Christmas at the Castle. Marion Lennox

       “You’ve made me stand in six inches of snow while you’ve checked out my résumé and I’ve had enough. Merry Christmas. Bah humbug.”

      And she turned and stalked off.

      Or she would have stalked off if she’d 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 then she started falling backwards.

      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 fairytale she’d ever read.

      Christmas

      at the Castle

      Marion Lennox

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MARION LENNOX is a country girl, born on an Australian dairy farm. She moved on—mostly because the cows just weren’t interested in her stories! Married to a “very special doctor”, Marion writes for Mills & Boon^® Medical Romance^™ and Mills & Boon^® Cherish^™. (She used a different name for each category for a while—readers looking for her past romance titles should search for author Trisha David as well.) She’s now had more than seventy-five romance novels accepted for publication.

      In her non-writing life Marion cares for kids, cats, dogs, chooks and goldfish. She travels, she fights her rampant garden (she’s losing) and her house dust (she’s lost). Having spun in circles for the first part of her life, she’s now stepped back from her “other” career, which was teaching statistics at her local university. Finally she’s reprioritised her life, figured what’s important and discovered the joys of deep baths, romance and chocolate. Preferably all at the same time!

      For Di and for Kevin

      With thanks for the dancing and friendship.

      Contents

       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 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.