Christmas at the Castle. Marion Lennox

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ