Page 40 of The Secret Christmas Library

Mirren lay in bed, absolutely freezing, and more than a little hungry. Even though she had stoked up the fire and closed the curtains, it wasn’t enough. The temperature had plunged; she could see her breath in front of her whenever she moved away from the fire.

At first, running upstairs, she’d been hot, cross and bothered, but she’d cooled down rapidly, still horrified by the double whammy of realising she felt something for sad, conflicted, handsome Jamie, and then immediately having those feelings dashed by that absolute dipshit Theo.

Theo, who had now managed to make her this upset twice, which meant that the second time was absolutely her fault.

She groaned to herself in hopeless embarrassment.

Oh, God. Of course she shouldn’t have flirted with him like that.

She’d been trying to imply he was missing something, but it had completely backfired.

For the first time, thoughts of the book completely fled from her head, and she lay down, staring at the draped curtains of the dark red bed, utterly frustrated with herself.

And freezing. She would need to get out of bed and put some extra clothes on.

Of course doing this made her instantly need a pee, so she zoomed down the corridor as if this was completely normal and she’d always done it.

It was too cold to sit on the toilet seat.

There was no noise in the passage, but from very far away she could still hear some strains of music.

They must still be down there. Mirren smiled ruefully to herself, washing her hands in the freezing water.

He’d never change. She hadn’t wanted him; she’d just wanted . . . she had just felt . . .

Well, she could say it, here in this huge rackety empty palace, in the depths of winter. She’d felt so, so lonely.

She headed back from the bathroom, her eyes adjusting.

With no more snow, and a full moon flooding in through the window at the far end of the passageway, you could see quite distinctly.

The house made noises, here and there, but she was no longer afraid.

Sad, quite furious with herself, but not afraid.

Back in her room, she stood gratefully in front of the fire, and pulled open a drawer at random, finding some old jerseys inside, which she simply put on, as well as an old pair of socks. Normally putting on some absent or dead stranger’s socks would have freaked her out. Not any more.

She grabbed a blanket off the bed to go and look out of the window. The moon was absolutely ridiculous. If she’d had her phone she would have been tempted to take a picture. Which then, of course, wouldn’t have come out – would have been as crap as everyone else’s pictures of the moon always were.

But it was extraordinary. It had opened up a silver road on an unusually calm sea ahead of her; it was flat, like a pond. Looking at it, Mirren thought of old stories about creatures from other worlds walking down moonbeams like this, and realised she was just going to scare herself.

But it was clear enough outside to see the snow, sparkling in the moonlight; the sheer edge of the cliff, just below her.

No birds were abroad, no creatures, everything tucked away cosily, hibernating in caves and holes, covered in leaves, or safely far away in southern climes.

There would be badgers, she supposed, snuffling through the dark winter woods; a fox, left thin in the cold.

But here, at the very end of the world, there were only grey bumps on rocks far, far below, which might be seals, or could be nothing at all.

It was a world full of mystery and magic, and felt, suddenly to Mirren, better.

It was so much bigger than her own worries.

Just as being here at Forres had made her feel far distant from her petty problems in London, looking out on to the broad, pitiless stars gave her, at least, a sense of perspective.

There were, after all, far worse places to be.

She glanced at the door and thought, at last, of Jamie.

Of when they were lying, side by side, his long legs stretched out, Roger was now carefully curled up on his chest in complete defiance of his stated treatment of the dog as a working animal, the worried look on his face chased away by sudden starts of laughter, like sunshine after clouds.

Oh, it would have been stupid anyway, she told herself.

She was basically trade: a shopgirl, a maid.

The idea of her, Mirren Sutherland from south London, and Laird Jamie McKinnon of Forres Castle – it was laughable and absurd.

She didn’t even know where in this place he was sleeping.

Miles away. In a completely different part of the castle from the help.

Or he might be in Bonnie’s bed, right now. They were miles apart. Miles.

Standing right outside her door, Jamie once again cursed his cowardice.

He had loved chatting . . . he had found her so easy to talk to.

No falseness, no pretending to be interested in hunting and fishing and shooting, or horses, or money, or the City, or what Lady So-and-so was doing, or capital gains tax or laying down bottles .

. . the kind of people he normally met; the women who showed an interest until they got up close to the house and realised it wasn’t at all what they’d hoped for, and neither was he.

He wasn’t a romantic laird in a book. He was a slightly messed-up bibliophile with a tendency to look on the negative side of things.

But with Mirren – they could talk about books.

And puzzles. And real things. She was just so easy to be with, and such fun.

She cheered him up. And when he had seen her all curled up in his grandfather’s big bed, so immersed in her book that she hadn’t even heard him come in .

. . well, it was cold, but it wasn’t that cold.

She’d given him an absolute jolt; he’d felt, suddenly, incredibly attracted to her.

And on the other hand, he’d met a million Theos.

He didn’t think a single one of them was good enough for her.

But her reaction . . . it had given him hope.

Had it? The way she’d looked at him; the outraged denials.

Was he being ridiculous, thinking there was something there?

He was envious of Roger, who had immediately walked over to Mirren and licked her face.

He didn’t even know what he was doing in this corridor.

Just a stupid urge to be nearer, really.

To continue their conversation, now it had started.

As he approached, silently, he realised how ridiculous an idea it was.

Theo might even be in there now, although the faint strains of music from downstairs suggested not.

God knows what he was getting up to with Esme – although better that than Mirren, he supposed, and at least if he was with Esme he wasn’t annoying Bonnie.

But even so. He was also being completely inappropriate. She would be fast asleep, and think he was an intruder. Because he was behaving like one.

With a lump in his throat, Jamie took one last longing look at Mirren’s bedroom door, and retreated on soft feet, not realising someone was on the other side of it, staring at it with equal, fervent longing.