Sometimes all it takes is one goat to make a difference …
Being thrown from his horse two days before Christmas is only slightly colder than the chilly reception Hudson Comerford, fourth son of the Marquess of Waterbury, expected on arriving at his family’s estate in the Cotswolds. Finding a goat stuck in the undergrowth and just as lost as he is, leads him down a path he never expected to take.
Percival “Mercy” Cooke served in the Royal Navy for the better part of two decades before coming to his newly widowed sister’s rescue. The perils of duty have never quite left him, even if he’s more than made a home for himself as the proprietor of The Sunken Ship Inn. When a pre-Christmas blizzard blows a delectable fellow into the common room, trailing a goat of all things, Mercy finds he’s been more alone than he knew.
When Hudson’s family duties rear their ugly head, can one very determined goat make it a Merry Christmas?
He wasn’t expecting much, maybe a few battered tables with equally battered old men sitting and drinking, perhaps the Earl’s coat of arms hanging on the wall, and a proprietor who would want him gone as soon as possible but would change his mind for a bit of coin.
What Hudson got when he walked through the door was an impressively large front room, the wood shining, a carol playing on a harp over the absolute din of all the brightly dressed people inside, the scent of roasting meat, and an absolute explosion of Christmas decorations. Festive greenery was everywhere, intertwined with red ribbons, and a tree decorated with baubles stood in one corner, well away from the cheery fire in the hearth. More garlands and ribbons were wrapped around the frames of paintings that adorned the walls, each one depicting a wooden sailing ship on the ocean.
The packed room stopped talking and turned to look at him as he stood just inside the door, covered in mud from head to toe, his clothes in tatters, and carrying a stinking goat.
Not his most glamorous moment.
“Welcome to the Sunken Ship!” boomed a deep voice.
A man with dark auburn hair, slightly greying at the temples, and with a truly impressive set of sideburns, walked up with his arms wide. He wore a loose-fitting white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a brown waistcoat, and black trousers. He towered over Hudson, who didn’t consider himself short in the least, and had wide shoulders with the build of someone used to hard work.
He wasn’t a classically handsome man, but he was the most intriguing fellow Hudson had ever clapped eyes on. He couldn’t look away. And here Hudson was, holding a goat. Mistletoe bleated sadly.
“I have a goat,” Hudson said, his tongue thick at being faced with such a specimen of a man as this one.
“You do indeed!” The fellow clapped his large hands on both of Hudson’s shoulders. “I’m Percival Cooke, though most call me Mercy. This is my fine establishment.” He patted down Hudson’s arms before letting go, though part of Hudson rather wished he’d continued on. “You are soaking, Mr ...” Mercy quirked an eyebrow.
Hudson hesitated, covering the moment with a cough. He couldn’t just burst out that he was Mr. Hudson James Comerford, fourth son of the Marquess of Waterbury, sadly lacking any courtesy titles. “Hudson,” he finally managed. “Just call me Hudson.”
“Hudson!” Mercy exclaimed. “A fine name.”
For the first time in his life, Hudson actually liked his name. Fancy that.
“Put that poor wee beast down by the fire and come have a bowl of something to get yourself warm.”
“His name’s Mistletoe.” And he was far from wee, but Hudson wasn’t going to argue the point with someone who could probably pick up and cuddle a draft horse.
Tables were stuffed haphazardly into every bit of space, and Hudson had to weave through them to reach the roaring hearth. Fresh sawdust covered the floor, sweet-smelling as his feet crushed it. Heat spilled from the fire, nearly making him sweat. As he knelt, a young woman in an apron appeared with a blanket.
“I’m Margie,” she said. “One of the barmaids.” Blonde ringlets haloed her head, and she had the kind of smile and tits that meant she probably made a tidy sum from the patrons. “Here we go.” She laid the blanket down. “Mercy’s sister is a deft hand with a needle, and good with frightened animals. She’ll fix him right up.”
