Her laugh held a hint of grimness. “What world? This place is the back of beyond.”
“Are you saying you want me to stay?”
“I’m saying that at least for tonight and probably a few days to come, you can’t go anywhere else because the snow blocks the road over the hills. And even if you do get to Little Flitwick, there’s no inn. You’re in the wilds, Mr. Hale, not the middle of London.”
“You tried to get me to go away before.”
“I shouldn’t have.” She looked uncomfortable. “It’s just—”
He sent her a straight look. “You were on your own, and there was a stranger outside.”
She raised her chin. “Well, you’re no longer a stranger. Or not entirely. And I don’t want your death on my conscience.”
He straightened with a sigh, although hearing her say he wasn’t a stranger pleased him more than it should. Especially if he needed to keep his hands off her until the snow melted. “Then I’d better get my horse into the stable. At least for tonight. We can reassess in the morning.”
“I’ll help you.”
“No, you damn…dashed well won’t. One of us freezing his arse off is enough.” Hmm, his attempt at controlling his language wasn’t working too well. “Just tell me where to go.”
To his surprise, her lips quirked. “I’m too much of a lady for that.”
He gave a grunt of appreciative laughter. Had his sprite with eyes like the summer sky made a joke? He knew it was wrong to stay, but he couldn’t stifle his anticipation at the thought of seeing more of her.
And he didn’t just mean that slender, graceful body.
***
Maggie took advantage of Mr. Hale’s absence to rush upstairs and dress like the housekeeper she was. Coming back to the kitchens, she stoked up the fire and started making him a meal. By the time he stomped back into the kitchens, she felt much more composed.
She was horribly aware how rude she’d been when Mr. Hale was here with her employer’s approval. She put on her best housekeeper voice. “Do you mind eating down here, sir? It’s the warmest room.”
He cast her a doubtful frown as he set his saddlebags near the door. He tugged off hat and coat, sending snow scattering across the stone floor. “You sound unusually polite.”
“I hope you’ll pardon me.” She dipped into a curtsy. “I didn’t treat you as a guest to this house deserves to be treated.”
The sardonic arch of his black brows made her want to clout him. Again. But she doubted if her hardest punch would make a dent. She’d expected him to appear less formidable, once he’d removed the bulky greatcoat and high-crowned beaver hat. But if anything, he loomed even larger.
She paused to study him. Everything about him was big. His chest. His shoulders. His head with its unruly mop of coal-black curls. Large hands. Large feet. Long powerful legs displayed to advantage in buckskin breeches.
She blushed and glanced away. Those tight breeches did little to hide that his remarkable size was thanks to acres of hard muscle.
In comparison, she felt like a mere dot.
Mr. Hale wasn’t a handsome man. At least in terms of the fashionable beaux sketched in the papers. And she couldn’t imagine him featuring as the hero of a novel.
The villain, perhaps.
Maggie’s experience of gentlemen her own age was limited, and Mr. Hale couldn’t be more than thirty. She reluctantly admitted that, while he mightn’t be conventionally good looking, he was attractive. Standing like a mountain in the middle of the floor, he vibrated with energy and intelligence. However appalling his manners, it was difficult to dislike him. It seemed she’d already forgiven him for hauling her around like a sack of potatoes.
“I must apologize for my earlier manner,” she continued.
She had no idea why the glance he bestowed upon her plain—dowdy—gray dress held a hint of disappointment. “Must you?”
“Yes,” she said stiffly.
Oh, dear, was that a note of challenge? When she caught that mocking glint in his eyes, something in her reacted like dry wood to a flame. She reminded herself of her humble status. And the fact that if Dr. Black threw her out on her ear for upsetting the first guest he’d invited to Thorncroft since her mother’s funeral, she had nowhere else to go.
“I hate to play Devil’s advocate, but I turned up in the middle of the night with no warning. I did write, but I suspect the bad weather further south has delayed my letter. I’m well aware that not even my best friend would call me anything but rough and ready.”
She’d already worked out that Joss Hale was nobody’s advocate. Although she was yet to be convinced that he wasn’t the devil. A seducer of souls would have a voice like his. Deep to the point of subterranean, but rich with a velvety edge, when he wasn’t marching about, throwing orders around.
Maggie struggled for the civil, uninvolved tone she’d decided to adopt with Mr. Hale. If he and she were to live under one roof, even for a short time, they had to preserve the gulf between master and servant. Given the interest she’d seen in his eyes earlier, she wanted him to think of her as a housekeeper, not a woman.
Then she remembered with horror what he’d said about spending Christmas at the house. With difficulty, she squashed it down into a knot of seething disquiet in her stomach.
She had tonight to get through. Let tomorrow’s troubles wait.
“Nevertheless, I greeted you in a totally inappropriate fashion. I’d like to start again.” She curtsied once more and narrowed her eyes at him when his lips twitched.
“My name is Margaret Carr. I’m the housekeeper here at Thorncroft Hall. I’ll do my best to make your stay comfortable.”
He tilted his chin in the direction of the saucepan on the hob. “In that case, my soup is about to boil over.”
“Oh, no.” She whirled around and rescued the soup. She poured it into an earthenware bowl, hoping he didn’t expect the best china at this hour. “Please sit down.”
He took a seat, and she let out a relieved breath. It was nice to have him on the same level at last. “Will you join me?”
She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ve eaten. Anyway—”
“You’re about to say something housekeeperish, aren’t you?”
She ignored the jibe and slid the steaming bowl in front of him, then a plate of bread and butter. Perhaps once he’d eaten, he’d be easier to handle. “Would you like wine or ale? Or there’s brandy.”
“Wine, please,” he said, trying the steaming vegetable soup. The expression of pleasure on his face made him look younger and considerably more approachable. “By God, this is good. Did you make it?”
Stupid girl she was, she blushed with gratification. But it was nice to hear a compliment for her cooking from someone other than Jane.
“Thank you. Yes.” Feeling more settled, now he was sitting down and focusing on his meal instead of her, she opened the bottle of Dr. Black’s claret that she’d brought up from the cellar.
“Could you…could you tell me why you’re here, sir?” She poured him a glass. “Thorncroft isn’t on the way to anywhere, and we rarely…” Never. “…get visitors.”
“If word gets out about your cooking, that will change.” He’d practically inhaled the soup. She couldn’t doubt that he’d been hungry. Perhaps that explained his boorishness. As he drank some of his wine, she took his bowl and refilled it.
She almost felt in charity with her unwelcome guest, until he leaned back in his plain oak chair and set to watching her again. Her momentary ease disappeared, and she became painfully conscious that they were alone.
It was ridiculous, getting nervous now. They’d managed a polite exchange, and she was treating him like a servant should. Mostly.
“I thought I told you who I was,” he said.
She busied herself making roast beef sandwiches to follow his soup, although under that considering dark gaze—she still wasn’t sure what color his eyes were—her usually deft hands fumbled. Smith, smellin
g the meat, left her comfortable spot and began to twine around her legs.
“You told me your name.”
He raised the half-full wineglass that dangled from one large hand and drank. “I wish you’d have some wine.”
“Why? Is the news so bad that I need to be in my cups?”
His mouth curved upward. Most of him was huge and rugged and powerful. But that expressive mouth hinted at another side to him. An easier, more affable side.
It was a very nice mouth. Sharply cut and with a full lower lip. She’d never been kissed, but…
The knife slipped, luckily mangling the slice of beef, not her hand.
What in creation had her thinking of kisses?
“I don’t think some wine will hurt.” He reached over to catch her hand, making her start. “And you’ve already cut enough meat to feed an army. I know I’m a big cove, but…”
His hand was cool on hers. So why did his touch send heat rushing through her?
“I’ll sit,” she croaked, shifting away. Smith, disappointed at not cadging a treat, strutted back to the rug in front of the fire.
To Maggie’s surprise, Mr. Hale rose and pulled out a chair for her. Then he turned and fetched another glass from the sideboard. She wanted to insist that such courtesy was inappropriate, but the touch of his hand had stolen all her words. How he’d chortle if he knew that.
He sat down to finish his soup and take a last bite of bread with a snap of straight white teeth. While he ate, he eHe studied her under lowered black brows. This seemed to be a characteristic expression.
She was glad she’d taken the time to light a couple of lamps and stoke up the fire. The near darkness before had created an atmosphere that was much too intimate. What they both needed was a strong dose of the mundane. He poured her a glass of wine, ignoring her when she indicated that he should stop after a few drops.
He reached into his black jacket and withdrew a creased letter which he passed to her. “This is my most recent correspondence with Dr. Black. You’ll see he asked me to come here. I’m an architect.”
She remembered Mr. Hale muttering something along those lines when he dragged her downstairs. She’d been too furious to pay much attention. “An architect?”
He burst out laughing at her doubtful tone. “It’s true.”
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to do for a living. A soldier of fortune, perhaps. A strongman in a fair. A Bow Street runner.
Architect seemed too…civilized.
Not to mention architects catered to clients who made demands and expected a modicum of deference, when she’d already discovered that Mr. Hale was a man with his own way of doing things.
He went on. “You’re thinking I’m too rude to be an architect.”
“A successful one at least,” she blurted out, then blushed like fire. She wasn’t proving much more courteous than Mr. Hale.
He smiled at her, and her heart stumbled to a quivering stop. Astonishment held her transfixed.
Dear Lord, had she grudgingly conceded that he was attractive? She’d had no idea. When he smiled, the bear-like aspect disappeared, and his face creased into vivid charm.
Her fingers tightened on the untouched glass of wine. Heaven help her, maybe she should send him on his way tonight, however likely he was to stumble into a snowy ditch and perish from the cold.
“You’d be wrong, Miss Carr,” he went on, as if her world hadn’t changed in an instant with a man’s smile. “My brusqueness does my practice no harm at all. I have a well-earned reputation as a temperamental genius. The upper crust are quite convinced it’s de rigueur to have me stomping around their houses, shouting about improvements.”
Actually she could imagine he was good at his job, if not with his clients. Something about him suggested confidence and competence. And however much he looked like a prizefighter, there was the evidence of that mouth and those adept hands to indicate there was more to him than brute force.
She didn’t look at the letter. “But what are you doing here? And why on earth is Dr. Black employing a fashionable architect? He never comes to Fraedale. I haven’t seen him since my mother’s funeral five years ago.”
Mr. Hale shrugged. “Perhaps he wants to use the property more often. Perhaps he wants to sell.”
Sell? That terrifying possibility sent every other thought fleeing from her mind.
“You’ve gone very quiet,” Mr. Hale said in a worried tone.
There was no earthly reason he should care about what happened to her. They’d just met, and she’d hardly set out to endear herself. But as she set down the letter, she raised a troubled gaze to his face. “This is my home. I have nowhere else to go.”
Chapter 3
“Curse me for a clumsy blockhead,” Joss said roughly, desperate to banish the desolation dulling Miss Carr’s lovely blue eyes. “Please forgive me for speaking out of turn. I have no idea what my godfather intends. He didn’t tell me. He just asked me to look at the house to see what alterations and repairs it needs.”
“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.
Mistletoe Wishes Page 48
