The Christmas Stranger

by Campbell, Anna

  “Taking something further down the pecking order?”

  “Yes.”

  He was sorry he’d made her sad again. “Uncle Thomas never said he was selling the house.”

  “No. Perhaps I’m worried about nothing.” She bent to pick up the cat and rubbed her cheek against the top of Smith’s head. Joss had never been jealous of a feline before. “Anyway, it’s not your problem.”

  “I’ll feel responsible if you lose your situation.”

  “Oh, no. It’s not your fault.” She raised her chin and straightened her back. Every time she did that, he felt like she defied a world that had treated her very shabbily indeed. “I’m sure Dr. Black won’t cast me out into the world with nowhere to go. After all, we’re distantly related.”

  “Are you indeed?” The news was unexpected. What in Hades was Uncle Thomas doing, making a relative a bloody housekeeper? He had plenty of blunt. Enough to give this girl a London season, at the very least.

  “Yes, cousins of a sort. Mamma worked it out and told me.” She was still mulling over her future as she cuddled the cat. Lucky Smith. “I suppose I could find a place as a governess.”

  Joss’s doubtful glance made her bristle, justifying his misgivings about this plan.

  “I’ve had a good education,” she said, as if he’d offered some argument. “Papa was an Oxford man and taught me Latin and history and mathematics, and Mamma was a baronet’s daughter, so she passed on the feminine accomplishments like drawing and music.”

  He frowned. “What the devil…deuce is a baronet’s granddaughter doing in this backwater, playing drudge to Thomas Black? Why didn’t your mother apply to her rich relations for help, if things got so bad that she had to work as a domestic?”

  His bluntness sparked resentment in Margaret’s eyes, and he was more convinced than ever that the governess plan wouldn’t fly. “She did, but they’d disowned her when she married Papa, and they wouldn’t take her back when she was widowed. Dr. Black was the only person to offer us any help.”

  “Was your father such an unacceptable husband?”

  Bitterness twisted Margaret’s lips. “For the beautiful daughter of Sir John Macclesfield, he was. He’d been a scholarship boy at Oxford, and he was a poor curate when he and Mamma fell in love. Her parents had arranged a match with an earl. In their view, a penniless clergyman was no substitute, even if he was a good man and he adored her. Mamma and Papa were blissfully happy in our poor seaside parish, until he drowned, mounting a rescue mission in a winter storm.”

  When she spoke of her parents, her voice was warm with love. Whereas Joss wanted to hunt down the unknown John Macclesfield and beat him to a pulp. “How old were you when your father died?”

  “Seventeen. Mamma and I lived here together for three years, but she wasn’t well and eventually a fever took her. She never recovered from losing Papa.”

  “You’ve been alone at Thorncroft Hall for the last five years?”

  By heaven, Uncle Thomas wasn’t going to get away with this. When he returned south, Joss intended to have some stern words with his godfather about the duty he owed his cousin, however distant the relationship.

  “As I said, there’s Jane. And Mr. Welby. And if the weather allows, I go to church and shop in the village.”

  “Boundless excitement, I’m sure,” Joss said grimly. “It’s no life for a young lady.”

  She flared up, as he knew she would. “It’s an honest life.”

  “Undoubtedly.” Honest. And lonely.

  When he didn’t say anything more, her spurt of temper subsided. “Perhaps I’ll like governessing. Being part of a family again.”

  When he bent to run his hand up Emilia’s sore leg, she snorted and shied away. Guilt gnawed at him. She really was in a bad way. He shouldn’t have forced her through the snow last night, but by the time he’d understood his dilemma, he was too far from the last village to turn back.

  “You don’t think so?” Margaret asked in a challenging tone, when the silence extended.

  He straightened, smacking his hands together to knock away the dust and straw. “I’ll put a compress on that fetlock.” He glanced at Margaret. “I won’t be able to ride her for a few days. I’ll have to stay.”

  “I know that,” she said, as if it hardly mattered. If the chit knew what was in his mind, she’d be less sanguine. “Why don’t you think I’ll make a good governess?”

  He gestured for her to stand back while he opened the gate and stepped through into the aisle. Behind him, Emilia bent her head to the bucket and drank noisily. “I think you’re perfectly capable of teaching the children.”

  “But?”

  He shrugged. “You’re devilish pretty, Margaret. No woman with a brain in her head would take a girl like you into her household.”

  Margaret looked appalled, whether at the compliment or the implications of impropriety, he wasn’t sure. “You’re suggesting I’d set out to…to flirt with the master of the house?”

  He was suggesting more than that. “I’m sure your intentions would be pure.”

  “But I’m too young?”

  “Yes.” He cast her a straight look. “And pardon my frankness, even if you found a place, your outspoken attitude means you’d be unlikely to keep it.”

  She looked troubled. “Last night, you caught me by surprise.”

  “And I’m exceptionally annoying.”

  When she didn’t reply, he laughed. “Bravo. You resisted responding to that.”

  She set Smith down on the floor. “Proving I have some manners.”

  “Hmm.” He headed off to fetch more oats from the bin.

  She watched him curiously. “Do you always take such interest in the hired help?”

  “I do when they’re as comely as you are.” He returned to fill Emilia’s manger to the brim.

  “I wish you’d stop saying that.”

  He carried the bucket back to the oat bin. “Whether I say it or not, it’s true.”

  He swore he heard her grinding her teeth, but she didn’t pursue the argument. “I’ll go and make you something to eat.”

  “Thank you. I’ll check the tack room for something to put on Emilia’s leg.”

  “Mr. Welby keeps it well stocked. But if you can’t find what you want, let me know.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll see you inside in a few minutes.”

  She dipped into a curtsy. “Yes, sir.”

  Before he could protest, she marched away. The saucy sway of her hips put the lie to any lip service she paid to deference.

  Chapter Four

  * * *

  “Good morning, Margaret.”

  Maggie looked up from where she fried bacon and eggs for Mr. Hale’s breakfast. “Good morning, sir,” she said warily, wondering why he was in the kitchens, instead of safely waiting for her to serve him upstairs in the dining room.

  For the last two days, she’d mostly managed to stay out of his way, in the hope that lack of contact might discourage him from seeking her out. When they’d encountered each other, as they inevitably did when she gave him his meals, she’d managed to act like a servant, despite his best efforts to crack her composure.

  Curse him. The house, although modest by manorial standards, was big enough to ensure that they met infrequently at other times. Three floors. Six bedrooms. A couple of public rooms of manageable size.

  Two people positively rattled around inside it, and it should be easy to ignore Mr. Hale. But with every second, she was more and more conscious that an alien presence invaded her territory.

  She didn’t want to share more of those disturbing conversations where he effortlessly slid beneath her defenses, so she found herself treating him like a friend. He couldn’t be her friend—he was a guest in the house, and she was a servant. She didn’t want him to be her friend—she was painfully aware how unbearable the loneliness would be once he left.

  At first, she’d been grateful that he hadn’t made any improper advances. In th
at, at least, he played the gentleman, even if he wasn’t a gentleman in much else. But last night, she’d woken, perspiring and restless, from dreams where Mr. Hale had behaved in a most improper fashion, and she’d surrendered to his kisses with wild abandon. As she’d lain staring into the thick darkness, she’d finally admitted that the prospect of Mr. Hale putting his capable hands on her was far from distasteful.

  Yet more reason to shun his company and raise the barriers of rank high between them.

  He wore the coat and breeches he’d had on yesterday. Of course he did. He wouldn’t wear his greatcoat inside. While he might cut a formidable figure in the billowing coat, she preferred that. When he was in indoor clothes, she was far too aware that his impressive size was all brawn.

  The wild mop of inky curls showed traces of a comb—just. And he’d shaved. By evening, black whiskers usually shadowed that square jaw. The nascent beard always made him look a ruffian, but something secret and female in her liked to see a touch of the pirate about big, powerful Joss Hale.

  Maggie tried to tell herself it was natural to notice the details of his physical appearance, seeing he was the only other person in the house. But she couldn’t help feeling that her fascination with this young, virile man was inappropriate. And dangerous.

  Because he was fascinating. Since his arrival, the air crackled with energy. A good morning from that rumbling bass made her very bones vibrate. Yesterday, she’d found herself surreptitiously watching from the windows, as he’d crossed to the stables from the house. Even as she warned herself how risky it was to feed her interest.

  He always moved as if he knew where he was going. To a woman who had stagnated so long in this backwater, that quality was breathtakingly attractive.

  Breathtakingly attractive? She was asking for disaster.

  Now she needed to shoo him out of her kitchen as quickly as possible. “I’ll bring your breakfast up in a moment.”

  “There’s no need to go to that trouble.” He leaned over her shoulder and sniffed appreciatively.

  She stifled the urge to sniff appreciatively herself. The scent of healthy male animal pleased her senses even more powerfully than frying bacon. “It’s no trouble,” she said, without looking at him.

  With Mr. Hale standing so close, she was irresistibly aware that he was so much bigger than she was. Who knew the thrill a girl could get from the contrast between her slender smallness and a huge brute of a male?

  He wasn’t touching her. If he was, she could protest. But the breath jammed in her throat as she imagined him bridging that tantalizing gap between them.

  When he’d hoisted her about that first night, she’d wanted to slap him. How odd that since then, when she recalled how effortlessly he’d hurled her across his shoulder, her heart raced with giddy excitement.

  By the time he stepped back, she was lightheaded for lack of air. Glancing down at the pan, she also saw she was close to overcooking the eggs.

  “Margaret,” he said gently, so that low voice sounded like distant thunder, “I’m going to eat breakfast with you. You can join me upstairs, or we can stay down here. Your choice.”

  Oh, how glad she was that her back was turned. Otherwise he might see the devastating effect that velvety tone had on her. She closed her eyes against the lure of his soft, impossibly deep voice.

  “It’s not suitable,” she said, making a great showing of plating the two meals.

  “Perhaps not, but I feel a fool eating up there in state, while you play at humble domestic a floor below.”

  “I am a humble domestic,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even.

  “Domestic perhaps. Humble never.”

  When she turned around, he was setting two places at the ancient kitchen table. She watched him in surprise, the two full plates in her hands, as she was forced to accept that she’d lost the battle of the dining locations. She’d done her best, she really had, but the temptation of his company proved too powerful. And he made her sound petty for sticking to her guns.

  He poured two cups of the coffee she’d planned to take up to him. “What’s wrong?”

  She was about to lose the battle of the discreet servant, too. But it was impossible to preserve formalities, when he was quite as determined to treat her as an equal.

  “You’re an unusual man, Mr. Hale.”

  He shrugged and pulled out her chair for her as if she was a fine lady, even if one who ate in the kitchens. “I’ve been called worse. For example, by you.”

  She frowned, not because she resented his teasing, but because the silly, dizzy girl who lurked inside her liked it too much. “Dr. Black pays me to serve.”

  He inclined his head toward the chair. “Then you may serve by joining me for breakfast, Miss Carr.”

  At least this time, he didn’t call her Margaret.

  “Thank you,” she said, giving in gracefully, because they both knew he’d won.

  She couldn’t really blame him for wanting someone to talk to. Even if she worried that it might all prove too heady for a woman who had spent years training herself to solitude.

  He circled the table to sit opposite her. For someone his size, he was light on his feet. It was a sign of a man at the peak of his fitness. He’d bounced back impressively fast from that snowy trek three nights ago.

  The table was large, as were the kitchens, a reminder that this house had once bustled with activity. When he’d originally employed her mother, Dr. Black had said that he’d inherited the manor from a ne’er-do-well relation who had squandered his fortune on wild parties, featuring all kinds of debauchery. A long time ago, these empty, echoing rooms had rung to the laughter of profligate young men and expensive courtesans.

  Thinking about all the wicked acts that had taken place under this roof made Maggie blush. She hid her unruly thoughts by starting to eat. As always, she’d started early, feeding the hens, milking the cow, and looking after the horses. She was hungry.

  Mr. Hale seemed equally enthusiastic about his breakfast. There was something satisfying about cooking a man a good meal, then watching him enjoy it.

  Stop it, Maggie. You’re falling into a silly fantasy where you’re part of a family. When the dream crumbles to nothing, you’ll be devastated.

  “It’s still snowing,” she said, seizing on the weather as a suitably uncontroversial topic.

  “Yes. And Emilia’s leg is no better. I’m sorry to impose.”

  She hadn’t been complaining about him staying, although if she had any sense, she’d want him to move on as quickly as possible. The slightest hint of a shady reputation, and a servant became unemployable. Not that while the snow lasted, anyone was likely to intrude upon their time together.

  “You’re lucky you made it through.”

  He shrugged, a characteristic response. “It’s odd. In the midst of danger, you’re too busy putting one foot in front of another to realize your next breath could be your last.”

  “I’m glad Jane left before the worst of it. If she’d delayed even a day, she’d miss the delivery.”

  “When is she back?”

  “After Twelfth Night, if everything goes well.”

  “It means a rum kind of Christmas for you, though.” He glanced around with a frown. “You don’t decorate for the season? I notice you haven’t put up any greenery.”

  Maggie cringed to think he saw her as pathetically sad and lonely. With a sinking feeling, she realized that she didn’t want this large, unconventionally attractive man viewing her as a charity case.

  She wanted him to see her as beautiful and proud and brilliant. Equal to the sophisticated ladies she had no doubt he flirted with in London.

  “I make a little…” A very little. “…more effort when Jane’s here.”

  A knowing spark lit his eyes. “A vase of holly in the hall.”

  She blushed. He really had guessed how paltry her Christmas celebrations were these days. “Actually we bring it down here, seeing this is where we spend most of our
time on cold days.”

  “And I bet Jane cut it.”

  Her lips twitched. “I can’t remember.”

  “If you like, I can help you collect a bit of greenery. I hate to think of moving on and leaving the house so dull.”

  Sitting here, sharing breakfast, she hated to think of him moving on at all. It was nice having someone close to her own age to talk to, and while she knew she was playing with fire, she liked the way he looked at her.

  As if, by heaven, he found her almost as interesting as she found him.

  He’d emptied his plate, so she rose and started to clear the table. “Don’t you have work to do?”

  He lifted his coffee, keeping those deep-set eyes glued to her every movement. She still couldn’t tell their exact color. Given his night-dark hair, she guessed they must be dark too.

  Odd she’d thought him so gruff and grim when he arrived. Now she looked into those rugged features, and while he was definitely rough-hewn, she saw beauty of a kind. Intelligence. Humor. Spirit.

  Maggie blinked. She was staring at him like a moonling. What must he think?

  Except Mr. Hale stared back. For no particular reason, her cheeks heated, and the plates in her hands started to shake.

  “I’ve made plenty of notes so far.” He sounded disconcertingly normal, while their eyes seemed to conduct another conversation entirely. “We could go out this afternoon.”

  She should say no, invent some task, although at this time of year, there was never a huge amount to do. But the truth was she wanted to go with him and pretend that Christmas was something to look forward to, instead of dread.

  If only mistletoe grew this far north. Then perhaps he’d…

  One of the dirty plates tumbled from her hand and shattered on the flagstones.

  In an instant, he was on his feet and fetching the broom. “Don’t move. I’ll clean it up. If you’re pitching crockery at me, it’s time you got some fresh air.”

  She mustered a smile, even as her heart started to gallop with anticipation. Living here with Jane, she often forgot she was young. It was impossible to forget when she was with Mr. Hale.