Charmed at Christmas

by Claire Delacroix

  He would make sure of it.

  “Excellent,” she breathed. She took up her basket. “I shall see you tonight, then, Lord Locryn.”

  “Until tonight.” He watched her go, feeling awake again, alive again—and deadly determined not to return to sleep.

  Morcom watched the human below.

  He had returned at last. The man Thistle still wished to see.

  “Did you hear?” Derowan emerged from the trunk behind him. “Such nice things he said about my tree!” She sighed in pleasure.

  “He should stay. Here at Lancarrow.” Morcom looked over. “Thistle should see him.”

  “Thistle?” The dryad frowned—then peered downward in surprise. “It’s him? It is, isn’t it? The one Thistle kissed?”

  The one Thistle still wished to kiss, if her melancholy behavior was any indication. She hadn’t been the same since this human had left Cornwall. So sad and reclusive. Morcom had tried to cheer her. He’d tried every way he knew, but she’d never truly recovered. Now the human was back—and if his presence would help Thistle, then Morcom would see to it that he stayed.

  “He’s looking for a bird,” he told Derowan.

  “I’d say he found a ripe chick,” the dryad giggled. “The girl is as interested as he is.”

  “I’ll find him a bird. He doesn’t need a girl.”

  That man would have Thistle—and she would be happy, at last.

  Chapter 2

  Gwyn reattached a bit of holly to her creation and stepped back to admire it.

  “Here’s the apple.” Mrs. Bray entered, bearing the required piece of fruit. “When I was a girl it was always hung inside the circles, from the top. The mistletoe hangs from the bottom.”

  Gwyn worked carefully; making sure the inside of her two joined withy circles was as lovely as the outside.

  “Is the candle secure?” the housekeeper asked.

  “It is.” Gwyn sighed in satisfaction. “Not too bad a job for my first attempt, I think.”

  “It’s more artfully put together than any Cornish Bunch I saw in my youth,” Mrs. Bray said with approval. “And I do thank you for allowing the servants to come in and take part, my lady.”

  “Of course! All who are interested are welcome. I appreciate all of your guidance, as well—and please send our thanks to Cook.” She waved her hand toward the buffet spread with tiny sandwiches, small cakes and biscuits. “But now, if you would hold this stool steady, then I’ll hang the Bunch and we’ll be all ready.”

  She’d just got the thing mounted on the waiting hook when the door swung open. Her sisters came trooping in, bringing with them a few early guests. Tamsyn came in last—and with her both Gryff and Locryn.

  Her heart jumped at the sight of him and she swayed a bit. Flinging out her hands for balance, she started to climb down, but he was already there, hand extended.

  “I have to assume you are attracted to heights, Lady Gwyn. Every time I see you, you are attempting to climb something.”

  “Mainly coincidence, my lord, I assure you.” Although she’d climb a mountain every day if she could descend holding his strong arm and looking down into those smiling blue eyes.

  He looked different than he had eight years ago. The geometry of his face had sharpened. He had more angles and a solemn expression behind his eyes. His blonde hair shone in the candlelight and he held himself tighter, it seemed to her, but he was still undeniably handsome. Inescapably appealing.

  “You two do know each other, don’t you?” Tamsyn looked between them. “I thought you only met the once, years ago?”

  “We met again today when I raided Lancarrow for mistletoe,” Gwyn explained. “Our own gardeners rooted it out everywhere, but Lord Locryn climbed a great oak and fetched enough for our Cornish Bunch.”

  She smiled her thanks at him. He returned the look with a slow smile that she felt right down to her toes.

  So long she’d held his memory close. When she’d talked with her sisters of searching for a husband during this wedding house party, it was his face she’d imagined as her groom. To find that long ago attraction still alive was half the battle.

  Convincing him that he felt the same—that would be the remainder.

  “Excellent work, cousin.” Gryff removed the stool from behind her and placed it against the wall. Returning, he took Tamsyn’s hand and swept her beneath the Bunch. “We shall not let your gallantry go to waste.”

  He bent her sister back and kissed her soundly.

  Nearby, Miss Frances Dallimore tittered. Her cousin, Lady Ivy Dallimore, merely looked disapproving. Gwyn glanced at Lord Locryn to gauge his reaction, but he still looked—at her.

  She blushed.

  “That’s quite enough of that!” Morgan came over, scolding. “Your Christmas Bunch is lovely, though, Gwyn.”

  “Thank you. I’m afraid Gryff does have the right of it, though. It’s made for kissing and romping—isn’t it, Mrs. Bray?”

  Thankfully, the housekeeper agreed. Gwyn hoped she could convince Lord Locryn to romp a bit beneath it. What else was all of this work for?

  “You mentioned a ceremony, did you not?” Tamsyn sounded a little breathless as Gryff stood her up again.

  “I did, yes. Nothing too elaborate, but we must wait for midnight. In the meantime, there is tea and a lovely assortment of refreshments.”

  Laughter and teasing reigned as the group gathered and fell on the food. A few tables had been set up and the holiday spirit flowed along with the tea and something stronger from Gryff’s flask. Only Rose stood aloof, huddling into her wrap. Tamsyn stuck close to her betrothed, as did Locryn, but her sister managed to pull Gwyn into their group once she’d seen everyone taken care of.

  She was going to miss Tamsyn. And what was going on with Rose?

  “Gwyn, I’ve just discovered that Lord Locryn is a naturalist!” Tamsyn smiled at him and waved a hand toward her sister. “Gwyn is the one you will wish to speak to, out of all of us. She’s mad for growing things. She even has her own project afoot out in the gardens. She’s worked on it relentlessly in the weeks since we moved to Keyvnor.”

  “Oh?” Lord Locryn turned to her, brow raised. “What sort of project is it?”

  “Local plants, is it not?” Gryff interjected. “I always liked the sound of it, Gwyn. Perhaps you’ll show it to all of us, if we can squeeze in a moment before the weddings.”

  She nodded, but the door opened and Mrs. Bray entered. A line of servants followed her in and moved to stand along the wall. The last two, a pair of footmen, carried a pipe and a fiddle.

  “Goodness, it must be time!” Gwyn rose and went to stand beneath the Bunch. “Everyone gather around,” she beckoned. She took a lit candle from the housekeeper. “Gryff, you are tall enough. If you will do the honors?”

  Everyone applauded politely as he carefully lit the candle in the middle of her bedecked hoops.

  “Now, we join hands in a circle and dance together to welcome in the Lord of Light.”

  Mrs. Bray clapped her hands at the line of servants. “You lot form a circle around the family and their guests.”

  “Now, what fun is that, Mrs. Bray?” Tamsyn grabbed a young maid and an older groom by the hand and pulled them forward. “It is the holidays. Surely the Lord of Light shines upon us all?”

  Her sisters joined in and soon everyone, servant, family and guest, were joined in a loose circle beneath the Cornish Bunch. Tamsyn, in her whirlwind maneuvering, managed to put Gwyn’s hand in Locryn’s.

  The music started. Mrs. Bray started the group moving. Gwyn kept her eyes locked on the housekeeper—but the entire rest of her being was focused on Locryn’s hand in hers.

  Hardly more than a handshake, and yet that light touch sent warmth surging into her, soothing places she hadn’t even known were dark and lonely.

  She never wanted to let him go.

  She had to, though, when the circle broke up. The music continued, as did the fun. Couples began to prod each other on to make use
of the mistletoe. A dashing valet, one of the visiting servants, broke the barrier at last. He twirled Mrs. Bray beneath the Bunch and bussed her right on the cheek. Applause and laughter erupted and others followed suit. Gryff kissed Tamsyn again. The Earl of Hayfield tried to coax Lady Ivy into the circle, but she shook her head and went to stand along the wall.

  Gwyn waited, but Lord Locryn merely observed the revels, his expression interested, but serious. He did smile and respond when someone spoke to him, but he never moved to take part.

  Gwyn gave an aggrieved huff. What was he waiting for? She took the risk and began to edge toward the Bunch.

  Mrs. Bray stepped past her and clapped her hands. “Now, you’ve had your fun,” she said to the frolicking servants. “Each of you give Lady Gwyn your thanks. It’s time for you to get on to your beds.”

  A chorus of appreciation rang through the room and the servants began to file out. The guests began to follow on their heels. Gwyn’s disappointment fled as Lord Locryn crossed the room and stood before her.

  “As you see, just a bit of fun, my lord. No archaic, druidic rituals.”

  “I find myself disappointed. I think you’d make a fine druidic priestess.”

  She arched a brow at him. “Ah, but then I might find myself tempted to cast a spell over you, sir.”

  His expression grew even more serious. Still, he stood unmoving. Suddenly, he looked up at the bunch. “Here’s one of those differences for you, Lady Gwyn. In Staffordshire we have kissing boughs similar to your bunch, but when someone kisses beneath it, he must take a berry from the mistletoe. When the berries are gone, so are the kisses.”

  “How sad!” she exclaimed. “I much prefer the Cornish custom.” Her mouth quirked. “Unlimited kisses throughout the season.”

  Potent silence stretched between them while her heart beat too rapidly.

  “Ready, Locryn?”

  They both started as Gryff dropped a hand on his cousin’s shoulder.

  “Nearly.” He bowed. “Thank you for a lively evening, my lady.” He glanced at his cousin. “I was wondering . . .”

  “Yes?” She had to fight not to glance toward the ceiling. Did they stand close enough to the bunch in order to use it as an excuse?

  “Gryff says they are lighting the Yule log tomorrow at Lancarrow. They follow the old tradition of ‘mocking the chalk,’ as well. Since you are interested in that sort of thing, I’d love to have you there.” He colored slightly. “As a guest of the family, of course.”

  “Splendid idea,” Gryff broke in. “Bring my bride along too, would you, Gwyn? Drag her away from the wedding preparations, if you must.”

  “Of course.” Locryn wished to see her again. It was something. “I should love to attend. Thank you.”

  His gaze slid away at last and there was a general leave taking as the two gentlemen bid all of the sisters good night.

  Shivering, Rose left in their wake. Marjorie and Morgan commented on the successful evening and then wandered after her. Finally, only Tamsyn and Gwyn were left.

  “It was Locryn you were thinking of earlier, when we spoke of finding you and Rose husbands?”

  Gwyn did not pretend to misunderstand. “He’s always been there, in the back of my mind,” she said with a shrug.

  “For eight long years.” Tamsyn said it with perfect understanding.

  “I didn’t know if I would still feel the same,” Gwyn sighed.

  “And now that you know that you do?”

  “How do I convince him?” She reached for her sister’s hand. “How did you cement Gryff’s interest in you?”

  “I didn’t have to. And neither do you. Locryn is interested.” Her sister sounded certain. “He’s just . . .serious. We have to break him out of his shell, that’s all.”

  “How do I do that?”

  She was going to do it. She felt certain, too.

  “It won’t take much,” Tamsyn predicted. She glanced up at the bunch. “Perhaps nothing more than a kiss.”

  Outside in the stable yard, Locryn sat astride his horse, staring up at the castle.

  Gryff clattered up beside him. “Quiet is one thing, cousin, but slow is another.” He shook his head. “Why did you not take the chance to kiss Gwyn? I could tell you wished to—we all could tell you wished to.”

  “I had to be sure.” He couldn’t look away from the lighted windows above them. He’d wanted to see her again, away from the site that haunted his dreams, away from the pixie wood. And he’d been right—because now he was sure.

  He’d lived with a shell of distance and isolation for so long, he wasn’t sure he could do without it. But she’d shattered it with her lively smile and filled the void with her confiding manner and the unmistakable interest in her eyes.

  “Well, don’t delay, man. Her father is using these weddings as an excuse to fill the old pile with eligible peers.”

  “No need to worry.”

  And there wasn’t. She’d shattered his wall—and released all the hunger and need he’d hidden behind for so long. It was leaking through the cracks of his carefully crafted control. He wanted her desperately. The miracle was—she appeared to want him too.

  Gryff sighed. “Just kiss the girl and be done with it, man.”

  Locryn set his shoulders and let determination mix with the emotions washing over him. “Oh, I will.” And he would plan things carefully and deliberately—so that nothing would go awry, this time.

  Several miles down the coast, Thistle sat straight up out of the bed she’d fashioned amongst the soft leaves of a daisy bush. She clutched her chest. Was that—?

  It was! It was him—Locryn! And he was nearby, she could feel it!

  She’d been connected to Locryn since that long ago night—the night when she’d let her temper and loneliness get the best of her. She’d felt it all; all of his withering hopes and repeated disappointments. Every day since then she had despaired, knowing that she hadn’t accomplished anything but locking him into the same desolation she felt.

  But he had stayed away—and so her hands had been tied. She was old, yes, but not powerful enough to travel far from the barrow, or to leave all of the living things that depended upon her.

  But he was here! And emotion was stirring in him again—when it had lain dormant and silent for so long.

  Her excitement rising and her heart lifting, she gave the bush a last caress and sped off, intent on reaching Lancarrow.

  He had come. She could fix things at last!

  Chapter 3

  “Good heavens.” Gwyn paused in the act of removing her coat and stared about her in awe. The great hall at Lancarrow was impressive on any day—but now it had been brilliantly bedecked for the holiday season.

  “Yes. Gryff’s family has always held to the old traditions,” Tamsyn said with satisfaction. “Nadelik has been kept alive and well at Lancarrow.”

  “I should say so.” Evergreen garlands twined with red and silver climbed the pillars and hung from the galleries—and also stretched across the long mantle, where a massive Yule Log rested, waiting.

  She handed her cloak to a servant, then turned as someone called her name. “Lord Locryn,” she said with pleasure as he approached. “I’m so glad you found us so quickly—I’ve something to tell you and you’ll never guess!”

  His mouth quirked. “Should I try?”

  “No—for I cannot wait to tell you! Tamsyn and I came by the shortcut through the woods. I confess, we peeked through the bracken at the pixie’s barrow—and you’ll never believe what we saw sitting atop it!”

  Looking startled, he glanced between them. “A pixie?” he ventured cautiously.

  “No.” She raised her brows in expectation of his reaction. “A Cornish chough!”

  Blinking, he grabbed her hand. “Truly?”

  “Yes! Didn’t we see it, Tamsyn?”

  “Yes, yes,” her sister said impatiently. “A bird with a red bill. Fascinating.” She scanned the room.

  “Oh, yes,” Locry
n checked himself. “You are just in time, Lady Tamsyn. Gryff is waiting for you. Everyone has agreed. You should be the one to chalk the mock this year.”

  Tamsyn’s mouth dropped. “I don’t even know what that means!”

  “Go on.” He waved a hand and they all saw Gryff step up at the fireplace and beckon his bride. “He’ll explain it all.”

  Gwyn grimaced up at him as her sister rushed off. “Who is going to explain it to me?”

  “I will.” He extended an arm and began to escort her after Tamsyn, at a more sedate pace. “Thank you,” he said softly, so that only she could hear.

  “For what?”

  “For remembering about the chough. That was very thoughtful.”

  “Oh.” She glanced quickly up at him. “Truthfully? I was a little afraid to tell you. I thought you might rush off to study it.”

  He leaned in slightly. “Truthfully? If you were not here, I would.”

  She laughed. “Then I must be grateful that my charms rate above the rare chough’s.”

  “Far above,” he said. “And you are the only person I would rate so highly.”

  She colored slightly as they reached the great fireplace. She couldn’t even blame it on the heat because the fire had not been lit yet. Instead, Tamsyn had been given chalk and she stood stooped, outlining a man’s figure on the great yew log placed there. All the household had gathered to watch while she carefully drew. Servants passed wine and punch to everyone waiting.

  When Tamsyn stood back, Lord Locryn told her, “Now, we will all toast the ‘mock’—the figure your sister has drawn on the log, before the fire is lit.”

  “Why?”

  “It is to pay honor to the death of the old year and welcome the birth of the new. Some say the figure is the old year itself, some say he is a version of Father Time.”

  “So they say now, but it was not always so in years past.” Miss Morwen Cardew, spinster aunt to both Gryff and Locryn joined them. Gwyn dipped a curtsy. She liked the crusty, older woman.