Charmed at Christmas (Christmas at Castle Keyvnor Book 1) Page 5

  She felt the sudden urge to reassure him, but he was looking after Lord Locryn. Following his gaze, she saw a red-billed crow trailing the man, fluttering from tree to tree.

  “Oh! That bird is back. Come on, Morcom. We have to keep it from interfering.” She popped out, in pursuit.

  Lady Gwyn did intercept him before he reached her garden.

  “Good afternoon,” she called. “I’m so glad you made it!”

  He believed her—and it did things to him, to be truly welcomed with smiles and shining dark eyes. So many old wounds smoothed over. His old shell of isolation shattered under the sense of happy anticipation that danced in the air each time he saw her.

  “I would not have missed it,” he vowed.

  The hunger he felt for her ached like a gaping maw inside of him. He wondered if she might sense it, be frightened by it—but there was an intensity in the way she looked back at him that made him hope she felt the same way.

  For a brief time, he just enjoyed the budding warmth that echoed between them, but after a moment, he shook himself and looked over his shoulder. “Tell me, do you have guests in the Castle who might have brought their children?”

  “I don’t believe so,” she frowned. “Why?”

  “I saw a young boy out in the gardens alone. He looked young, though he didn’t act it.”

  “Was he in the rose garden?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  Her gaze darted back the way he’d come. “Did he seem distressed at being alone?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Well, then, I daresay he’ll be fine.”

  “He did know enough to direct me here. I suppose if he needs help, he’ll show up.”

  She glanced back again as she pulled him along. “Yes. In the meantime, come and see my little project.” Her lips pursed. “It’s not much to look at yet, being December, and since we’ve only been at Keyvnor a couple of months. But I did make what use I could of the fall planting season for trees and shrubs.”

  “I’m excited to see it.” She was rambling a bit anxiously, which he found adorable. “And I’m honored that you would wish to show it to me.”

  Her cheeks pinked delightfully and she nodded and beckoned him on.

  He stopped when the path turned, then opened up into a fan-shaped corner plot. “Oh, capital.”

  She waited, her hands clasped before her tightly.

  “That’s a grand Davey Elm.” The tree was old, centered in the middle of the far border, and surrounded by a low, stone hedge wall where shade-loving species could flourish in the shade.

  “It’s a beauty, isn’t it? It was already here, of course, and it inspired the idea of surrounding it with a local Cornish garden.”

  He entered, gazing around, seeing it all lush and green in his mind’s eye. “Are these saplings the apple tree you mentioned? The one that grows in Truro?”

  “They are. I hope they will flourish here. We’ll see.” She tilted her head. “You have a good eye.”

  “I am a naturalist,” he said, smiling.

  “Yes, Tamsyn mentioned it, I remember. Are you studying anything special?”

  He looked up and turned about. “There.” He pointed. “Him.”

  She looked—and her mouth dropped. “Is that the same bird?”

  “I believe so. He followed me through the woods.”

  “From the Pixie’s barrow?”

  Grimly, he nodded.

  She said nothing for a moment, then swallowed.

  “I still mean to study him, or some of his friends,” he continued. “I hope to prepare an extensive report on the chough’s habits, and on what might be behind their disappearance from our coasts.” He could not help the hint of pride that colored his tone. “I’ve had the honor of discussing the idea with Sir Joseph Banks, himself. He feels that a comprehensive paper would help secure a spot for me in the Royal Society.”

  How wonderful,” she breathed. “And then?”

  “Then?”

  “What are your dreams? You love the work, it seems, and surely you have goals, ideals for your future. Or do you plan to leave it all behind when you inherit your father’s title?”

  “No. My father is young, still, and healthy as an ox, thank goodness. I have years and years before I have to worry about taking on the marquessate.”

  “So? What will you do?” She gave him a head to toe look that stirred his blood. “You don’t seem the type to loll around, waiting.”

  “No. You are right.” He raised a shoulder. “I mean to travel. The world is full of so many varied things. I want to see the rare lichens in the Yorkshire Dales, the Scottish primrose that only grows in the Highlands and travel to America to see a skunk.”

  “Oh, yes, and that plant they have there, along the coast, that eats insects!”

  “Exactly. I would happily sail to Madagascar to see a Baobab tree or to Africa to see the things that live in the papyrus swamps.”

  “All the differences,” she said, her eyes shining.

  He stepped forward, utterly drawn to that glow.

  But she glanced nervously at the chough and dropped her gaze.

  His heart lurched. He felt as unsteady as a colt on new legs—and as starving for warmth and comfort.

  “Speaking of differences,” he said softly, to give her a chance to recover. “I see that this raised bed is filled with a mix of sand and soil.” He strode over. “Are you going to try for some coastal or maritime specimens?”

  “I hope to. We do get a great deal of wind here. If I can replicate the soil correctly . . . I hope it will work.”

  “What will you plant?”

  “Oh, as many as I can fit. Kidney vetch, sea pink, cowslip.” She glanced at him through her lashes. “Sea holly.”

  He stilled. “You do remember.”

  “I’ve never forgotten.” It came out a whisper.

  He stepped closer and her color deepened, but he was thrilled to see her hold her ground. “I remember how sweet and shy you were. How your bonnet had fallen back and the sun shone through your hair. You rivaled it for brightness and beauty.”

  “I still have the flowers you plucked from that sea holly. The colors of the blossoms faded, but my memories never did.”

  He took a tentative step toward her. Slowly. Carefully. So that she could see the care and concern he felt.

  And the desire.

  “Perhaps you don’t care for the talk of travel?” he asked.

  “What? No. It sounds lovely.”

  “I suppose there would be people to deal with. Crowds.”

  “I can’t imagine any great crowds going in search of lichen or into swamps. And it would always be new people, would it not? Unless you chose to travel and keep company with someone you . . . got on well with?”

  “Ah, but there lies the other part of my dream, Gwyn.”

  It was the first time he’d left off her title and called her by her name alone. She flushed—with pleasure, he hoped.

  “Would you like to hear about it?”

  She nodded.

  He breathed a sigh of relief and pulled her to perch upon the low hedge wall at the back of the plot, near the elm. The packed stones and their collection of mosses spoke to the age of the thing.

  “Honestly, I think a life of adventure and study of those differences you are so drawn to, would only be made complete by a certain set of similarities.”

  “Which ones?” she asked faintly.

  “Charming conversations to ease the boredom of a long coach ride. A pretty, smiling face to come home to. The snap of red-blonde hair in the wind, beneath the sails of a ship.”

  Her breath caught.

  He leaned in, his joy and hope knotted up with tense anticipation. “There is only one problem.”

  “Oh?”

  “There’s only one girl I’ve met who comes with the right delightful mix of differences and similarities. Only one who matches me and my interests.”

  Still, she studied him,
waiting.

  “I know she likes old oaks and young cats and ancient traditions—and sea holly. But I’m still not sure how she feels about me.”

  He held his breath as she raised a brow. “Perhaps you will get lucky and she will show you how she feels.”

  He never got to form an answer. Her hands were gripping his coat and pulling him down to her. Her head tipped up and her eyes drifted closed . . .

  “No!” Thistle’s whisper sounded loud in the quiet grove just behind the elm. She gripped Morcom’s arm. “There goes that wretched bird again! It means to interrupt them again! I have to stop it!”

  Morcom frowned. Stop the bird? Or stop the kiss? But Thistle popped out—and then reappeared right in the path of the chough where it arrowed in on the couple. The bird drew up, startled, but only long enough to circle around her.

  Thistle recovered, reached out and grabbed a handful of tail feathers.

  The beleaguered chough squawked. It was angry now, but she raised a finger and pointed it at the bird. It cried out, and retreated, but only long enough to circle around and head back.

  Thistle gave chase. Morcom looked back at the human couple. They were inches away from accomplishing that kiss.

  No. The man should kiss Thistle. It was what she wished, was it not? Just look at how she’d emerged from her long melancholy—now when at last the human had returned. She was animated again. Talking. And fixed on the man. If she wanted him, she should have him.

  Morcom would do what was needed to make her happy.

  But what to do? He cast his awareness across the area where the pair sat. Ah. There. In the crevices of the wall. Closing his eyes, he concentrated.

  Locryn’s heart soared. At last. The long wait had been worth it, in the end. He bent his head—

  “Ow!” Gwyn’s head jerked back.

  He stiffened, scanning the sky around them, but there was no sign of the chough.

  “Oh! Ouch!” Her head jerked again, and stayed back, leaving her chin thrust toward the sky. “Something grabbed me!”

  He stood and stepped around her. A few locks of her sun-filled hair had tumbled down her back. He looked closer. Had they been pulled down? She had several long, creeping vines of ground ivy tangled in there.

  “What is this?” He grabbed up the vines, being careful not to pull her hair, and ripped them away.

  Even as he watched, another inched from a crevice in the rock, attached itself to her skirts, and started to climb.

  With an angry curse, he pulled her away from the hedge wall. “Enough!” he shouted. Turning, he pulled her close and craned his neck, searching in every direction. “That is the outside of enough!”

  “What is it?” she asked. But she didn’t move from his embrace.

  “I don’t know what crimes I committed against you, but whatever they were—I have paid long enough! I will stand for no more of this interference!”

  Gwyn frowned up at him. “Whom are you speaking to?”

  He groaned and set her away. “You’ll think me mad!”

  She stared around. “No, I rather think I’ll believe you.”

  “I scarcely believe me.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I do live in a haunted castle.”

  He blinked down at her. Could he tell her?

  Heaving a sigh, she stepped back and shook her head. “Locryn, my sister Rose has been entertaining a wedding guest. He wears a ring that he claims will banish or destroy ghosts. She believes him.”

  She gestured back toward the main section of the gardens. “That boy you met in the rose garden? Most likely it was Paul Hambly.”

  He frowned. “The old earl’s son? But he died . . .”

  “Yes. He did. But his spirit lingers and Tamsyn has become quite friendly with him. She even credits him with helping her to reunite with Gryff.”

  Anger surged. “Why should the spirits help Gryff, then, but hinder me?”

  Her brow wrinkled. “I remember what your aunt said about that bird. Not natural. Sent. Do you believe that ghosts are interfering with . . .” She blushed. “With us?”

  “I rather thought it was the Pixies, since it all began at Lancarrow.” His eyes widened suddenly. “And it was on the very day that we met, for the first time.”

  “Tell me,” she urged.

  He did. All of it. Every embarrassing, shameful bit.

  She listened. She asked intelligent questions. And she made no mention of Bedlam or priests. All of which made him fall ever so much deeper and harder in love with her.

  “All of that cannot be coincidental,” she mused. “It does sound as if something or someone is working against you. But why?”

  “I don’t know. I confess, I was a randy young buck, but no more than any other lad my age. And I never mistreated a woman.”

  Her calm acceptance strengthened his sense of ill use—and his resolve. He reached for her hand. Just her touch set his heart to stumbling. The thought of never going further? It was not to be borne.

  “I admit, in the past, I just . . . gave in. Stopped trying. It was easier, less painful. But not now. I don’t want to let you go.” His tone lowered as he searched her face. “I can’t.”

  “Don’t.” She took his other hand. “Please, don’t.” She stepped into the curve of his arm and tucked her head against his chest. “Surely there is something we can do.”

  “There must be. There will be.” Determination surged in his chest. “But we will have to fight, I fear.”

  She lifted her chin and smiled at him. “Fight for us? There is nothing I would rather do.”

  He ached to kiss her. But what might happen? He couldn’t put her at risk.

  “First, we must discover what we are up against.”

  “Maybe Paul will help? I’ll get Tamsyn to ask him.”

  He nodded. “It can’t hurt.” He looked away, toward Lancarrow. “We need someone with knowledge beyond ours. You start with the ghost child. I’ll go to my aunt.”

  Thistle popped back in next to Morcom and found he hadn’t moved. “I had to chase that bird all the way back to the barrow wood. What did I miss?” She leaned over a branch to look down. “Did they do it? Did they kiss?”

  “No.”

  She slumped. What had happened? “Are they leaving? Oh, but he’s holding her hand.” She held her breath, hoping they would kiss on parting.

  They both looked pale and solemn, and when they reached the main path they faced each other, spoke for a moment, then went their separate ways.

  Thistle sat back heavily, bowed in defeat. Why would Lord Locryn not kiss that girl and set them both free?

  “Thistle?”

  She looked up. Morcom knelt before her. He took her hand, just as Lord Locryn had done with the girl. His strong brown hand dwarfed her smaller, greenish one.

  “I’m sorry for that girl’s pain,” he said. “But Thistle—do you know how much we’ve missed you? You’ve been here in Cornwall, but you’ve felt far away.”

  “We?” she asked dumbly. She’d never heard Morcom say so much.

  “All of us. The little acorn sprites miss your songs, the ones you used to sing when the ocean breeze wafted all the way to the barrow. We all miss your smile. The crabs on the beach ask me why you won’t chase them anymore. The sea birds—their memories are so short that they can’t even recall how you used to race them down the coast.” He dropped her hand and touched a lock of her hair. “Even your hair has faded.”

  He stood. “You bring joy to so many. You deserve to be happy.” Looking toward the wood, he said, “I’ll see to it.”

  When had Morcom grown so passionate? So full of strength? So handsome? How had she never noticed?

  He popped out and she blinked. And she sat, stunned, until the shadows grew and the sun drifted behind the trees.

  Chapter 5

  Gwyn wasn’t able to get a moment alone with Tamsyn until after dinner. She invaded the privacy of her sisters’ shared bedroom and found her preparing for bed.

&
nbsp; “Where is Rose?” Tamsyn asked.

  “I don’t know. I swear she grows more reclusive by the day. I think she’s spent the day hiding from everyone.”

  “From everyone?” Tamsyn asked pointedly.

  “Well, she does seem to be hiding specifically from the Earl of Snowingham, although she also seems to be . . . interested in him.” Gwyn sighed. “I wish her better luck than I have had.”

  Tamsyn looked sympathetic while she removed her jewelry.

  “Ugh.” Gwyn shaded her eyes as the candlelight in the room flashed from her sister’s brooch. “That thing is going to blind me. The Eye of India, indeed.”

  “I know, pretentious sounding—but it is a beauty, is it not?” Tamsyn set the piece on her dressing table. “I would feel better about it if Uncle Timothy had sent Morgan something as well. I understand I’m the oldest, but we are both marrying. It feels odd—especially as I’m supposed to wear the thing each day before the weddings.”

  “I wouldn’t worry over it,” Gwyn told her. “Morgan doesn’t seem bothered.”

  “I know. Still . . .” Her words trailed off and she yawned. “I know the castle is full, but I can never seem to find a maid when I need one.”

  “Here, let me.” Gwyn stepped behind her sister and met her gaze in the mirror as she started to remove pins from her hair. “You’ve been so busy, no wonder you are tired. I’m sorry to have to bother you, but I have something I must discuss with you.”

  “Does it involve Locryn?” Tamsyn teased.

  “Yes.” She flushed. “Among other things. I need your help.”

  “You know you have it, dear. What is it?”

  Gwyn told her the entire story. When she had finished, Tamsyn’s hair was brushed and shining—and she wore an intrigued frown. “It doesn’t exactly mirror what happened to me, but there are enough similarities. I’d say someone or something . . . different . . . has taken an interest in Locryn.” Her mouth twisted. “I am sorry, Gwyn. I cannot imagine not being able to kiss Gryff.”

  “It’s more than that. If a kiss is not allowed, what else might happen? Are we endangering one another just by falling in love? Wishing to be together?”