Page 1 of A Scoundrel Under the Mistletoe
Chapter 1
“Madam,” began the innkeeper with regret in his voice, “I’m sorry to say that every room is taken. The storm has brought unexpected travelers, and we have no vacancies.”
Mrs. Joy Sinclair’s eyes widened with worry at the thought of spending the night on a hard chair or worse, in a stable filled with straw, not much warmer than the snow outside. She shuddered at the idea of discomfort and impropriety. “And there are no other inns nearby?” she asked, trying to sound lighthearted despite her growing unease.
“Unfortunately, not for miles,” he replied sympathetically, shaking his head.
A man stood up from his table in the corner, scraping his chair against the wooden floor. He was tall and dark-haired, with a neatly trimmed beard that revealed his strong jawline. He nodded at Joy, then spoke to her and the innkeeper. “Madam, if you cannot find lodging, you may stay at my home. It’s not much, but it’s warm and clean.” Despite his brief sentences, his sincerity came through loud and clear.
“However,” he added with a hint of humor in his raised eyebrow, “I’m afraid I don’t cook. We’ll be on bread and cheese if we can’t make our way here.”
The innkeeper smiled, relief softening the crease between his brows. “I’ll have my wife bundle up what’s left of that roast you just had, Mr. Russell.”
Joy’s heart fluttered with relief at the unexpected offer. A small smile played on her lips as she nodded at the stranger. “Your generosity is truly unexpected. I will do my best not to be a burden if you’ll have me as a guest.”
At any other time, she wouldn’t consider going to a strange man’s home, but the innkeeper appeared to know him well enough, and the other people at the tables looked to be guests of the inn.
“Then it’s settled,” Mr. Russell declared, nodding once firmly as he put on his coat, a practical rather than fashionable black wool garment. “We should leave soon. The snow doesn’t seem to be letting up, and the path to my house can be treacherous in this weather.”
The innkeeper disappeared into the back room and returned a few minutes later with a cloth bundle, which he offered to Mr. Russell. “My wife added some tea and biscuits. I’m afraid we can’t spare any milk, however.”
“How kind. Thank her for me,” Joy said.
“Let us depart,” Mr. Russell said, his words muffled slightly by the woolen scarf he’d wound about his neck. As they stepped outside, the door closing behind them with a definitive click, Joy braced herself against the frigid air that assaulted them. Snowflakes danced like delicate feathers caught in a whirling gale, blanketing the world in ethereal white.
“Here, allow me,” Mr. Russell offered, his hands, devoid of gloves yet seemingly impervious to the chill, reached out to assist Joy onto the horse whose reins were being held by a boy. His touch was firm but gentle, ensuring she was seated as comfortable as possible sitting aside on a man’s saddle, before he handed up her single bag. She could not help but note the quiet strength in his movements, the economy of motion that spoke of a man accustomed to self-reliance.
Mr. Russell led the way, his figure a dark silhouette against the swirling snow, his footsteps sure and unhesitating. Joy clutched the saddle’s pommel, her hair peeking from beneath her bonnet, strands teased loose by the wind’s insistent fingers. The horse plodded obediently behind the man, its breath misting in the air, hooves crunching in the freshly fallen snow.
The cold nipped at Joy’s cheeks, while the rest of her was swathed in layers of warmth—her cloak, her resolve, and something less tangible, a budding sense of curiosity about the man leading her through the storm.
Looking at the amount of snow piled on the road and surroundings, Joy found herself questioning the advisability of her actions. Here she was, a widow of more than a year, embarking on an adventure that would surely be frowned upon by her friends. Yet, what choice did she have? Spending what could be days at a table in an overcrowded inn wasn’t a sensible choice. She could almost hear the wrath her late husband, William, would have raised knowing she’d done so. He’d likely disapprove of her going home with a stranger now, too, but the innkeeper’s ease in the suggestion gave her comfort.
“Nearly there,” Mr. Russell called over his shoulder, his words barely audible above the howl of the wind.
Joy shivered as a gust caught the hem of her cloak. She thought about her employer, the formidable Lady Peasemore, who expected her to arrive by the end of day tomorrow. A written letter would likely be delayed the same as she was, so there was no point in writing. Word would spread about the halting of travel, so the lady would hear somehow.
The journey to Mr. Russell’s seemed to last both an eternity and only a moment before he halted in front of a modest cottage that exuded a welcoming glow from the large front window. He’d clearly left a fire banked in at least one room. Dismounting with his assistance, Joy trudged through the snow carrying her bag, nearly slipping on the steps to the door. She felt the rush of warmth envelop her as they stepped inside, chasing away the icy tendrils that had wrapped around her bones.
“Thank you, Mr. Russell,” she said.
“Make yourself at home,” he replied as he crossed the room and threw more coal on the fire. “I must put up the horse.”
As Joy ventured further into the room, her gaze swept across the interior. She was immediately drawn to the numerous paintings that adorned the walls. There were landscapes bathed in golden light, portraits that seemed to peer into one’s soul, and the single still life was so vivid she could almost smell the fruit depicted on the canvas.
The art warmed the space in a way that went beyond the hearth’s heat, adding layers of comfort that helped ease her nervousness at staying in a strange man’s home.
“You have a fondness for art,” she remarked.
He paused near the door and offered a nod, his expression unreadable. “It keeps me occupied,” he said.
“You painted these?” She hoped she didn’t sound too surprised. Something in his manner had her imagining him to be a builder or blacksmith, not a painter.
He merely grunted and closed the door behind him.
Joy turned back to the paintings, their allure holding her captive. She unbuttoned her cloak and draped it on the back of a chair near the fire. Her gaze was drawn to a door left ajar. It whispered an invitation, revealing a sliver of a room beyond, where the soft light caught on the jumbled peaks of canvases scattered about a work table.
A whisper of curiosity nagged at her, urging her to explore. She had always harbored a fondness for art, though her own talents were weak compared to Mr. Russell’s. The room seemed to beckon her, promising secrets of his character. Yet, as she took a tentative step closer, Joy’s heart faltered, caught between her curiosity and the propriety she liked to think she valued so strongly. It wasn’t proper to go snooping through another’s belongings, least of all a man—a man who was but a stranger, albeit a kind one.
