What a Lady Needs for Christmas by Grace Burrowes Page B

chieftain. Dark hair—no pomade—did nothing to lighten Joan’s impression of the man.
    And yet, his waistcoat was bright, even loud plaid, along the lines of the Royal Stewart tartan.
    Charlie’s greeting effected a transformation, bringing merriment to blue eyes, and a broad smile to Hector’s face. His affection for the child and hers for him was unabashed and charming.
    “We saved you chocolates, too,” Charlie said. “Or Lady Joan did. You mustn’t eat too many sweets, or you’ll get a bellyache. Did you miss me?”
    “Fair t’broke ma heart for missing ye,” he said, setting Charlie down but keeping her hand in his.
    He was difficult to understand, having a thick Scottish burr—not heart, but hairt. Untangling his speech didn’t spare Joan from noticing the way Hector glanced at Miss Hartwell as he flattered the child.
    Fair to broke my heart for missing ye.
    Oh. Dear.
    Mr. Hartwell’s man of business—or whatever Hector was—had directed his sentiment at least in part at Mr. Hartwell’s sister. Miss Hartwell was busy rewrapping Phillip’s scarf about his face and likely missed the innuendo entirely.
    Or was polite enough to pretend she had.
    “Shall we step out for a few minutes?” Joan suggested.
    Hector’s smile faded as he treated Joan to a visual inspection. “Hector MacMillan, ma’am. I haven’t had the pleasure…”
    “Well, move aside, Hector,” Miss Hartwell scolded. “We’re letting all the heat out of the parlor, and the children aren’t getting any fresh air.”
    His expression, if anything, grew more shuttered. “My apologies.”
    Miss Hartwell got the introductions wrong, presenting Joan to Mr. MacMillan first, which was three kinds of a blunder. Joan offered her gloved hand, which Mr. MacMillan took in his bare fingers without bowing.
    “I don’t recall that a guest was to join the party.”
    “I’m not a guest,” Joan said as Margaret bustled off after the children, and two young ladies with the harried countenances of nursery maids hopped down from cars farther along the platform. “I’m a charity case. Mr. Hartwell and I became acquainted over the past few weeks in Edinburgh. When I needed to journey north on short notice, he offered the hospitality of traveling with his family.”
    “Don’t insult my guest, Hector,” Mr. Hartwell said, climbing down from the second car. “Lady Joan helped Margs with the children, and for that we must all be grateful.”
    Mr. Hartwell shook hands with Mr. MacMillan, then slapped the fellow on the back and offered him a dented silver flask. Not only did the temperature drop and the light fade as one journeyed north, but apparently manners also grew less formal.
    “A wee nip, Lady Joan?” Mr. Hartwell asked when Mr. MacMillan had declined the proffered libation.
    Joan had an older brother, and she and her sisters had been duty bound to sneak a nip from his flask. The memory was not happy, for Mary Ellen had snorted the contents of the flask into her nose, and accused Joan of trying to poison her loudly enough for Mama to hear.
    Mama had made them finish the flask, though she’d diluted the contents with water.
    Why had Joan not taken that lesson in the evils of strong spirits to heart?
    “No, thank you. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. MacMillan. I’ll see how Miss Hartwell is getting on with the children.” Those children had run down the platform, trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues and narrowly missing collisions with other travelers.
    The men moved away, back toward the second train car as the wind snatched at terms like “profitability” and “rate of return” and “damned Sassenach.”
    Joan qualified as a Sassenach—a rather cold, miserable Sassenach. She was no longer on the swaying train, and the brisk wind blew the coal smoke away from the platform, and yet, even standing still in the frigid air, Joan’s stomach was still unsettled.
    Perhaps she was a damned Sassenach after all.
    ***
    “Charity cases