Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “That is very true.”

  Holly couldn’t help but get the feeling that he was being brutally honest with her. She didn’t sense any further deceit but, then again, she hadn’t sensed it earlier when he filled her head with lies. Therefore, she wasn’t sure what more she could say. It was all so disheartening. Her focus moved to his possessions, his tattered cloak and worn saddlebags. They were the possessions of a man who was used to traveling.

  “Where will you go now?” she finally asked.

  He shrugged. “I have nowhere to go,” he said. Then, he quickly held up a hand. “I did not say that to garner your pity. It is simply the truth of the matter.”

  “You truly cannot return to Ashbourne?”

  He shook his head. “Not now,” he said. “Mayhap someday, but not now.”

  “You said you had other brothers. Can you go to them?”

  “They are at Ashbourne.”

  Holly continued to stand there, looking at his lowered head. She knew that she should have been furious with him, at the very least, for everything, but she couldn’t seem to manage it. The man had made a mistake and he had confessed to it. Still, it was more than that… she knew Adam and knew he would not have been friends with a man who was underhanded and wretched. The fact that Adam and Rennington had been the best of friends spoke volumes for Rennington’s character.

  This night, for her, had been pivotal. In spite of Rennington’s lies, Holly was still under the impression that he had been sent by God. He’d give her peace, telling her of Adam’s death as he had and with that peace, came the feeling that perhaps she could move on with her life now. Perhaps, even Adam had sent Rennington to her, knowing how sad and lonely she would have been. Certainly, Adam wouldn’t have sent a man of questionable character. Perhaps Rennington still had some issues to work out with himself, but maybe that’s why he was really here. Perhaps he and Holly could work on his issues, together.

  And perhaps, in that sense, they needed each other badly.

  Without another word, Holly turned away and disappeared back into the darkness of the church. Rennington stood up, watching her walk away, thinking that it would be the last time he’d ever see her. He was deeply saddened with that realization but took comfort in the fact that he had her forgiveness. That was really all that mattered to him at the moment. She would return to Thulston now and to the party that was going on, and, perhaps, she would meet an honorable man who would make her a fine husband. Rennington wished with all his being that he could be that man, but given their circumstances, such a thing was impossible. He would have to accept it.

  With a heavy heart, he turned back to his cloak, now mussed upon the hard earth. He was just bending over to straighten it when he heard Holly’s voice behind him.

  “Earlier tonight, you had mentioned the legend that states if a maiden sleeps upon a sprig of mistletoe taken from a church, she will dream of her future husband,” she said. “Do you recall telling me that?”

  Rennington turned to look at her, vastly pleased to see that she hadn’t left. “I do.”

  Holly nodded. Then, from beneath her cloak, she pulled forth a bunch of mistletoe that she’d plucked from one of the boughs that were hung all around the church. She held it up between them.

  “There is also another legend that states a maiden cannot refuse a kiss when given a berry from the mistletoe bough,” she said. “If she refuses, then she shall not marry in the coming year. Have you heard of that legend, also?”

  Rennington nodded, a faint glimmer in his eye. “I have, indeed.”

  Holly’s gaze moved from his face to the mistletoe. She inspected the shiny green leaves. “My sisters tried to force me to sleep on a sprig of mistletoe that they found right here in this church,” she said. “They even tried to whisper to me when I was sleeping, thinking to plant dreams in my head. When I discovered what they’d done, I burned the sprig.”

  Rennington smiled faintly. “I heard them make their plans yesterday,” he said. “I heard everything they intended to do to you. They seem quite irate that you have no desire to marry.”

  Holly was still looking at the mistletoe, its dark leaves and white berries. “I know,” she said. “Rose told me she would hate me forever if I did not wed. She told me she had no intention of being a spinster.”

  “That is a dilemma, to be sure.”

  Holly reached out and plucked a white berry from the mistletoe and as Rennington watched, she held it out to him. Stunned, he hesitantly lifted a hand and she deposited the berry into his open palm. He just stood there, looking at it.

  “Now, you cannot refuse to kiss me,” she said quietly. “If you do, you shall not marry in the coming year.”

  He looked up from the berry, his eyes full of incredulity. “Holly…?”

  “God has sent you,” she said, cutting him off gently. “I believe that. I always will. He sent you to me tonight and I, for one, do not intend to waste that gift. Mayhap you’ve done something terrible tonight and, mayhap, you would have done worse had you followed through with your plans, but the truth is that you did not. Somewhere beneath that confused, beaten knight lies the heart of an honorable man. Adam knew it. He would not have been your friend had he thought otherwise. Therefore, I trust his judgment. And I do not need to dream of my future husband because I would like to think that he is standing in front of me at this moment. Now, if you truly wish to continue wandering, I will not stand in your way. But know that you do not have to.”

  Rennington stared at her, overcome with what she was telling him. “My God…,” he breathed. “Am… am I dreaming?”

  The corner of her lips tugged, seeing his utter disbelief. “Nay.”

  “After all that I have done, you would be so forgiving?”

  Her smile broke through. “You do not seem to understand,” she said. “What you have done is bring me the peace I had been praying for. You have done something good tonight, whether or not you realize it. I… I believe we have been brought together for a reason. It is a Christmastide blessing for us both, Ren, a dream within this dream that is the season of God’s grace. Our loneliness and sorrow is at an end. I… I believe you need me as much as I need you.”

  Never were truer words spoken. Rennington realized there were tears in his eyes as he digested what she was saying. He cleared his throat before speaking, for it was tight with emotion.

  “Your capacity for forgiveness is beyond comprehension, my lady,” he said. “You realize that I have nothing to offer you but myself. I come as you see me.”

  “And I am content with you and only you, Ren.”

  It was a blessing he had not seen coming. Only a woman whose heart was so true and pure could see beyond his poverty, his Godlessness, and believe in the man beneath.

  “I have never believed in Christmastide miracles until now,” he said, his voice hoarse. “When I look at you, I can only see God’s greater glory. I shall spend the rest of my life ensuring that I am an honorable and true husband, I swear it.”

  Holly’s eyes were glimmering with unshed tears. “Your love will be enough.”

  “There would be no one more worthy of it than you, my angel.”

  Holly’s smile lit up the darkness of the church as if a burst of sunlight had just exploded in all of its radiant glory. But Rennington only saw a brief flash of it; the next he realized, he was pulling the woman into his arms, kissing her as he had never kissed a woman in his life. All of his joy and anticipation for the future was concentrated in that one heated kiss, filling them both with the greatest sense of hope they’d ever known.

  As the bells of the great cathedral tolled at midnight, the Christmastide dream for two lonely and tragic people had finally came true. In the days to come, the single mistletoe berry that she had plucked and offered him as a symbol of forgiveness, as well as hope for the future, ended up in her memory box, as well.

  For Holly and Rennington, the legend of the kissing bough became their reality.

  *** THE
END ***

  A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM

  By Edgar Allan Poe

  Take this kiss upon the brow!

  And, in parting from you now,

  Thus much let me avow –

  You are not wrong, who deem

  That my days have been a dream;

  Yet if hope has flown away

  In a night, or in a day,

  In a vision, or in none,

  Is it therefore the less gone?

  All that we see or seem

  Is but a dream within a dream.

  I stand amid the roar

  Of a surf-tormented shore,

  And I hold within my hand,

  Grains of the golden sand –

  How few! Yet how they creep

  Through my fingers to the deep,

  While I weep – while I weep!

  O God! Can I not grasp

  Them with a tighter clasp?

  O God! Can I not save

  One from the pitiless wave?

  Is all that we see or seem

  {

  ABOUT KATHRYN LE VEQUE

  KATHRYN LE VEQUE is a USA TODAY Bestselling author, an Amazon All-Star author, and a #1 bestselling, award-winning, multi-published author in Medieval Historical Romance and Historical Fiction. She has been featured in the NEW YORK TIMES and on USA TODAY’s HEA blog. In March 2015, Kathryn was the featured cover story for the March issue of InD’Tale Magazine, the premier Indie author magazine. She was also a quadruple nominee (a record!) for the prestigious RONE awards for 2015.

  Kathryn’s Medieval Romance novels have been called ‘detailed’, ‘highly romantic’, and ‘character-rich’. She crafts great adventures of love, battles, passion, and romance in the High Middle Ages. More than that, she writes for both women AND men – an unusual crossover for a romance author – and Kathryn has many male readers who enjoy her stories because of the male perspective, the action, and the adventure.

  Kathryn loves to hear from her readers. Please find Kathryn on Facebook at Kathryn Le Veque, Author, or join her on Twitter @kathrynleveque, and don’t forget to sign up for her blog and visit her website at www.kathrynleveque.com.

  MISTLETOE AND THE MAJOR

  ANNA CAMPBELL

  MISTLETOE AND THE MAJOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Otway, Shropshire, Christmas Eve, 1815

  Edmund Sherritt, Major Lord Canforth, pulled his tired horse up on the brow of the hill. Below him, the fine Jacobean manor of Otway Hall nestled in its pretty valley near the Welsh border. Early winter twilight descended, lengthening the shadows and turning the leafless trees to silhouettes against the darkening sky.

  At last he was home.

  Four days ago, he’d finally received permission to turn his back on a distinguished military career and return to civilian life. He’d left London at a gallop, traveling on horseback because he couldn’t bear to wait for his carriage to be packed and ready.

  North and west he’d ridden, eager and happy. The first night on the road, he’d snatched a few hours’ sleep in a rough inn and set out at first light.

  But as the miles from London mounted and the miles to Otway dwindled, he found himself unaccountably slowing down, taking his time. Lingering over meals. Staying in bed longer in the morning—he couldn’t call it sleeping without making himself a liar.

  One might almost imagine the gallant major delayed his arrival at the home he’d longed to see for close to eight years. If such an idea weren’t inconceivable in connection with a decorated war hero, one might even wonder if the gallant major dallied because he was…afraid.

  Of course that was absurd. Lord Canforth had served his country since the British army joined the Peninsular War in 1808. He’d been wounded at Waterloo, and once recovered, he’d spent the last few months crossing the Continent, working to establish the peace. Such a man would hardly quail at the idea of returning to his estates.

  Afraid or not, he’d dawdled on the road, when by rights, he should already be sleeping in his own bed.

  Even a sluggard’s journey eventually came to an end. Now he paused above the landscape he loved more than any other. Whatever uncertainty he harbored about his reception, he felt long-delayed pleasure seep into his bones.

  This was a fine view in any season. Winter lay lightly on the valley, creating a symphony of subtle greens and grays and browns. His gaze drifted across the gardens surrounding the house, and the bare woodlands rising behind it. The low hills encircled what to him had always seemed an earthly paradise. Brimming with happy boyhood memories of loving parents, and freedom and adventure.

  Smoke curled from the house’s chimneys. This close to Christmas, he hadn’t been sure if anyone would be home to greet him. The coward who had possessed his soul since he’d returned to England last week had hoped the house might be empty, giving him a chance to settle in before he needed to worry about anyone else.

  Of course he’d have to deal with people again. He was the Earl of Canforth, and he had obligations to his estate. But a few days alone would offer a welcome respite.

  A few days before he had to meet the wife he’d married nearly eight years ago and hadn’t seen since.

  ***

  Felicity, Lady Canforth, emerged from the dark warmth of the stables, blinking against the gray light and carrying an empty bucket she intended to fill at the pump. The promise of snow edged the air. It looked like a cold Christmas ahead.

  When the raw-boned bay horse clattered into the stable yard, she didn’t recognize it. Or the man bundled in hat, scarf, and greatcoat in the saddle.

  This isolated valley didn’t get many unexpected visitors. And it was odd for someone to come to the stables instead of the front door. She straightened, annoyed at the intrusion, not least because in her brown pinafore, she wasn’t dressed to receive guests. “Can I help you?”

  The rider drew to a stop, and she felt him studying her from under the brim of the hat he’d pulled down low over his face. A thick green muffler concealed his features. “I hope so,” he said through the scarf.

  “An introduction might be a nice start,” she said pleasantly.

  One gloved hand rose to pull away the scarf. “Don’t you remember me, Flick?”

  Dear God in heaven. Shock shuddered through her like a blow. Her legs threatened to collapse under her. The bucket crashed to the cobblestones where it rolled disregarded.

  “Canforth?” The word emerged as a whisper.

  Under her wide-eyed gaze, he unwound the scarf and, with a slowness that struck her as significant, he lifted away his hat. “The same,” he said in a dry tone.

  She barely heard through the blood rushing in her ears. Her heart raced like a wild horse as her hungry eyes devoured the man she’d last seen over seven years ago. Powerful joy and equally powerful uncertainty churned in her stomach, turned her knees to jelly.

  She drank in every detail of his appearance. Over the years, his image had faded in her mind, despite her best efforts to remember. Thick auburn hair sprang back from his high forehead. The bony nose and jaw were the same. But there were other, obvious changes. Deep lines now ran between nose and mouth. His gray eyes no longer hinted at a continual smile. Most shocking of all was the long, angry scar that extended from temple to jaw.

  That must have hurt like the very devil. At the thought of his suffering, she couldn’t control a murmur of distress.

  Her involuntary reaction made his lips tighten. He raised one gloved hand toward the saber slash—for surely nothing else could cause such damage—before he sat upright in the saddle and surveyed her down his long nose. “Or perhaps not quite the same, after all.”

  The pride was familiar. And the courage. He’d loathe her pity. She forced herself to pretend that she didn’t want to drag him off that big, ill-tempered looking nag, and take him in her arms, and weep all over him like a fountain.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Keeping her voice steady required every ounce of willpower.

&nbs
p; “I decided I’d beat any letter home.” The deep rumble of his voice was the same, too. She remembered how it had always vibrated pleasantly in her bones. In the cold air, their breath formed clouds in front of their faces when they spoke. “On Wednesday, I got back to London from The Hague and found the orders that released me at last.”

  Felicity bent to retrieve the bucket, so that he wouldn’t see the tears rushing to her eyes. She and Canforth had always been friends, but friends who made no undue demands on one another. Definitely not the kind of friends who howled and cheered and created a fuss when the wanderer returned from dangerous foreign exploits. She’d gathered from the first that he shied away from any hint of sentiment.

  For a second, she fumbled blindly, until she found the handle. She rose with what she prayed was a fair appearance of composure. “The last letter I had from you was written in Vienna.”

  Through all these endless, lonely years, the only real reminder that she was a wife and not a maiden lady had been his letters. Written regularly. Delivered erratically, according to the rigors of war and travel. She’d written to him, too. He read her letters, she knew—he responded to her questions about managing the estate—but she had no idea what, if anything, they’d meant to him. For her, his every word had been air to a woman dying of suffocation. Although true to the unspoken contract between them, in her replies, she’d never ventured beyond news of everyday events.

  “Good God, I must have written that two months ago. There’s more to come.”

  “I look forward to them,” she said easily, as if those letters hadn’t kept her heart alive since he’d gone away. She set the bucket down near the pump.

  “I always looked forward to yours.” It sounded like mere politeness. But then he’d always been polite. Even during their few encounters in the countess’s big oak bed, he’d treated her like a fine lady. Never like a lover.