Christmas at Carriage Hill

by Carla Neggers

  Her grandmother reached for her wool coat, scarf and gloves. The feigned outrage was gone and she had a twinkle in her eyes. “Who said he was the wrong man?”

  Two

  Boston was cold, and snowy...and perfect. Alexandra was pleased with her decision to make the trip. She spent two days on her own in the city seeing the sights, wandering in and out of shops of all kinds and organizing her work on Olivia’s wedding and bridesmaids’ dresses. On her third day in Boston—December 22, two days before the wedding—she was reasonably recovered from jet lag and keen to get to Knights Bridge.

  Dylan sent a car for her. The driver was a man who looked to be in his late twenties. His casual attire of jeans and a worn canvas jacket was a bit different from the black suits of Alexandra’s usual drivers in London and various European cities, but she didn’t object. She climbed into the backseat with murmured thanks.

  “No problem,” he said.

  And that was that. He was pleasant but obviously not one to engage in conversation. That was fine with her since it left her to enjoy the blissful drive west. The day was clear and bright and the scenery as beautiful as she imagined a New England winter would be. The nor’easter had fizzled, or blown out to sea. Something. She knew her grandmother would be watching the forecast. Philippa had managed to wriggle out of providing details about her rake of a man, but Alexandra hadn’t pressed her, fearing her grandmother would want details about her rake of a man. Alexandra had enjoyed their evening together in London before her departure the next day. Her grandmother was unconvinced that her only granddaughter’s move to the country was in the best interests of her career. Philippa had been out to the Cotswolds with Alexandra’s parents, but they hadn’t met Ian. He’d been off flying fighter jets or drinking with his pilot buddies. Alexandra didn’t know, didn’t ask, didn’t care.

  Well, at least she didn’t know and didn’t ask.

  Not caring would take time.

  Lost in thought, she wasn’t aware the car had turned off the main road until it hit a bump and she noticed an open field blanketed with snow glistening under the cloudless blue sky. She breathed in deeply, transfixed as the road wound into the small village of Knights Bridge. She took in the oval-shaped village green, surrounded by mostly nineteenth-century homes, a library, town offices, a handful of shops. Children and a few adults were ice-skating on a seasonal rink on one end of the green, a picturesque sight that conjured up simple pleasures and pushed her worries and doubts to the back of her mind.

  This will be a wonderful week. I won’t think about Ian at all.

  Alexandra settled into her seat as the car turned onto a back road. In a few minutes, they passed what had to be the house and “barn” Dylan and Olivia were building on the site of Grace Webster’s former house, a structure too far gone to save from demolition. The new buildings seemed to spring naturally from the rural surroundings. The house wasn’t too close to the barn, which, Alexandra knew, would serve as the headquarters for Dylan’s new ventures—adventure travel and the occasional entrepreneurial boot camp. Dylan might have ended up in Knights Bridge because of his grandparents—and his treasure-hunter father—but he was wealthy because of his own hard work and his friendship with Noah Kendrick, a high-tech genius. They had forged an incredibly successful business partnership, transforming Noah’s fledgling NAK, Inc., into a profitable enterprise. Noah, whom Alexandra had yet to meet, was serving as Dylan’s best man.

  This, Alexandra thought, was where Grace Webster—Philip Rankin’s last love—had moved as a young woman, pregnant with their child, not knowing if her RAF pilot would ever return to her. Decades later, Duncan McCaffrey had traced his birth mother to Knights Bridge and bought her crumbling house when she moved into an assisted-living facility. Duncan had died suddenly, leaving his only son, Dylan, in the dark about Grace and Knights Bridge. Two years later, Dylan had arrived in Knights Bridge himself to sort out what was behind his father’s mysterious purchase of a property in the out-of-the-way little Massachusetts town. In the process, he fell in love with his Knights Bridge neighbor, Olivia Frost.

  Funny how life turns out, Alexandra thought as her driver continued down the narrow road to a classic center-chimney house with creamy clapboards and a cheerful blue front door. A hand-painted sign decorated with a cluster of blossoming chives announced they had arrived at The Farm at Carriage Hill. She knew from Olivia and Dylan it was the last house on the road, which had once led into the Swift River Valley towns but now dead-ended at a gate leading into the reservoir watershed and ultimately to the reservoir itself. The house was situated among established gardens and mature shade trees, their branches bare and gray with winter, and tall evergreens drooping with snow. Across snow-covered fields a hill—Carriage Hill, presumably—rose against the blue sky.

  Alexandra waited as her driver got out and opened the back door for her. “I’ll get your bag,” he said. “Maggie’s here. She and Olivia are running Carriage Hill together now. Best friends. Maggie’s a caterer but she’s got her fingers in a number of different pies around here. Likes to be busy.”

  “Wait,” Alexandra said as she stepped out of the car. “You’re a local man?”

  “Christopher Sloan.” He seemed amused. “I’m Maggie’s brother-in-law.”

  “You’re not a professional driver?”

  “Firefighter.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Mortified, Alexandra felt her cheeks turn hot, despite the icy December air. “I didn’t mean to be presumptuous.”

  “Glad to help,” Christopher said with a grin. “It was a good excuse to drive Dylan’s car. Maggie’s boys aren’t here right now. They’re a couple of live wires. You’ll have a chance to settle in while it’s quiet.”

  “Thank you, Christopher. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  He was so relaxed and unself-conscious that Alexandra immediately put her faux-pas behind her. He insisted on carrying her bags. She followed him to an ell off the main house, obviously a later addition. Another blue-painted door led into a warm country kitchen, where a red-haired woman with a flour-covered apron was pulling a tray out of the oven.

  “Passable,” she said, setting the tray on a cooling rack. “Barely passable.” She gave a heavy sigh. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get the knack of making scones. They can be deceptive. They seem so easy.”

  Christopher set Alexandra’s two bags by the door. “Everything you cook is above average, Maggie. This is Alexandra—”

  “Dylan’s cousin,” Maggie said, beaming as she looked up from her scones. “Welcome, Alex. Please excuse the flour and mess. I’d like to say I’m not always like this, but I am.”

  Christopher helped himself to a freshly baked scone—he didn’t seem to notice it was still hot or “barely passable”—and headed out, saying goodbye and offering his help if needed. When the door shut behind him, Alexandra couldn’t help but wonder what she’d gotten herself into, but at the same time, she felt oddly at ease, more as if she’d arrived at a friend’s house than an inn.

  “The place smells delicious,” she said.

  Maggie frowned at her tray. “They’re too brown, don’t you think? They’ll be dry. It’s a new recipe for me. Ian says it’s his grandmother’s favorite English scone recipe.”

  Alexandra stood very still. “Ian?” She immediately regretted having opened her mouth. Ian wasn’t an uncommon name. Surely Knights Bridge had an Ian or two. But one with his grandmother’s English scone recipe?

  Maggie lifted her turquoise eyes. “He said he’s a friend of yours.”

  “And so I am,” Ian said from the threshold of an adjoining room.

  “Ian.” Alexandra tried not to choke. “You’re here.”

  He stepped into the kitchen. “Hello, Alex.”

  That dashing smile. That fit, sexy body and easygoing, devil-may-care manner.

  Thos
e eyes.

  Despite her training in self-control at her grandmother’s knee, Alexandra knew she wasn’t doing a good job of hiding her shock at the presence of Wing Commander Ian Mabry in Carriage Hill’s country kitchen.

  Maggie looked as if she might be called upon to fetch the police. “Is everything all right?”

  Ian turned to her with that Mabry charm. “Everything is perfect.”

  * * *

  Everything was not perfect, but Alexandra didn’t want to create a scene, so she pretended she had no problem with Ian’s presence in Knights Bridge, at Carriage Hill—in fact, had been expecting him, and any look of surprise on her part was due only to getting herself oriented to her surroundings.

  She did, however, flee to her room.

  Ian said he would bring her bags up for her.

  Wasn’t that decent of him?

  She gave an inward groan and splashed cold water on her face. Fortunately, her room had its own private bath. She wouldn’t be sharing with Ian, who, Maggie had explained as she’d led Alexandra upstairs, was also staying at Carriage Hill. Maggie had her own house in the village. Olivia had moved out of Carriage Hill for a few days to stay with her parents ahead of her wedding, and Dylan was staying with Noah Kendrick at a house they were renting on a nearby lake. Dylan’s mother and stepfather and Noah’s parents would join them, freeing up Carriage Hill for wedding festivities and anyone else who needed a place to stay.

  “Another couple is arriving tomorrow from Southern California,” Maggie had said, as if she’d sensed that Alexandra would appreciate such information.

  She had. She had, indeed.

  She dried her face with a fluffy white towel and examined her reflection in the mirror. Shocked. Flustered. Angry.

  Incandescent with rage, as her dear grandmother would say.

  How dare Ian insert himself into her life—her work—this way?

  There was a knock at the door. Alexandra flung it open, and Ian sauntered into the pretty room as if he didn’t have a care in the world and hadn’t done a thing wrong. In fact, as if he were incapable of doing anything wrong.

  She smacked the door shut behind him, careful not to slam it only because Maggie was still downstairs, fussing over the Mabry recipe for English scones.

  Hands on hips, she planted herself in front of Ian. “What would you do if I showed up at your RAF base uninvited?”

  He set her bags by the bed and turned to her with a cheeky smile. “Give you a hell of a ride,” he said.

  “And get us both arrested. You’re lucky you’re not being marched off to jail right now.” She let her arms fall to her sides. “Ian...what are you doing here?”

  “I was invited.”

  “Invited? How? Who? What—” She stopped herself and glared at him. “You aren’t serious, are you?”

  “Yes, I am. I met Dylan at the pub when he and Olivia were in England in October, and he decided he wanted a British fighter pilot and family friend at the wedding.”

  “You aren’t a family friend.”

  “I was then—”

  “Not my point.”

  “Philip Rankin—Dylan’s grandfather and your great-grandfather—is an RAF hero, and I’m honored to be here.”

  Alexandra didn’t know what to say. She was Olivia’s dress designer but also her friend, and Dylan’s cousin and friend, and Ian was an RAF wing commander and—and what? Dylan’s friend? His and Olivia’s friend?

  That Ian was her ex-lover was a footnote in his mind. It was unlikely their hosts knew.

  Ian, of course, didn’t seem at all flustered. “You and Dylan are still grappling with the realization that Philip had a mad affair with Grace Webster. You’ve only just torn back the cover on a deep family secret that’s filled with both tragedy and love.”

  And a fortune in stolen jewels, now recovered, Alexandra thought. Her great-grandmother’s family hadn’t approved of their daughter’s marriage to Philip Rankin. Only after his heroic death had they changed their tune. They hadn’t known about his time in America in September 1938. His theft of the Ashworth jewels from his brother-in-law at a Boston hotel, his mad dash west to the Swift River Valley, his discovery of young Grace Webster and their brief, life-changing love for each other...

  Alexandra didn’t want to delve into that story with Ian. He knew about it because she’d told him—and, obviously, because Dylan had told him—but he wasn’t a Rankin.

  She changed the subject. “When did you get here?”

  “Yesterday. I thought you were here already.”

  “I spent a couple days in Boston.”

  “I knew you’d be surprised, but I thought you’d also be happy to see me.”

  “Happy?”

  “Mmm. Happy.”

  She gaped at him. “Why would I be happy, Ian?”

  His gray-blue eyes held hers. “Because you’re still in love with me.”

  “I am, am I?” She tried not to choke. “You’re always so cocksure of yourself.”

  “About some things.” He stepped closer to her. “Tell me you aren’t still in love with me, Alex, and I’ll be gone. I can be packed and off in three minutes. You say the word.”

  “Ian...” She held herself straight. “I’m not playing that game.”

  He gave her the faintest of smiles. “Told you.”

  She tossed her head back. “Think what you want to think.”

  “There’s another reason I’m here,” he said, his tone unreadable.

  “Your RAF duty.”

  He edged even closer to her. “Because I’m still in love with you.”

  Her heart raced. For nothing at all, she’d have fallen into bed with him then and there. He had a dusky look in his eyes that suggested he was thinking the same and could start tearing off clothes without the slightest provocation.

  It took all her willpower for her to square her shoulders. “You can stay, Ian, but we learned the hard way that we’re not meant to be together. Let’s not repeat that mistake. Instead, let this be our test—our chance to prove to each other that the chemistry between us is just that, chemistry. It can be controlled, or at least ignored, and we can go our separate ways.”

  “That’s what you want, is it?”

  She nodded. “It is.”

  “Could we let that chemistry have its way with us for just a bit before I—”

  “No. The last time I did that, we...” She didn’t finish. “Well, you know what happened. I’ve work to do. I should get on with it.”

  “I’ll take no for an answer, but your eyes tell a different story.”

  So did her entire body, but she resisted. “If you don’t know how to sew darts and hems, go about your business and let me go about mine.”

  “If I do know how to sew darts and hems, can I get underfoot?”

  There was a boyish, relentless charm to him that made him everyone’s friend—and incredibly dangerous to a woman like herself, who wanted to be more than a sexy man’s latest challenge. Ian wanted her because he’d let her go and decided to get her back. It was a game for him.

  And once he got her back, he would let her go again.

  No question in her mind.

  But she didn’t want to show him her fears, her vulnerabilities. She smiled. Bad enough he had seen how physically attracted she was to him, but it was old hat for Ian Mabry to deal with women who found him sexually irresistible and were ready and willing to fall into bed with him.

  “Since there’s no chance you know anything about sewing or dress design,” she said breezily, “that’s not a bet I need even to acknowledge. How long are you staying in Knights Bridge?”

  “Until you throw me out.”

  “Such power I have over you. I like it.”

  He grinned. “I thought yo
u might.”

  She bit back a smile. “Don’t think I’m not immune to your charms, because I am. But we can be friends. My shop and studio are just up the street from your family’s pub, and it’s to your advantage and mine that we get on.”

  He started out. “I’m at the end of the hall if you need anything.”

  “I noticed there’s a lock on my door. Yours, too, I assume.”

  “Yes, but I’m not locking my door. The only things that might get in unwanted are mice and bats or perhaps a squirrel, and them I can handle. You’re welcome anytime.”

  “Am I in the same category as rodents?”

  He laughed without answering.

  “One more thing,” Alexandra said, holding the door as he stepped into the hall. “Did you leave something out of your grandmother’s scone recipe?”

  “I must have.”

  “You didn’t test the recipe yourself before giving it to Maggie?”

  He shrugged. “Never occurred to me to throw a batch of scones together.”

  “But it occurred to you to bring the recipe—”

  “It was on my computer. Gran included it in an email to all of us. I suppose she could have left something out. Have you ever made scones, Alex?”

  “Once.”

  “We can bake them together and see if we can figure out what’s missing.”

  He was still grinning as Alexandra shut the door behind him.

  A Recipe for English Scones

  Ingredients:

  3 cups all-purpose flour

  1 tablespoon baking powder

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  ¼ cup sugar (less or more to taste)

  ¾ cup butter, cut into small pieces

  1 egg, beaten

  1 cup whole milk

  For glaze:

  1 egg, beaten with ¼ teaspoon water (optional)

  Preparation:

  Preheat oven to 400°F (200°C). Grease a baking sheet with butter and dust lightly with flour.

  Combine dry ingredients in a large bowl.