Page 46 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

Still, he was nothing next to Gwyn. She was a snowy owl, her mask a masterpiece of variegated feathers and a sharp, black, down-turned beak. She wore a high ruff of white and silver feathers. Her white gown, tattered with the scissors, complimented it all perfectly.

“Wait,” he paused. “Your wings?”

“I couldn’t get them attached without help.”

“Ah. Allow me?”

A quick tie at the shoulders and the wrists, and she trailed wings of white and grey.

“You look stunning.”

She twisted and turned, admiring the swoop of the new addition to her outfit. “I couldn’t believe it when I opened that box. How did you ever accomplish all of this so quickly?”

“With my aunt’s help. She is an amazing woman. And she protected the process, as well, arranging it so that no one could tell what we were doing.”

“How?”

He shrugged. “I have no idea. She has the Sight, you know. She says it behooves her to also know how not to be seen.”

She nodded, but her gaze kept running up and down his form. “Our colors are so similar, we look like we go together.”

Swallowing, he took her hand. “We do. We absolutely go together, Gwyn. And we’ll be together—tonight and for all the days and nights ahead. I have a plan. It will work, we’ll make sure it does—and we’ll make sure we can spend our futures together.”

She inched closer. “Paul says we must kiss.”

He laughed. “A witch told me the same thing.”

“A witch?”

“A friend of Aunt Morwen’s.”

“I should not be surprised, I know,” she said with a sigh. Her tone lowered. “Should I perhaps, take off my mask, then?”

“Not yet. Not here.” He reached for her other hand. How tempting it would be, to try. Perhaps . . . He shook his head. “No. We asked for help from those who understand these matters for a reason. We’ll stick with the plan.” He glanced around and a quick, cold shudder ran through him. “In any case, we’re entirely too close to the Pixie barrow, for my comfort.”

She looked up and around as well. “You don’t think we’re alone?” she whispered.

“Doubtful.” He smirked and bent close to her ear. “Although I did pay a footman to leave my room dressed in a different guise costume, an hour ago. Let’s hope he led our ill-wisher, whoever or whatever it is, astray.”

Her eyes grew wide behind her mask. “You didn’t!”

“I did. He should be wandering around the gardens at Keyvnor right about now, and I fervently hope our enemy is following him.” He bent to whisper to her again. “The witch says that the stroke of midnight is our time. Let’s go have some fun before then.” He stepped back and tied his mask back into place.

“Locryn?” she said as he took her hand and they set off for the village.

“Yes?”

“What costume is the footman wearing?”

He knew she couldn’t see his grin, but it stretched wide beneath the badger’s face. “He’s a Cornish chough. What else?”

CHAPTER7

It wasa night made for magic. Hand in hand with Locryn, Gwyn made her way to the village, reveling in the warmth of his grip compared with the cold, crisp air, basking under the starlit sky and the passion in his regard.

The streets of Bocka Morrow were alive with sparkle and magic too. Revelers laughed and danced and sang. Many wore costumes. Some did not. Gwyn and Locryn sang carols with a group near the church and sang Wassail songs with another group down by the Crown and Anchor. They huddled together on a bench and ate fresh roasted chestnuts from a cart vendor. A great roar called them and others to the performance of the traditional play of Saint George and the Dragon. And when it was done, they held hands and marched along with the other costumed villagers in a procession through the town, laughing and accepting accolades for their inventiveness and skill.

“All of those compliments are for you, my lord,” she said coquettishly as she spun around with her wings outspread. “And I add my own to them.”

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