Charmed at Christmas (Christmas at Castle Keyvnor Book 1) Page 4

  “In years long past, this day was recognized for the rebirth of the child of the sun—and we celebrated new life given by the Gods.”

  Locryn shot a look at Gwyn. “That was long ago, Aunt.”

  “We have long memories here at Lancarrow,” Morwen said to Gwyn.

  “I’m glad you do,” she answered. “It would be a terrible shame to lose all knowledge of the old ways—and it’s even better to see them alive and well.”

  “Bastardized—but alive,” the older woman said with a shrug.

  Before she had to worry about a response to that, movement at her feet distracted Gwyn. A tiny puffball of a kitten had wandered over and was winding itself around her legs, purring contentedly.

  “Oh, are you not the sweetest thing?” She swept down and scooped it up. It was a grey striped tabby with big blue eyes. “So young to be out exploring, especially with so many people about!” she said to it. “Where is your mother?”

  “Long gone,” Morwen said shortly. “He’s my cat. My companion.”

  “Oh! Do forgive me.” She offered the kitten up.

  “He seems content.” Morwen looked her over thoroughly. “We wouldn’t mind if you came over to visit us sometime,” she said abruptly. Then she turned and drifted off.

  “High praise, indeed,” Locryn said. He sounded like he meant it.

  The kitten chirped agreement, then wiggled to be free. She set him down and he wandered off after his mistress.

  Gwyn exchanged amused glances with Locryn before they were all called to the toast.

  “Now people will tell amusing or dramatic stories of the past year,” Locryn told her.

  He stayed with her during the storytelling, and during the performance that came afterward.

  “Guise dancers,” he said at her questioning glance as a gorgeously costumed group swept into the hall. “It’s a local tradition here, in the village on Christmas Eve. Elaborate costumes and masks are worked on all year.”

  “They look it,” she said admiringly. “I’m particularly taken with the fox.”

  “Animal masks are common, as are fancy lace veils. The faces are almost always covered.”

  “They look like they wear dress clothes, but ragged ones.”

  “Yes, torn clothes that the quality might wear, or might have worn in the past, are part and parcel of the tradition. There are also songs and poems and performances of old skits and new. Lancarrow servants always take part in the festivities. Some of them have developed a new performance and wished to rehearse it here today, before debuting it in the village.”

  It was a lively farce and she laughed along with the crowd, but part of her was also intensely aware of how close Locryn stood, how her body reacted with prickles of skin and shivering little thrills each time he touched her arm or whispered in her ear.

  The hall grew warm, and she felt warmer still with each small interaction. She shifted, growing uncomfortable, and felt the whisper of a cool breeze brush across her cheek. She turned to see terrace doors nearby, opened a crack. Locryn’s gaze followed—and then met hers.

  “Shall we take a turn outside, just to get away from—”

  “Yes, please!” she interrupted.

  He laughed. “Let’s go now, while everyone is involved in the play.”

  They slipped out, followed by an eruption of laughter. Gwyn sighed as they made their way across the terrace. “Oh, that is a relief.”

  “It’s chilly,” he said solicitously. “Shall I fetch your cloak?”

  “No, thank you. It feels nice, so crisp and clean, and not crowded.”

  “I’m not fond of crowds, either.”

  “My mother tells me I must grow accustomed to them.”

  His smile faded a little. “Ah. Thinking of a Season in Town, is she?”

  Gwyn sighed. “She has five daughters. I daresay she thinks of little else except how to marry us all off.”

  “And you are not so enthusiastic?”

  “Oh, I’ll need a husband. There’s no getting around it, so I’ve resigned myself to it, and decided to make the best of it. There will be compensations in the looking, I hope. London has the parks. Kew Gardens. The museums.” She shot him a glance askance. “I’ll investigate all the differences, you see. Perhaps you’ll share your insights? Tell me what I must see, to know what makes London unique?”

  “I’d rather show you.”

  Had his voice deepened, just a bit?

  “That would be lovely. I’d rest easier, knowing I had a friend there.”

  “You will, if ever I am in Town.”

  “It’s the ton I worry about. Mama tells such stories. She makes them sound so critical, as if they are all just waiting for you to make a mistake so they can pounce on it.”

  “That’s true enough.” He sounded a little bitter.

  “Oh, dear.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not helping, am I?” He glanced over his shoulder, as if checking to see if anyone could hear them. “Actually, I have a secret for dealing with the more difficult members of the ton.”

  “Oh?” She waited a moment. “And do you plan to share it?”

  He hesitated. “If you promise not to tell anyone else, I will.”

  “I hereby swear a solemn vow,” she said, placing a hand over her heart.

  He nodded. “Well, the beau monde contains more than its share of . . . er, strong personalities. To keep from growing frustrated or annoyed with them, I’ve taken to imagining them as something else . . . as a rare sort of mixed species.”

  Gwyn was intrigued. “How does it work?”

  “Well, there is one much-vaunted lady matron who favors feathered turbans. She also makes it a habit to look down her long nose at anyone she deems unworthy—most people, in fact. When I am forced to be in her company, I picture her as a toucan—with a ruffled plume in back and a long, colorful bill in front.”

  He surprised a giggle out of her. “Oh, my.” She grinned. “Tell me more.”

  He considered. “There are a number of gossips in London,” he mused. “The worst is actually a young Town buck. A terrible young man, he does little save gamble and spread the latest scandal. I’ve seen him scramble across a ballroom in search of a juicy tidbit—just exactly like the books describe the movements of a capuchin monkey.”

  “Oh, I’ve seen pictures of them—so darling!”

  “Yes, well, picture one in breeches and a coat, chasing on dits instead of fruit.”

  She laughed right out loud, imagining such a creature scurrying about, from group to group.

  He watched her with an odd smile on his face.

  “What is it?” she asked, suddenly feeling awkward. “Why do you stare?” She shrugged. “I like to laugh.”

  “As do I.” His mouth quirked. “But not nearly as much as I like to see you do it.”

  “I doubt many others in London will feel the same.” She sighed. “I know I will set a step wrong and set everyone to talking. It’s why I do not look forward to the marriage mart. The balls, the routes, the Venetian breakfasts. The crowds.” Pursing her lips, she confessed, “I’m afraid I just prefer plants to people.”

  “I know just what you mean. And, I know just the thing. Follow me,” he indicated a direction. “It’s only a little way.”

  She did, accompanying him around the corner and descending into an open courtyard. Huge pots stood artfully about, filled with fantastic topiaries. Two gorgeously carved trellises roofed with latticework shaded one entire corner.

  Gwyn spun around and went from one living masterpiece to the next. “How lovely!”

  “Yes. You should see it in the summer. It is a veritable bower of flowers.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “This is my aunt’s special retreat—Gryff’s mother.”

  “Oh. I know her mobility is restricted, so I’ve just barely met her. But now I can’t wait to speak to her again!” She took a seat on a bench, pointedly leaving plenty of empty room. “I must say, I find myself growing qu
ite jealous of Tamsyn.”

  “Why?” He answered her unspoken invitation and took the seat next to her.

  “She’s gaining so much, marrying into your family.”

  He looked into her eyes and his demeanor grew serious and intent once more. “Dare I hope that I am included in that assessment?”

  Silence stretched taught between them, fraught with possibility—but only for a moment.

  “I should hope so,” she answered. “For that is how I meant it.”

  The tension around his eyes eased, and suddenly his arms were around her. She hadn’t an inkling how it happened, but she didn’t care. Her own hands were griping his coat.

  A sudden breeze whirled through the courtyard. It teased a stray curl and she felt it tumble to brush her cheek.

  He watched it fall, as mesmerized as if it were a miracle in the making, then he leaned in and reached for the curl. He traced a finger down its length and then ran it across her collarbone when he reached the end.

  She sighed in pleasure.

  Moving slowly, he tucked the curl behind her ear. She could feel his breath on her skin, where the curl had been. Tipping her head back, she stared up at him in another wordless invitation.

  His hand settled, cupping her jaw. He leaned in. She closed her eyes. Her heart thumped, sounding loud in her ears.

  Wait. The woosh of her heartbeat was growing . . . louder? Nearer? Less rhythmic?

  “Chi-ow!”

  Her eyes snapped open. That cry sounded dangerously near!

  “What?” Locryn was looking up and beyond her. “Duck!” He shoved her back and out of the way—just as a great, flapping mass of black feathers darted in, crying and hovering just where they’d been about to meet.

  “A Cornish chough?” He sounded alarmed, frustrated and disbelieving.

  The bird fluttered, beating its wings, squawking in agitation. Gwyn wrapped her arms around her head.

  A door slammed open behind them.

  “Shoo! Shoo! Great, nasty bird!”

  She felt, rather than observed, someone chasing the chough away. When the flapping retreated, she peeked out to meet Miss Morwen Cardew’s baleful eye.

  “Now what have the pair of you been up to?” she demanded.

  “I was merely showing Lady Gwyn the courtyard,” Locryn protested, his eye on the bird where it perched atop the lattice. “She’s interested in gardening and I knew she’d enjoy the topiaries.”

  “Never mind what you were enjoying.” Morwen rolled her eyes. “Who have you annoyed?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Aunt.”

  “Birds don’t just attack like that without a reason. That was not any sort of natural behavior. That bird was sent.”

  He stiffened, while Gwyn stared.

  “Mmmm hmm.” His aunt merely met his gaze with a raised brow. “Well, if you don’t know now, then I suppose you will soon enough. In the meantime, you’ve all drawn more than my attention.” She stalked off toward the house.

  Startled, Gwyn watched her go, and saw a host of curious faces staring out at them while fingers pointed up toward the still-fidgeting bird.

  “Come, Lady Gwyn.” Locryn held out a hand to her. “I’ll return you to your sister.”

  “Thank you.” It came out calmly enough, even though she felt a little panicked at the thought of leaving things like this. “Perhaps . . . I hope you won’t think me bold . . . but perhaps, after church tomorrow, you’d allow me to show you the garden plot I’ve been working on?”

  His hand, gripping hers, squeezed tighter than strictly necessary. “I would like that, very much indeed.”

  She smiled in relief and their gazes held in gratifying communion. As they reached the house, she was able to enter with a smile.

  “What happened?” Thistle looked wildly at Derowan. They were perched in a topiary sculpted to look like a swan, and peeking out from behind a wing. “They nearly fixed it! And almost completely by their own efforts! I barely had to do a thing!”

  “Propping that door open and sending in that breeze was a masterful stroke, though,” Derowan said loyally. “Exactly what was needed.”

  “But they didn’t kiss! Whatever possessed that deranged bird to act so? I don’t understand!”

  Derowan didn’t answer, but she did glance uneasily into the gardens.

  “They have to kiss, Derowan. I think it might be the only way to break my spell. The only way we will both be free.” She dropped her head and buried her hands in her hair.

  “Well, they did make an arrangement for tomorrow. There’s that. Surely they’ll get the job done, then.”

  “I’ll make sure of it,” Thistle vowed.

  “Well, we know when and where to find them.” Derowan paused. “But, Thistle, let me ask . . . when was the last time you saw Morcom?”

  Thistle stared after the couple.

  “Thistle?”

  “What? Oh, Morcom? Several months ago, I think?”

  “The last time he coaxed you to the dancing at the burrow? On the night of the full moon?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Morcom has been very good about looking after you, Thistle. I know he brings you little seedlings. He tempts you into being social. He’s trying to cheer you up. Perhaps you should thank him.”

  “Yes.” Thistle nodded but her face was still turned toward the house. “I will do that,” she said absently.

  Derowan sighed and looked again back towards her oak. “Yes. Please, do.”

  Chapter 4

  That damned bird was following him. It had to be the same one. Locryn had cut through the woods just like Gwyn and her sister did yesterday and he’d picked up an avian shadow when he passed the grove where the Pixie barrow stood.

  He glared up at the chough as it perched on a branch just ahead of him. “If I were a different sort of man,” he told the bird, “I would take great pleasure and fitting revenge in stalking you, my fine, feathered friend, and I would interrupt just as you were showing all of your fine plumage and attempting to impress your mate.”

  The bird squawked.

  “You interfere with me today, and see if I don’t,” Locryn threatened.

  He marched on, trying to forget his aunt’s words yesterday as he crossed the stream, hurried through the wood, and into Castle Keyvnor’s extensive gardens. He paused there, unsure. He had not made specific plans to meet Lady Gwyn. Should he go and ask after her at the castle? He was not familiar with the layout of the gardens, although he knew they were extensive and included a maze. Sleeping rose bushes surrounded him at the moment, but there looked to be a main path up ahead. He started toward it.

  “You are looking for Lady Gwyn, aren’t you?”

  He spun around, then relaxed as a boy peeked around from what would be a bank of roses, in the spring.

  “Yes. I am. How did you know?”

  “Oh, I heard her talking to Tamsyn about it. Lady Gwyn came out to the gardens just a while ago. You’ll find her plot if you follow that path, then take the second turn to the left.”

  “Thank you.” The boy spoke well for one that looked so young. Locryn looked around for a nurse or a playmate. “Are you out here alone?”

  “Yes. I’m just saying goodbye to the roses.”

  Locryn frowned, but before he could respond, the boy continued. “Don’t worry. It’s quiet out here on Sundays. Lady Gwyn is waiting for you. She’ll hear your footsteps and come to fetch you before you pass by.”

  Locryn glanced toward the path. “I appreciate your help.” He turned back. “Can I—”

  He stopped. The boy was gone.

  He stepped behind the bank of roses and circled all the way around. No. The child had disappeared.

  A shiver ran down his spine. With another long, uneasy glance around, he moved on.

  Thistle started as Morcom popped in beside her. “Oh, Morcom. Good day.” She remembered what Derowan had said and offered up a smile.

  “Good day, Thistle.”

 
She looked at him. Once. Twice. “You look very nice today,” she said with a little frown of surprise.

  He blinked and one corner of his mouth lifted. “Thank you.”

  “Is that a new tunic?” She couldn’t remember ever seeing him dressed in anything but drab, brown rags.

  “Yes. It is.”

  “The birch bark is beautiful. It looks so nice against your skin.” His lovely, mottled brown skin—which she’d never really noticed before. But then, he’d never worn a sleeveless tunic before, either. She had to stop herself from staring. Who knew Morcom had such nice, broad, strong-looking shoulders?

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  She looked after Lord Locryn. “I’m wondering if he realizes he just spoke to the ghost child that lives here at the castle.”

  “You are interested in that human.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes.” But she had never admitted her shameful mistake and she had no wish to do so now. “He’s going to investigate a garden filled with local flowers, hedges and trees. Everything that grows naturally around here. It’s an unusual theme for these formal gardens the humans build, is it not?”

  “I suppose so.” Morcom frowned. “The men here always tear out my ivy, vines, creepers and mistletoe.”

  “Perhaps this spot will be different. Shall we go and investigate?”

  “Yes.” He reached out and touched the back of her hand before she could pop out. “Thistle?”

  She stilled. What was that tingle—that came at his touch? They’d been friends for countless years, danced dozens of times in the revelries beneath the full moon. Truly, when she thought about it, he’d been her staunchest friend these last years, when she’d felt so down. But why should she feel a jolt now, when she never had before? She looked up. Why should she feel so restless, just at the brush of his even-tempered gaze?

  “Yes?”

  “Your hair is very beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “So is yours.” And it was true. “No one else has such hair.”

  “No.” His lips flattened. “They don’t.”