Читать книгу Christmas at the Castle - Marion Lennox - Страница 8

CHAPTER ONE

‘PLEASE, MY LORD, we really want to come to Castle Craigie for Christmas. It’s where we were born. We want to see it again before it’s sold. There’s lots of room. We won’t be a nuisance. Please, My Lord.’

My Lord. It was a powerful title, one Angus wasn’t accustomed to, nor likely to become accustomed to. He’d intended to be Lord of Castle Craigie for as short a time as possible and then be out of here.

But these were his half-brother and -sisters, children of his father’s second disastrous marriage, and he knew the hand they’d been dealt. He’d escaped to Manhattan, and his mother had independent money. These kids had never escaped the poverty and neglect that went with association with the old Earl.

‘Our mum’s not well,’ the boy said, eagerly now as he hadn’t been met with a blank refusal. ‘She can’t bring us back just for a visit. But when you wrote and said it was being sold and was there anything she wants... She doesn’t, but we do. Our father sent us away without warning. Mary—she’s thirteen—she used to spend hours up on the hills with the badgers and all the wild things. I know it sounds dumb, but she loved them and she still cries when she thinks about them. There’s nothing like that in London. She wants a chance to say goodbye. Polly’s ten and she wants to make cubby huts in the cellars again, and take pictures to show her friends that she really did live in a castle. And me... My friends are at Craigenstone. I was in a band. Just to have a chance to jam with them again, and at Christmas... Mum’s so ill. It’s so awful here. This’d be just...just...’

The boy broke off, but then somehow forced himself to go on. ‘Please, it’s our history. We’ll look after ourselves. Just once, this last time so we can say goodbye properly. Please, My Lord...’

Angus Stuart was a hard-headed financier from Manhattan. He hired and fired at the highest level. He ran one of Manhattan’s most prestigious investment companies. Surely he was impervious to begging.

But a sixteen-year-old boy, pleading for his siblings...

So we can say goodbye properly... What circumstances had pushed them away so fast three years ago? He didn’t know, but he did know his father’s appalling reputation and he could guess.

But if he was to agree... Bringing a group of needy children here, with their ailing mother? Keeping the castle open for longer than he intended? Being My Lord for Christmas. Angus stood in the vast, draughty castle hall and thought of all the reasons why he should refuse.

But Angus had been through the castle finances now, and he’d seen the desperate letters written to the old Earl by the children’s mother. The letters outlined just how sick she was; how much the children needed support. According to the books, none had been forthcoming. This family must have been through hell.

‘If I can find staff to care for you,’ he heard himself say.

‘Mum will take care of us. Honest...’

‘You just said your mum’s ill. This place doesn’t look like it’s been cleaned since your mother left three years ago. If I can find someone to cook for us and get this place habitable, then yes, you can come. Otherwise not. But I promise I’ll try.’

Angus Stuart was a man who kept his word, so he was committed now to trying. But he didn’t want to. As far as Christmas was concerned, it was for families, and Lord Angus McTavish Stuart, Eighth Earl of Craigenstone, did not do families. He’d tried once. He’d failed.

As well as that, Castle Craigie was no one’s idea of a family home, and he didn’t intend to make it one. But for one pleading boy... For one needy family...

Maybe once. Just for Christmas.

* * *

Cook/Housekeeper required for three weeks over the Christmas period. Immediate start. Apply in person at Castle Craigie.

The advertisement was propped in the window of the tiny general store that serviced the village of Craigenstone. It looked incongruous, typed on parchment paper with Lord Craigenstone’s coat of arms imprinted above. The rest of the displayed advertisements looked scrappy in comparison. Snow could be shovelled, ironing could be taken in, but there was no coat of arms on any advertisement except this one.

Cook/Housekeeper... Maybe...

‘I could do that,’ Holly said thoughtfully, but her grandmother shook her head so vigorously her beanie fell off.

‘At the castle? You’d be working for the Earl. No!’

‘Why not? Is he an ogre?’

‘Nearly. He’s the Earl. Earl, ogre, it’s the same thing.’

‘I thought you said you didn’t know the current Earl.’

‘The acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree,’ her grandmother said darkly, retrieving her beanie from the snow and jamming it down again over her grey curls. ‘His father’s been a miserly tyrant for seventy years. His father was the same before him, and so was his father before him. This one’s been in America for thirty-five years but I can’t see how that can have improved him.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Thirty-six.’

‘Then he’s been in America since he was one?’ Holly said, startled.

‘His mother, Helen, was an American heiress.’ Maggie was still using her darkling tone—Grandmother warning Grandchild of Dragons. ‘They say that’s why the Earl married her, because of her money. Money was his God. Heaven knows how he persuaded such a lovely girl to come to live in his mausoleum of a castle. But rumour has it His Lordship courted her in London—he could be devastatingly charming when he wanted to be—then married her and brought her to live in this dump. What a shock she must have had.’

Holly’s grandmother glared back along the slush-and sleet-covered main street, through the down-at-heel village and beyond, across the snow-covered moors to where the great grey shape of Castle Craigie dominated the skyline.

‘She stuck it out for almost two years,’ she continued. ‘She had gumption and they say she loved him. But love can’t change what’s instilled deep down. Her husband was mean and cold and finally she faced it. She disappeared just after Christmas thirty-five years ago, taking the baby with her.’

‘Didn’t the Earl object?’

‘As far as anyone could tell, he didn’t seem to notice,’ Maggie told her. ‘He had his heir and it probably suited him that he didn’t need to do a thing to raise him. Or spend any money. He never talked about her or his son. He lived on his own for years, then finally got his housekeeper pregnant. Delia. She was always a bit of a doormat.’

‘She was a local?’

‘She was a Londoner,’ Maggie said. ‘A poor dab of a thing. He brought her here as a maid at the time of his first marriage. She was one of the few servants who stayed on after Lady Helen left. Finally, to everyone’s astonishment, he married her. Rumour was it stopped him having to pay her housekeeper’s wages, but she did well by the old man. She worked like a slave and presented him with three children. But he didn’t seem interested in them, either—they lived in a separate section of the castle. Finally the old man’s behaviour got too outrageous, even for Delia. She had shocking arthritis and the old man’s demands were crippling her even more. She left for London three years ago, taking the children with her, and no family has been back since.’

‘Until now,’ Holly ventured.

‘That’s right. The old Earl died three months ago and two weeks ago the current Earl turned up.’

‘So what do you know about him, other than he’s an American?’ Holly’s feet were freezing. Actually, all of her was freezing but she and Maggie had determined to walk, and walk they would. And if this really was a job... It had her almost forgetting about her feet. ‘Tell me about him.’

‘I know a bit,’ Maggie said, even more darkly. ‘His American family is moneyed, as in really moneyed. There was an exposé in some magazine fifteen years or more back when his fiancée was killed that told us a bit more.’

‘Fifteen years ago?’

‘I think it was then. Someone in the village saw it in an American magazine and spread it round. According to gossip, he’s been brought up with lots of money but not much else. His mother seems to have become a bit of a recluse—they say he was sent to boarding school at six, for heaven’s sake. He’s now some sort of financial whizz. You see him in the papers from time to time, in the financial section. But back then... Gossip said he started moving with the wrong crowd at college. His fiancée was called Louise—I can’t remember her last name but I think she was some sort of society princess. Anyway, she died in Aspen on Christmas Eve. There was a fuss; that’s why we saw it, a hint of drugs and scandal. Apparently she was there with Someone Else. The headlines said: Heir to Billions Betrayed, that sort of thing. He was twenty-one, she was twenty-three, but that’s almost all I know. Then he went back to making money and we haven’t heard much since. I have no idea why he’s here, advertising for staff. I thought the castle was for sale; that he was here finalising the estate.’ Maggie was starting to sound waspish, but maybe that was because she was cold, too. ‘You’d best leave it alone.’

‘But it’s a paying job,’ Holly said wistfully. ‘Imagine... A nice scuttle full of coal for Christmas... Mmmm. I could just enquire.’

‘You’re here for a holiday.’

‘So I am,’ Holly said, and sighed and then chuckled and tucked her arm into her grandmother’s. ‘We’re a right pair. You’re playing the perfect Christmas hostess and I’m playing the perfect Christmas guest. Or not. We’ve been idiots, but if we’re not to be eating Spam for Christmas, this might be a way out.’

‘You’re not serious?’

‘What do I have to lose?’

‘You’ll be worked to death. No Earl in memory has ever been anything but a skinflint.’ Maggie turned back to stare at the advertisement again. ‘Cook/Housekeeper indeed. Castle Craigie has twenty bedrooms.’

‘Surely this man wouldn’t be thinking of filling the bedrooms,’ Holly said uneasily.

‘He’s the Earl of Craigenstone. There’s no telling what he’s thinking. No Earl has done anything good by this district for generations.’

‘But it’s a job, Gran,’ Holly said gently. ‘You and I both know I need a job. I have to get one.’

There was a loaded silence. Holly knew what her grandmother was thinking—it was what they both knew. They had the princely sum of fifty pounds between them to last until Gran’s next pension day. Talk about disaster...

And finally Maggie sighed. ‘Very well,’ she conceded. ‘We do need coal and it’s a miserly Christmas I’ll be giving you without it. But if you’re planning on applying, Holly, love, I’m coming with you.’

‘Gran!’

‘Why not? You’ve cooked in some of the best restaurants in Australia, and I’ve been a fine housekeeper in my time. Together...’

‘I’m not asking you to work—and it’s only one position they’re advertising.’

‘But I might even enjoy working,’ Maggie said stoutly. ‘I know it’s twenty years since I’ve kept house for a living and I’ve never kept a castle. But there’s a time for everything, and surely even the Earl can’t serve Spam for Christmas dinner, which is all I can afford to give you.’ She grinned, her indomitable sense of humour surfacing. ‘I can see us in the castle kitchen, gnawing on the turkey carcass on Christmas Day. It might be grim but it’ll be better than Spam.’

‘So you’re proposing we play Cinderella and Fairy Godmother in the servants’ quarters, mopping up the leftovers?’

‘Anything that gets spilt is legally ours,’ her grandmother said sternly. ‘that’s servants’ rules, and at Christmas time servants can be very, very clumsy.’ She took a deep breath and braced herself. ‘Very well. Let’s try for it, Holly, lass. This Earl can’t be any worse than his father, surely. What do we have to lose?’

‘Nothing,’ Holly agreed and that was what she thought.

How could she lose anything when she had nothing left to lose? She and her grandmother both.

‘Okay, let’s go home and write a couple of résumés that’ll blow him out of the water,’ Holly said. ‘And he needn’t think he’s paying us peanuts. He’s not getting monkeys; he’s getting the best.’

‘Excellent,’ Maggie agreed, and Holly thought they probably had a snowball’s chance in a bushfire of getting this job, especially as they were insisting it was two jobs. But writing the résumés might keep Maggie happy for the afternoon, and right now that was all that mattered.

Because, right now, Holly wasn’t thinking past this afternoon. She was even avoiding thinking past the next hour.

* * *

If no one applied as Cook/Housekeeper over the next couple of days, Lord Angus McTavish Stuart, Eighth Earl of Craigenstone, could fly back home for Christmas.

Home was Manhattan. He had a sleek apartment overlooking Central Park and Christmas plans were set in stone. Since Louise had died he’d had a standard booking with friends for Christmas dinner at possibly the most talked about restaurant on the island. He’d make his normal quiet drive the next day to visit his mother, who’d be surrounded by her servants at her home in Martha’s Vineyard. She loathed Christmas Day itself but reluctantly celebrated the day after with him. Then the whole fuss of Christmas would die down.

‘If no one applies by tomorrow, I’m calling it quits,’ he told the small black scrap of canine misery by his side. He’d found the dog the first day he’d been here, cringing in the stables.

‘It’s a stray—let me take it to the dog shelter, My Lord,’ his estate manager had said when he’d picked it up and brought it inside, but the scruffy creature had looked at him with huge brown eyes and Angus had thought it wouldn’t hurt to give the dog a few days of being Dog of the Castle. Angus was playing Lord of the Castle. Reality would return all too soon.

The little dog looked up at him now and he thought that when he left the dog would have to go, too. No more pretending. Meanwhile...

‘Have another dog biscuit,’ Angus told him, tossing yet another log onto the blazing fire. The weather outside was appalling and the old Earl had certainly never considered central heating. ‘This place is on the market so we’re both on borrowed time, but we might as well be comfortable while we wait.’

The little dog opened one eye, cautiously accepted his dog biscuit, nibbled it with delicacy and then settled back down to sleep in a way that told Angus this room had once been this dog’s domain. But his father had never kept dogs.

Had his father ever used this room? It seemed to Angus that his father had done nothing but lie in bed and give orders.

Who knew which orders had been obeyed? Stanley, the Estate Manager, seemed to be doing exactly what he liked. Honesty didn’t seem to be his strong suit. Angus’s short but astute time with the estate books had hinted that Stanley had been milking the castle finances for years.

But he couldn’t sack him—not now. He was the only servant left, the only one who knew the land, who could show prospective purchasers over the estate, who could sound even vaguely knowledgeable about the place.

Angus had decided he’d do a final reckoning after the castle was sold and not before. His plan had been to get rid of the castle and all it represented and leave as fast as he could. This place had nothing to do with him. He’d been taken away before his first birthday and he’d never been back.

But first he had to get through one Christmas—or not. If he could find a cook he’d stay and do his duty by the kids. Otherwise, Manhattan beckoned. The temptation not to find a cook was huge, but he’d promised.

A knock on the great castle doors reverberated through the hall, reaching through the thick doors of the snug. The little dog lifted his head and barked, and then resettled, duty done. If this castle was to be sold, then there was serious sleeping to be got through first.

Stanley’s humourless face appeared around the door. ‘I’ll see to it, My Lord,’ he said. ‘It’ll be one of the villagers wanting something. They’re always wanting something. His Lordship taught me early how to see them off.’

He gave what he obviously thought was a conspiratorial nod and closed the door again. His footsteps retreated across the hall towards the great door leading outside.

Angus opened the snug door and listened.

‘Yes?’ Stanley’s voice was as dry and unwelcoming as the man himself. As apparently the old Earl had encouraged him to be.

‘I’m here about the advertisement for help over Christmas.’ Surprisingly, it was a woman’s voice, young, cheerful and lilting, and Angus leaned on the door jamb and wondered how long it had been since he’d heard a woman’s voice. Only two weeks, he conceded, but it seemed as if he’d been locked in this great grey fortress for ever.

He could see why his mother had fled. The wonder of it was that she’d stayed for two years.

‘You look very young to be a cook,’ Stanley was saying dourly, to whoever it was outside the door. Stanley’s disapproval was instant and obvious, even at a distance. ‘Do you have any qualifications?’

‘I’m not a cook; I’m a chef,’ the woman said. ‘I’m twenty-eight and I’ve been working with food since I was fifteen. I’ve worked in some of the best restaurants in Australia so I’m overqualified for this job, but I have a few weeks to spare. If you’re interested...’

‘Can you make beds?’ Stanley asked, even more dourly.

‘No.’ The woman sounded less confident now she wasn’t talking of cooking. ‘Or at least I can pull up a mean duvet but not much more. My grandmother, on the other hand, used to be the housekeeper at Gorse Hall, and she’s interested in a job, too. She can make really excellent beds.’

‘This is one job,’ Stanley snapped. ‘His Lordship wants someone who can cook and make his bed.’

‘So is it just His Lordship I’m cooking for? Can’t His Lordship make his own bed?’

‘Don’t be impertinent,’ Stanley retorted. ‘You’re obviously not suitable.’ And, with that, Angus heard the great doors starting to creak closed.

That should be the end of it, he told himself with a certain amount of relief. He’d agreed to advertise for a cook. He’d put the advertisement in the window of the general store and no one had replied until now. So be it. Once Stanley had got rid of her he could ring his half-brother and say regretfully, Sorry, Ben, I couldn’t find someone suitable and I can’t put you up for Christmas without staff. I’ll arrange to fly you and your family up to do a tour before the castle is sold, but that’s all I can do.

Easy. All he had to do was keep quiet now.

But... Can’t His Lordship make his own bed? What was it about that blunt question that had him stepping out of the snug, striding over the vast flagstones of the Great Hall, intercepting Stanley and stopping the vast doors from closing.

Seeing for himself who Stanley was talking to.

The girl on the far side of the doors looked cold. That was his first impression.

His second impression was that she was cute.

Very cute.

She was five feet three or five four at most. She wasn’t plump, but she wasn’t thin—just nicely curved, although she was doing a decent job of disguising those curves. She was wearing faded jeans, trainers, a thick grey sweater and a vast old army greatcoat without buttons. She wore a red beanie with a hole in it. A few strands of burnt-copper curls were sneaking through. Her lack of make-up, her clear green eyes and her wide, generous mouth which, at the moment, was making a fairly childlike grimace at Stanley, made him think she couldn’t possibly be twenty-eight.

Maybe Stanley was right to reject her out of hand. What sort of person applied for a job wearing what looked like charity rejects?

‘Are you backup?’ she queried bitterly as he swung the door wider. Whatever else she was, this woman wasn’t shy, and Stanley’s flat rejection had seemingly made her angry. ‘Are you here to help Lurch here tell me to get off the property fast? I’ve walked all the way from the village on your horrible pot-holed road. Of all the cold welcomes... You could at least look at my résumé.’

Lurch? The word caught him. Angus glanced at Stanley and thought the woman had a point—there were definite similarities between his father’s estate manager and the butler from the Addams Family.

‘It is only the one job,’ he said, and found himself sounding apologetic.

‘Chef and Housekeeper for this whole place?’ She stood back and gestured to the sweep of the vast castle. The original keep had been built at the start of the thirteenth century, but a mishmash of battlements, turrets and towers had been added ad hoc over the last eight hundred years. From where she was standing, she couldn’t possibly take it all in—the great grey edifice was practically a crag all by itself. ‘This place’d take me a week to dust,’ she said and then stood back a bit further. ‘Probably two. And I’m not all that skilled at dusting.’

‘I don’t want anything dusted,’ Angus told her.

‘I’m not serving my food on dust.’

‘Forgive me.’ He was starting to feel bemused. This woman looked a waif but she was a waif with attitude. ‘And forgive our cavalier treatment of you. But you don’t look like a cook to us.’

‘That’s because I’m a chef,’ she retorted. Her cheeks were flushed crimson and he thought it wasn’t just the cold. Stanley’s rejection was smarting.

‘Can you prove it?’

‘Of course.’ She hauled a couple of typed sheets from the pocket of her greatcoat, handed them over and waited while he unfolded and skimmed them.

He felt his brows hike as he read. This was impressive. Really impressive. But...

‘You’re asking us to believe you’re a chef from Australia—yet your résumé is typed on letterhead paper from the Craigenstone Library.’

‘That’s because Doris, the librarian, is a friend of my grandmother,’ she said patiently. ‘I’m here on holiday, visiting my Gran, and Gran doesn’t have a printer. For some weird reason, I failed to bring copies of my résumé with me.’

‘So why are you applying for a job?’

‘It seems I’m not,’ she said. ‘Lurch here has told me you’re not interested, so that’s it. Meanwhile, I’m freezing. You’ve made me stand in six inches of snow while you’ve checked out my résumé and I’ve had enough. Merry Christmas. Gran was right all along. Bah, humbug to you both.’

And she turned and stalked off.

Or she would have stalked off if she had sensible shoes with some sort of grip, but the canvas trainers she was wearing had no grip at all. The cobbles were icy under the thin layer of freshly fallen snow. She slipped and floundered, and she started falling backward.

She flailed—and Angus caught her before she hit the ground.

* * *

One minute she was stomping off in righteous indignation. The next she was being held in arms that were unbelievably strong, gazing up into a face that was...that was...

Like every fairy tale she’d ever read. This was the Lord of Castle Craigie. She could see why the old Earl had been able to coerce women to marry him, she thought, dazed. If Gran was right, if the acorn hadn’t fallen far from the tree, if this guy was like all the Earls before him...

Tall, dark and dangerous seemed an understatement. This guy was your quintessential brooding hero, over six feet tall, with lean, sculpted features, hard, chiselled bone structure, deep grey eyes, strong mouth and jet-black hair.

He was wearing a gorgeous soft tweed jacket. What was more, he was wearing a kilt! Oh, my...

But Gran had told her the current Earl was American. What was an American doing wearing a kilt?

According to Gran, he’d been an indulged but lonely child. Apart from some scandal with a dead fiancée, he seemed only interested in making money. He’d sounded aloof, alone, like his father before him.

She’d been prepared to dislike him on sight, but sight wasn’t being very helpful right now. None of his background stood out on his face. None of those things seemed important.

Oh, that kilt...

‘Are...are you really the Earl?’ He was cradling her as if she were a child, and for some reason it was the only thing she could think of to say. Are you really the Earl? How stupid was that?

‘Yes,’ he said and the edges of his wide mouth quirked into what was almost a smile. ‘But only for a few weeks.’

‘You’re American.’

‘Yes.’

‘So why are you wearing a kilt?’

What was she doing? She should be saying, Thank you for stopping me falling but you can put me down now. She should say any number of things regarding the way he was holding her, but he’d scooped her up, he was holding her against his barrel-strong chest and, for a moment, for just a moment, Holly was letting herself disappear into fantasy.

She’d tell this to Maggie. He swept me up into his arms, Gran, and oh, he was gorgeous...

Maggie would toss a bucket of cold water over her.

Reality hit as hard as her grandmother’s imaginary water, and she wriggled with intent. Reluctantly, it seemed, he set her onto her feet again, but he didn’t let her go. The ground was still slippery and his hands stayed firmly on her shoulders.

‘American or not, for now I’m Laird of the Castle,’ he told her, smiling down at her. It was a killer smile. It made her insides...

Well, enough. She had enough to tell Maggie without letting her imagination take her further.

And Maggie would remind her sharply—as she’d told her last night, ‘He’s not our Laird. Most owners of estates in Scotland are referred to as Lairds or Himself, because they care for the land, and for the people they employ. Not him. We’ve never had a Lord who came close to being Himself. Don’t you trust him an inch, lass. Not one inch.’

‘We’ve been showing buyers over the estate,’ he was saying, cutting over her thoughts. ‘International buyers. For some reason, the realtor thinks it’s important for me to look Scottish. My father has a room full of family tartan, kilts for all sizes, so I’ve been striding along beside would-be buyers, grunting, trying not to sound American, while Stanley here has been answering questions in his broadest Scottish brogue. Which is why I’m looking like the Lord of All He Surveys, off to round up my trusty men for a spot of pillaging of the surrounding villages. Pure fantasy.’ He grinned. ‘Right. I’ve told you mine, now it’s your turn. Holly McIntosh, if you’re a skilled chef, why are you standing on my doorstep asking for a job wearing sodden canvas trainers and a greatcoat that looks like it was worn during World War One?’

‘Because I’m indulging in my fantasy of not freezing for Christmas,’ she said, so flustered she let honesty hold sway. Don’t trust, Gran had told her. She should have added, Keep twenty feet away. ‘Can you let me go? I need to get home before my feet drop off from frostbite.’

‘Come in,’ he said, gently now, almost seductively, and she shivered.

‘I need...’

‘To get warm. You came to apply for a job. Let’s think about both. I have a blazing fire inside, hot tea or whisky if you prefer, cake—bought fruit cake admittedly, but at least it’s cake—and Stanley will drive you back to the village when we’re finished.’

‘Finished what?’ she demanded, maybe stupidly, but, to her astonishment, his smile broadened. The twinkle in those dark eyes seemed pure mischief. Dangerous mischief.

‘When I’ve had my wicked way with you. Of course, being Lord of Castle Craigie, I’ve had my wicked way with every maiden in the village.’ And then he chuckled, a lovely deep chuckle that matched his smile exactly. ‘Sorry,’ he said as he saw her expression. ‘there’s my fantasies running away with me again. That’s the man in the kilt speaking, not me.’

‘You’re...’ She could barely get her voice to work. ‘You’re not usually into wicked ways?’

‘Nope. That’s my kilt-wearing dark side. The normal me wears chinos, and I swear I’m not into pillaging at all.’ He held up his hands as if to say, Look, I’m unarmed and innocent—which he didn’t look at all. ‘But I’m leaving my dark side out in the snow for now. I’ll change back into Angus Stuart, Corporate Financier from Manhattan, if it reassures you. It’s what I’ve been up to now and I’ll be again soon. But please, Miss McIntosh, come in and get warm and let me reread your résumé.’

Whoa. She took a deep breath, trying to recover from the way his arms had felt—were feeling. From the way that beguiling smile made her feel. From the sheer size and presence of the man. And the way that kilt...

Aagh. Stick to your guns, she told herself, desperately. Don’t trust. You’re here to apply for a job—two jobs—and you’re useless unless you stick to what you intended.

Useless.

The adjective swirled, bringing her back to reality with a sickening thud. Useless was the word that had been hanging over her for months. That and stupid.

Stick to what you need.

‘It’s two jobs or nothing,’ she managed.

‘Sorry?’ Angus said, confused.

‘I said, this is two jobs. I’m only interested in one, and I’m only interested if you accept us both. I won’t clean. I’ll cook all you like but nothing else. Gran’s attending a funeral or she’d be here with me but she’s applying as well. I have her résumé with me, too.’

‘It’s just the one job!’ All this time Stanley had been standing to the side, glaring at this intrusion to his territory, but now he’d decided it was time to intercede. ‘We advertised one position, My Lord. I’m sure we can find some other woman to take the role.’

‘Not before Christmas, we can’t,’ Angus said. ‘No one’s applied since we’ve had the advertisement up.’

‘It’s still the one job,’ Stanley said flatly.

‘Right,’ Holly said, reality slamming back. Oh, her feet were cold. ‘That’s that then. Thank you for your offer of whisky and fruit cake—and even taking your kilt off!—but we’re wasting each other’s time. Merry Christmas to you both and goodbye.’

And with that she hauled away from Angus’s hold, turned and stomped—gingerly—away.

* * *

‘If you’d really wanted a cook you should have used the newspapers,’ Stanley said dourly as they watched her go.

He should have, he conceded. If he’d really wanted a cook.

He didn’t want a cook. If he found a cook he’d be obliged to have his half-siblings here for Christmas. He’d be obliged to turn this castle into a home, even if it was only for three weeks.

He didn’t want to.

Why?

Because, kilt or not, this place wasn’t fantasy as much as tragedy. Black tragedy. His mother had pleaded with him not to come, and she’d be devastated if he extended his stay.

And he did not want a family Christmas. He didn’t do Christmas. Had Louise’s death and his mother’s tragedy taught him nothing?

He was watching Holly stomp back across what had once been the site of a drawbridge but was now a snow-covered cobbled path and something inside him was twisting. He watched the determined set of her shoulders and he thought how she’d walked all the way from the village in canvas trainers to apply for a job he didn’t want to give.

He should have said no to Ben.

He shouldn’t even have come himself. He’d been stunned by his mother’s reaction, her emotion as raw as if the tragedy had happened last week rather than over thirty years ago.

‘Don’t go near that place. Sell it fast, to the highest bidder. You don’t need it. Give the money to charity—I don’t care—just get rid of it, Angus.’

But he’d wanted to see.

He was the new Earl of Craigenstone. He had no intention of taking up the title, but still he wanted to see what he was letting go—as his half-brother and -sisters wanted to revisit what they were letting go. They’d lived in this place until three years ago. Their father had barricaded the place against them when their mother left, but they’d have memories and they wanted to see.

Please... The plea had been heartrending.

This wasn’t about him, he thought savagely. The old Earl had had four children. Why was it just him making the decisions?

So... He’d just been offered staff. Why refuse? Personal selfishness? Just like his father?

He was watching Holly McIntosh march away from the castle with as much dignity as she could muster and he was thinking of his father’s reputation. Mean. Selfish.

He was not like his father. Surely.

This was only for three weeks and then it’d be done. Surely his mother could cope if he explained. Surely it was time they both rid themselves of demons.

Decide now, he told himself, and he did.

‘Holly...’ His voice rang out over the crisp white snow, and she heard even though she was two hundred yards away.

She turned and glared, her hands on her hips. This was no normal employee, he thought. If he hired her, he’d be hiring spirit.

Christmas spirit? Holly. The thought had him bemused.

‘It can be two jobs,’ he conceded, but her hands stayed on her hips and her belligerence was obvious.

‘Wages?’ she called, not moving.

‘What’s the standard wage around here for a cook?’ he demanded of Stanley and Stanley glared at him as if he was proposing spending Stanley’s money instead of the estate’s. The figure he threw at him sounded ridiculously low.

And...I’m a chef.

Holly’s words had been an indignant claim to excellence and pride had shown through.

If he employed her he’d have a chef for Christmas. And a housekeeper. Christmas. He thought of his father’s reputation and he looked at Stanley’s dour face and he thought that some things had to change, right now.

‘I’ll pay you three times basic cook’s wages and I’ll hire you and your grandmother as a team,’ he called. And then, as Holly’s expression didn’t change, he added, ‘I’ll pay the same rate to you both.’

‘My Lord!’ Stanley gasped, but he was ignored. Holly’s expression was changing. She was trying not to look incredulous, he realised, but she was failing. ‘Each?’

‘Yes.’ He grinned, seeing her inner war. ‘Eight-hour days and half days off on Sunday. It’s three weeks of hard work, but the money will be worth it. I can’t say fairer than that.’

She took a deep breath. He could see she was searching for the indignant, assertive Holly he’d seen up until now, but his offer seemed to have sucked all indignation out of her.

‘Are...are meals and accommodation included?’ she ventured, sounding cautious. Very cautious. As if he might bite.

‘I guess. But why do you need accommodation?’

‘We don’t have a car,’ Holly told him. ‘And, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s snowing and your driveway is a disgrace. It took me half an hour to trudge up here and Gran’s not as young as she used to be.’ She tilted her chin and met his gaze head on. ‘And our accommodation has to be heated.’

‘Heated!’ Stanley gasped, as though the word was an abomination, and Angus thought of the freezing, musty bedrooms throughout the castle, and the great draughty staircases and how much effort and expense it would take to get this place warm by Christmas. The snug had the only fireplace that didn’t seem to be blocked.

But Holly was glaring a challenge and all of a sudden he was thinking of his half-brother and -sisters, who’d lived for years under these conditions, with the old man’s temper as well, and he thought...maybe he could put the effort in. Maybe he could make the place less of a nightmare for them to remember. He was not his father.

‘Done,’ he said. ‘With one proviso.’

‘Which is?’

‘That you come in now, dry out and tell me why you’re wearing those stupid sodden shoes.’

‘I need to get back to Gran.’

‘We’ll drive you back in a few minutes,’ he said, goaded. ‘But I’ll dry you out first. I believe I just hired you. You’re therefore my employee. You can sue me if you’re injured on the way to and from work, so I’m looking after my investment. Come into my castle, Miss McIntosh, and we’ll talk terms.’

‘And have some of that fruit cake?’ For heaven’s sake, he thought, stunned. She sounded hungry!

‘I believe that can be arranged.’

‘Then your offer is gratefully accepted,’ she said and trudged back towards them. She reached the front steps and Angus walked down to meet her. He held out his hand to steady her as she climbed the icy stone steps. She stared at his hand for a long moment and then she shook her head.

‘I’ll do this on my own terms, if you don’t mind,’ she said briskly. ‘I need your job. I’d also quite like your fruit cake, but I don’t need anything else.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing.’ She peeped a smile at him and he saw the return of a mischief that he suspected was a latent part of this woman. ‘So any thought that you might be having your wicked way with the hired help, put out of your mind right now, Lord Craigenstone. Just leave that dark side you’re talking about outside. I might be coming to live in your castle, but I know my rights. Also, I’ve just been burned. Ravishment isn’t in any employment contract I intend to sign, now or ever.’