sixty-year-old dowager. Clearly she strove to convince him of her authority and maturity. A pity the plan backfired—she looked like a little girl wearing her mother’s clothes.

  For a moment, Joss stared into the distance, trying to identify the poignant emotion squeezing his heart. The best description he could manage was tenderness. Unfamiliar in his twenty-nine years, although he loved his family, no matter how annoying they could be.

  The thought of facing life without them cut him like a blade.

  Whereas Miss Carr didn’t seem to have any family at all. In fact, she seemed more alone than anyone he’d ever met.

  But Joss already knew her well enough to predict that she’d never forgive him if he said he felt sorry for her.

  How wrong he’d been to imagine hundreds of beaux trailed after her. Her beauty seemed completely—and inexplicably—undiscovered. Which was a crying shame. Unless you were the man who discovered her.

  She tossed a scrap of meat to the large black and white cat curling around her ankles, then placed the uneaten sandwiches on a plate. “Dr. Black insists that the house is always ready for visitors. There’s a nice room at the top of the stairs.”

  “You said nobody ever comes.”

  “But someone might.” She cast him an unreadable glance from those extraordinary azure eyes. “After all, you did.”

  Yes, he did. And felt like the luckiest cove in creation that he had. He’d cursed the snow all day, especially over the last few miles when he’d had his doubts that he’d reach shelter before he froze. Right now, in Miss Carr’s company, the bad weather seemed like a blessing.

  Perhaps his thoughts tended in such a curious direction because of the late hour. Not long ago, the clock upstairs had struck two.

  Or because of the strange otherworldly atmosphere of this isolated house.

  Or the woman. The lovely, intriguing woman.

  But right now Joss felt like an enchanted prince caught up in a fairytale.

  And because everyday rules didn’t apply, he reached out to catch Miss Carr’s wrist. She started under his touch. Fear? Or was she as vibrantly aware of him as he was vibrantly aware of her?

  God only knew. And after the day he’d had, Joss was too tired to come up with an answer.

  “It’s late, Margaret. Why don’t you go to bed? I can look after myself from here.”

  She studied him without shifting away. He waited for her to pull free, to insist that she was paid to serve, that he shouldn’t call her Margaret, that she had to set the table or light the fire or shovel the snow.

  “Finish your wine, sir.” Her husky voice stroked across his skin like a caress. “When you go upstairs, your room is the first door to the right, along the corridor.”

  “Good night,” he said softly, wishing she was giving him directions to her room, while recognizing that even if she did, no man of honor could take such brazen advantage of this situation.

  With a slowness that set his heart crashing against his ribs, she withdrew from his hold. Avoiding his eyes, she curtsied and left him to the silent kitchens.

  * * *

  When Joss woke in the ancient four-poster in the pleasant, if old-fashioned bedroom, he wondered if he’d dreamed the events of last night, and he was back in his rooms at the Albany. Or perhaps in one of the inns he’d stayed in on his leisurely journey up from London. He’d taken the opportunity to view various big houses on his way. His godfather hadn’t given him a date for reporting back on Thorncroft, so he hadn’t hurried north.

  Although if he’d known what awaited him here, he wouldn’t have dallied.

  Because of course he hadn’t dreamed the night’s events. A fact underlined when he shifted to sit on the edge of the mattress and every muscle protested. That long struggle through the blizzard left him feeling like he’d gone ten rounds with Gentleman Jackson.

  The room was cold, and he stoked up the fire before he opened the heavy brown velvet curtains. A stark white world greeted him. The snowfall persisted.

  Honor might dictate he moved on this morning, but common sense, not to mention self-preservation, would win that argument.

  By the time he’d washed and shaved and dressed, he felt slightly less like something the cat had dragged in. He was hungry and wanted coffee. More, he wanted to see the girl from last night and discover if he’d imagined her devastating impact on his senses.

  Not that he could do much about wanting her.

  He’d enjoyed his fair share of
women, and his fair share of women had enjoyed him. But they’d all known the game. None had been well-born virgins. Or servants who relied on a good reputation to keep their livelihoods.

  Worse, Margaret, for all her spirit, was poor and defenseless and friendless. Only a cad of the worst kind would contemplate her seduction.

  He was contemplating, all right. But he had no intention of carrying through with his wicked thoughts.

  Damn it.

  Once the weather permitted, he’d ride on. He could come back after Christmas, after there was a chaperone or two in residence.

  But, Lord above, how he relished the thought of having her to himself for the next few days.

  Sighing and running his hand through his freshly combed hair, doubtless turning it into the usual bird’s nest, he went downstairs.

  In the pale light of day, he’d expected the fairytale atmosphere to evaporate. But as he wandered the rooms, the house was eerily silent. He wasn’t a fanciful man, but it felt like Thorncroft’s ghosts held their breath and watched, waiting to see what happened next.

  Joss struggled to break free of the entangling coils of fantasy. He’d worked on ancient buildings before. They always cast a spell, especially these lovely Jacobean houses, that spoke so eloquently of an earlier age. But even as the architect in him noted fine linen-fold paneling in the dining room, some pretty plasterwork in the drawing room, and the intricate carving on the main staircase, he felt like he stepped deeper and deeper into magic.

  The house felt like an empty stage set. The leading lady was yet to appear.

  In this enchanted realm, Christmas held no dominion. Joss found not a trace of greenery or decoration anywhere.

  Down in the kitchens, a good fire blazed in the hearth, and he could smell baking bread. There was also, praise the angels, a pot of coffee. He paused to gulp some down, before he continued his search for Margaret.

  As he drank, he glanced around, curious to discover clues about the woman who shared the house with him. He wasn’t particularly careful of his appearance or his manners, but when it came to his work, he was organized and fastidious. So he appreciated this room’s air of good management. And if that soup last night was any indication, she was a marvelous cook.

  The black and white cat rose from the rug before the fire, stretched, and wandered over for some attention.

  “Where’s your mistress, puss?” Joss asked, scratching her behind the ears.

  The cat butted his ankle with her head, before meandering outside. Joss was familiar enough with the rules of fairytales to know he should follow. He paused to throw on his greatcoat, left to dry in front of the fire, thanks to Margaret.

  The cat strutted across the yard he remembered crossing last night. Today’s gentle snow made it a much more appealing space than it had been in the howling blizzard.

  When the cat disappeared into the stables, he followed. Even if he didn’t find Margaret there, he wanted to check on his horse. Emilia had been limping by the time they reached Thorncroft Hall, and he was worried about her.

  As he entered the stable, Joss found his elusive fairy. She was walking away from him, carrying two full buckets. He gave into the ungentlemanly impulse to admire the fine view from the back.

  She’d tucked her skirts up to reveal a pair of trim ankles in white stockings and wooden pattens. As she carried her load, her hips swayed from side to side with a rhythm that made his blood pound. The thick red hair was pinned up once more, but soft tendrils clung to her nape. For a sizzling instant, he stared at that pale skin at the back of her neck, and the urge to sink his teeth into her was so sharp, he could almost taste her.

  He stepped forward. “Miss Carr?”

  She stopped and turned, setting her buckets on the ground with a clink. They were full of water. “Mr. Hale, I thought you might sleep in. I’m just getting your horse some fresh water.”

  Her nervous tone hinted that she’d hoped he would sleep in. She hadn’t sounded nervous last night. The implications of sharing the house with a man must be preying on her mind this morning.

  “Let me.” He expected her to argue, but she stepped aside meekly enough and let him collect the buckets.

  “Thank you.”

  The day was cloudy, and through the high windows, stark gray light shone on her face. It revealed details he’d missed last night. A sprinkle of delightful freckles across her straight little nose. Gold-tipped lashes shadowing those remarkable eyes. She still looked like a visitor from another world.

  “I hope you slept after you left me,” he said.

  “Like a baby.”

  He had a feeling she was lying. “I’m glad.”

  On the other hand, he’d crashed into a slumber deeper than anything he’d recently enjoyed in London. He loved his work, but over the last year, a strange restlessness had possessed him. The days passed in their usual busy whirl, but he was aware of a lurking dissatisfaction that grew with every success. Ridiculous at twenty-nine to feel like he’d climbed all the mountains, but he definitely needed some new challenge.

  His family would say he was discontented because he needed a wife. Devil take them.

  Margaret bent to scratch the cat’s ears. “How are you this morning, Smith?”

  “Smith?”

  “When my mother was a girl, Miss Smith was her governess.”

  A governess? He was right about Margaret being born to higher things than housekeeping. “Did she like her governess?”

  “Oh, yes. She liked the cat, too.”

  The stables were warmer than outside. Marginally. The only other occupants, apart from his mare, were a stocky piebald pony and a Jersey cow that Margaret had already fed and watered, if the animal’s contented munching was any indication. He gave the first bucket to the pony, then entered his horse’s stall. As he filled her water trough, Emilia nickered in welcome and nudged him with her noble head.

  “Hello, my old darling.” He rubbed her nose and let the familiar scents of animals and hay and leather soothe his senses. “I hope you’re feeling a bit more like yourself this morning.”

  Last night, poor Emilia had been completely beaten down and hadn’t shown much interest in the oats he’d found for her. Now he patted her chestnut flank and noticed Margaret had replenished her manger. “There’s no need for you to look after my horse.”

  Margaret came and leaned on the door. “I think she might be lame. She’s favoring her right foreleg.”

  “Blast,” he muttered, going down on his haunches to check. He immediately saw the swollen fetlock. No wonder Emilia had been limping. “I led her the last few miles to save her carrying me, but it mustn’t have helped.”

  “You faced that blizzard on foot?”

  He shrugged and began to run his hands down his mare’s legs. Only the front one was in trouble. Not good news, but it could be worse. “Needs must.”

  “You won’t be going anywhere today.”

  Unable to fathom Margaret’s tone, he lifted his head to study her—no great chore. “I could take your pony and go to the village.”

  She shook her head. “He’s too old to deal with the snowdrifts. And there’s more snow on the way.”

  He didn’t bother questioning her statement. She’d lived here long enough to know the weather. “No trips to Little Flitwick?”

  “You’re stuck here until the weather improves.”

  Hurrah. “And when is that likely to be?”

  Her lips twisted. “May.”

  He released a grunt of laughter as he stood. “I’ll see what I can do with Emilia.”

  “Emilia?”

  “I bought her in Emilia Romagna when I was on my grand tour. She’s served me well since.”

  “Italy?” she breathed as if he’d offered her the key to heaven. He realized with no great surprise that this restricted life chafed at Margaret.

  She was young and vital and beautiful. Of course it did.

  “I’ll tell you about it, if you like.”

  Hell
, if he had his wish, he’d transport her there in a flash. The thought of a carriage ride to view the Colosseum by moonlight was damnably appealing. Or gliding along the Grand Canal in a Venetian gondola. Or taking a private box at La Fenice. By God, he’d make sure she didn’t see much of the opera there.

  “Oh, I’d like that.” She straightened away from the stall door, and her expression turned neutral. After last night, he wasn’t surprised at the change in her manner. Every time their interactions broached on intimacy, she pulled back and acted like a servant. Never very convincingly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a prim little voice, as the cat slunk over to sit at her feet. “I’m getting above myself, sir.”

  He rolled his eyes, while forbidden pictures of her being anything but prim flooded his mind and made his blood surge. “There are only two of us here.”

  Her lips tightened. “I’m well aware of that, sir.”

  “So do you think you could forgo calling me sir, given nobody else is around to give you points for humility?”

  “It’s not suitable.”

  With difficulty, he prevented himself from rolling his eyes again. “My presence here isn’t suitable. Nothing else counts.”

  “Sir—”

  “I insist you don’t call me sir. No good servant disobeys a blatant command.”

  The blue eyes flashed azure with annoyance. “As you wish, Mr. Hale.”

  He supposed it was better than sir, but not much. “And what shall I call you?”

  “Miss Carr.” Her voice held a nice snap. He liked seeing the pepper in her.

  “No. Margaret, I think.”

  “I prefer Miss Carr.”

  “But I’m giving the orders.”

  “Aren’t you just?” she muttered.

  He bit back a smile. “You’ve got too much spirit to be a servant.”

  To his surprise, her lips turned down in self-disgust. “I know. It’s probably a good thing nobody ever comes here. If Dr. Black sells the house, I don’t know who else will employ me. I’m really too young for such a senior post. But I couldn’t bear—”