Free A Highlander for Christmas by Debbie Macomber, Christina Skye Page A

here far too often.” He chuckled softly. “Samuels makes it impossible to say no to his private treasures.”
    “One tries for quality, my lord.” The jeweler turned away to aid a matron agonizing over a choker of matched pink pearls that was worth a small fortune.
    “My wife will be delighted to meet you. We both loved your design of the abalone swans set in etched silver. As a matter of fact, she should be home now, if you can spare an hour. And since you’re here I think we should talk about ideas for the display cases. After that we can make arrangements to get you down to the abbey and see the layouts first hand.”
    Maggie swallowed, feeling overwhelmed. She was intensely conscious of her well-worn blue jeans and plain white shirt. His wife would be exquisite in vintage Chanel, no doubt. Someone beautiful and exceedingly aloof.
    The old, painful shyness hit Maggie in a rush. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly visit today. I’m not dressed, and I’m sure your wife won’t want to—”
    “I insist,” Nicholas said firmly, taking both her package and her arm. Somehow Maggie was out on Regent Street before she knew it. “Kacey will never forgive me if I let you get away. Besides, we’re just around the corner.”
    Maggie followed, awkward and self-conscious. There was no polite way to escape him now. All Chessa’s fine dresses were packed in her single bag, along with the clever high-heeled sandals and elegant pumps. Today Maggie had dressed solely for herself in worn jeans, plain white T-shirt, and a simple white shirt. Her sole adornment was a beaten silver necklace inset with a single chip diamond.
    “I don’t think this is such a good idea.”
    Nicholas smiled broadly as they rounded the corner to a street of quiet town houses. “You’re probably right. I warn you, my wife will covet that necklace you’re wearing.”
    He was just being polite, Maggie thought. Hammered silver didn’t exactly go with vintage Chanel.
    “Here we are.” Maggie caught a breath as Nicholas pushed open the door. Blue shutters covered the tall windows. The tiny courtyard was explosively green, bright with climbing roses.
    Inside, the house held a delicate scent of lavender and pine needles. A set of white doves decorated the long marble mantel, nesting above sprays of holly and tartan ribbons. Even the shadows seemed warm and full of peace.
    “Kacey, I’m back. I’ve brought someone to see you,” the viscount called. “Ms. Kincade has arrived early, it seems.”
    Maggie’s heart sank. A door opened up the stairs. No doubt Lady Draycott would be tiny and exquisite. Probably color coordinated in perfect heirloom pearls and a cashmere sweater set. Or maybe a museum-quality designer suit.
    A door slammed.
    Maggie gawked at the figure flying down the steps. There was nothing stiff or formal about her. Her hands were streaked with oil paint, and her blond hair spilled about her shoulders, shoulders covered by a simple white T-shirt over a pair of worn blue jeans.
    “You’re here already?” Kacey Draycott’s green eyes glinted with good humor as she studied her visitor. “I must say, I appreciate your taste in high couture, Ms. Kincade. But I won’t shake your hand because I’m up to my elbows in oil paint.”
    “My wife is restoring a Whistler Nocturne from the Tate Gallery. Otherwise we wouldn’t have been in town today.” Nicholas’s voice was warm with pride, almost as warm as the heat that filled his eyes when he looked at his wife. He held open the door to a sitting room where sunlight spilled over bright chintz armchairs. A pair of fine rosewood end tables was covered by a dozen stuffed bears in bright tartan jackets. Children’s books were piled beneath a fig tree decorated with tiny white lights. There was beauty but no formality to the room, and Maggie felt her awkwardness begin to fade.
    Almost immediately a black-clad figure appeared with a tea service balanced on a lacquer tray.
    “Ah, Marston, come and