‘I’ve put in new windows and fencing and the garden needed a lot of work.’ He shot a quick look at the girls, but they were playing hopscotch on the path. ‘In the end Dad stopped pretending to function—I suppose there was no one here to judge. Things were in a sorry state when I took over.’
‘When did your father die?’
Alex had lowered her voice. She must have noticed he didn’t want the girls to overhear. Finn couldn’t help remembering just how empathic she had been, especially where his family were concerned. She was the only person living who knew the whole truth. There was a strange freedom in their conversation, in not having to watch what he said, how much he revealed.
‘Two years ago. He refused to leave the cottage, refused to let me pay for anyone to help him. Sacked the cleaners I sent, left the groceries I ordered outside to rot in the rain. He died as he lived. On his own terms and with difficulty.’ He snapped his mouth closed. He’d never said those words aloud before, not to anyone.
‘I’m sorry,’ Alex said softly. ‘How about your sister? Where is she now? The girls are hers, I suppose?’
But Finn had already said too much, shown too much—and his sister and her actions was a topic he wasn’t ready to share. Not yet. Although he’d need to talk about both with Alex at some point.
‘Here’s a key,’ he said instead. ‘Your bag should be inside.’
Alex took the hint, made her voice efficient again. The moment of shared memory was gone and with it an intimacy he’d not realised he’d missed.
‘Right. Is there anything I need to know about the boiler or hot water?’
‘It should all be working. If not, then there’s an information book in the kitchen.’
‘Great. Just one more thing: is there any milk or bread in? Because I came straight from the airport and I’m not as prepared as I usually like to be.’
She looked slightly embarrassed, as if she would usually turn up at a work assignment with a week’s worth of groceries on her, just in case. And maybe she would.
Finn winced. The Gardener’s Cottage was the first to be completely ready. All the linen and towels were there but, because they hadn’t started letting, welcome hampers were yet to be organised—and they’d only known for sure that Alex was coming late the night before. The fridge and cupboards were emptier than Mother Hubbard’s.
He had meant to ask Kaitlin to sort out the basics, but once he’d seen Alex to the office he had headed out onto the estate and spent the day rebuilding a wall, not questioning why he’d felt the need for hard physical exercise. The mental note to email Kaitlin had uncharacteristically slipped right out of his mind.
‘Once we’re up and running we’ll be leaving welcome hampers, of course, but we haven’t started yet. Sorry.’
‘Okay,’ she pulled her phone out of her pocket. ‘Look into sourcing hampers,’ she said clearly, before smiling at him—a brisk, businesslike smile that reminded him just what a stranger she was now. ‘Believe me, if I’m going to be inviting journalists and influencers we need highly photogenic hampers. Don’t worry, I’ll get on to it.’
‘Right. Of course.’ This efficiency was why he had employed her.
She took the key and pocketed it. ‘You’d better get the girls back and fed. I’ll head down to the village shop.’
Ah... ‘It closes at six.’
‘Or the pub...’
She bit her lip on the last word and he understood her hesitation. If she was going to be recognised anywhere it would be the pub, with its loyal clientele of locals who had known her since she was a baby. But not tonight.
‘They don’t serve food on a Monday night.’
‘Oh.’ Her smile got even brighter, but there was no warmth, no light in it. ‘In that case a takeaway it is.’
Finn didn’t have the heart to tell her that the only takeaways available to the village were at the weekend, when a fish and chips and pizza van set up on the green for a couple of hours.
‘Look, this is my fault, so I had better fix it. Come over to the castle and I’ll make you some food.’
As soon as the words were said he wanted to recall them. It was too much, too soon. There were things to say, but not tonight, not when he was still trying to work out just who Alex was.
And she clearly felt the same way, stepping back, away from him, away from his invitation. ‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘I do,’ he said drily. ‘Your only alternative is water. There’s not even any tea bags in the cottage as far as I know.’
‘But you cooking is too much,’ she protested. ‘Honestly, it’s been a long day, and I have a lot to be getting on with. I can just grab some eggs and beans or something and bring them back here. I don’t want to be any trouble.’
‘Once,’ he said, in a voice so low he didn’t know if she could hear him, or if he wanted her to hear him. ‘Once you said trouble was your middle name.’
She looked up at him then, eyes bright. ‘I was wrong. Trouble was the family curse. That’s why I avoid it whenever I can.’
Finn stared back at her. At a face at once as familiar as his dreams but also that of a stranger. The same almond-shaped grey eyes, the same high cheekbones and full mouth. The same pointed chin and high forehead and look of determination. But the spark that had made Lola so irresistible was gone, and he couldn’t tell if it was extinguished entirely or just slumbering, waiting for someone to rekindle it. For one soul-aching moment he wanted to find out, to take this beautiful yet lifeless woman and kiss life back into her.
‘Uncle Finn! I’m hungry!’
Now it was his turn to take a step back in denial, and the cold early winter evening breeze was a welcome wake-up call. Finn couldn’t believe what had just nearly happened. Kissing Lola Beaumont or kissing Alexandra Davenport—no matter which woman she was, any personal contact was a terrible idea. After all, look what had happened last time.
Even worse, he wasn’t alone. The girls were right here. Weren’t they damaged enough? He had promised them, promised himself, that they would only ever have love and stability in their lives, had vowed to himself that there would be no women flitting in and out. They’d only meet a girlfriend if he was pretty damn sure she’d be permanent.
‘Sorry, Scarlett.’ He threw her an apologetic smile and noted with a pang the pinched look on Saffy’s face. ‘I was just trying to persuade Alex to eat with us, I forgot to put food in her house.’
‘Yes, then you can look at the picture,’ Scarlett said with a beaming grin.
But Saffron’s scowl just tightened further and Finn’s heart ached for the small girl. With a jolt of surprise, he noticed a look of understanding cross Alex’s face as she looked at his eldest niece, her expression relaxing with compassion.
‘It’s been a long day, so if it’s okay I will just grab some bread and milk, maybe some cheese, and bring it back here,’ she said, smiling at Scarlett. ‘I’ll see the picture some other time, though.’
‘Promise?’ Scarlett asked.
Alex nodded. ‘Promise.’
As he turned to walk back to the castle Alex fell behind. Finn was preoccupied with Scarlett’s chatter, and it wasn’t until they reached the lights surrounding the castle that, looking back, he realised Alex was making determined conversation with Saffron. The girl wasn’t answering—she was always slow to warm to strangers—but her posture was less defensive and for one moment he thought he saw a slight smile on her face.
So Alex still had the old charm, when she wanted to use it, and he was absurdly grateful she was using it on his prickly niece.
And then he saw it, in the lowering of her gaze, the slight hunch in her posture—the reason Saffron’s wariness had always seemed so familiar. It was familiar. It was the same wariness he had seen in Alex throughout her childhood—on the rare occasions when she hadn’t been performing, being the bright, glitte
ring Beaumont girl everyone had expected her to be.
He’d have done anything to protect his nieces, no matter what, but was the reason he had stepped in so very firmly, before things could go from difficult to toxic, because he had recognised the warning signs in Saffy’s eyes?
He hadn’t been able to protect Lola. Not from the consequences of her parents’ selfishness and not from his own family’s part in her downfall, and he’d been too full of his own bitterness to reassure and help her when she’d come back demanding answers at the time. No wonder he was making damned sure that Saffy was as protected as she could be. He knew the consequences.
He’d searched for Lola for years, dreading that he’d find her struggling and alone, and equally dreading that he’d find she’d moved on in true insouciant Beaumont style, not caring about the havoc she left behind her. But now he realised with blinding clarity that all he had wanted to do was put things right. And now she was finally here he had no idea if it was possible. She had her life, and he had the girls.
Maybe it was better to leave the past where it belonged. Lola was gone and Alex was a stranger. He could finally move on.
* * *
‘So, if he proposes—and he will—Emilia will be a real-live princess. Well, an archduchess, but she’ll be called Princess Emilia.’
Saffron’s dark eyes widened. ‘And she didn’t know who he was when they met? It’s just like a fairy-tale.’
Alex looked up and caught Finn watching them, the rather cold expression he’d been wearing much softer. Her breath caught. He really cared about his niece. Of course he did. He had always been someone who cared deeply. Which was why she had never understood why he had done what he did—to her, of all people. How he could have exposed her so publicly, sold her for thirty pieces of silver.
The old sense of betrayal caught at her heart and she swallowed back the bitterness. She couldn’t indulge. Not here, not now, not ever.
But as she looked at the warmth in his eyes she couldn’t help but wonder why he’d betrayed her so comprehensively. Money, she’d assumed then—and goodness knows he’d needed it—but it still felt wrong, just as it had back then.
She’d headed straight to him at the time, desperate for answers, for a way out of the dark labyrinth she’d found herself trapped in. But there had been no comfort, just cold anger. He’d been the last person to turn on her—and he would stay the last person. She’d vowed it then, and she needed to remember it now.
But she couldn’t punish the girls for their uncle’s transgressions.
Alex forced a smile as she nodded at the eagerly listening child. ‘It is. And then she’ll live in a castle too. Just like you.’
Not that living in a castle was any indicator of happiness. She knew that better than anyone. But maybe the curse had disappeared with the Beaumonts. She hoped so for the girls’ sake, if not Finn’s.
‘But I’m not a princess,’ Saffron said sadly. ‘Princesses are beautiful and clever.’
‘Some are. But a real princess, a true princess, has a big heart and she fights for what’s right.’
‘She does?’
‘Absolutely.’
Alex managed to stop herself rushing in to tell Saffron that she was beautiful. It wouldn’t be a lie—the little girl was very pretty, with her tangle of dark hair and darker eyes—but, having been brought up knowing that her appeal lay in her looks and her precociousness, Alex had no intention of laying that burden on another Blakeley child.
Smiling reassuringly at Saffron, Alex looked up at the castle looming overhead and stifled the panic rearing inside her. This wasn’t a good idea. She wasn’t prepared. How could she be prepared?
But it didn’t matter whether she was prepared or not because she was here. Here with the man who had administered the final kick ten years ago, making sure she was both down and out.
She had to remember that no matter how disarming his smile, how familiar the warmth in his dark, dark eyes, how protective he was of his nieces, it was all deceptive. All she could do was protect herself the way she always did. Concentrate on the job at hand and block out all other emotions.
And right now her job was getting some food and getting out of the castle as quickly as she could.
But, try as she might to stay cool and collected, she felt her heart start to beat a frantic and painful rhythm as they neared the side door leading into the boot room. From there, the well-trodden path led to the old scullery and then into the kitchen. The heart of the castle. Not a place either of her parents had ever ventured, unless her father had reverted to his school days and crept in to steal a still-warm cake from the huge walk-in pantry.
Ruled over by Mrs Atkinson, the kitchen had been a refuge, a stage and a home. Once ensconced at the kitchen table, Alex had known that she would be ordered to do her homework and sent off to bed at a reasonable time. It had been oddly satisfying.
‘Is Mrs Atkinson still here?’ she asked as she and Saffron joined Finn and Scarlett at the side door, after checking that the girls weren’t listening. She didn’t want them suspecting that she and Finn had a prior friendship, or that she wasn’t the stranger to Blakeley she pretended to be.
‘No, none of the castle staff stayed on afterwards.’
The word hung there. Afterwards. Just three syllables to sum up the dissolution of her entire life.
‘I tried to persuade her to come back to run the café, but she wasn’t tempted. Too many ghosts, apparently.’
‘That’s a shame.’
Alex was split between relief that someone who would most definitely recognise her wasn’t there to blow her cover and a surprisingly deep disappointment that she wouldn’t be seeing one of the few people who had seemed to care about her when she was being just a normal child, not a precocious ingénue or a reckless daredevil.
She forced a smile. ‘Her shortbread was legendary, and she’d never tell anyone the recipe. Your café would be a guaranteed success with her in the kitchen.’
She didn’t usually chat so much, but talking helped mask the nerves tumbling through her body as Finn typed in a code on the back door and pushed it open, ushering her inside after the racing girls.
Alex blinked, recognition tingling in every nerve. Nothing had really changed. The same pegs on the walls, the same deep butler’s sinks. The walls were a fresh white, the flagstones on the floor clean and oiled, and there were no dog bowls lining up against the far wall, but otherwise she could have been stepping back in time.
She swallowed as she followed Finn through the scullery, now a smart-looking utility room, and into the kitchen.
‘The oligarch really didn’t remodel,’ she managed to say through the ever-increasing lump in her throat.
Again, the kitchen was almost untouched. Buffed and painted and fresh, but with the same wooden cabinets and vast stove chucking out welcome heat. The same huge table dominated the centre. The table she had eaten at, drawn at, cried at more times than she could remember.
‘No, he never came here. Everything was left as it was.’
‘Until you came along to make it a new and improved model.’
She didn’t want or mean to sound bitter. It was better that the castle was looked after. Of course it was. But why did it have to be Finn doing the looking after? And why did she have to be here, witnessing his success? Here on his payroll, her professional reputation in his hands, dependent on him for her evening meal.
None of it matters, she told herself, as she had so many times in the past. None of it affects you.
But the mantra didn’t work. Not while she stood with the past all around her. The past in front of her. Finn had shed his winter coat and stood there in jeans and a close-fitting cashmere long-sleeved T-shirt. He’d filled out in the last few years. The snake-hipped passionate boy was now a lean but muscled man, eyes as dark and intent as ever, hair still falling over his br
ow.
For one treacherous moment something stirred inside her. Maybe her heart, maybe long-dormant desire. But she stood firm and pushed the feeling away. After all, hadn’t this man hurt her the most? She couldn’t, mustn’t forget that. Ever. She’d worked too hard to move on.
She’d do her job to the best of her ability and leave, reputation and secret intact. No more cosy walks with Finn through the woods, no more trips down memory lane, and no recognising kindred spirits in small girls. It wasn’t safe. The only time she would set foot in the castle after this evening would be to work.
Stick to the rules and she’d survive this. She had before and she’d do it again. She just needed to remember exactly who Finn Hawkin was.
CHAPTER FIVE
FINN LOOKED AROUND the crowded room, satisfaction running through him. All these people were here because of him. Journalists, influencers, local dignitaries, a scattering of celebrities. All drawn to Blakeley Castle once again.
Oh, he knew that many of them had only a passing interest in Hawk, in adventure trails, reinvigorating rural economies and bringing inner city kids into the countryside. They just wanted to set foot in the Blakeley Castle’s legendary ballroom. To imagine they were one of the fabled generations of Bright Young Things who had danced, flirted, betrayed and seduced on this very floor.
Sometimes, at night, Finn would come in here and just for a moment catch a glimpse of a wisp of silk, a hint of taffeta, a flash of brocade. Every generation had its scandalous youth—whether they were Cavaliers, Regency beaux or jazz kids—and whatever the generation, whatever the scandal, they could all be found here at Blakeley.
But no more. His reign might be duller and more benign, but it would usher in a new tradition. One that was more inclusive. One with less misery in its wake.
Talking of which...
‘Finn, here you are.’
Alex was playing the role of professional pen-pusher hard tonight. Finn knew that she hadn’t lost her eye for fashion, or her taste, but there was no evidence of that eye or that taste tonight in the simple knee-length grey dress and matching jacket she wore. Her hair was tightly pulled back into a severe bun, a pair of black-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. She looked like a stock photo of a librarian rather than an attendee at a sought-after social event.
Reawakened by His Christmas Kiss Page 5
