Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Grandpa inherited the shop when Mr. Babcock passed. My father carries on the family tradition.” Grinning, she stopped, lifted her skirts with her free hand and exposing a lovely calf, waggled a neatly booted foot. “See. Papa made these. Aren’t they lovely?”

  Admiring her sturdy leather footwear, he smiled. “Very nice and sensible given this terrain.”

  “I thought so.”

  He laughed, liking that she bragged on her father’s work. That she spoke with such obvious pride when talking about her family, humble though they might be. “So what do you hope to learn from the Edinburgh ladies if our university system is in such a sorry state? Are you planning a Cobblers Revolt?”

  That made her laugh and her dimples returned. “Hardly. I wish to learn more about the ladies’ organization. The Suffrage movement is but a fledgling entity in America. Women more often than not meet in small numbers in their parlors. Some meet in secret. Not so here in Scotland. Here the organization is visible, vocal and growing. Here Suffragists hold well-publicized meeting in rented halls and such. Hundreds attend. I wish to know how their leadership is organized. Do they have a Board of Directors? A charter? What are their specific long term goals? I would also love to know how they finance so large an organization.”

  He’d like to know their financial secrets as well. He could use an influx of coin.

  “What of your family, Mr. MacNab? Do you come from a long line of ministers?”

  Liking that she spoke with him as one commoner to another, without any expectations or deference, that she simply might find him interesting, he was loathe to dissuade her of the notion. “In a manner of speaking. Originally the MacNabs were lay abbots.”

  “Oh look, we’re here.”

  Reluctantly he tore his gaze from her pretty countenance. How had they arrived at the outskirts of the village so quickly? He sighed as two stragglers rushed toward the kirk where the Widow Bryce stood by the open door, her arms crossed over her ample bosom, one foot tapping a tattoo on the well-worn granite step.

  Twenty steps later they stood before the kirk. They lowered the crate, startling the piglets awake. Over their squealing, she said, “It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Mr. MacNab.”

  “The pleasure was mine, Miss Conor.”

  There was no hope for it. He’d have to say good day to the delightful Miss Conor and do his duty unless...

  “You’re most welcome to attend our service, Miss Conor.”

  “Thank you, but no. Your kirk might be struck by lightning.”

  He looked up. “There isn’t a cloud in the sky.”

  Laughing, she waved as she strode off. “Yes, but I’m Catholic. Irish Catholic at that.”

  Ah, yet another excellent reason for him to ignore the odd feelings this strange young woman induced.

  TARTAN BOWS AND MISTLETOE

  CHAPTER THREE

  Blythe Hall

  “They’re here, Your Grace.”

  The Duchess of Maitland’s gnarled fingers hesitated over the fading ink on the last page of her family bible. On the ten generations of births, marriages and deaths, all faithfully recorded for posterity.

  Now, with her eightieth birthday fast approaching, she could only hope the fates would be kind, that she’d live long enough to record one more entry. Just one that would rectify two old injustices. That’s all she asked.

  Please, Lord...

  With a sigh, she closed the bible and pocketed her spectacles. Wouldn’t do to have a house guest or tenant realize she was nearly blind. “Thank you, Giles. Please send them in.”

  When her visitors stood before her, she asked, “Did all go as we’d hoped?”

  Her grandniece Augusta, looking particularly fetching in blue, nodded. “As you predicted Olivia wanted to walk home, insisted on doing so, in fact. I simply protested a few times for appearance’s sake.”

  “Excellent.” Michael Conor had written that she wasn’t to be alarmed should his daughter insist on daily exercise. If memory served, her beautiful mother and grandmother had the same liking for long solitary walks.

  “Wonderful, Augusta. As a reward please consider wearing the sapphire and diamond earrings of mine that you’ve so admired to next week’s ball.”

  Her grandniece blushed to a pretty pink, her excitement evident. “Oh, thank you!”

  “No need to thank me, dear. They’ll be yours eventually anyway.”

  Her grandniece squeaked in surprised delight before clapping a gloved hand over her mouth, which caused Melinda to roll her eyes. Seriously, young ladies today...

  “You’re excused, Augusta. Enjoy your afternoon.”

  The less her grandniece knew, the less information she could inadvertently blurt to Olivia.

  After her giggling grandniece made good her escape, Melinda turned her attention to Clachankirk’s gillie. “Were you able to waylay the MacNab?”

  “Aye, Your Grace. Last night I took a chisel to the axel then smeared mud on it to mask my cuts. This morn’ just before he set out I snapped the pin holding the crate’s latch. The rutted path and a few well-placed rocks did the rest. You should have heard him when that axel broke half way across the glen. The piglets went flying. Ack! ‘Twas total chaos.”

  Oh my! This was better than she’d hoped. “And Olivia was there to witness it all?”

  “She was near enough to hear the commotion and went to investigate. ‘Twasn’t long before they were both chasing the wee pigs, laughing and cavorting like bairns.”

  “They were laughing?” Could this be true?

  “Aye, Your Grace. Laughing like two babes in a puddle.”

  Her old friend’s depressingly serious granddaughter and her too staid and prideful neighbor had been laughing together. Perfect! If that wasn’t confirmation that she’d been right to meddle in John Colin MacNab’s romantic affairs yet again then she didn’t know what might.

  Unlike his reckless father, young Colin was a steadfast, proud and sober man. Eight summers past he’d nearly died rescuing her horses from the hellish stable fire started by lightning. Aye, he was a good neighbor and positive influence on the tenants that remained with him. That he now had too few tenants to keep body and soul together wasn’t his fault. In part the blame was hers.

  Twenty odd years ago she and her dearly departed Robert had been arguing over travel plans when he’d suddenly thrown up his hands and bellowed, “Do whatever you wish! You always do anyway. I’m off to the club.”

  A short time later Robert, a talented gambler in a foul mood, sat down at a card table across from John MacNab, a man for which he had little respect.

  Had Robert been in a better mood, had she and Robert not been arguing before he left their townhouse, she knew in her heart of hearts that her normally fair husband would have taken pity on the MacNab, would have told the bloody drunk to go home, not to wager his property. But no, her Robert needed a victory that night and so he got it. Hundreds of acres of prime land only a two day ride from Edinburgh. And now the site of Blythe Hall.

  So she owed her handsome young neighbor this boon. To provide him with the perfect wife, a woman who could set his financial affairs in order and prove an intelligent and compassionate companion for life.

  True, she’s chosen poorly for him the first time and she truly regretted that he’d suffered horribly, but this time she had it right. She’d selected the perfect spouse for him. She was certain of it.

  Smiling, her confidence surging, she said, “Gillie, this is going far better than I’d dared hope. Please speak with our carpenter and take whatever you need to make a new axel. And be sure to see Giles on your way out. He has a gift, coins to reimburse you for any inconvenience my request may have caused you.”

  “Thank ye, Your Grace, I greatly appreciate yer kindness but truth to tell, ‘twas no inconvenience. M’lord needs a good lady by his side and from what I could see, the young lass is that.”

  Melinda nodded. “Let us all pray.”

  TARTAN BOWS AND
MISTLETOE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Clachankirk Keep

  Colin wanted nothing more than some peace and quiet to ponder his morning encounter with the unusual Miss Conor of the Irish Cobbler Conors but it wasn’t to be. ‘Twas past gloaming and he still had an evening of Scotch Christmas bun judging, toasts and the burning of the Clavie still ahead of him.

  Jerking off his cravat, he told MacGill, “I met a most unusual woman today.”

  “Did ye now?” MacGill continued fussing over the coat and vest Colin had tossed on the bed. “At the kirk, m’lord?”

  “Nay, before. In the glen. After the cart broke. And unusual doesn’t quite do the lass justice. She’s...well, she’s... extraordinary.”

  “This extraordinary lass wouldn’t happen to be the reason ye’re grinning despite ye clothes looking like ye were waylaid by rowdies then tossed in a wagon rut, would it?”

  Colin stepped out of his trousers, which had suffered the most from his morning’s misadventure. “MacGill, dinna fash. The mud will dry then brushed it off.”

  His butler huffed. “Easy for ye to say, m’lord. Ye’ll not be the one doing all the brushing.”

  Colin rolled his eyes. “Then leave them right where they are and I’ll brush them myself come morn’.”

  MacGill straightened and puffed out his chest. “I’ll do no such thing.” He scooped up the discarded clothing. “Tell me more about the lady.”

  “The first thing ye’ll note is her height. She’s quite tall and has a long easy stride. Not once did I have to mince steps whilst walking beside her.”

  MacGill’s brow furrowed like a walnut. “Ye think a long stride makes a lass extraordinary?”

  Colin laughed. “Not in and of itself, although I did find it a pleasant change.”

  “Humph! ‘Tis no wee wonder that ye’re still a bachelor.”

  Colin pulled a fresh shirt over his head. “Did I mention that she also has lovely copper curls, dimples and the most amazing brown eyes? They brought to mind that Russian amber brooch mother once wore. Ye ken that perfect color betwixt cherry wood and dark honey?”

  “Ah, cherry wood and honey. That’s more like it.”

  “Quite, and she’s American. A Suffragist of all things, who wishes to be a magistrate and change the world.”

  “American.” Sounding none too pleased, MacGill asked, “Is she one of them that comes to Blythe Hall each year looking for a title?”

  His poor butler had been the one to pull Colin, piece by broken piece, back together after his fiancée had run back to her father.

  “Nay. Miss Conor is staying at Blythe, but her father is a cobbler as was his father before him. Would you believe she waggled a foot to show off his handy work? Aye, she did. Given her enthusiasm for women’s rights, I suspect she’s a female companion or perhaps a secretary to one of the vipers. In any event, she’s well-spoken and rather captivating in her odd way...for an American.”

  Apparently deciding the lady posed no imminent threat, MacGill smiled and asked, “Do you intend to see her again?”

  Did he? “Whether I wish to see her again or not has no bearing on the situation. I strongly suspect her time isn’t her own, but that of her employer.”

  MacGill helped him secure his kilt, sporran and then held out his dark blue coat. As he brushed gnarled hands across Colin’s shoulders, he said, “Then go to Blythe Hall.”

  Glancing at the mirror, Colin raked his fingers through wayward curls and made a mental note to ask Milly if she could find some time betwixt tomorrow and the ball to cut his hair. “I’ve no intention of going over to Blythe Hall prior to making my as-late-as-possible entrance at the ball and only then because the Duchess is a good soul and despite her being the most meddling of sorts.”

  “That she is, m’lord.”

  Ready for the evening’s festivities, Colin led the way down Clachankirk’s well-worn stone steps to the great hall where Milly, knowing he had much bun tasting ahead of him, had laid out a light repast of bread and cheese on the keep’s long oak table. Beside his meal sat a bottle of fine aged whisky and two hammered copper cups.

  “Will ye be coming to the fair, MacGill?”

  “I leave such goings on to the young, m’lord. My auld bones much prefer bed to cavorting and such.”

  “I wish I had the same choice. Since ye’ll not be awake upon my return let’s conduct our nightly ritual now, shall we?”

  “Very, good, m’lord.”

  Colin poured a dram of whisky into each cup and handed one to MacGill. “To ye, my friend. Tenantry are stronger than laird.”

  MacGill grinned at the proverb, and replying in kind, said, “Friendship is as it’s kept.”

  “True enough.”

  They downed their whisky and after bidding each other good night, MacGill shuffled off to his third floor quarters where his wife Milly waited.

  Colin settled on the carved oak chair at the head of the table. He had little appetite but knowing celebrating villagers would be pressing cup after cup of mulled spirits into his hands, he cut into the cheese.

  He’d enjoyed his conversation with Miss Conor. Dare he hope that she attends this evening’s festivities? Nay. ‘Twas most unlikely unless her mistress accompanies the Duchess on her brief visit to award her annual gifts and prizes to his tenants. Few ever did.

  But what if Miss Conor did come and the Duchess, not knowing they’d already met, introduces him as the MacNab, Earl of Clachankirk? He liked to think that Miss Conor, being an American suffragist, would take his having a title in stride. If she didn’t, she might confront him about his duplicity, but then again she might not. Out of sheer embarrassment or anger, she might simply pay him the usual polite deference and then slip away, never wishing to speak with him again. And that would prove disappointing...for reasons he cared not explore.

  He pulled his watch from his sporran. Well, there was little to be gained by sitting here fashing like an old woman about what might or might not happen. He had a Christmas festival to supervise.

  TARTAN BOWS AND MISTLETOE

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Spying her cousin at the piano, Liv knocked on Blythe Hall’s music room doorframe. “Augusta, I’m sorry to disturb you but might I have a word?”

  Her friend looked up and heaved a huge sigh. “Please come in. I need a moment’s reprieve from practicing. Her Grace has asked that I play this piece at tomorrow’s soiree and I fear it’s beyond my limited abilities.”

  Liv, having no musical talent and greatly admiring those that did, waved away her friend’s concern. “From what little I’ve heard, you’ve quite mastered the piece. It sounded lovely.”

  “Truly?”

  Liv nodded. “Truly. I envy you your talent.”

  Looking relieved, Augusta smiled. “Thank you. I’ve been worrying myself ill fearing I’ll embarrass myself before one and all. Now, what can I do for you?”

  Oh dear, where to begin?

  “I know this sounds quite ridiculous, that I’ve only been here a short while, but...I’ve met a most interesting man.”

  Augusta, looking pleased, scooted sideways on the bench and patted the space next to her. “Come sit and do tell.”

  Liv settled beside her. “After our mistletoe hunt, I was walking home and came across a gentleman with a broken cart. The axel had snapped and his cargo, a litter of piglets, had made good their escape. Well, I just couldn’t stand there laughing at the poor man as he scrambled after them so I offered to help collect the wee beasties, as he called them.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “I did. Working together we made quick work of it and then I helped carry the litter to the village.”

  “So, this interesting man is a farmer?”

  “Oh no. He’s the local minister.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t heard that a new one had been hired. At least this means your interesting man is educated. So tell me more.”

  “He’s broad shouldered and very tall.” That she’d even no
ticed these details had her flummoxed.

  “Given your height, those are excellent traits,” Augusta assured her.

  Liv thought so as well.

  Recalling the colorful language he’d been employing before he realized she was standing before him, she said, “I strongly suspect he’s not a particularly pious minister. In truth he didn’t appear to take his role as seriously as men of the cloth usually do. I found him quite unique.”

  “Is he handsome?”

  To her astonishment Liv felt herself blush. “I did fine him so.”

  “So what does he look like?”

  “He has dark curls that brush his shoulders and the most amazing blue eyes framed by lovely black lashes. Oh, and a strong square jaw. Father says that’s important. That men with weak chins should be viewed as suspect, so...”

  Augusta patted her hand. “This all sounds most promising—save for the fact that this interesting gentleman is a commoner—and from what my great aunt tells me about your father, he has his heart set on you capturing a titled peer.”

  With that obscene truth floating before her, Liv heaved a huge sigh.

  Worse, she’d deliberately misled Mr. MacNab into believing she was nothing more than a simple cobbler’s daughter. Not the heiress to an extremely wealthy American shoe manufacturer. Augh!

  But why was she fretting? Even if she and the gentleman in question were so inclined to court, she had no time to engage in courtship. She was in Scotland for one reason and that was to make the acquaintance of the ladies leading the Edinburgh National Society for Women’s Suffrage.

  Period.

  “Ah, there you are.”

  Startled out of their respective reveries, Liv and Augusta bolted to their feet. Curtseying, they all but shouted, “Your Grace!”

  “Good evening, my dears. I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay at Blythe Hall thus far?”

  Augusta nodded like a sandpiper. “Oh yes, Your Grace. We were just discussing how delightful our time here has been.”