Charmed at Christmas Page 2

  “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?”

  “Similar in purpose, if not in construction.” Gwyn waggled her brows. “Dancing and mistletoe kisses are associated with it.”

  “Gryff and I will be happy to test it for you.”

  “Go right ahead,” she agreed. “And I hope to put it to good use, myself.”

  She held the door as the maid gathered up an armful to take out, then followed Tamsyn out into the passage.

  “Many of Gryff’s relatives are attending the wedding, are they not? She tried to sound casual.

  “Oh, yes. They are pouring into Lancarrow.” And Tamsyn had gone back to pouring over her list.

  “It is odd, isn’t it, to think that in a few days time they will all be your family too—even if you haven’t met any of them yet. Except for Lord Locryn, of course.”

  Tamsyn stopped at the top of the stairs. “Lord Locryn?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have not met him.”

  “Oh? He is Gryff’s cousin, is he not?”

  “I believe so.” Tamsyn eyed her closely. “Gwyn—have you met Lord Locryn?”

  Gwyn raised a shoulder. “Yes. Once. Long ago.”

  “When?” Tamsyn pounced.

  “Years ago—during that first visit we made here.” She glanced askance at her sister. “I know you recall the afternoon that Gryff took us all over the village.”

  Tamsyn flushed. “Of course I do. But we never met his cousin that day.”

  “I did. You’ll recall when we all went down to the docks to watch the fishermen unload their catch? You were all caught up in the singing and the flash of fish being thrown through the air, but I was not. I caught sight of Lord Locryn down where the dock ends, at the marshy banks.”

  “What was he doing there?”

  “Sketching.”

  “Sketching what? The scene? The sea?”

  “A sea holly.”

  “A plant? Lord Locryn is interested in plants? As you are?”

  “Well,” Gwynn paused. “I have no way of knowing if he still is—but he was at that time.”

  “Hmmm.” Tamsyn eyed her closely. “Fancy that.”

  “Yes.” Gwyn hitched up her basket. “Now, I’m off to find some holly, ivy and mistletoe.”

  Lord Locryn Pendarvis closed up his field glass and breathed deeply. So long, it had been. Wind and sea, fir and loam—there was nothing like crisp, rich Cornish air.

  The snick of the door latch sounded behind him.

  “Looking for something?” Gryff came to join him on the edge of the stone terrace.

  “Just birding.” Locryn did not plan to tell his cousin that his search for the Cornish chough was as much a reason for his return to Lancarrow as was Gryff’s wedding.

  “Birding.” Gryff gazed at him for a moment. “I’m damned glad to have you here again, Locryn, but I confess, I find you much changed.”

  “It’s been eight years. I should hope I’ve changed.” Locryn dredged up a smile to go with the words and saw Gryff relax. “We all must mature sometime—and look at you, getting married. You’ve no room to berate me, old boy.”

  “I suppose that is true. I just hadn’t expected you to be so . . . quiet.” His cousin pushed off of the balustrade. “Well, there will be plenty to stir you up. My father-to-be has invited half of England to these weddings. There will be dinners and tea parties and a Yule ball to go along with them, too. But for today, I’m to the quarry, to see about the new rail that’s been laid. Care to come along?”

  “Thank you, but I’ve been hoping to walk in the woods—and the weather looks to hold.”

  “Suit yourself, then. I’ll see you at dinner?”

  Locryn waited until Gryff had gone, then he stepped out into the gardens. He bit back the stab of anger that his cousin’s words had raised—and that he would never let him see.

  It was true. He was changed. He scarcely resembled the laughing, carefree lad he’d been when he was last at Lancarrow. Larks, wine, song—and most especially women—those were the subjects that had largely occupied that boy. Now he was a man, and his life was about his work, his studies of the natural world and his scholarly hopes—and the shift had begun right here.

  Hadn’t it? He shook his head. He still could not explain it.

  He’d suffered dreams at first. Tossing and turning, always the same. A shout. A whisper. Kisses should be magic. A brush of light and heat across his lips.

  Most of the time he convinced himself that it was all just imagination. A tale his sleeping mind had concocted to explain away all the strange events since. Asleep he could imagine such things as a spell, or a fairy curse.

  But awake? Awake he could not blame magic or the pixies that his aunt still left offerings for. He had to acknowledge that it was some lack in himself that caused his troubles. He’d become resigned to it. He was missing something, some indefinable element that attracted females.

  It was the simplest, if most painful, explanation—and therefore the most likely to be true. There was no refuting the evidence, after all. For no matter how often he dreamed of a magic kiss, nary a true one had touched his lips in eight years.

  Oh, women flirted with him. Even now, when he’d all but given up his own pursuit of the matter. They might bat their lashes or sway their hips, but they went no further. When it came to a kiss—they always balked. They changed their minds, they recalled other, important matters, sometimes they indulged in elaborate ruses—but they never let themselves go so far as a simple kiss.

  He’d fought against acceptance at first. He’d been so young and so very interested in kissing—and everything it led to. But the more determined he’d been, the more convoluted the games had become. A girl would trip to keep her lips from meeting with his. She would slide sideways off her horse. One had tumbled off of a bridge and into the River Cam. He’d learned his lesson at last in London, when a young debutante had stumbled into a potted plant, knocked it into the dance floor and taken down half of a quadrille in a horrifying domi
no effect.

  The incident had made him the object of gossip and scandal—and it had convinced him that he’d had enough. He’d withdrawn into his studies and work. He was older now. Mature for his years. Settled. No longer at the mercy of physical urgings.

  And if he found himself to be a bit jumpy now? Nervous? On the path that led to the ancient oak at the edge of the pixie’s wood?

  Well, that was just nostalgia, certainly.

  Wasn’t it?

  The question—and everything else—was driven out of his head when he heard something ahead.

  Voices? Near the spot that had been on his mind since he arrived back in Lancarrow.

  A voice—and feminine.

  He stepped carefully, hoping to observe before being observed, and came up behind a slight figure standing directly beneath the oak.

  A girl. She wore a cloak of rich, dusky blue and stood with her arms akimbo, facing the tree.

  Actually, she appeared to be talking to the tree.

  “You are a fine specimen,” she said warmly. “So tall and strong—and such a canopy of leaves! Nary a black fungus or twig blight to be found on you, is there?” She took a step back and craned her neck, looking high. “You’ve a fine, thick crop of mistletoe up there, too. The first I’ve been able to find all day. Surely you wouldn’t mind sharing? If I could just . . .”

  She turned and bent to pick up an absurdly long, dead branch. Locryn saw that she wore a warm woolen gown of a lighter blue, embroidered with silver and white designs along the bodice. Her hair was blonde and slipping a little on one side, which allowed the afternoon sun to pick out a few reddish highlights amongst the rogue curls. Her skin shone fair, her chin pointed delightfully and determinedly.

  She didn’t spot him and he realized his form likely blended with the nearby border of tall yews. He held deliberately still. She was . . . enchanting. He wanted to see what she would do next.

  The branch was easily twice as long as she—and unwieldy. But she fought to raise it high and aimed the end for the patch of mistletoe in the oak’s high branches. Unfortunately, even stretched as high as her slight form would allow, she couldn’t reach it.

  With a sigh she drew the branch back and held it upright, resting one end on the ground like a spear. Glancing over her shoulder, she evaluated the low, stone wall. He breathed a sigh of relief when she shook her head, rejecting the idea.

  “There’s nothing for it, then,” she declared.

  She lowered the branch and maneuvered it beneath the spreading oak, propping it against the thick trunk before standing directly beneath the lowest branch.

  The fact that said branch extended east—a good foot above her head—did not appear to daunt her in the least. She tossed her cloak over her shoulders and reached up, gauging the distance.

  “Er—hold on there.” Locryn stepped forward. “Perhaps I can be of service?”

  Startled, she whirled, her hand to her throat and her eyes gone wide in alarm.

  He continued forward. She held her ground. Her eyes narrowed, searching his face—and then she relaxed. Her hand fell away and a bright, sparkling smile spread across her face.

  “Oh, you gave me a fright! But it’s Lord Locryn, is it not?”

  He nodded and stopped. He had to. He’d rush her if he didn’t—the urge came from nowhere. Too close, too fast. He held himself in check.

  “Only today I was wondering if you would attend the wedding—and here you are, as if I’d conjured you!”

  She’d conjured something. That smile, the welcome in her dark, fathomless eyes—she called forth a burst of light in his chest, an ache beneath his ribs.

  Her smile faltered. “Oh. Perhaps you will not recall. We met once, long ago—”

  “I remember,” he said hoarsely. “Miss Gwyn. But it is Lady Gwyn now, is it not?”

  She’d changed. Grown up. No longer a shy, young girl, she stood a young woman at ease, all pleasing curves and charming confidence.

  And just like that, he was changed too. His outlook, his needs, his—

  Abruptly, panic set in. A great, overwhelming anxiety—the fear that nothing had changed.

  He cut it off. Breathed deeply. “You are collecting mistletoe? May I help?”

  Her smile returned. “That would be lovely!” She gestured toward the branch. “You have a definite advantage over me in height. Perhaps you will take up my lance and act as my knight?”

  He couldn’t help but grin. “I’ve had no formal training, but I’ll do my best.”

  Taking up the branch, he found he could reach the mistletoe with the end, but push, pull or prod, he could not convince the vine to detach.

  Eventually he tossed the pole and wiped his hands on his trousers. “As you said, there’s nothing else for it.” He grabbed the overhead branch and levered himself up.

  “Oh, do be careful!” I hadn’t meant for you to go to such extremes!”

  He glanced down at her flushed, admiring face. “You were prepared to make the climb—how could I do less?” He patted the trunk as he moved higher. “You were right earlier, this is a remarkably healthy tree.” He paused and looked under his arm. “But how on earth do you know about black fungus and twig blight? Have you made a study of botany?”

  He could see her blush from here. “No, no.” She waved a hand. “I merely enjoy gardening. With more enthusiasm than is seemly, my mother insists.”

  Locryn reached the batch of mistletoe. “There cannot exist too much enthusiasm for gardening, not in my opinion,” he called. With his knife he cut off of a long, sturdy stem and rolled it gently around his arm. “How much do you need?”

  “A couple of good long strands, if you can get them.”

  “Done!” A thought struck him and he braced himself before pulling out his field glass. He could see for miles up here, across Lancarrow, over the nearby woods and even on to Castle Keyvnor. He scanned the scene.

  “Looking for something, sir?”

  “Do you know what a Cornish chough is?”

  “The bird?”

  “Yes, the bird. The crow that is featured on Cornwall’s coat of arms, the one with the red bill and legs. It is native to Britain’s coasts, but their numbers have been decreasing, especially in Cornwall.”

  “How sad.”

  “It is,” he agreed, looking down at her. “I’m looking for signs of mating pairs, or for any sign of them in the region at all, actually.”

  “It’s a noble cause, Sir Knight—but do hang on!”

  He stowed the glass. “I’m coming down.” Retracing his route, he jumped the last bit. “Here you are.” He handed over the mistletoe and then laid a hand on the oak’s majestic trunk. “And many thanks for the sharing of it,” he said to the tree.

  Lady Gwyn flushed again and frowned a little. “I hope that is not meant to mock me, Lord Locryn.”

  “Not at all.” He hesitated. Surely he must step carefully, if he wanted this acquaintance to turn out differently than so many in his past. And he did, he wanted it quite badly indeed. But she was being so forthright, how could he be anything else? “I did hear you speaking to the tree earlier and I found it charming—for purely selfish reasons.”

  “Selfish?” she echoed, puzzled.

  He nodded. “Until that moment, I thought I was the only person who talks to trees, shrubs and plants.” He gave a shrug. “It’s odd, I know, so I only do so when I’m alone, but don’t you feel as if they hear it, somehow?”

  Her head lifted. Her frown faded. Slowly, brightly, with an air of welcome and . . . relief—she smiled.

  And Locryn walked through a metaphorical door, leaving nerves and panic behind—and embracing a painfully joyous hope, instead.

  For several long moments, neither moved. They merely stood there, smiling in recognition, undoubtedly looking like a pair of gobsmacked fools.

  Entirely appropriately.

  She broke the spell at last, moving to place the mistletoe into a basket waiting by the wall. It already con
tained cuttings of holly and ivy.

  He raised a brow and he spoke over his rapidly beating heart. “Making a kissing bough for the holiday, Lady Gwyn?”

  “Very like. I’m making a Cornish Bunch, actually.” She cast her eyes downward. “It involves kisses, I do believe, but also dancing—and a bit of a pagan ceremony, as well.”

  “Pagan.” He widened his eyes and used the excuse to lean closer to her dainty, elfin face. “Lady Gwyn, you are not a druid, are you?”

  She laughed. “No, more’s the pity. Would that not be interesting?”

  “It would be fitting for a resident of Keyvnor, I imagine.”

  “Alas, I am nothing so exotic—and still too different for my mother’s tastes. But it’s the differences I’m interested in.”

  “Differences?”

  “Yes.” She shrugged. “Things like the Cornish chough. And the Cornish gilliflower, too.”

  He must have looked blank, for she forged on. “It is an apple tree—known to grow only in Truro, where we lived before Keyvnor. Why only there, I would like to know?” She waved a hand. “I like to know the unique things about a place. The plants that grow, the foods that people eat and traditions that they follow and words that they speak. All the differences that make a place like Cornwall special.”

  Somehow he knew that her heart was beating as fast as his own. “Yes,” he said softly. “The differences.” He took a step closer. “And the similarities.”

  She nodded. “Those can be . . . fascinating, too.”

  Fascinating.

  She gave herself a little shake. “Well, if you are interested, perhaps you’d like to join us this evening for the ceremony? According to our housekeeper, it should take place at midnight. My sisters and I and a few early wedding guests are planning a late tea and a bit of festivity.” She looked up through her lashes. “Gryff will be there. Tamsyn has promised to take care of the kissing portion of the thing, in any case. We should love to have you, as well.”

  His heart echoes her hopeful smile and he nodded. “Thank you, I should like that.”

  Dancing. Kisses.

  Differences.

  She was the difference—between his dry, lonely past and his happy, fulfilled future. He knew it.