A Yorkshire Christmas Read Online Free

climbed in, breathing in the scent of dog and sheep and man, not an unpleasant combination of aromas.
    Noah got in the driver seat and slammed the door before wiping the water from his eyes. “Not pretty out there,” he said, and Claire murmured an agreement.
    Then he started the car and drove away from the farm, down a long, curving, snow-covered lane.

Chapter Three
    ‡
    N oah slid a sideways glance at Claire Lindell and suppressed the flare of curiosity he felt about this woman, a fish out of water in a Yorkshire farming village. She wore jeans and a sweater, but even he could tell they were both expensive. Her long, dark hair framed a pale, oval face with large gray eyes and a surprisingly full mouth. When she’d taken off all her wet things he’d felt a kick of attraction low in his belly that had taken him by surprise. That was the last thing he needed, especially for a woman whose boots looked to cost more than his council tax.
    He focused back on the road, the snow and rain flying right into the windshield as he turned onto the narrow road that connected Ledstow to the highway. After about five minutes of careful driving, he saw a car with its front buried in the hedge, the rest of it already covered in freshly fallen snow.
    “Did you lock it?” he asked, and Claire blinked at him, as startled as a rabbit caught in the headlight of his Rover.
    “Yes—”
    He held out his hand. “I’ll get your things and put them in here,” he explained and he could tell she was a little wary of his offer. Maybe they did things differently in America.
    “Okay,” she said after a moment, and fished her keys from the pocket of her parka. “Thank you,” she added, an afterthought, and he nodded and then stepped outside into the storm. No need to get cozy with Claire Lindell.
    He unlocked the car and grabbed her handbag, a canvas hold-all that looked like it was full of papers. Her suitcase was Gucci, and even he recognized that name. So his suspicions had been on the money, literally. She was rich. A rich, city girl.
    And he steered clear of rich city girls.
    He dumped the bags in the back of the Land Rover and got back in the driver’s seat. Claire was shivering, even though he’d left the engine running and the heat on. Her jeans, he realized, were soaked. Should he have offered to lend her some clothes, back at his place? That seemed a little familiar, and he sensed that just driving her to her car had been pushing boundaries with this woman. Although she’d been perfectly polite, she exuded a kind of brittle formality; her shoulders were set stiffly, her posture perfect. Maybe she was worried he was some kind of serial killer, or maybe she was just prissy.
    Either way, she’d be out of his life in ten minutes.
    “Holly Cottage,” he said, and turned the Rover around, back towards Ledstow.
    They drove in silence, the only sound the crunch of the tires on snow. Against his better judgment, Noah snuck another glance at his passenger. She was beautiful, in a quiet, poised sort of way. She held herself very still and erect, and yet there was something vulnerable and even sad about the curve of her cheek, the sweep of her lashes.
    Noah grimaced at his fanciful thoughts. His brother David used to tease him about the red squirrels and baby sparrows he’d nursed back to health as a kid on the farm. He’d been a sucker for a sad face, and that was what had got him in so much trouble. He didn’t want to know Claire Lindell’s story, sad or not, and yet as he turned down the road that led to Holly Cottage he asked,
    “So, what brought you to Ledstow?”
    A hesitation; he felt it. She didn’t want to tell him anything? Fine. He didn’t want to know.
    “My godmother owns Holly Cottage,” she finally said, and he heard how crisp and cultured her voice sounded.
    “Ruth Carrington is your godmother?”
    She glanced at him, gray eyes wide. “You know her?”
    “Ledstow is a small place.”
    “Of course.”
    “Holly