Bluebell's Christmas Magic: A perfect and heart-warming cosy Christmas romance for 2019

by Marie Laval

  About the Book

  Bluebell's Christmas Magic

  by Marie Laval

  A flick of a feather duster and a sprinkle of Christmas magic …

  Cassie Bell is used to mess. Her cleaning business, Bluebell Cleaning, is well known in the Cumbrian village of Red Moss. However, now it’s almost Christmas and Cassie has a slightly messier situation to deal with than she’s used to.

  She’s been hired to help Stefan Lambert, an injured army helicopter pilot who’s staying at the local Belthorn Manor whilst he recovers. Stefan resents Cassie’s interference and is definitely not looking for Christmas cheer. But Cassie prides herself on sparkling surfaces – so, can she bring some festive sparkle to Stefan’s life too?

  Other Choc Lit novels by Marie Laval:

  Little Pink Taxi

  A Paris Fairy Tale

  Where heroes are like chocolate – irresistible!

  www.choc-lit.com

  Contents

  About the Book

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Thank You

  About the Author

  More Choc Lit from Marie Laval

  Introducing Choc Lit

  More from Choc Lit

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright information

  Preview of A Paris Fairy Tale by Marie Laval

  Chapter One

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.’ Cassie repeated the words through gritted teeth as she drove up the lane, but it did nothing to quieten the thudding of her heart or loosen the knot squeezing her stomach into a tight fist. The keys that she had stuffed into the front pocket of her dungarees weighed cold and heavy against her chest, an unpleasant reminder of where she was heading. Belthorn Manor. The name alone was enough to make her shudder…

  The jagged outline of the mountains disappeared in low clouds and mist descended on the patchwork of snow, dead bracken and pine forests covering the hills. Belthorn wasn’t even in sight and already the landscape filled her with gloom. She couldn’t feel any further from the cheerful fairy riding a feather duster that was painted on the side of her van, under the catchphrase ‘Don’t let dust and grime get to you, call Bluebell to the rescue!’ Today, Cassie was the one who needed rescuing…

  The van skidded as she negotiated yet another bend in the road, narrowly avoiding bumping into the back of a Range Rover parked at a weird angle near the Sanctuary Stone. Another rambler who had ignored the ‘Private Road’ sign at the bottom of the hill, no doubt. She changed gears and the van lurched ahead.

  Belthorn’s distinctive round chimneys soon poked out of the mist. Cassie drove past the rhododendron bushes and the pine trees that shielded the house from harsh winds, and scanned the grounds. No shadow crept across the vast expanse of lawn; no ghostly silhouette lurked in the ruined abbey nearby or shivered on Wolf Tarn’s pebbly shores. The only ominous shapes were the spiky branches of the monkey puzzle tree reaching out to the sky like a giant stick insect.

  The fist in her stomach loosened, and she felt her body relax for the first time that afternoon. Perhaps there really was nothing to worry about. She would open up the house, get the job done and go home. Two hours max, that’s all it would take to dust, vacuum and tidy the main rooms. Of course, she would have to come back when Belthorn’s new resident arrived in a week’s time, but she would worry about that later.

  She took the bag with her cleaning gear out of the van and pulled the keys out of her pocket to examine them. She hadn’t been there for a while. Which was the right one?

  She was about to insert the biggest key in the lock when the door was yanked open and a brute of a man stood in front of her, his broad shoulders filling the doorway.

  In the blink of an eye she took in his strong, square jaw covered with stubble, the fine scars that ran across his cheeks and forehead, the misshapen nose which was bent to one side, as if it had been broken several times, and his slightly dishevelled brown hair that reached down to the collar of his shirt. But it was his eyes – hazel and gold, fierce and cold – that made her take a step back and scream in terror…

  A burglar! A huge brute of a burglar! Adrenaline shot through her. Still screaming, she stumbled backwards, grabbed the first thing she found in her bag, and held the feather duster in front of her like a sword.

  He frowned and took a step forward. ‘What’s going on?’ His voice was very deep and very rough.

  ‘Don’t move!’ She screamed at the top of her voice and took another step back, one hand still poking the air in front of her with the feather duster, the other frantically searching her dungarees’ pockets for the keys to the van. Which one had she put them in? For the first time in years, she wondered if wearing dungarees with so many pockets was such a good idea.

  Not looking in the least impressed, the man strode outside, glanced at the van then at her. ‘Listen, miss… euh… Bluebell. There’s no need to call the police. My name is Lambert – Stefan Lambert. I’m a friend of Charlie Ashville’s. He invited me to stay.’

  He pulled a bunch of keys out of his jeans pocket and dangled them in front of her. ‘See? I have the keys. I can show you my passport if you’d like, as well as Charlie’s email giving me directions to this place.’

  She tilted her head up and frowned. ‘You are Stefan Lambert?’

  He looked down and nodded.

  ‘But… You were supposed to be here next week.’

  ‘There’s been a change of plan.’

  Now her heartbeat had slowed and the blood had stopped pounding in her ears, she could detect the slightest hint of a French accent in his deep, gruff voice. Heaving a sigh of relief, she lowered the feather duster. ‘You scared me. I thought you were a burglar.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation, you scared me too. You have a very… ahem… strong voice.’

  ‘That’s because I used to sing in a band.’

  A smile flickered on his face and warmed his golden hazel eyes. ‘I don’t know about your singing, but your screams must have frightened all the wildlife in a three-mile radius.’

  For a second, he didn’t look as cold and intimidating and she smiled back. ‘If that’s the way you feel, then I promise I’ll refrain from singing in your presence.’
She walked towards him, and extended her hand. ‘Shall we start again? Good afternoon. My name is Cassie Bell, and I am delighted to meet you.’

  And that was the truth. At least Lambert was a man of flesh and blood, and not one of the shadows that still haunted her nightmares…

  She walked closer, filling his senses with a fresh, feminine citrus scent. She had a surprisingly strong handshake for such a small woman, and her smile seemed genuine. Yet, he had seen the terror in her eyes when she’d first seen him, and it was no wonder. The accident had left him with scars and broken bones, and a face that could at best be described as rugged, and at worst as hideous – at least that was what a couple of women had said the last time he ventured into a restaurant in Paris. The sooner she left him alone, the better.

  She looked around and frowned. ‘How did you get here? Did you take a taxi?’

  He released her hand and stepped back. ‘I walked.’

  Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘You walked? All the way from Red Moss?’

  His heart grew cold. ‘No… I… I had a problem with my car about two miles down the road. Something flew in front of my windscreen – a bird, I think. It was icy. The car skidded and ended up in a ditch. I wasn’t able to get it out.’

  There was no way he would tell her that he’d had some kind of hallucination. She would run away screaming again, perhaps even poke him with that ridiculous feather duster of hers.

  ‘The black Range Rover near the Sanctuary Stone…’ she whispered, before giving him a worried glance. ‘Are you all right? You’re not injured or anything? Perhaps I should take you to the GP’s surgery for a check-up before they close for the weekend.’

  She looked at him with such concern that he almost blurted out that he’d never be all right again, and that it wasn’t just his body that was a broken mess but his mind too – no, make it his whole life.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he snapped, ‘but I need to phone a garage and arrange for the car to be towed out of the ditch.’

  ‘If you weren’t planning on going out again today, your car will be quite safe on the lane overnight. I’ll let Mason know first thing in the morning. He owns the garage in the village and will sort it for you.’

  ‘Can’t you phone him now?’

  She shook her head and her blonde fringe fell into her eyes. She flicked it aside. ‘There’s no landline at Belthorn, no mobile phone signal either… and no television or Wi-Fi here. The only concessions to modern life are the electricity and the central heating, although neither is very reliable. The previous Lord Ashville wasn’t interested in modernising Belthorn. He used this place as a retreat from his busy London life, and his son hasn’t made any changes either.’

  She cocked her head to one side and her fringe fell into her eyes again. ‘You said you were a friend of Charles Ashville’s. Have you known him long?’

  ‘We have worked together on and off for years.’

  ‘So you’re a doctor too?’ Another smile lit her heart-shaped face, and dimples appeared on her cheeks. He couldn’t help but notice that she had a very nice smile. Her pale grey eyes, the colour of misty mornings, and her mop of blonde hair tied back with a red bandana were rather nice too.

  She was looking at him, waiting for his answer.

  ‘No. I am…’ He shrugged, trying to ignore the pain in his back and shoulders, and corrected, ‘I was a helicopter pilot in the French army but often worked with Inter Medics on rescue missions, most recently in Mali.’

  ‘That’s interesting. Are you here on holidays?’

  ‘Sort of.’ It wasn’t really a lie.

  ‘If it’s quiet you’re after, then Belthorn is perfect. As you have seen, the house is very isolated.’

  ‘That’s fine by me.’ Silence, oblivion, forgetting about the world, and the world forgetting about him, was what he craved, especially with Christmas coming up.

  ‘Won’t you mind being alone here?’ She pulled a face as she looked at the manor house’s stone façade and mullioned windows, and the strange round chimneys rising from the roof.

  Suddenly, exhaustion made his body ache all over and his mind yearn for silence and sleep. ‘Right now, being alone is my idea of heaven. Listen, I don’t mean to be rude but I’ve had a long journey. I’m tired and—’

  ‘And you need a cup of tea, of course! What was I thinking of?’ She turned away, picked up her bag and strode into the house before he could say he didn’t like tea and what he needed was for her to climb back into her van, with her feather duster and over-cheerful personality, and leave him alone.

  Instead, he followed her into the house and closed the heavy oak door behind him.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Have you explored the house yet?’ She took off her red duffle coat and hung it on the old-fashioned stand in the corridor.

  ‘No. I’d only just got here when you arrived.’ He gestured to the large khaki holdall that he had dropped at the foot of the stairs.

  She flashed him a smile. ‘Then why don’t you take a look while I make you that hot drink? I’ll call you when it’s ready.’

  She turned away and strode down the uneven stone-flagged corridor in her baggy dungarees and Doc Martens boots, the bright red bandana scarf tied in her blonde hair making a splash of colour in the winter afternoon’s dim light.

  He might as well do as she said. It didn’t look as if he had much choice anyway… With a resigned sigh, he pushed the first door to his right and entered a spacious drawing room dominated by a stone fireplace. A large leather armchair stood next to it. A sofa covered with faded chintz fabric, a couple of antique looking glass-fronted cabinets displaying trinkets, and paintings of misty landscapes and a ruined castle – or was it a ruined abbey, like the one that stood on the grounds of the manor house? – completed the old-fashioned décor.

  Not what he was used to, certainly, Stefan thought with a grim smile, recalling the spartan interiors of the successive army barracks where he had spent most of the past twenty years, or the barely-furnished Paris apartment where he crashed when he was on leave, and where he had spent the last few weeks since coming out of hospital.

  The next room down the corridor was a huge, dark oak-panelled dining room with equally dark and dismal furniture. He grimaced, closed the door and carried on. Further along was a music room with a grand piano that cast a large, menacing shadow on the wall. The last door he tried opened into a library, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a massive desk and an art deco cupboard he immediately recognised as a drinks cabinet.

  Flipping the top open he took out a crystal tumbler and a decanter filled with amber liquor. This was more like it. Brandy. Better than tea any time. He poured some in a glass and drank it all in one gulp before walking to one of the patio doors framed by thick brown curtains. Blue grey mist bathed the garden where rhododendron bushes ran wild and the outline of the mountains now disappeared in the shadows.

  All he could hear was silence.

  Charlie was right. This place was perfect.

  ‘Tea’s ready!’ the woman called.

  Or it would be once he was alone.

  He would give Cassie Bell five minutes to show him around then he would ask her to leave. He had done enough socialising for one day. No, make that a month.

  ‘How do you like your tea?’ she asked when he came into the kitchen.

  ‘I don’t.’

  She gave him a puzzled look. On the table were two mugs of steaming hot tea, a jug of milk, a bowl of sugar, and a plate with an assortment of biscuits.

  ‘I usually drink coffee,’ he explained.

  ‘You should have said. There’s some instant coffee too.’ She turned to open a cupboard.

  ‘Leave it. It’s all right. I’ll drink the tea… Thank you,’ he added in a softer tone, attempting the impossible task of making his voice sound less raw.

  She sat down, took a small pad and a pen out of one her dungarees’ many pockets, and looked at him. ‘My colleague – make that former colleague, sinc
e she just resigned…’ annoyance flashed in her eyes and she tapped her pen on the cover of her notebook ‘… well, Sophie used to come here twice a month to keep the place clean, but with you arriving early, I need to do a big shop in the supermarket in Keswick tomorrow, so we should make a list. I’ll take care of your Christmas shopping too.’

  She flipped her notebook open and looked at him. ‘What would you like?’

  He blinked. ‘Christmas shopping?’

  Her grey eyes sparkled. ‘I promise I shall do my best to help you have a good Christmas. I do love Christmas, don’t you?’

  His whole body stiffened, and he gripped the handle of his mug so tightly his knuckles became white. How could he tell her that the mere mention of Christmas made him want to punch the wall? That it reminded him of what he had done – and who he had failed.

  ‘My granddad often says I must be an elf in disguise,’ Cassie Bell carried on. ‘He even bought me a hat so I can look like one. Anyway, you’ll need a tree, of course. Christmas isn’t really Christmas without a tree, don’t you think?’

  What was this nonsense about elves and hats and Christmas trees, and did the woman have to talk so much, and so fast? Did she not need to breathe once in a while?

  He raised a hand to stem the flow of words. ‘Hang on a minute, Miss Bell…’ Or was it Mrs? There was no wedding ring on her finger, but that didn’t mean anything.

  ‘Please call me Cassie. After all, we are going to see quite a lot of each other over the next few weeks.’

  He blinked again. ‘We are?’

  She nodded. ‘I shall come here every day to clean, tidy up and do your laundry. I will also take care of your shopping and do my best to provide good, hearty meals, but I must warn you that cooking isn’t my forte, so please don’t expect any Michelin cuisine from me.’

  He frowned. ‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about. I don’t need anyone to clean, shop or cook for me. And by the way, I came here to forget all about Christmas, so don’t bother getting a tree or whatever else you were planning to buy. In fact, don’t bother coming back at all.’