Saving a Lady...with Maggie Robinson and Giveaway

Saving a Lady on Christmas Eve - Maggie Robinson

Maggie Robinson is a former teacher, library clerk and mother of four who woke up in the middle of the night, absolutely compelled to create the perfect man and use as many adverbs as possible doing so. A transplanted New Yorker, she lives with her not-quite perfect husband in Maine, where the cold winters are ideal for staying inside and writing hot historical romances.

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Aspiring couturier Fleur Murray is far from home on Christmas. Good thing there’s a Scottish gentleman to keep her spirits up. Evan Raeburn appears briefly In the Heart of the Highlander, and this just might be the start of his own book!

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5 rue Auber, Paris, December 24, 1904

Fleur’s fingers were so stiff she had difficulty putting on her gloves. She had been sewing since before dawn, and someone would be delighted with the results. Someone would have a new gown to wear for Christmas dinner. Someone would have a Joyeux Noel.

Fleur was not that someone. She was far from her Highland home, about to spend the holiday alone in a tiny garret room with a spirit stove and limited hours of daylight. Not that she was usually there often to watch the sun’s winter dimness move across the bare floors—she was toiling at M. Paul Poiret’s new atelier from dawn to dusk, stitching seams on shockingly odd dresses. She had come to Paris to learn her craft, and learning she was. Whether any of her new-found knowledge would translate to ordinary Edinburgh women was doubtful. The price of M. Poiret’s Japanese-inspired kimonos were twice the yearly salary of the average scullery maid, and she could think of no one she knew who would ever wear harem pants.

It was Fleur’s dream to make affordable clothing for young working women. Why should the rich be the only ones to have stylish garments? Her self-imposed year in Paris was half-way done, but she was wondering if her dream would ever become reality.

She stepped out into the dark street. Winter had its icy claws on her immediately. For a woman who sewed for a living, her own coat was sadly inadequate. She shivered all the way to the Metro station, only to find a chain across the steps and a sleet-soaked sign hanging from it. Her French was improving, and with a sinking heart she read that the underground was closed.

“Bloody hell!” Fleur turned at the rude words. A tall gentleman stood beside her, slapping the wet from his top hat. The street lamp shone on his disordered auburn hair. “And not a hackney in sight. Bloody French.” He seemed to notice her for the first time. “Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle. Je suis—oh, damn. How in the bloody hell do you say ‘sorry?’”

“ Je suis desole. Or excusez-moi works just as well.”

His mouth dropped open. When he recovered himself, his red cheeks warred with his red hair. “You’re Scottish!”

“Aye.” She’d noticed his accent immediately. “What brings you to Paris?”

“My brothers. Both newly married. Both insufferably happy. I had to get away. And you?”

“I’m working for M. Poiret.”

“Who?”

“He designs dresses.” This man looked like he was an expert in removing them. “Well, I have to be going. Happy Christmas.”

His hand shot out. “Wait! How are you getting home?”

“My own two feet.”

“Let me escort you. Paris is a dangerous place for young ladies.”

In Fleur’s opinion, he might be dangerous too. He was well-dressed and obviously well-to-do, and probably took advantage of every young woman he encountered.

“I’m fine, really.”

“Nonsense. How can I let a countrywoman fend for herself in this sewer? I could be saving your life.” Somehow her arm got tucked into the crook of his and she was stumbling in the direction of the next arrondissement.

“You don’t like Paris?” It was inconceivable to her that anyone wouldn’t, especially if they had the money to amuse themselves.

“I shouldn’t have left. I don’t like cities.”

He proceeded to tell her all about Raeburn Court and his manor house nearby, the family distillery which he managed, his brother the baron and his other brother the famous artist, the frozen lochs and the snow-covered the mountains. Fleur swallowed back her longing for home.

“There will be no bannock cakes and bonfires here, I’m afraid.”

He stopped dead in the street. “I say, miss—what is your name, anyway?”

“Fleur Murray.”

“I’m Evan Raeburn. Would you like to get something to eat?”

Fleur was starving, but all the restaurants they’d passed were shuttered. “Don’t you have plans?”

“Do you want me to go back to the Ritz and pace the floor? I feel penned in there.”

Fleur took a breath. “I’d invite you my place, but if you feel confined in a sumptuous hotel room, you won’t like my attic.”

“Try me. Do you have kippers?”

Fleur nodded. “I have a tin of fruitcake from my nan, too.” It was a taste of home she’d been desperate to dig into as soon as it arrived in the post, but she was saving it for Christmas Eve.

“And I,” said Mr. Raeburn reaching into the pocket of his coat, “have chocolates.” The box was from a fancy shop Fleur could never afford, wrapped with a ribbon, intended for someone. Fleur decided she’d eat some and worry about that later.

“And a flask of Raeburn’s Special Reserve,” Mr. Raeburn continued. “You’ve never lived until you’ve had a wee dram. Take pity on an old Scotsman.” He looked down at her and grinned.

He didn’t look old at all, or quite so dangerous now. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to talk to someone without having to translate words in her head? Meeting Mr. Raeburn on the street was a kind of surprise Christmas present from Scotland, wasn’t it? She wondered if he’d rattle if she shook him.

Fleur nodded. “All right. But you must promise to be a gentleman.”

Evan Raeburn lifted her chin with a gloved fingertip. “I’ll try. But I’ll nae make any guarantees. You are a verra lovely lass.”

Fleur’s stomach did a little flip. Well, the kippers would soon settle that. And as a “lovely lass,” she’d had plenty of practice protecting her heart and her virtue.

But it was Christmas, and anything could happen.

Ever since Mary Evensong’s elderly Aunt Mim got sick, Mary’s masqueraded as the owner of the Evensong Agency, finding housemaids, husbands and solving pesky problems for the peerage. Someday she’d like to shake off her silvery wig and spectacles and be the young woman she truly is. But desperate clients are waiting for “Mrs. Evensong” at the office.

Like a scandalous Scottish baron. Honor forbids Lord Alec Raeburn from explaining the suspicious circumstances surrounding his wife’s death, but he knows who’s responsible. He just needs to hire an actress to lure the scoundrel into a trap.

After listening to Raeburn’s story—and seeing him in his kilt—Mary knows the perfect person.

Letting her red hair down, she heads off to the Scottish Highlands to pose as a seductress, but soon finds herself with more than her virtue at stake in a tug-of-war between two powerful men. She could wind up in danger—or in the heart of the highlander.

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• 1 copy of In the Heart of the Highlander

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