With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  On the first day of his absence, a local dressmaker had arrived at eleven and spent the rest of the day poking, nipping, tugging, and throwing lengths of fabric on Joy. By the time the woman and her assistant left, she’d felt like a hex doll.

  Since then, she had done little but wander around the huge estate, just as she was now doing, walking along the stone pathway that circled the formal gardens of Belmore Park. It was a gray winter afternoon, and the wind whipped her skirts against her legs and brown mottled leaves fallen from the hedgerows and hawthorn bushes skipped around her feet. The ripening red berries of a prickly holly bush scattered like bloodstones across her path as she headed for the yew arbor that graced the entrance to the gardens themselves.

  Over the past four days, she had walked here many times, trying to feel at home in a place where, save for Polly and Henson, she was made to feel unwelcome. She bowed her head in pensive thought as she entered the garden and slowly walked over to the stone bench on which she had spent so much time of late.

  It was a peaceful place. Two fountains spat water into the air, and as it rushed downward, pooling at the bottom, the sound was as soothing as the rush of the sea on the Sound of Mull. At least for a brief time, it gentled the uneasiness that arose from being in unfamiliar surroundings, from feeling that she didn’t fit in here, and most importantly, from her doubts about her marriage to Alec.

  One moment the image of his face would swim before her mind’s eye—horror-stricken—the way he had looked at her at first, as if she were the Devil himself. The next image was that of a man who wanted her and whose dark eyes flashed once with longing, of some need that instinct told her linked the two of them together.

  Or was that just wishful thinking? No, she thought, there was something else there. Something had told her on the day they met that he needed her as badly as she needed to have him love her. She still felt that was true. She wouldn’t— couldn’t—stay if that was not the case. But she also wanted him to love her just a wee bit. She didn’t need his whole heart, not really, only a little corner of it—a small corner of heaven.

  Now, for a brief moment in time, she could wish and she could dream and she could hope, while she sat in the gardens where nature was her only friend. It was here that she felt most comfortable, sitting as one with the plants and trees and sky, drawing from nature a strength that made her whole. She loved the out-of-doors—the flowers, birds, and animals, the wonderful magic that made a blade of grass grow, a flower bloom, and an ancient tree grow so tall it almost touched heaven.

  It was here in the gardens where, a few days before, she had first seen the playful topiary with its trees and hedges shaped like all the animals she would so dearly have loved to see. So it was here that she came to think when her welcome seemed worn out—or perhaps it was never there.

  Still lonely and a little sad, she glanced at the topiary around her, hoping to feel embraced by the whimsy of it. Her favorite was the giraffe, carved from the thick branches of a manicured spruce fir, its long neck reaching up above the lower gardens almost high enough to kiss the sky. If she had designed the gardens, she would have put it below one of the tall sycamore trees so the giraffe would look as if it had stretched its neck to nibble on the tree’s leaves. It would seem less like fantasy.

  Except for the topiary there was no gaiety to be found this time of year in the garden, no color. No rainbow of flowers bloomed this time of year, so the garden was dreary in its monotony of winter green. The plants were dulled by the cold, many of the trees skeletal, and there was little color except for those bright red holly berries, and those were few and could be found only along the walk outside the gardens.

  She folded her hands in the lap of her mulberry cashmere gown and looked past the gardens. Nowhere on the huge lake or the small pond beyond was there any ice. The weather was not cold enough, so skating was not an option, yet it was too cold and gray and dismal for any water play or boating. The fish ponds were empty, little more than dried-up rock bowls in the garden grounds. She had walked in one of the five mazes, but had found it no challenge without someone to race to the center. It was like playing hide-and-seek alone.

  She glanced past the gardens to an ancient oak. A sprawling tree, it had wide clawing branches as thick as her body. The bark was mottled and ridged by time, wind, and weather. The tree had character. Witches believed that the wonder of life flowed like a magic river through the thick trunk of a tree. The older the tree, the stronger the power.

  The only other time Joy could remember feeling so sad and hopeless was after her parents’ death. She stood and moved over to the tree, stopping in front of it and craning her head to look up to its very crown. She wrapped her arms around the wide trunk and laid her cheek against the bark. Slowly, her weary and saddened eyes drifted closed. She thought there was something soothing about hugging a tree. It was almost like the soft touch of a mother’s comforting hand, like nesting in a smile or being held close to someone’s heart.

  A few minutes later she sighed and pushed away from the trunk. She turned, smiling wistfully. Perhaps things weren’t so tragic after all. Walking along the garden path, she kicked a small rock along in front of her until it bounced against the base of the stone bench.

  She sat down once again, looking around her. Her gaze wandered upward to the fantastical beasts that stood along the roofline. She had noticed yesterday that they were perched around the entire house. From any angle below, one could look up and see them. She had fancied on first sight that they looked as if they danced across the sky—a beasts’ ball. She smiled at the image that thought brought to mind.

  From here in the gardens, she could see an ogre hunched over the corner nearest her, but it was difficult to make out anything other than silhouetted forms and the plump top of the nearest pepperpot dome. Alec had said those domes topped dining rooms. That she’d like to see, she thought with a laugh.

  Gone was the wistful sadness that had tightened her chest a moment before. Trees were truly wonderful things.

  Her heart felt a bit of eagerness as a MacQuarrie idea fermented like Scotch whisky in her mind. Perhaps she would take a look at that roof. Alec had pronounced the view “pleasing.” She needed a bit of pleasing now, and the roof was the one place she had yet to explore. Surely Henson could show her the way. She rose from the bench and, skirts in hand, hurried toward the house.

  A short time later she followed Henson up one of the twelve staircases. Twelve! It was little wonder she’d become lost. Once again Beezle clung to the poor footman’s back. Henson was terribly good about it, just going along and doing his duties as if it was the most normal occurrence in the world for him to have a weasel hanging off his back.

  Of late, her familiar seemed more apt to be clinging to the head footman than to be curled up someplace sound asleep. It was the first time Joy could ever remember Beezle taking to anyone. At least she hoped he had taken to Henson the man and not just to the gold ribbons that tied back his queue. She looked closer and saw that once again the weasel appeared to be chewing on it. She flicked a finger on Beezle’s hindquarter, and he turned his beady little brown eyes on her, then grinned, pieces of Belmore gold ribbon peeking out from his clenched, feral teeth.

  “The roof, Your Grace.” Henson opened a door at the top of the stairs. Joy reached up, plucked Beezle off the footman’s back, and tucked her familiar safely under one arm. Beezle hissed his displeasure, but she wasn’t intimidated, just grabbed what she could of the gold ribbon and held it up to Henson. It was the eighth ragged one in four days. “I am so sorry.”

  “Quite all right, Your Grace.” Henson accepted the shredded ribbon with a proper bow, his face perfectly impassive, the picture of the quintessential English servant, in spotless livery except for the white ermine hairs that sprinkled his shoulders and back, and his brown hair that hung free and messy and as shredded as the ribbon.

  Frowning, she looked down at Beezle, wondering how much of the man’s hair was in his feral
little mouth. She slung him over her shoulder and turned slowly, trying to absorb the wonder of what she saw.

  “Would Your Grace care for me to wait?”

  “Hmm?” She turned back to Henson. “Oh, no. I shall be fine for a wee while.” She turned back to scan the view. One could see for miles—rolling green hillsides dotted with clumps of gray-green trees, the dull ribbon of river that sliced through a valley and fed the village and Belmore’s lake.

  Beezle hissed and began to squirm about her shoulder, drawing her attention away from the countryside.

  “Very well, Your Grace. I will check back occasionally to see when you wish to leave.” He started to turn away, then stopped. “It might be best not to try to find your way back alone, Your Grace.”

  She gave him an embarrassed smile. “Afraid I might end up in the silver closet?”

  “Quite possibly, or perhaps in Mrs. Watley’s room, where Your Grace might freeze to death.”

  Joy burst out laughing. “She is a bit of a cold fish, isn’t she?”

  “Quite.” With no smile, but a definite twinkle in his eye, he closed the roof door, and she turned back around.

  The roof, the view, the statuary—this was truly the most wondrous thing she had ever seen. “Oh, Beezle, look!”

  He made an odd noise, half hiss, half snort, and she turned to stare at his ferrety face. She lifted him until her face was barely an inch away from his pointed snout. “You want to get down so you can go back to Henson, don’t you?”

  He hiss-snorted again.

  “I’ll put you down, but you must stop eating that poor man’s hair. Do you understand?”

  He gave her a blank, perfectly innocent stare, then blinked for effect.

  One more look of reprimand and she set him down. He moved faster than she’d ever seen him move before, in a half waddle, half scamper, over to the entrance to the stairway, where he stood on his fat haunches and scratched at the roof door. One sigh for patience and she opened the door. Quicker than a frog’s leap, he disappeared into the stairwell.

  She shook her head, made a quick wish for the preservation of Henson’s hair, and turned back around. With a brief, eager look at the roofline, she ran over to the nearest corner.

  The ogre stood there in life-size bronze, and to his left was Pan, complete with pipes. Two angels with trumpet and harp were poised next to a griffin perched in a prowling stance. A fairy complete with ironwork appeared to be about to dance toward a medieval knight in full jousting armor astride a magnificent destrier.

  Tall and strong and imperious was the Viking who stood with his hand on one of Odin’s wolves, and past him were two frisky unicorns, a centaur, and the Lady of the Lake, in all her soulful beauty. Farther on stood another knight and his lady. Three gorgons and a lonely little mermaid flanked the closest chimney stack, followed by Pegasus and a few trolls, dwarfs, and the like.

  Unmindful of the cool wind that blew over the roof in random gusts, she walked close to each piece of bronze statuary, the heels of her red slippers tapping lightly on the hard gray iron of the roof, and she touched each one, seeing in her mind’s eye a landscape filled with dancing, frolicking fiction, as if every fairy and wee folk tale, every fable and epic romance, every fanciful story told upon a grandparent’s knee had come magically alive.

  Music sweeter and more golden than summer honey filled her ears, and Joy twirled and twirled, dancing to the tunes she imagined, her eyes closed, her mind beguiled by the imagery. She spun on one toe, the skirt of her new cashmere dress belling outward, and she opened her eyes to find herself in the middle of the beasts’ ball.

  The angels were real, alive, with golden wings and trumpet singing, harp pinging. Pan circled around her, piping out the hearty, clear notes of a tune as lively as a Scottish jig. The knight spun by her in a deep crimson doublet, swirling his blue-clad lady in his strong arms, and the ogre and trolls and gorgons— as gray-green as the winter garden below—all moved in celebration over the massive roof.

  The music grew. The beasts spun. They dipped and twirled—a unicorn, a griffin, a fluttering fairy whose steps skipped along like the notes of the music—and Joy followed, caught up in the merrymaking, becoming little more than an enchanted young girl at her first ball. She stopped at one of the domes to peer into the dark windows as she turned and glided to the music. Dancing her way to the double doors, she balanced on one toe and grabbed the handles, but they were locked, so she swirled on, arms extended, head thrown back, a smile on her lips.

  She spun again and again, opening her eyes to find the other knight had dismounted and, lance in hand, bowed to her. Smiling, she held out her hand and after one gallant touch of his lips, he led her in a medieval galliard to and around the next dome room, then moved on to pay court to and collect a favor from the mermaid. The music rang out, carried on the wind, and the Viking passed by, his gold-banded arms filled with the white-clad and wistful Lady of the Lake.

  Beasts danced all around her. Lost in the magic of it, she closed her eyes and swirled and twirled amid the fantasy beasts who danced their way over the roof of the most majestic home in all of Wiltshire. It was fairylike, mythical, and more entrancing than the most powerful of magic spells, and Joy was part of it, dancing in it, bewitched by it, feeling wonderfully alive for the first time since Alec had kissed her.

  “Bloody hell!”

  Joy stumbled to a stop. Her guilty eyes shot open.

  Alec stood in the doorway, the brass handle clenched in one white-knuckled hand. The ball continued, for its magic hadn’t faded; the spell hadn’t been broken. Her husband’s face was a mixture of shock and anger. He watched the beasts, the color draining from his face, his eyes wary. Then, he looked right at her. He appeared to be taking very deep breaths.

  He stepped out of the doorway, only to have Pan jeté around him in a taunting circle of skittering pipe music. Alec looked at her. She had never seen a man’s nostrils flare before.

  She winced and watched him stride toward her. The nearer he came the more pronounced was the tic in his cheek, the redder his neck, the deeper his breaths. It crossed her mind that for a man who professed never to shout and swear or get angry, he’d done quite a bit of both around her.

  He stopped about three feet from her and glowered down at her, his jaw so tight she was amazed he could speak. “What is going on here?”

  “Uh . . . well . . . I suppose you could . . . I mean . . . it’s a ball.”

  “I distinctly remember telling you no more hocus-pocus!” He waved his hand again.

  “This was an accident.”

  “How in the name of God could this”— he raised his shaking hand, still shouting— “have been an accident?”

  A jousting lance sliced down through the air between them. “Old man! Wouldst thou wish thy head lopped off?”

  They both turned to look at the gallant knight, who was glaring at Alec.

  Alec’s own eyes narrowed in a challenge. “Old man?”

  “Thy head is gray,” the knight said, unflustered by the lethal look on Alec’s face. The knight dismissed him and turned to Joy, giving a small nod of his head. “My lady, dost thou wish to have this old knave’s head upon a silver trencher?”

  “Oh no!”

  The knight drew his sword and pointed it at Alec’s neck, which had darkened from red to purple.

  “No! Please!” Joy’s hands covered her mouth.

  The knight pinned Alec with a hard stare. “Forsooth! Who dost thou think thou art to speak thus to a lady? Be ye her father?”

  “I . . . am . . . her . . . husband,” Alec said through clenched teeth.

  The knight relaxed his threatening stance.

  “And I,” Alec said rather loudly, “would like her to end this nonsense.” He waved a hand around, then pinched the sword tip between two long fingers and pulled it away from his purple throat. He moved his face a few inches closer to hers. “Now!”

  Taking one deep breath for strength, Joy closed her eyes. Plea
se let it work. She flung her hands up in the air and cried, “Things are not what they seem. End the dream!”

  She snapped her fingers and very, very slowly opened one doubtful green eye. A sigh of relief escaped her lips. The knight was gone. The ball had ended. All the statuary was once again bronze and back in place along the roofline.

  Alec stood frozen for a moment, then blinked twice and looked around the roof, his gaze pausing at the knight astride his charger. Joy was truly amazed that the statue did not melt beneath her husband’s glare.

  He turned back to her, his scowl not tempered.

  “You’re not old,” she said, hoping to placate him. A brief look at his face told her that her ploy didn’t work.

  He took two deep breaths. “Odd. I believe I have aged a decade in the last few days.”

  “It truly was an accident,” she whispered. Her eyes widened when, over Alec’s stiff, straight shoulder, she caught a glimpse of Pan—pointed brown ears, goat horns and all—as he peeked out from behind one of the domes and eased his way toward his pipes, which lay abandoned in the middle of the roof.

  “Explain.” Alec crossed his arms over his chest and drummed his fingers on one arm, waiting.

  Pan skulked closer and closer to the pipes, and she knew the imp would play them if they came into his hands. She raised one hand high in the air, as if to stifle a yawn and swept one finger through the air, mentally picturing the pipes skidding across the roof and out of her husband’s line of vision.

  The pipes levitated instead, hovering in the air like the notes from its reeds.

  Pan scowled at her, his thick bushy brown eyebrows wrinkling like brown inchworms. Then, he tried to jump up and grab the pipes. Joy faked a coughing spell just about the time his hooves hit the iron roof.

  He kept leaping; Joy kept coughing.

  “I am still waiting for an explanation, and choking won’t save you.” Alec stood there, arms still crossed, jaw clenched, eyes expectant and none too happy, completely unaware of what was going on behind him.