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Thorncroft Hall, Fraedale, Yorkshire, 19^th December 1821

“I hate to leave you on your own, Maggie. And at Christmas, too.”

Maggie Carr mustered a smile for her friend and colleague Jane Parker. They’d been through this a hundred times already. She passed Jane her bag and opened the massive door leading out from the hall to the drive.

“Jane, your daughter’s baby is due. Your place is in Goathland with the family.”

“But you’ll be all alone. What if someone comes?”

“Nobody’s going to come. Nobody ever does.”

Her employer, an eccentric and aging Oxford don, never traveled north to visit his small manor house in this isolated valley. And there were no passing travelers. They were miles away from a main route.

Jane must have picked up the wistful note Maggie tried so hard to suppress. With a decisive bang, she put down her bag. Her lined face set in a mulish expression. “That’s it, then. I’m not leaving you alone in this great barn of a place. You’re coming with me.”

Maggie summoned another smile and picked up the bag. “You know your daughter’s cottage will be bulging at the seams with you there, as well as her husband and the other two children. You’re lovely to worry about me, Jane. But I’ll be fine here. I’ve been on my own before.”

“But not at Christmas.” Jane looked torn. “How I wish you had some family to go to.”

So did she. But she’d long ago learned the futility of wishes.

“I can’t leave the house. You know Dr. Black wants someone in residence all the time.” It was one of her employer’s few demands.

“I’d feel better if Welby was here.”

Welby was the outdoor man who looked after the garden and the pony, and did the heavy work in the house. In the depths of winter, with only two women living in, there was little for him to do.

“He’ll come if there’s an emergency.”

“If he knows about it.”

“He’s still only five miles away.” Welby always spent December with his family in Little Flitwick, the nearest village. Maggie’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “And it’s not like he’s marvelous company.”

If Welby spoke ten words a year, she’d be surprised. Jane, on the other hand, was a great talker. Maggie often wondered why the warmhearted woman had taken this situation such a long way from society. Although the pay was good and the work light. And Jane had a large family in the county who made sure she visited regularly.

Lucky Jane.

“Are you coming, missus?” the wagoner called from outside. “There be snow on the way, and I got other folk to collect.”

“Snow on the way? Maggie, you can’t stay here.”

Maggie shook her head fondly and bundled Jane out of the door. “There’s plenty of wood and food. If the snow traps me here, I’ll just miss the Christmas service in the village. I’m sure God won’t mind.”

“Missus?”

Jane dithered for another second, before she bent to kiss Maggie’s cheek. “Happy Christmas, then. Though I can’t be easy about leaving you.”

“I’ll write.”

Jane looked worried again. “If the mail makes it through the snow.”

“Happy Christmas, Jane,” Maggie said quickly, before Jane could yet again change her mind about going. “I’ll see you in January.”

The wagoner tossed the bag on board. Maggie hid a smile as he struggled to get the plump and not terribly spry Jane up onto the wooden bench.

“Happy Christmas, Maggie,” Jane called, as the driver urged his horse forward.

“And happy New Year, dear Jane,” Maggie called back. She stood on the doorstep until the wagon rolled out of sight.

The heavy silence settled around her. Silence and solitude. Despite her brave words to Jane, she hated being alone at this time of year, when memories of her happy life with her parents haunted her.

Once Christmas had been a joyous celebration of hope. Once she’d had a family. Once she’d had people who loved her. But no more.

With a sigh, she closed the door with a thud that she tried not to find ominous. She squared her shoulders and told herself to stop being so poor spirited. Things could definitely be worse.

Her father had been an impecunious clergyman, but the family had led a good life, if not a particularly luxurious one. Maggie hadn’t known hardship until after he’d drowned, when she and her mother had to leave the Kentish vicarage that was the only home she’d ever known. Luckily her mother’s cousin Thomas Black had offered the widowed Mrs. Carr a position as housekeeper at his Yorkshire estate. He’d given Maggie a home as well.

At the time, she’d been thinking of seeking a post as a governess or companion, but after the tragedy of losing her father, the chance to stay with her mother was too appealing. Following her mother’s death five years ago, she’d stayed on as housekeeper, although at twenty, she was really too young to take on the role. She’d been too heartsick with grief to think of setting up an independent life elsewhere. At least Thorncroft held memories of her mother.

Since then, she’d made a home of sorts here. She liked Jane and the taciturn Mr. Welby. And as housekeeper, she had more independence than any governess could aspire to.

But those few compensations offered frail cheer against spending the next weeks all alone, while the rest of the world celebrated Christmas.

In the years she’d been on her own, Maggie had done her best to stay brave and dutiful and faithful, as her beloved father had raised her to be. But there were times, like now, with the quiet house stretching around her, empty and echoing, when she could weep with loneliness.

“No use feeling sorry for yourself, my girl,” she whispered. She wished she hadn’t spoken aloud. The sound reminded her that she wouldn’t hear another human voice until after Twelfth Night.

Bitter experience had taught her that activity was the best answer to a case of the megrims. Bessie the cow needed milking, and she had Bob the pony to feed and his stall to muck out. There was nothing like pitching filthy straw to stop a girl from brooding on what couldn’t be changed.

But as Maggie trudged downstairs to the kitchens to put on her leather apron and work boots, she couldn’t shake the grim feeling that life was passing her by. Unless some miracle took place, her youth would be gone, and she’d be old and alone, with nothing to show for the years.

Maggie stirred from sleep to a loud knocking downstairs. It was pitch dark, and she was on her feet and flinging a paisley shawl around her good thick flannel nightgown before she had time to think that it might be someone intending harm.

The knocking continued. She paused to light her candle from the embers of the fire, then picked up the poker. She’d have to see who it was. The snow had started soon after Jane left, and by the time Maggie dragged herself up to bed, it had become a full-blown storm. A traveler could be stranded. It was the code of the countryside that you helped strangers in need.

Still, she gripped the poker firmly as she made her way down the old oak staircase to the cavernous hall. She’d thought her room was cold, until she left it for the unheated vastness of the rest of the house. Shivering, she wished she’d waited to change into her merino gown and good stout half-boots.

She set her candle down on a carved chest. Down here, the knocking was deafening. It stopped when she pulled the heavy iron bolt back with a scrape. She turned the key and opened the door, battling to hold it against the howling wind.

“Who is it?” she asked, then gasped and faltered back when a powerful figure loomed up on the doorstep in front of her.

“Is this Thorncroft Hall?” a rough male voice barked.

The unknown man raised his lantern. His snow-covered hat was set low and shadowed his features. As fear tightened her stomach, Maggie began to wish she’d stayed in bed and ignored the knocking. Whoever the intruder was, he looked like a complete villain.

“Yes, it is.” Although she raised the poker in silent warning.

It proved no deterrent. As he barged inside in a flurry of blown snow, he shot her weapon a contemptuous glance. “Just what do you intend to do with that, madam?”

“It’s… Oh, blast.” Her candle wasn’t proof against the wind and went out. His lantern now provided the only light. “Don’t imagine I’m defenseless.”

The noise of the storm ceased abruptly as he seized the door from her and slammed it shut. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

She tightened her grip on the poker and fought not to show her fear. “Kindly state your business, sir, or be gone.”

“I don’t respond to threats, miss,” he said roughly. One massive hand reached over and plucked the poker from her as easily as if it was a dead twig on a tree.

“I’ll scream,” she said sharply, hoping he’d think the house was packed with burly footmen ready to come to her aid.

His lips flattened. “Scream away, for all the good it will do. I mean no harm.”

The claim didn’t reassure her at all. “So you say.”

“So I say.” With a faint sneer, he contemplated the poker in his powerful fist. “If a slip of a girl expects to frighten any self-respecting burglar with this, she’s a complete nitwit.”

Maggie sucked in a breath and for the first time, found that irritation outweighed fear. Her instincts told her that the intruder was too talkative to harbor evil intentions. And so far, he showed no propensity to violence, apart from stealing her poker.

“It was merely a precaution,” she said stiffly.

“A waste of time, you mean.”

How she wished she’d biffed this outspoken lout when she had the chance. Humiliated color heated her cheeks. That was the only warmth in the room. The hall was icy. “Have you come for any purpose, other than to be rude, sir?”

Unexpected amusement lifted the corners of his mouth. “You took me by surprise when you answered the door in such dishabille.”

She took him by surprise? That was rich. “I came down in a hurry, because I was worried that someone might be in trouble.”

His wry smile shouldn’t ease her fears. After all, there was no rule saying thieves and assassins must take life seriously.

He reached over to set the poker on top of the chest near her candle. Relinquishing the weapon was another good sign.

All right, perhaps this burly visitor wasn’t about to knock her on the head and ransack the house.

“While I assumed you’d know who I am.”

“I don’t have that pleasure,” she said sarcastically.

“I’m Joss Hale.”

The name was clearly supposed to mean something to her. She drew in a deep breath and struggled to sound polite. Joss Hale mightn’t be a bandit, but he was still an unmannerly toad. “Are you lost, Mr. Hale?”

“No.” He raised his lantern and subjected her to a thorough survey. Something about his interest as he took in the sight of her made her wrap her shawl more securely around herself. Maybe he wasn’t here to steal the silver, but theft wasn’t the only crime a man could commit.

Her chilled fingers flexed with the urge to grab the poker once more. Not that she had a prayer of keeping him at bay. He was the size of Ben Nevis and just as thickly covered in snow.

“Are you injured?”

“No.”

She bit back an annoyed exclamation. It was too cold to stand about playing silly questions. “Then what are you doing here?”

Vaguely she was aware that she wasn’t acting like a servant, but he’d given her a nasty scare. She might have decided he wasn’t about to murder her, but she was still badly rattled. And dear heaven, how she wished he’d stop staring at her.

“I’m expected. And why the devil you couldn’t leave some lights on for me, I can’t fathom. I only found this blasted house through sheer luck.”

She bit back a protest at the bad language and frowned. “Expected?”

“Yes.” He set the lantern on the chest and took off his hat, releasing a gust of snow onto the flagstones. His black greatcoat was also covered in white. “Pray send for the housekeeper, Mrs. Carr. She’ll know all about it.”

Before her abrupt awakening, Maggie had been dreaming about her parents. Now hearing this oaf mention her mother made her wince. “Mrs. Carr is my mother.”

Impatience thinned the man’s mouth, long and firm above a rock-like jaw shadowed with black whiskers. “I’m delighted to hear it. So can you fetch her?”

“She’s been dead five years.” Maggie was too on edge to soften the stark words.

The man looked startled. “I was told to ask for her.”

“I’m Miss Carr.”

“You’ll have to do, then.” He didn’t sound pleased. Too bad. He wasn’t the one whose feet were freezing on icy flagstones. She rubbed one foot over another in an attempt to restore circulation. Her toes ached with cold. “Have a man look after my horse, and I’d like a brandy and some hot food in a room that isn’t like a bloody ice cave. Perhaps you could get a footman to lay a fire in the library or drawing room.”

Who on earth was this demanding brute? Maggie tightened her grip on her shawl, wishing she’d coshed him with the poker, instead of letting him into the house. Not that she’d invited him. He’d pushed his way in, without a by-your-leave.

She drew herself up to her full height. Unfortunately, she was only five feet five, while the stranger must be at least six foot three. The ice she injected into her voice was colder than the air around her. She ignored a whisper at the back of her mind, warning her that if he knew the name of the house and its housekeeper, he might indeed have a right to be here.

“Mr. Hale, before you take over the whole place, would you care to explain what you’re doing here?”

His eyes, dark and deep-set, so in the uncertain light she couldn’t make out their exact color, sharpened on her. “Good God, girl, you’re freezing.”

Her lips tightened. “Mr. Hale—”

He scowled at her from under thick black brows. “Go upstairs and put on something warm at once.”

“You have no right to give orders, sir,” she snapped. “As if I’d let a stranger roam about the house without supervision.”

He released a longsuffering sigh. “And while you’re supervising me, you’re turning a fetching shade of blue.”

“What color I turn is none of your concern.” She winced at how childish she sounded.

“I give you my word, my purposes are honest.”

“And how am I to know that, other than you telling me so?”

“Oh, for pity’s sake. God save me from obstinate women.” He reached forward and grabbed her by the waist, flinging her over one brawny shoulder. She landed on her stomach, punching the breath from her lungs. “Where’s the nearest fire? You’ll catch your death, if I don’t take you somewhere warm.”

Pounding on his back was like beating at the mountain he so resembled. “Put me down!”

She kicked him, but in this undignified position, it was difficult to gain momentum. He caught up the lantern and laid one powerful arm across her thighs, further restricting her movements.

“Where are the kitchens? I assume you’ve got a fire there.”

“I’ll have you up on a charge,” she spluttered, as he moved along the corridor.

“Never mind. I’ll find them myself. I’m an architect, and any architect worth his salt can find the kitchens.”

“I insist you put me down,” she said breathlessly, as he started descending the stairs.

Oh, dear, this was rather disorienting. She closed her eyes and ignoring the dictates of pride, clung to the back of his thick wool coat, damp with melting snow. Although how snow could melt in this temperature, she had no idea.

“Stop your griping, woman.” He swung around the landing, making her stomach dip. “Where in blazes are the servants?”

Heavens above, was it safe to admit she was alone? She was too shocked and angry to be frightened. Which was stupid. If ever a man had proven himself her physical superior, this one had.

Perhaps she was wrong about him not being a murderer, and he was carting her downstairs to kill her. Except if murder was his intention, there was nobody and nothing to stop him murdering her upstairs. And it would save him the trouble of hauling her around.

Not that her weight seemed to inconvenience him. He wasn’t even breathing unsteadily.

“Miss Carr?” Juggling the lantern, he pushed at the door to the kitchens. The wavering light increased her queasiness, so she was very glad when he strode across and deposited her in front of the banked hearth. She only just grabbed her shawl as she struggled to find her feet, although any protection it offered was purely token.

Maggie drew in a breath to tear strips off him, except the immediate warmth on her skin was too delicious. Her frozen toes curled into the rag rug and as he stoked up the fire, she felt a glorious heat on the back of her legs.

“You have no right to manhandle me,” she said, wishing she sounded as outraged as she should. Smith, the cat, raised his head from the oak settle in the corner, and cast her a disapproving look.

“I had to do something.” In a couple of strides, Mr. Hale set the lantern on the table and crossed the floor to close the door. He was so huge, he seemed to take up half the room. “You were just going to stand up there, wittering on and turning into an icicle.”

Wittering on? The nerve of the man. “If you introduced yourself like a gentleman, I might have felt up to inviting you in.”

He stomped back to stand in front of her. That strange light in his eyes persisted. Odd that it warmed her even more effectively than the fire behind her. “You can’t blame me for my lack of polite address. I was taken aback to find myself greeted by a wood sprite in a nightdress, instead of a respectable housekeeper.”

“I’m respectable.” She pushed aside a faint pleasure at the romantic description. It was too late for him to dredge up whatever shreds of rusty charm he might possess. “You’re the one who needs to establish his credentials.”

His scowl was truly fearsome. “You mean you really are the housekeeper?”

How she wished she’d waited to put on some clothes before she came downstairs. If he saw her in her dull gray gown, he’d have no trouble identifying her as a senior servant.

She raised her chin and shot him a quelling glare. That quelled him not at all. “I am, sir.”

To her chagrin, he laughed. “You don’t look old enough to be out on your own.”

Her voice turned frostier. “Nevertheless, this house is under my care.”

He shook his head in disgust. “Then why the devil wasn’t someone waiting up for me? I know I’m later than I said I’d be, but when it started to snow, you must have expected that.”

“I would have,” she said with sweet sarcasm, “if I’d had a glimmer of a warning that you were coming. Are you sure it’s this Thorncroft Hall you aim to infest?”

“You give as good as you get, don’t you?” Appreciation was the last response she expected her insolence to garner. “Is there another Thorncroft Hall? And this is definitely the valley I want. Not that anyone else seems to want it. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of another person for hours. It’s like a lost world.”

She didn’t want him dwelling on their isolation. Although she couldn’t see how to stop him discovering that they were alone. Unless she could persuade him to leave in the next few minutes.

“There’s a village about five miles further on,” she said with a trace of desperation, although heavy snow always made the way impassable and it would be unchristian to force him back out into the night.

Mr. Hale gave a grunt of bleak humor. “My mistake. Fraedale’s a bustling urban center.”

Far from it. “And there’s an inn at Tolbeath another three miles from there.”

“I don’t want a damned inn. I want to stay here, as arranged with Thomas Black.”

Oh, dear, if he knew Dr. Black owned this house, he must be in the right place. Her stomach sank, not least because if Dr. Black had invited Mr. Hale, she owed him more courtesy than so far she’d managed to demonstrate. “Not with me.”

“But Thomas Black has to be your employer. Although he doesn’t strike me as a man to entrust a valuable property to a sprite barely out of the schoolroom.”

“I’m twenty-five,” she said, before she could stop herself.

As she should have expected, that didn’t impress him. “Positively ancient.”

“I’m old enough to run this establishment.”

He looked around with a speaking expression. “Place seems completely understaffed. Now roust someone out of bed to look after my horse, and get a maid to unearth some dinner. I haven’t eaten since noon, and I’ve traveled a long and chilly way since then.” He started to take off his coat as the tall clock in the hall upstairs chimed midnight.

Maggie bit her lip. There was no point putting it off any longer. “Don’t take off your coat, Mr. Hale.”

He tilted a brow in her direction. “Miss Carr, I can prove my identity.”

She made a defeated gesture. “I’m sure you can.” He was too confident to be some random intruder. “But you’ll need to go back outside to put your horse in the stable.”

He was back to scowling again, those thick black brows lowering over his commanding beak of a nose. “What about the grooms?”

She tangled nervous fingers in the fringe of her shawl. “There are no grooms. There are no maids,” she said shakily. “I’m completely on my own here.”