The Christmas Stranger Page 3

  When he’d picked her up—something she wasn’t likely to forgive for a century at least—he’d thought there was nothing to her. But the naughty firelight proved him wrong. She might be a mere morsel, but what was there was prime quality.

  He realized she was talking, in that precise voice with its husky edge that did nothing to subdue his masculine urges. When he’d pushed his way into the house, he’d felt frozen to the bone. He didn’t feel cold at all now. “What?”

  That wasn’t polite. She didn’t have to tell him so. He was a lumbering bear of a man at the best of times. Faced with Miss Carr’s ethereal perfection, he felt like he could out-Caliban Caliban.

  Yet this vision proclaimed herself to be something as prosaic as a housekeeper.

  The world was going mad.

  She started speaking slowly, as though he was deficient in understanding. By God, she might be right. He dragged his gaze from where the flannel draped across her hips and met her eyes. Sky blue. Striking, combined with the rich red hair tied into a thick plait that snaked over her shoulder and across her breast.

  A round, luscious breast…

  Damn it, not what he needed to think about. But he dared any man with blood in his veins to resist noticing.

  That dratted swirly blue and red shawl covered her top half as effectively as modesty could wish. But that didn’t stop him wondering about what lay underneath.

  “With six bedrooms,” she said sharply, breaking into his thoughts on whether her nipples were pink or brown. Right now, he leaned toward a lovely creamy brown, like lightly toasted toffee.

  She must have been running through the details of the house. Luckily Uncle Thomas had enclosed a rough plan of the manor with his letter, so Joss could sound as if he’d been listening, instead of picturing her naked.

  “And usually there’s another woman and an outdoor man to help.”

  “So where are they?” He struggled to comprehend that he and this fiery-haired sprite were alone together in the middle of this damned wilderness.

  She sighed and for a brief instant, stopped looking like a pocket Boadicea. “Jane’s daughter’s about to have a baby, so she left this afternoon. In the middle of winter, Mr. Welby only comes up from the village if there’s something urgent.”

  He frowned. “You’re on your own for Christmas?”

  She scowled, as though he’d accused her of purloining his pocket watch. Odd. He didn’t see the question as particularly combative.

  “I’m perfectly happy here.”

  The defensive note indicated that he’d hit a sore point. “There’s no need to fly up into the boughs. I’m on my own for Christmas, too.” Then the full significance of what she’d said struck him. “Damn it, I was going to have Christmas here, but I can’t now. In fact, I’ll have to ride on. Five miles to the village, do you say? If you’ll fix me something to eat before I go, I’ll be on my way.”

  She looked startled and not very pleased at his announcement. Which seemed mighty contrary. Upstairs, she’d pretty much shown him the door. “Now what in Hades is wrong with you?”

  “I do wish you’d mind your language, sir.”

  He scowled back. “Most people take me as they find me.”

  Her dismissive expression conveyed her opinion of that. She went back to speaking as if he was a beef-witted clodhopper. “You came here through a blizzard.”

  If he went back out into that white hell, his poor bloody horse would never speak to him again. He’d kept the mare going the last few arduous miles with promises of oats and a warm stable. “Believe me, I know.”

  She spread her hands so the shawl shifted in a promising way. All the moisture dried from his mouth, as he prayed the blasted thing would just vanish altogether. “You’re lucky you got this far. This is dangerous country, Mr. Hale. People freeze to death in a Yorkshire winter.”

  He could imagine. And damn and blast, it turned out he’d got all excited over nothing. The shawl remained as stubbornly concealing as ever.

  “You must see it’s impossible for me to stay.” He tried to sound gentle. It wasn’t his natural mode, and he could see it didn’t persuade Miss Carr.

  “You’re worried about the proprieties.” She sounded like she didn’t believe it. Given how he’d hoisted her over his shoulder a few minutes ago, he couldn’t blame her.

  “Indeed I am. The two of us shouldn’t be alone together under one roof.”

  She regarded him as if he made no sense. “But I’m a servant.”

  A very insubordinate one, but he forbore to point that out. If he was going, he needed to go now. Much as he’d rather stay in this warm room, arguing with this truculent fairy. “A very pretty servant. Believe me, if the world finds out, it will pay attention.”

  She didn’t seem to notice his compliment. He supposed she was used to men tumbling over themselves to tell her how lovely she was. The biggest puzzle of this puzzling situation was how the blazes this beguiling creature had managed to reach the advanced age of twenty-five while remaining Miss Carr.

  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.”

  She looked uncomfortable. “I shouldn’t have. 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 litt
le 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, smelling 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 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. Astonis
hment 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 Three

  * * *

  “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.”