Page 20 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

Below, time began to roll forward again.

Lord Locryn started and looked around for the girl he’d been about to press his kiss upon.

Trudie cried out, her eyes wide and fearful at finding herself sprawled suddenly several feet away. “Enchantment,” she breathed. “The Pixies! It must be!”

Thistle saw both doubt and denial in Lord Locryn’s face. He stood, but the girl shook her head. “We’ve angered them, to be sure!” She rushed back toward the house.

He looked around for a long moment, then followed in her footsteps.

“That was quite a spell, Thistle. Complicated and layered. I could tell from here.” Derowan looked at her in awe. “Are you sure you know what you are about?”

“It would have been a travesty,” she insisted. “It would have trivialized the true glimmer of love he was fortunate enough to feel today. Should he stop to think, surely he wouldn’t wish to cheapen such a gift.” She pursed her lips. “He will realize it now, will he not?”

The dryad sighed. “Perhaps. But I hope it works as you think it will.”

Thistle suffered a first niggle of doubt. “Well, he does visit here often. I shall just have to keep an eye on him.” Sadness suddenly welled up inside of her. “I think I need to be alone,” she whispered. As she was destined to remain, now and forever. She bit back a sob.

“Come by tomorrow,” Derowan called as her friend drifted away, in the direction of the sea. The dryad patted the sturdy trunk of her tree, made newly glad of its solid warmth and comfort. Slowly she headed for the multi-branched heart of the oak.

She jumped a little when she got there and found a pair of large, round, whitish eyes blinking down at her.

“Oh, it’s you, Morcom!” Another Pixie, he was strongly affiliated with mistletoe and other clinging vines. He often came around to check on the mistletoe that bonded with her oak. For his sake, she had not rooted it out. “What are you doing up there?”

Even for a Pixie, Morcom was odd-looking. Long and woody brown, with those great eyes and green ‘hair’ that looked rather like an untidy gathering of the long, lobed leaves of English mistletoe. “Have you been there this whole time?”

“Yes.” He looked in the direction her friend had disappeared. “Thistle is sad?”

“Thistle is lonely, I think.”

“Thistle is . . . kind. And so colorful. She should not be lonely,” he said with determination.

“Some things cannot be helped,” Derowan said with a sigh.

He did not answer. Or move. So Derowan sighed again and went to rest in the top branches of her tree, beneath the brightness of the full moon.

CASTLE KEYVNOR

Lady Gwyn Hamblyheld the small box in her hand. Long and thin, it was a pretty thing, painted in the blue and green colors of the sea. She lifted the lid, cast a glance over her shoulder, then surreptitiously stroked a finger along one of the delicately dried blossoms within. Long faded, they still held the power to make her heart skip a beat, both with that long-ago thrill—and with a long-lasting longing.

“Shall I take that, Miss, and add it to the pile?”

The maid was gathering some of her things, as Gwyn was to share her sister Rose’s chamber for a few days. Castle Keyvnor, nearby Hollybrook Park and Lancarrow, even the village inns at Bocka Morrow were filling with wedding guests, and space was at a premium.

“No, thank you.” She reached for her roomy garden basket and set the box inside. “I’ll take care of it myself.”

The door swung open and her sister Tamsyn bustled in. “Gywn? Oh, good. I was hoping you were clearing out. I believe Mother wishes to put the Goodenham girls in here.”

“What’s this? You are one of the brides, Tamsyn. You should be fussing over your trousseau or exchanging loverly glances with your groom, not worrying over the guest room checklist.”

“My trousseau is glorious, as you well know. It is also packed and ready to be transferred to Lancarrow. Gryff is busy with estate matters—and Morgan and Blackwater are taking care of the mooning. I believe they are in the west parlor with Rose, ignoring her and gazing longingly into each other’s eyes.”

Gwyn ignored a stab of jealousy. She and her sisters had all recently discussed the matter—and agreed that the double wedding—and the resulting flood of titled and well-heeled guests—was the ideal time for the still-single Hambly girls to search for husbands. And she would dearly love the chance to act the mooncalf over a set of lover’s eyes. She glanced down at the thin box. Especially if they happened to be a brilliant lavender-blue.

Tamsyn followed her gaze and eyed the basket on Gwyn’s arm. “What do you mean to do with that? I know you enjoyed the planning of your garden project these last weeks, but it is December, dear, and chilly outside. And the hot house blooms are all bespoke for wedding decorations.”

“I’m going out to collect greenery. Mrs. Bray mentioned that out here, they keep to the old customs at the holiday. I thought it would be fun to make a Christmas Bunch.”

Tamsyn’s eyes lit up. “It’s like a kissing bough, is it not?”

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