The Oddest Little Mistletoe Shop

by Beth Good

  But how the hell had he found out about their plans to picket his headquarters?

  The members of the protest group had all agreed – and indeed held a vote on it, which had been unanimous – to keep their plans secret from the general public. Someone at the meeting must have betrayed them, a thought which made her so wild with outrage, her heart began to thunder so loudly that she felt unwell.

  'What's the matter, Rose?' he asked softly. 'Oh dear … Was it supposed to be a secret?’ His lazy smile made her chest hurt. ‘In that case, you might want to be more careful who you allow into your private meetings.’

  'Is that what this is about?’ She glared at him. ‘Have you abducted me to your Scottish lair in the hope it will destroy our plans to picket your headquarters? Because if so, you’re suffering under a sad delusion. It won't make any difference if I'm not there. The rest of the protest group will still go ahead with our plans.’ His silence was intimidating, she thought, having paused to let him say something only to be rewarded with a big fat nothing. But she was determined not to let this man frighten her. Her chin stuck out, she finished in a breathless rush, ‘So you've wasted your time and effort abducting me, Mr Grimsby, not to mention your money. I hope you realise that.'

  His gaze tangled with hers, though he said nothing.

  She felt an odd fluttering in her chest.

  Good grief, he was phenomenally attractive. Even with that mean scar along his cheekbone. Looking at Nick Grimsby was like being hit repeatedly over the head with some kind of club-like aphrodisiac.

  The door behind her opened, and Ebba came into the small cabin again. His gaze shifted to the blonde, and Rose felt as though she had been released from some kind of mesmeric spell, her body relaxing in relief.

  What on earth was the matter with her?

  She needed to stand up to this man, not allow herself to be drawn into his only too alluring seductive snares. He was an evil tycoon, for God's sake, a ruthless capitalist intent on destroying her life and the lives of many on Christmas Parade in order to make money. Not everyone was happy with his company’s bid for their properties, after all. And many had only leased their shops, and so were helpless to prevent themselves from being turfed out on the whim of their greedy landlords.

  Luckily for her, her grandfather had bought the shop when he opened it decades before, and so it was up to the ‘little people’ – as men like Grimsby saw them – like Rose and her dad to hold the line. And hold it she would, whatever the cost.

  'We’ll be coming in to land in a few minutes, Mr Grimsby,' Ebba said, and he nodded. Her gaze fell almost disapprovingly on the damp handkerchief and tell-tale spillage of champagne on the table, but she tidied them away without a word.

  Nick leant back in his luxurious seat, studying Rose again with those dark, imperturbable eyes that made her feel so small and uncomfortable, like an insect under a microscope.

  Ebba glanced at her curiously, then back at her boss. 'I’ll let them know up at the house that we’ll be there soon. Will that be all, sir?'

  Again, her boss nodded.

  Ebba left as quietly as she had come in, bearing away the evidence of Rose’s champagne mishap. The plane began to descend almost immediately, turning steeply to the right. Rose checked her seatbelt was secure, and clung onto the padded arms of her seat, a reaction which seemed to amuse her captor.

  He wasn’t really her captor though, a taunting voice said in her head. A captor was someone who was holding a person prisoner against their will. But she was there voluntarily. He hadn’t forced her to board the plane, after all, had he? She could have refused. Face it, the voice said coldly, you chose to come with him because you fancy him. Oooh, I do not, she told that voice, looking stoutly out of the window at absolute darkness. I do not fancy him one little …

  ‘Oh, how lovely,’ she gasped, her eyes widening on the sight of a fabulously huge pine tree below lit up with Christmas lights and baubles, and beyond it a vast baronial-style Scottish castle, for want of a better word, built with turrets and sloping roofs and great chimneys, all illuminated by lights on the lawn and covered with a magical dusting of snow. ‘Is this … Is that where you live?’

  He glanced out of the window. ‘Yes, that’s Ben Glassie Castle, where I was born.’

  ‘You were born here?’ She narrowed her eyes suspiciously as the plane turned again, circling round as though heading for an unseen runway. ‘You don’t sound very Scottish.’

  ‘That’s because I was whisked away about seven hours after I was born, and taken to London. I didn't go back to Ben Glassie until I was an adult.'

  Rose was surprised, but said nothing. There was some mystery there, she felt instinctively, and did not want to intrude by asking questions about what was obviously a personal matter.

  'London is where I live most of the year now. But I still spend Christmas, and the occasional summer, at Ben Glassie Castle.’ He looked down into the darkness as the plane dropped even lower and then straightened for its final approach. ‘It's a beautiful spot, if rather isolated. Sometimes I bring business associates here too,’ he added, glancing back at her. ‘When I feel the negotiation is likely to be particularly delicate.’

  ‘Is that what this is?’ she asked without thinking. ‘A business negotiation? Because I’ve already told you, Mr Grimsby, I’m not selling up.’

  ‘Nick, please,’ he murmured, and sat back. ‘We’re coming in to land now.’ His gaze rested on her hands, her knuckles white as she gripped the seat. ‘Relax, Tom’s a great pilot. And he’s done this many times.’

  ‘In the dark?’

  He smiled. ‘Yes, in the dark. Though the runway is lit up, don’t worry. He can’t miss it.’

  A single bump, and much noisy engine thrust later, the plane came to a slithering halt on the runway. Relaxing her death-like grip on the seat arms, Rose looked curiously out of the window and saw the snow-covered turrets maybe a quarter of a mile above them, lit up beautifully in the dark.

  It looked like a castle from one of the fairy tales her dad used to read her as a child, she thought, and drew a shaky breath. How was she meant to harden her heart against a man this drop-dead gorgeous, whose home also happened to look like Prince Charming lived there?

  ‘Come on.’ Nick Grimsby undid his seatbelt and stood up, holding out a hand to her. ‘I imagine my mother will waiting for us at the castle gate, and I don’t want her to get cold.’ Then he added, with a grin that totally disarmed her, ‘Ever since I described you to her, she’s been longing to meet you, Rose.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It had been no exaggeration, she realised, when Nick Grimsby said his mother would be waiting for them at the castle gates. For as the Land Rover pulled up the long drive towards the castle, driven by Ebba, she saw the diminutive figure standing in the vast gateway to the castle, dwarfed by stone pillars and wrought-iron. When she climbed out of the car, Rose could see the woman more clearly. She was dark-haired and dark-eyed, like Nick, but much smaller, almost birdlike and with an air of fragility that almost broke Rose's heart. His mother was ill, that was clear. But how seriously?

  'Nick, my darling,' his mother said, opening her arms out wide to him. She did not sound Scottish either, but more like a Londoner. Perhaps with a hint of Italian in there. 'I was expecting you an hour ago. Where have you been? I had to ask Cook to keep dinner warm while we waited.' Her gaze moved past him to study Rose’s face. 'Is this her? Is this Rose Mistletoe?

  'Rose,' he said, introducing the two women, 'this is my mother, Barbara.’ He smiled, bending to kiss his mother on each cheek in a very Continental way. ‘Mamma, this is Miss Mistletoe of Christmas Parade.’

  ‘Oh, Christmas Parade!’ His mother sounded almost ecstatic on hearing that name. She clapped her hands in delight. ‘That name … So wonderful.’ She dropped her son’s hands, and turned to Rose properly, seizing her dragging her forward for a kiss on each cheek. 'And I'm pleased to meet you at last. My son has been unable to talk anything e
lse on the phone this week, so this is quite a treat, I assure you.'

  Nick glared at his mother. 'For God's sake…'

  To Rose’s amusement, she seemed quite unbothered by his censure. ‘But please, come in out of the cold, both of you. You will catch your death in this snowy weather. There's a fire burning in the dining room, and dear Cook will have brought the dishes through by now. I told her to start serving as soon we saw the lights of the plane coming in to land.'

  They both followed her up a gravel path towards a short flight of stone steps that led into the castle, snow crunching underfoot, the air icy. Although it was too dark to make out much, Rose had the impression of vast wooded hills surrounding them, possibly even mountains, it was hard to tell. Being in the countryside, with a sharp wind blowing across those hills, it was bitterly cold compared to London’s wintry glow.

  Rose soon began to regret her choice of dress, her legs quite frozen now despite her tights. She gripped her coat even tighter. The sound of a warming fire was lovely though, and the lights of Ben Glassie Castle were certainly inviting.

  The door to the castle was huge, like something out of a film set in the Middle Ages, all dark wood and rusty hinges and studs. At the door stood an elderly man, slightly bent over with age, in a dark suit that looked as if it had fitted once but was now too loose and long in the sleeve. Ebba slipped past this ancient retainer with a brisk nod and headed down a side corridor. Presumably she had a room here, Rose thought, watching the chauffeur disappear. The place was probably large enough to accommodate all his staff, and still leave room for guests.

  The old man smiled, apparently delighted to see Nick again, saying, 'How wonderful that you were able to take a break from your work this week, sir.’

  'It's good to see you too, McTavish.'

  The man, who was clearly a butler, smiled even more broadly. 'Cook has laid dinner for three in the dining room. May I take your coat, sir?'

  As Nick shrugged out of his coat and handed it to the man, the butler's gaze drifted to Rose, and again he bowed his head. His expression was a little more frosty now though. She wondered if McTavish disapproved the visit, and could not imagine why.

  'And your coat, madam?'

  Some faint warning bell sounded at the back of her head. Instinctively, she wanted to keep her coat on, so it would be easier to run away, or to evade Nick’s knowing glance.

  But everyone was looking at her, so she undid her coat and handed it to McTavish with a smile that felt like more of a grimace. 'Thank you,’ she said from between her teeth, not meaning a word of it.

  Ebba The size of the castle interior was overwhelming to the senses. Rose did not want to look dazzled, but she felt it. The ceilings were so high, and every wall appeared to be covered with massive, gilt-framed portraits and paintings, or tapestries to keep out the cold. The floor was made up of stone flags covered with rugs and runners, none of them matching, many of them clearly very old yet beautiful in their faded way. As they walked along the main hallway, she kept turning her head to study an oil painting or peer up a darkened staircase, and whenever she slowed down, an impatient McTavish tutted behind her, clearing his throat politely to move her along.

  At last, Nick threw open a door into a long, wood-panelled room and ushered her inside after his mother. There was a fire burning, as promised, in a vast medieval-style open grate, and the room was almost hot after the icy cold of the outdoors.

  ‘Go and warm yourself by the fire,’ he told her, his abrupt command a little high-handed for her taste, and then nodded to McTavish behind her. ‘You can serve the wine when you’re ready, McTavish.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ the old man said, and shuffled away down the corridor with their coats over his arm.

  ‘Shouldn’t that poor man have retired by now?’ Rose muttered as soon as Nick had closed the door, her tone disapproving. ‘He looks about ninety.’

  To her surprise, he was not angry, his eyes glinting at her with amusement. ‘Oh, trust me, we’ve tried giving him a hint,’ he said, lowering his voice so the butler could not overhear them. ‘But he refuses point-blank to leave my mother’s service. Besides, Ben Glassie wouldn’t be the same without McTavish.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t dream of letting him leave,’ his mother said sharply, ‘not even if he retires. He will always have a place here with me. Dear McTavish. Anyway, he’s been here longer than I have. He has every right to consider this castle his home.’ She gave Rose a quick smile. ‘But please don’t worry if he frowns at you. He has a dislike of strangers, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, is that all?’

  Then Rose fell silent and came to a halt, staring at the beautiful table that formed the centrepiece of the dining room.

  Long and broad, it glittered with cut-crystal glass and silverware, linen napkins arranged delicately beside each setting. Along the middle of the table were trails of holly intertwined with mistletoe, and a row of three-branched silver candlesticks, every candle lit and burning merrily away. Silver-lidded dishes sat before each high-backed chair, presumably keeping their dinner warm until they were ready to eat it.

  ‘How beautiful,’ Rose said, dazed by the evening she was having. She had expected a nice dinner in a posh restaurant, of course. But this was beyond even that. ‘You have a lovely home, Barbara.’

  His mother smiled, seating herself at the head of the table. ‘Thank you, Rose,’ she said, and gestured her to take the seat immediately beside her. ‘Nick,’ she said softly, and watched in approval as he pulled out a chair to the right of his mother. ‘Please, my dear, sit down. You look tired and hungry.’

  Rose sat down without arguing, and let Nick push her chair in. She shook out her napkin and laid it over her lap, suddenly very nervous. She had mocked her father earlier for worrying about which fork to use. But now she felt just as out of place, watching covertly as Nick sat down in the seat opposite, and lifted the silver lid on his dinner plate. A marvellous steaming dish lay underneath, its rich heady fragrance reminding her how incredibly hungry she was. Quickly, she lifted her own lid, and laid it aside as Nick had done with his own. She blinked, surprised to find not some cordon bleu dish beneath, but a hefty chicken stew with vegetables and dumplings, served in a beautiful blue china bowl.

  It smelt delicious.

  ‘Chicken stew,’ she exclaimed. ‘One of my favourites!’

  Nick grinned. ‘One of Cook’s favourite dishes too. Especially when I have such a bad habit of arriving later than planned. Stew at least can be cooked in advance, and left to warm on the Aga until my plane lands.’

  She was so hungry, she tucked into her meal without further talk, and for a while the only sound in the room was that of cutlery scraping against china. A few moments later the door opened, and McTavish shuffled back in, holding a bottle of red wine that was covered with what looked like cobwebs.

  He showed the bottle reverently to Nick, and then poured a little into his glass. Nick tasted it, rolling the wine about his mouth in a knowledgeable manner. Finally, he nodded. McTavish wiped the bottle with a napkin, filled up his glass with the rich red wine, and then paused beside Rose’s seat.

  ‘Wine, madam?’

  She hesitated, thinking, why not? Though not too much wine. She’d already had some champagne, after all, and ought not to get drunk tonight. Just in case. Glancing at Nick, she saw that laughter in his eyes again, and knew he had guessed her thoughts.

  Damn him.

  ‘Thank you, yes,’ she told the butler, with a touch of defiance aimed at the man opposite her.

  McTavish filled her glass, then moved carefully round to Barbara’s glass, and filled that too, without asking.

  ‘That will be all for now, McTavish,’ Barbara said, ‘thank you very much. And please give our compliments to Mrs Petty. This stew is perfect, as always.’

  McTavish bowed, and left the room, leaving the wine on the table. It looked old and very expensive, and judging by the cobwebs Rose had seen adorning the bottle, had probabl
y been in the Ben Glassie cellars for decades.

  She tasted the wine, and thought she had never drunk such a fine wine. It was exquisite and smooth on the palate, and yet so rich too.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think this must cost a hundred pounds a bottle,’ she said drily, and took another sip. An odd tickling sensation in her nose took her by surprise. Must be the wine, she thought, glancing down at it.

  ‘More like a thousand,’ he said, expressionless, and then allowed himself a smile when she nearly spat the mouthful of wine out again. ‘Careful now.’ He half-lifted his napkin towards his face, pretending to be wary. ‘You’re not about to throw your wine at me again, are you?’

  ‘Ho ho,’ she said, and looked sideways at his mother, feeling embarrassed. ‘I had a … a little accident with my wine on the plane. The turbulence, you know?’

  ‘I understand perfectly,’ Barbara said, and frowned at her son until he lowered his napkin to his lap again.‘ I hate those little planes, they bounce you up and down in the air like a yo-yo.’

  Rose smiled at the older woman gratefully, relieved not to be alone with Nick Grimsby. When he had first escorted her onto the plane, she’d feared … No, not feared. Imagined. She had imagined some isolated place where he could get her alone, a well-planned seduction, all designed to influence her into parting with the Mistletoe Flower Shop. But never could she have expected this. A Scottish castle, an elderly butler, his mother, and now this delicious chicken stew with dumplings …

  The thousand-pounds-a-bottle wine was a little unnerving though.

  Belatedly, she wondered how much the dash of champagne she’d thrown in his face had cost. It had tasted rather expensive.

  ‘So,’ Barbara said suddenly, finishing her mouthful, ‘tell me about Christmas Parade. It’s been years since I was there.’

  ‘You know it?’ Rose was taken aback.

  ‘Did my son not tell you about my history with the place?’ His mother shook her head at him, tutting. ‘Naughty boy. You make me despair sometimes.’