Loe raamatut: «Christmas at Carriage Hill»

One

Alexandra Rankin Hunt hoped—fervently—that a Christmas wedding in the small New England village of Knights Bridge would be the perfect diversion and would put her latest mistake behind her. It had been three months, three weeks and—she glanced at her bedside clock—two hours since she’d met, and then fallen in and out of love with said mistake.

Out of love was still a work in progress, but she was determined to return to England after Christmas a new woman.

She sat on the edge of her bed and picked up a copy of her favorite photograph of her great-grandfather. She’d never met Philip Rankin. He was killed early in World War II during the Battle of Britain. The photograph was the only one she knew of with him in his Royal Air Force uniform. He was smiling his rakish smile. It was just a few weeks before his combat death, but she couldn’t detect a hint of fear or overconfidence in him. By then, he’d fallen in love with Grace Webster, a young American woman facing eviction from the only home she’d ever known in order to make way for a massive reservoir. Until a few months ago, only Philip and Grace had known of their love affair late in the summer of 1938. Grace had created a secret hideaway as her family prepared to leave their doomed small town for Knights Bridge, another small town in western Massachusetts. Injured and on the run, Philip had taken refuge in her hideaway. He’d just “stolen” jewels in Boston—from his brother-in-law, a difficult man who’d tried to claim them after his sister, Philip’s wife, had died. Philip had been determined to get the jewels back to his daughter.

And he did, Alexandra thought with a smile—it had just taken decades.

Philip had returned to England and gone to war, never to return. Grace had stayed in America. She was in her nineties now, a retired schoolteacher who had never married.

Sun streamed through the windows of Alexandra’s flat above her dress shop on one of the prettiest streets in one of the most charming villages in the Cotswolds, an area in the countryside east of London known for its scenic beauty. She’d moved there in August, abandoning London for a different life. A new life. A life she’d hoped would bring her romantic love and happiness—or at least stop bringing her the wrong man.

It hadn’t worked out that way, but it wasn’t the fault of the village she’d chosen.

“It’s my own fault,” she said under her breath.

She had wanted instant results, but she now knew she couldn’t snap her fingers and change the things about herself that continued to land her romantic life in scalding water. It wasn’t just that the wrong sort of man was drawn to her. She was drawn to the wrong sort of man.

An RAF wing commander? What had she been thinking?

The only fighter pilot she needed in her life was her great-grandfather, a World War II hero she had never known.

She realized she was hungry and put on her coat, a lovely, simple gray cashmere with no buttons, just an easy tie. She’d designed and made it herself, but dresses were her specialty. Although she was getting a name for herself, she’d been flattered when Olivia Frost had asked her to design the dresses for her Christmas Eve wedding to wealthy Dylan McCaffrey—Alexandra’s second cousin. Or some sort of cousin. Earlier that year, he had discovered that his father, Duncan McCaffrey, was Grace and Philip’s son, placed in the loving hands of a couple who’d adopted him as an infant. Grace hadn’t seen him again for more than seventy years, until shortly before his death two years before. He’d been a businessman and adventurer, marrying late, and now his only son—Grace’s grandson—was marrying a woman from Knights Bridge.

Alexandra had already packed Olivia’s wedding dress for the flight to Boston. She loved designing and sewing wedding dresses. That wouldn’t change even if she never would have one of her own.

RAF officer Ian Mabry, a thorough rake of a man, was her last mistake.

She went down the narrow stairs to her shop—it was more a design studio, really—and locked up as she headed out. Her street was off the village’s main thoroughfare but nonetheless lined with shops and restaurants, the buildings constructed of the honey-colored limestone that signified a traditional Cotswolds village. Despite the sunshine, the air was brisk, although not as cold as it would be in New England. She’d packed warm layers for her trip.

Because Ian was not in town and his family had no idea of the havoc he’d wreaked on her life, Alexandra decided on lunch at the corner pub the Mabrys owned. She slipped into a cozy wooden booth under the pub’s low, beamed ceilings and ordered soup—a lovely-sounding leek and potato—and tea. A few shopkeepers wandered in, but it was early yet. She loved the pub’s relaxed, unhurried atmosphere. She supposed she shouldn’t berate herself for having succumbed to Ian’s charms when he’d waited on her on one of her first nights in town. She’d been tired from moving and had been second-guessing the wisdom of leaving London. All her friends who’d helped with the move had gone home, with promises to visit soon and often. She’d felt alone but in a good way. It was positive, healthy.

And she’d thought Ian was a local man who managed his family’s thriving pub.

Wrong. So wrong.

Now, of course, she noticed the framed photograph behind the bar of Ian in his fighter pilot uniform. His smile was without fear and decidedly, at least in her estimation, cocky.

From August through early November, she’d thought him the most exciting, charming, endearing and thoroughly desirable man she’d ever met. A manly man. Sexy. Self-confident. Not without flaws, but she’d missed the danger signs. The ambition. The single-mindedness. The need to put himself and his work first, ahead of everything else.

He’d said he’d seen the same in her. “You don’t want a quiet Cotswolds life, Alex. You want London. You want the applause.”

She’d told him in no uncertain terms what she didn’t want was him to tell her what she wanted.

Everything had unraveled quickly after that delightful little conversation.

Her soup arrived, steaming and delicious, with warm wholemeal bread and local butter. She was enjoying herself despite the assault of bad memories when she became aware of someone sliding into the booth across from her.

She looked up and saw it was Ian.

“Hello, Alex,” he said.

“You’re not here,” she said, determinedly slathering butter on her bread. “I’m making you up. I’m sure people are staring at me because I’m talking to myself.”

“I hear you’re flying to Boston tomorrow.”

She sighed. She hadn’t conjured him up. He was there, all muscle, ego, good looks and that over-the-top masculinity she had found irresistible from the moment she’d laid eyes on him—a surefire warning she had foolishly not heeded. She noted his military-cropped tawny hair. His clear gray-blue eyes. His cleft chin. His smile.

His hands.

Dear heaven, Ian Mabry’s hands...

She set her bread back on its plate. “Yes, I am flying to Boston. I don’t need you to fly me there, if that’s what you’re wondering.” She immediately regretted her snippy tone, not because he didn’t deserve it, but because she didn’t want him to think she was anything but neutral where he was concerned. “I’m attending a wedding outside Boston.”

“Olivia Frost and Dylan McCaffrey’s wedding.”

“Mmm.”

He’d met them when they were in England in October. “How did Olivia’s dress come out?” Ian asked mildly.

Alexandra raised her gaze to him. Wing Commander Ian Mabry asking about one of her dress designs? Seriously?

“You were working on it when I was in town last,” he added.

Heat flooded her cheeks. She could try to blame the fire, the soup, the tea, but he would know better. His slight grin—that sexy, wry grin—told her she would never get away with it. She’d had the pattern pieces for Olivia’s dress on her bed when Ian had...

“Yes, I was.”

She left it at that. She needed to be the up-and-coming London designer who had relocated to the beautiful, upscale Cotswolds and had full command of her life. She did not need to be another of Ian Mabry’s conquests. She refused to let him think she was still pining for him, because she wasn’t. Not a bit.

“Did you ever find that—what was it that went astray?” he asked. “A bit of the sleeve, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was, and I did find it, thank you.”

“We did mess up the place.”

The place being her bed. Alexandra grabbed her bread. “I’m in a bit of a hurry, Ian. I leave for London in thirty minutes.”

“How are you getting to London?”

She hadn’t bought her own car yet. Of course he would know that. She waved a hand. “I’m taking the train.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, of course.” The snippiness again, and again she regretted it. “I’m staying with friends tonight.” Actually, she was staying with her grandmother—Philip Rankin’s daughter, a proud woman who would be relieved that Alexandra had come to her senses regarding her RAF pilot. “I have a lot of friends,” she added crisply.

“You’re still getting to know people here,” he said. “You’ve been busy with your work, but it takes time to make new friends. It will happen.”

Alexandra realized she wanted to throw something at him. She truly did. If he hadn’t rattled her by reminding her of scattering pattern pieces on her floor while simultaneously disrobing her, she might have gone ahead and pitched a chunk of bread at him. With his reflexes, he’d have ducked, and she’d have felt like a fool. Good that she’d let the impulse wash over her.

“How long will you be away?” he asked her.

Long enough to get over you, I hope. “A week, unless I change my mind,” she said coolly.

“And stay longer or come home sooner?”

“Either. How long are you at home?”

“Awhile,” he said, rising.

“Then you’ll be gone before I return?”

He sauntered off without answering—pretending not to have heard her—and dipped behind the bar, then disappeared into the kitchen. Alexandra finished her lunch. She would fly to Boston tomorrow and spend a couple of nights there before heading to Knights Bridge. This would be her first Christmas away from England, but it would be wonderful—and a positive, healthy way to get herself out of her post-Ian funk.

He returned with more bread. “You didn’t have to go to the trouble,” she said.

He grinned. “You’re never more trouble than I can handle, Alex.”

He was gone again before she could respond. He went back behind the bar, greeting another patron with that sexy voice and amiable manner.

Everyone liked Ian Mabry.

A week away wouldn’t be nearly enough to get over him, but it would be a solid start. In the meantime, extra butter on her bread would help. She lifted a warm hunk of bread and glanced up, her eyes accidentally connecting with Ian’s.

Another grin, a sexy wink.

He wouldn’t believe she hadn’t been sneaking a look at him. Never. He was that sure of himself. That sure she was still under his spell.

Alexandra sighed and picked up her knife.

Lots of extra butter might help.

* * *

“Are you sure you want to make this trip, Alexandra?”

It was early evening in London, and Philippa Rankin Hunt was skeptical if not worried. Alexandra smiled at her elegant, silver-haired grandmother. “It’ll be wonderful.”

Philippa looked unconvinced. She’d had Alexandra join her in the living room of her Mayfair apartment and, over tea, tell her about her trip to New England. More than seventy years ago, her father, Philip Rankin, had gone to Boston in pursuit of the Ashworth jewels, appropriated by his brother-in-law but intended for Philippa, the only child of his deceased sister and her fighter-pilot husband. The jewels were stolen from Charles Ashworth’s Boston hotel and presumed lost until a few months ago, when Dylan and Olivia had returned them to Philippa, now an elderly woman. She was still digesting the fact that her uncle—whom she’d never liked—had been even more of a bastard than she’d realized, the Ashworth jewels had been rediscovered and Dylan, a wealthy former professional hockey player, was, in fact, her nephew, her father’s grandson by the young woman he’d left behind in America at the start of World War II.

It was a lot for Philippa, whose idea of an adventure was seeing the first rose of the season blossom at her country home. She’d been invited to Olivia and Dylan’s wedding but decided the trip was a bit much for her.

“I checked the forecast,” she said. “It’s cold in Boston. There’s a winter storm brewing. A nor’easter, they call it.”

Alexandra waved a hand. “It’s December in New England, Gran. Of course it’s cold with a chance of snow. I would love for Dylan and Olivia to have snow on the ground for their wedding. Wouldn’t that be picturesque?”

“A white Christmas is one thing. A blizzard is another.” Her grandmother set her teacup—Wedgwood she’d inherited from the Ashworths—on its saucer. “Olivia and Dylan can afford to have their wedding anywhere. Destination weddings are popular these days. Why not Nassau? Why Knights Bridge, Massachusetts?”

“It’s Olivia’s hometown. It’s what she wants.”

“Then it’s as it should be.”

“I’ll have a fabulous time, Gran. I’ve been working hard. I’m due for a bit of a break.”

Her grandmother eyed her with open suspicion. “You have that jilted-by-a-man look, Alexandra.”

“What if I did the jilting? Would it be the same look?”

“Did you do the jilting?”

“I’ve been so busy with work and Olivia and Dylan’s wedding, how would I find time for jilting or being jilted?” Alexandra sprang to her feet. She didn’t want to outright lie to her grandmother, so best to change the subject. “Come, Gran. Let’s go see some Christmas lights and have a nice, quiet dinner together. You can tell me again about your father—my great-grandfather, the jewel thief.”