A woman bumped into him on the way past. “Apologies,” she called as she was swept on. “Everyone wants to see the bonfire—it seems I’ve been caught in the tide!”
Damn the bonfire. Damn the crowd. But most especially, damn the entity working against them.
Whoever, whatever it was—they would not win.
He dove into the living stream of people, fighting the current they made, struggling to push through and losing ground. He was being pulled inexorably in their wake. He fought on, determined to break through, but he stopped suddenly mid-struggle, listening intently.
“Chi-ow!”
He looked up, but the sound came from the ground, not from on high.
“Chi-ow!”
It wasn’t the damned bird. It was a high-pitched imitation of its call. Gwyn!
He waited, but the call did not come again. It sounded like it had come from the edge of the village, right where the tide of people was trying to take him. He stopped fighting and let them sweep him away.
The crowd parted when they reached an open area and he was dumped like so much flotsam near a bonfire, built large and waiting to be lit. A man stood nearby with a torch, but he shook his head at the calls of the crowd. “Wait for the church bells,” he yelled back. “We light up at midnight!”
Locryn pushed his way amongst the throng, searching for Gwyn. He knew the call had come from her. Who else?
He paused in the midst of the crowd and experimented, trying to make the call himself. “Chi—” He got that far, grinned and threw his head back. Perhaps if he wasn’t making actual words . . . “Chi-ow!”
He got one call out, loudly, before the force around him tightened. Now he couldn’t make any sounds, but he turned all the way around, searching . . .
And something caught his eye. He turned back, toward the stand of trees that formed the far edge of the clearing—and breathed a sigh of relief.
She stood on a low branch of an elm—of course she did. She was flapping the wings of her costume and it was the movement that had grabbed his attention.
Their gazes met. He started toward her.
The church bell started to ring. Behind him the crowd roared their approval as the bonfire blazed into life.
And ahead of him, Gwyn tried to jump down from the tree, but her costumed wings had become hopelessly tangled in twigs and branches in the tree. At his feet, grasses and weeds shot upward, latching and curling around the strips of rags attached to his coat.
She was caught.
And so was he.
Thistle popped in and out, from rooftop to rooftop about the village, looking for a sign of Morcom, Locryn or Gwyn. Singers and performers still wandered the streets below, but it looked and sounded like the majority of the villagers had gathered near the outskirts of town.
She headed that way.
She found a scene of happy celebration. Children dashed around the fire, adults smiled and drank toasts and wished each other a Happy Christmas. But at the edge of the crowd . . .
Locryn. He was caught up, entangled in weeds and grasses, while vines crept in to hold him even tighter. He fought with them, struggling mightily, but when he ripped one encroaching plant, two more would grab him. He kept looking ahead and she followed his gaze to see Gwyn, her clothing similarly tangled in the branches of a tree.
Thistle looked up. Morcom sat in the heights of the elm, one hand spread wide before him, his expression one of fierce concentration.
She popped up beside him.
“Morcom! Stop this, please.”
He shook his head.
“Morcom, you’ve misunderstood. I don’t want to kiss that man down there.”
“You like him,” Morcom ground out. “I know.”
“No. I should have told you, I should have explained. I made a horrible, foolish mistake and I cursed him.”
“You kissed him. I saw it.”
She flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry you saw. I was wrong to interfere.”
“You didn’t want him to kiss that girl, that night. Then he went away and made you sad.”
She moved closer, touched his rigid arm and felt the incredible power he was controlling. “That’s true. I was sad because I was lonely, and because I accidentally cursed him into loneliness too. But I want him to kiss the girl down there. She’s the right one for him, the one he loves. He’ll find his happiness—and I’ll have a chance to find mine.”
Morcom blinked. He turned his head.
Locryn strained, but his coat was being pulled downward and the relentless pressure was tiring him. He struggled against the pull, but his knees were bending and soon they would buckle.
Abruptly, the pressure eased. Not completely, but enough for him to struggle out of the coat and leave it behind. Ahead, he could see Gwyn ripping away from her entangled wings. She jumped down from the tree, but her motions looked slow and exaggerated.
He tried to run toward her, but the force surrounding him pressed back, as if he battled a gale force wind that wasn’t there.
Harness the power of men’s love and goodwill, Sacha Morgan had told him. Behind him, the people of Bocka Morrow emanated those qualities. They’d come together in peace and celebration. Could such a force help him win his love? He imagined the strength of so much combined harmony and happiness as a shield before him.
Surely it was working? He moved a little easier and fought on, marching one step at a time toward Gwyn.
“You don’t want to be happy with him?” Morcom asked, frowning.
“No. I want to thank you for all your kindness and thoughtfulness. I want the chance to return the favor.” Thistle reached up and grabbed two handfuls of his long, green, globular hair. “Morcom, I want to be happy with you.”
She pulled him down and kissed him right on the lips.
Light and heat flared, spiraling out from the point of their connection and into the night sky. Below, the bonfire blazed high, blasting heat and sparks. The crowd gasped and cheered.
Locryn was set suddenly free. He stumbled, righted himself and rushed to Gwyn. She met him, midway.
Behind them, the bonfire surged high into the night air and the villagers laughed shouted their appreciation and backed away. Someone bumped into him, but he ignored them all.
He tore off his mask as Gwyn tossed hers away, then he drew her close, bent over, and they claimed each other with a long, deep, searing kiss.
Above, Morcom blinked down at Thistle, but she refused to let him go. She held him tight and his hands rose to tentatively cup her jaw. His eyes closed, then hers. And at long last, Thistle got her first full taste of love.
Epilogue
Gwyn followed her mother and her sister Rose into the parlor. Lady Banfield sent a maid for tea, then she heaved a sigh and collapsed on a settee. “I don’t know which is worse,” she moaned. “The shockingly few number of people at this morning’s services, or the gossip running rampant afterward.”
“Between the ball and the village festival, I’m sure there are a great number of people nursing sore heads and sore feet this morning, Mama,” Rose said.
Her sister looked so much better now, Gwyn noted with relief. Happier.
“And you must excuse Lord Michael. He was stabbed last night,” Gwyn reminded her mother. “And Lady Ivy is nursing him. And poor Papa must be exhausted, dealing with it all.”
“I suppose so,” her mother grumbled. “And Tamsyn and Morgan must be excused, I suppose, but where is Marjorie?”
“I believe she went for an early ride,” Rose said, crossing to the window.
When Gwyn followed her, she whispered, “And I believe Sir William Crandall might have followed her.”
Gwyn raised her brows and Rose nodded gleefully.
“Did you hear the nonsense they were spouting in the churchyard this morning?” Disapproval rang clear in her mother’s tone. “Some were saying that the Christmas star descended on Bocka Morrow last night!”
“I heard Miss Morwen Cardew
say that the old gods visited the village last night after they raised a portal in the bonfire.”
“I’m surprised she wasn’t struck down right then and there!” Lady Banfield sounded shocked.
“We should ask Lord Locryn about it,” Rose said. “I’ll bet he was in the village last night.”
“It’s entirely too bad he wasn’t at the ball, you might have danced with him, Gwyn.” Her mother frowned. “I scarcely saw you dance at all, did I?”
“Oh, I danced last night, Mama,” Gwyn told her.
Her mother sighed. “I suppose Lord Locryn will hie quickly back to London, now that the wedding is over. Oh, well. Perhaps we’ll be able to pursue the connection in Town when we are there for the Season.”
“No need to wait. He’s here now.” Rose gestured outside.
“Now? Whatever could he want on Christmas morning?”
“I believe he wants to have a discussion with Father.” Gwyn shot a sidling look and a grin at her sister.
Rose looked surprised—and then happy. She turned to their mother with suppressed glee. “I believe you’ll wish to rethink your plans for a Season, Mama.”
“You think wrongly, dear. Why ever would I, with three daughters still unmarried?”
Gwyn joined in on the fun. “There might be something better to do this spring.”
“Gwyn, dear, if this is to do with your garden—” her mother began in a warning tone.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she interrupted her. “I think a June wedding in the garden sounds lovely.”
“Weddings, Gwyn,” Rose corrected her. “Plural.”
“Oh, yes. Quite right.”
They laughed at the look on their mother’s face, then Gwyn went out to greet her betrothed with a kiss.
About Deb Marlowe
USA Today Bestselling author Deb Marlowe adores History, England and Men in Boots. Clearly she was destined to write Regency Historical Romance.
A Golden Heart Award winner and Rita nominee, Deb grew up in Pennsylvania with her nose in a book. Luckily, she'd read enough romances to recognize the true modern hero she met at a college Halloween party--even though he wore a tuxedo t-shirt instead of breeches and boots. They married, settled in North Carolina and produced two handsome, intelligent and genuinely amusing boys. Though she spends much of her time with her nose in her laptop, for the sake of her family she does occasionally abandon her inner world for the domestic adventure of laundry, dinner and carpool. Despite her sacrifice, not one of the men in her family is yet willing to don breeches or tall boots. She's working on it.
Thank you so much for reading Lord Locryn and the Pixie’s Kiss. I hope you enjoyed it! If you are interested in hearing when my next book will be released, you can join my newsletter at http://www.DebMarlowe.com
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Also by Deb Marlowe
Don’t miss Tamsyn and Gryff’s story in Lady Tamsyn and the Pixie’s Curse
…or the Half Moon House Series:
The Love List
The Leading Lady
The Lady’s Legacy
…and the Half Moon House Novella series:
An Unexpected Encounter
A Slight Miscalculation
Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness
A Waltz in the Park
Beyond a Reasonable Duke
Lady, It’s Cold Outside
The Earl’s Hired Bride
The Determined Duchess
Erica Monroe
To Elizabeth Essex
For all the gritty happily ever afters,
and for never, ever letting me doubt myself.
"Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world."
-Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
Chapter 1
Bocka Morrow, Coast of Cornwall, England
December 19, 1811
Death had taken everyone Felicity Fields had ever loved.
But soon, she’d have her revenge. She was so close to figuring out the formula for the Elixir of Life—an ancient alchemical serum that would not only give her eternal life, but provide healing powers.
And if she was lucky, she’d be able to use that serum to bring back those she loved from the choking grasp of Death by a process called palingenesis.
This morning, as she hiked the familiar path that marked the end of Tetbery’s land and the beginning of the great wide Atlantic Ocean, she couldn’t shake the onslaught of memories. Six months had passed since the death of her beloved guardian, the Countess of Tetbery. There was only so long that her special blend of preservation chemicals and the cold stone mausoleum could slow the degradation of the body. If Margaret’s corpse slipped too far past the point of viability, all of her research would be for naught.
And Margaret would be gone forever, leaving Felicity alone.
Again.
She gritted her teeth against the cold, wishing she could turn back the clock to last year, when the countess had been alive and well. Christmas had always been Margaret’s favorite holiday—and the house had reflected it, with evergreen wreaths upon the doors and garland wrapping the stairwell. Everywhere Felicity turned, there’d been holly berries and gold ribbon.
But she couldn’t bring herself to decorate this year. Not without Margaret. The estate was barren—white cloths thrown over furniture in rooms Margaret would have aired out for her annual Yuletide celebrations, darkness in passageways she would have lit with beeswax candles.
It was as if the house mourned Margaret, just as Felicity did.
Not that the house was Felicity’s to control. Everything at Tetbery Estate belonged to the Duke of Wycliffe—from the servants Felicity had come to think of as family, to these wild shores.
Blast it all, at this point, she probably belonged to him too. He was the closest thing to family she had now.
That was some cruel twist of fate indeed. The boy who had plagued her childhood was now the one who would determine her future.
She dropped down onto a large piece of driftwood, setting her basket filled with different plants and specimens onto the sand. This had been the countess’s favorite spot on the estate, and she’d loved sharing it with her ward. Most of Felicity’s favorite memories were tied to this beach.
Felicity had been but a small child when her parents died in a carriage accident. Randall and Margaret Grantham, the sixteenth Earl and Countess of Tetbery, quickly took in their old friends’ daughter—they’d never been able to have children of their own, so Felicity was a welcome addition.
From the ashes of tragedy, the Granthams forged a new family, giving their ward the shelter and support she so desperately needed. Margaret had always told her friends that Felicity was their daughter by choice, and that made her even more special.
Choice. What a strange notion, when Death had taken away all her choices.
Margaret had always encouraged her to pursue her research, even if it wasn’t “proper” for women to be chemists. Instead, she’d used her considerable wealth and influence to shelter her ward, creating a safe haven upon the grounds of Tetbery.
That same safe haven that would disappear when Nicholas Harding came back to claim what was rightfully—in the eyes of the law, not in Felicity’s opinion—his.
Without Margaret, Felicity’s life was predestined. Determined by the rules of a society she did not comprehend.
“God, Margaret, I miss you so much.” She ran her thumb across the golden mourning ring on her left hand. Diamonds encircled the glass-encased circle, macerated hair set on ivory to look like the very same waves she peered out at now.
Technically, Nicholas had inherited the estate three years ago, when his father had passed. Because the estate was not entail
ed and Randall and Margaret had no male heirs, they had willed the estate to Nicholas’s father—Margaret’s brother. But just like his father before him, he’d allowed Margaret to remain on the estate—and Felicity had stayed with her, because Margaret was the only family she had.
Without Tetbery and her laboratory, Felicity had no choices. No chance at living the life she wanted.
Sighing, she stretched her legs out, scuffing the heel of her boot against the sand. She had become complacent, believing the countess would live for many more years. Margaret had been relatively young, and in good health—until the influenza took her life.
Just as it had in the passing of the earl and her parents, Death caught Felicity unaware.
But never again.
Because if Felicity knew anything, it was that everything could be explained by science, if only one was persistent enough. She had plenty of persistence.
What she didn’t have was time.
She pushed herself up off the log, her gaze once again drifting across the seaside, trying to imprint it upon her memory. If she couldn’t restore Margaret, then this would be her last Christmas at the estate. Nicholas certainly wouldn’t honor the arrangement he’d had with his favorite aunt.
They were simply too different. He’d tell her society would be fine with her, if she simply tried to be normal.
Even if she’d known how to do that, she didn’t want to be someone else.
She shouldn’t have to be someone else.
Devil take it, she was a brilliant alchemist. Not that the world knew it—she rarely received a response to her letters to other chemists. And Septimus Locke, Earl of Carwarren and the only other scientist in Bocka Morrow, refused to meet with her any longer. He claimed that when she’d embraced alchemy six months ago, she was no longer a real scientist, and he wanted nothing to do with her.
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