Page 48 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

“Then why is he trying to prevent Locryn from breaking free of my foolish spell at last? Doesn’t he know that once Locryn is free, then I’ll be free to—” She closed her eyes.

“To pursue your own happiness?” Derowan asked gently.

“Yes! How can I chase happiness and leave that poor man in misery?”

“I think that Morcom is confused. He’s preventing that human from kissing the girl because he thinks . . .”

“What? What?”

“I believe that Morcom thinks that you want the human male for yourself. That you want his kisses for yourself.”

Thistle’s mouth dropped. “No!”

The dryad nodded.

“How could he—what would make him—” Thistle clapped her hands over her brow. “Oh, it all makes sense now!” She stared at her friend. “Why didn’t he justsaysomething?”

Derowan smiled. “Morcom communicates with his deeds, not his words.”

“Ohh,” Thistle groaned. “He does! I know that! Why couldn’t I see it? He’s been telling me all along!” She stood up. “I must find him.”

“He’s probably in the village,” Derowan shrugged. “That’s where your two lovebirds are.”

“Not at the castle? How do you know?”

“They met here.” The dryad pointed. “Down below. They left for the festivities at the village.” She cocked her head. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to talk to Morcom,” Thistle said firmly. “In his own language.”

CHAPTER8

A veritable floodof villagers had somehow pushed between him and Gwyn. Locryn couldn’t see her any longer. Nor could he call for her—or even curse the blue streak that he longed to let loose—because it appeared he’d somehow lost the power of speech. Something was pushing at him, keeping his words locked inside.

A woman bumped into him on the way past. “Apologies,” she called as she was swept on. “Everyone wants to see the bonfire—it seems I’ve been caught in the tide!”

Damn the bonfire. Damn the crowd. But most especially, damn the entity working against them.

Whoever, whatever it was—they would not win.

He dove into the living stream of people, fighting the current they made, struggling to push through and losing ground. He was being pulled inexorably in their wake. He fought on, determined to break through, but he stopped suddenly mid-struggle, listening intently.

“Chi-ow!”

He looked up, but the sound came from the ground, not from on high.

“Chi-ow!”

It wasn’t the damned bird. It was a high-pitched imitation of its call. Gwyn!

He waited, but the call did not come again. It sounded like it had come from the edge of the village, right where the tide of people was trying to take him. He stopped fighting and let them sweep him away.

The crowd parted when they reached an open area and he was dumped like so much flotsam near a bonfire, built large and waiting to be lit. A man stood nearby with a torch, but he shook his head at the calls of the crowd. “Wait for the church bells,” he yelled back. “We light up at midnight!”

Locryn pushed his way amongst the throng, searching for Gwyn. He knew the call had come from her. Who else?

He paused in the midst of the crowd and experimented, trying to make the call himself. “Chi—” He got that far, grinned and threw his head back. Perhaps if he wasn’t making actual words . . . “Chi-ow!”

He got one call out, loudly, before the force around him tightened. Now he couldn’t make any sounds, but he turned all the way around, searching . . .

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