Charmed at Christmas
Claire Delacroix
Deb Marlowe
Erica Monroe
Copyright © 2017 by Claire Delacroix, Deb Marlowe & Erica Monroe
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Lord Locryn and the Pixie’s Kiss
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
About Deb Marlowe
Also by Deb Marlowe
The Determined Duchess
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About Erica Monroe
A Duke By Any Other Name
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Epilogue
About Deborah Cooke / Claire Delacroix
Also by Deborah Cooke / Claire Delacroix
The Castle Keyvnor Collections
Lord Locryn and the Pixie’s Kiss
Deb Marlowe
Prologue
Cornwall, England
1803
Spectacular colors fairly danced across the horizon, but Thistle missed the sunset entirely. Instead, she bent and crooned over a tiny, lone sea holly plant.
“Well, good evening, you brave wee one! Are you not so pretty—and so daring, taking root all alone here amidst these rocky pools?”
She didn’t find many such seedlings here, at the bottom of the cliffs below Castle Keyvnor—and it was her business to know. Thistle was a Pixie, and a caretaker of many of the wild things that grew and flew and raced along the tidal coast in these parts. She had a soft spot for the sea holly, though, as she had been named after the plant. She even resembled it. Her skin held the same soft grey-green hue as the spiky foliage and her hair and eyes shone a striking blue-lavender—the same as the plant’s bristled flowers.
Leaning down, she stroked the prickly leaves and breathed across their waxy surface. The small seedling shuddered and shimmered, suddenly a little larger and more robust.
“There, now.” Thistle smiled in satisfaction—and then, startled, looked up.
“Thistle!” Her friend Derowan perched on a rock above.
“Derowan? What are you doing here, so far from your tree?” Derowan was a dryad, a tree spirit, and rarely ranged so far from her home.
“I know, I cannot stay long, but I had to find you! He’s there, in the gardens at Lancarrow—right near my tree!”
“Who?”
“Him! The human! The one you spoke on and on about earlier. The one you are interested in.”
Thistle flushed. “Interested may be too strong a—”
“Never mind!” Derowan reached down, grasped her arm and popped them both into the spreading arms of her tree.
“A little warning, next time, please!” Thistle latched onto a branch. She always found it dizzying to be dragged through the netherspace under someone else’s control. She steadied herself quickly, though, and gazed downward.
Derowan’s oak stood on the edge of the Lancarrow gardens, almost a bridge between the wild woods, where the Pixie’s barrow stood, and the more manicured acres tended by men. And two men stood below. Not gardeners, but Gryffyn Cardew, young master of Lancarrow, and his cousin, Lord Locryn.
“Oh, he has grown since his last visit, has he not?” Derowan crooned quietly. “Grown so handsome!”
True enough. The young man, on the cusp of adulthood, was strikingly good-looking—in the plainer, human fashion, of course.
“You spent a great deal of time with the Hambly girls today,” he said to Gryff as they settled in to listen. “I heard you took them all around the village. Did one of them catch your eye, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” Gryff said with a slight smile.
“Then I will hope they begin to visit more frequently. It would be no bad thing for your family—or for Lancarrow—to snag a connection to Keyvnor and the Banfield earldom.
“If they do begin to visit—will we see even more of you, Locryn?” Gryff raised a brow. “I saw you spending some time with one of the younger girls when we stopped down by the docks.”
Thistle leaned down to better hear Lord Locryn’s response.
“Yes, I was sketching that big bush of sea holly on the bank at the end of the long dock. Did you know that is a relatively rare specimen? It only grows along the coast in the south and west of England.”
“Rare plants are your specialty. I must concern myself with learning everything of the ones that keep the estate going.” Gryff cocked his head. “But what of the girl? Old Banfield will pass on one day and she’ll be poised to enter society as the daughter of the new earl. Is that rare enough for you? Or is she just another garden-variety conquest for the son of the Marquess of Berylstock? She is certainly pretty enough, I would say.”
“Lady Gwyn, yes. Quick of wit—and she is a fetching little thing—dainty and bright-eyed and that hair—so brilliant in the sun with just a hint of a reddish tint running through the blonde.”
Locryn held silent for a few moments and Thistle clasped her hands together in delight.
But then he sighed. “But she’s a bit young, eh?” The corner of his mouth lifted. “And so am I—too young to contemplate such an innocent young miss. Just now I prefer women who are more knowing, if you understand me.”
“So I hear,” Gryff remarked. “You’re also a bit young to be gaining a rakehell’s reputation.”
“Rakehell? Never!” Locryn’s grin flashed in the diminishing light. “I merely enjoy the company of the ladies.”
“Well, if my mother catches word of you sharing company with that maid of ours, you’ll wish she had not.”
“’Tis but a flirtation. Surely she cannot object to that.”
“Oh, but she can—and will. So step carefully.”
“I am always careful.”
Gryff glanced up at the sky. “The sun is set. The moon is full tonight and will rise soon. We’d best head back.” He shrugged a shoulder towards the wood. “It’s a night for the Pixies, as tradition holds.”
Thistle nodded. The Cardew family had an understanding of sorts with her kind.
“I am not ready, just yet. But you go on.”
Gryff sighed. “I see what you are about. You’d best take my advice.”
“You’ve no need to worry.”
Shaking his head, Gryff headed back. Locryn stayed, perching on a low garden wall, then rising to pace to the oak and back.
“His eyes are the same blue as . . . you!” Derowan said in an excited whisper. “I’m not sure that is enough, though, to rate any . . . ideas you might have.” She glanced down, doubtful.
“It’s not just that,” Thistle
said with a sigh. “I believe he’s kind, as well. Come, let’s get closer.”
Silently, they drifted downward to the lower branches, stopping to perch on a thick limb several feet above the restless young man.
Neither of them noticed the intense gaze that followed them from behind and above.
“I know my kind has dabbled with humans, now and then,” Derowan said. “But have Pixies ever done so?”
“No,” huffed Thistle. “And that’s not precisely why I’m interested in him. I saw him with that girl today. He handled himself well.”
“Oh, so that’s it! I never knew a Pixie before so in love—with love!”
Thistle sighed. “I know. I cannot seem to help it, though. It just seems so unfair! Humans are always pairing up and spending their lives together—and Pixies almost never do. I don’t understand why.”
“Perhaps it’s because human lives are so short—it’s a sort of compensation,” practical Derowan suggested.
“Well, loneliness feels like a hard price to pay for my years.”
“Perhaps you need a familiar, like Tuft with his Jump.”
“Those two are attached to each other,” Thistle admitted. “But if I am old, then Tuft is ancient. And an animal companion, even an uncommon hybrid like Jump, just does not feel like what I am missing.”
“And so you study human love, hoping to learn the way of it?”
That was close enough to the truth. “Is it so wrong? Have you ever seen the glow that their love lights within them? Between them? It’s the warmest, most beautiful light in the world.” Could it be wrong for her to wish for that kind of connection?
“I’m not sure I have,” the dryad admitted. “I have seen them act ridiculously in the name of love, though.” Derowan shrugged. “Is that the case with this one? Is he in love? Is that what he’s doing down there, waiting for his beloved?”
“Oh!” Thistle clasped her hands. “You could be right! Certainly there was a spark of love-light between him and that girl today.”
“Just what did you see—and how did you manage to be there to see it?”
“I was helping a family of water shrews down at the end of the last dock in the village. A thoughtless human sailor tossed a pot of scalding pitch and water over their burrow yesterday. I’d just finished up when Lord Locryn came along to examine that big sea holly atop the bank there. He sat down to sketch it and I had to hide in the marsh grass.”
“Not that you minded, I’m sure. Especially if he was admiring your namesake plant.”
Thistle flushed. “I didn’t mind,” she agreed. “And then the girl wandered close. Her family was all gathered further up the docks, watching the fishermen unload their catch. She caught sight of Locryn—and he looked up to see her. And, oh! They did like each other! The spark was there—that flare of interest. They spoke a while and she remarked on his eyes—how they matched the color of the sea holly blooms. How she blushed, then!”
Thistle blushed too, remembering.
“But he merely smiled and picked a handful for her and told her she must keep them to remember him by.”
Both females sighed.
A distant footfall sounded. Locryn heard it too, and stood to face the path.
“Wait,” Thistle whispered indignantly. ‘That’s not the same girl at all!”
“Oh, no. That’s just one of the maids. She walks here sometimes, usually with one footman or another.” Derowan’s disappointment sounded clear.
Lord Locryn did not appear to share it. He greeted the girl with a smile. “Good evening, Trudie. I feared for a moment that you were not going to keep our appointment.”
“I almost did not, my lord.” The maid rolled a shoulder. “I likely should not dally with a guest.”
“I’m a member of the family,” he protested. “Surely we can share a conversation?”
“Surely we can.” Trudie glanced coyly through her lashes. “But was that all ye wished to share with me?”
“Well, I confess a kiss or two wouldn’t go amiss,” he answered with a grin.
“Oh, Lord Locryn!” she tittered.
Thistle’s heart dropped.
The pair sat on the low wall. They spoke of Lancarrow folk and village events. Young Lord Locryn edged closer to the girl and his tone lowered. He gazed into her eyes.
Thistle grew more and more indignant. How could he dally with this girl? There was no soft glow in either of them—nothing like the light that had shone in him and the Hambly girl earlier today. Just hours ago! Granted, Lady Gwyn had been younger and perhaps not ready for the sort of flirtation he seemed interested in.
But the maid appeared to have doubts about it, too. She giggled and sighed, but she also edged away from the young lord and dropped her head when he leaned in close.
“Come, Trudie. It’s just a kiss. Naught to worry over, is it?”
The girl twittered, then brazenly looked up.
Thistle straightened, suddenly outraged.
Just a kiss? As if it were nothing and should not be an exchange of mutual tenderness and respect and acknowledgement of that special glow? When she, Thistle of Cornwall’s Pixies, had never been kissed, or even come close, in her long span of years?
He leaned in closer. The maid raised her face.
“No!”
Thistle spoke with power and command—and time and space obeyed her. The garden spot below and every creature in it sat abruptly unmoving and unaware.
She popped down next to the frozen pair. “Kisses should be magic!”
Raising her arms, she allowed the earth’s ancient forces to flow through her. “A kiss should be full of the enchantment of true love and desire. They are not to be wasted on titillation and misadventure.” She felt the deep and unassailable truth of it.
She waved a hand and the girl rose, floating out of her spot. Thistle deposited her at the base of the wall on a stretch of soft turf. She took the girl’s place, hovering before Lord Locryn’s handsome face, suspended in expectation.
“You shall not kiss the maid,” she declared. “Or any other with whom you do not share that warm bud of love.”
Leaning in, she placed her lips on his.
Her power gathered and flared. Light flashed. She popped back up next to Derowan, who stared at her in open-mouthed disbelief.
Below, time began to roll forward again.
Lord Locryn started and looked around for the girl he’d been about to press his kiss upon.
Trudie cried out, her eyes wide and fearful at finding herself sprawled suddenly several feet away. “Enchantment,” she breathed. “The Pixies! It must be!”
Thistle saw both doubt and denial in Lord Locryn’s face. He stood, but the girl shook her head. “We’ve angered them, to be sure!” She rushed back toward the house.
He looked around for a long moment, then followed in her footsteps.
“That was quite a spell, Thistle. Complicated and layered. I could tell from here.” Derowan looked at her in awe. “Are you sure you know what you are about?”
“It would have been a travesty,” she insisted. “It would have trivialized the true glimmer of love he was fortunate enough to feel today. Should he stop to think, surely he wouldn’t wish to cheapen such a gift.” She pursed her lips. “He will realize it now, will he not?”
The dryad sighed. “Perhaps. But I hope it works as you think it will.”
Thistle suffered a first niggle of doubt. “Well, he does visit here often. I shall just have to keep an eye on him.” Sadness suddenly welled up inside of her. “I think I need to be alone,” she whispered. As she was destined to remain, now and forever. She bit back a sob.
“Come by tomorrow,” Derowan called as her friend drifted away, in the direction of the sea. The dryad patted the sturdy trunk of her tree, made newly glad of its solid warmth and comfort. Slowly she headed for the multi-branched heart of the oak.
She jumped a little when she got there and found a pair of large, round, whitish eyes blinking down
at her.
“Oh, it’s you, Morcom!” Another Pixie, he was strongly affiliated with mistletoe and other clinging vines. He often came around to check on the mistletoe that bonded with her oak. For his sake, she had not rooted it out. “What are you doing up there?”
Even for a Pixie, Morcom was odd-looking. Long and woody brown, with those great eyes and green ‘hair’ that looked rather like an untidy gathering of the long, lobed leaves of English mistletoe. “Have you been there this whole time?”
“Yes.” He looked in the direction her friend had disappeared. “Thistle is sad?”
“Thistle is lonely, I think.”
“Thistle is . . . kind. And so colorful. She should not be lonely,” he said with determination.
“Some things cannot be helped,” Derowan said with a sigh.
He did not answer. Or move. So Derowan sighed again and went to rest in the top branches of her tree, beneath the brightness of the full moon.
Chapter 1
Castle Keyvnor
1811
Lady Gwyn Hambly held the small box in her hand. Long and thin, it was a pretty thing, painted in the blue and green colors of the sea. She lifted the lid, cast a glance over her shoulder, then surreptitiously stroked a finger along one of the delicately dried blossoms within. Long faded, they still held the power to make her heart skip a beat, both with that long-ago thrill—and with a long-lasting longing.
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