Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Relief swept through her. They’d turned the corner of their relationship.

  Hunt opened the wheelhouse door and waved for her to come outside. “My turn.” He escorted her to the bow of the ship.

  “My parents told me that you set up this time for them to talk to me. Thank you for your role in this, Hunt, I . . .” He placed his finger over her lips.

  “I want to talk about us. Take a walk with me.” He turned, and waved his hands over his head. There was a loud snap, then his island went from complete darkness to light.

  “Oh, my. . .” She didn’t know where to look first. Lights were strung in cypress trees along the water’s edge and even on his lopsided cabin. “It’s all there,” she whispered, spotting the lover’s path, the Kissing Bough-mistletoe gazebo, the live reindeer in a fenced area, and even the painted cypress-knee village near the wharf. She clapped her hands. “You did this?”

  He shook his head. “Your family deserves the credit. They worked so hard to have this completed for you before you leave to go back to New York. They wanted to let you know how much they love you and appreciate you.”

  “You allowed it.”

  They got off the boat and walked onto the island. Hunt didn’t seem to be enjoying the wonderland as much as she did. His shoulders were tense, his brows tight. She was about to ask him if he was sorry for allowing his island to be decorated, but they started to stroll along lover’s lane, and she felt it wasn’t the right time to do it.

  “Deck the Halls” started to play in the background.

  They turned at a corner where a beautiful Christmas tree had been decorated with twinkling white lights, wide white ribbons, and a brightly shining angel on top. The angel was wearing sunglasses. Hunt took the sunglasses off and slipped them on her face. “You need these more.” He smiled. “These are better than using your hands to shade your eyes.”

  “I forgot mine on the plane when I flew here.” She laughed.

  The path disappeared behind a grove of palmettos, where the light dimmed to just light the path.

  “You asked me if a place could give me peace, Camille. Remember?”

  “I remember,” she said, her heart now pounding in her chest.

  “Tante Izzy told me last night that I didn’t choose this island, it chose me.” He was quiet a moment. She could see in the intensity of his eyes that what he wanted to say was very important to him. “She also said I didn’t own it, I was its guardian and with that I had some responsibilities.”

  “That’s what gave you this change of heart, then,” she said, happy for him.

  He stopped in front of the small white gazebo where a beautifully decorated Kissing Bough hung in the center. There were huge branches of mistletoe, cedar, rosemary, and mint. Mixed in were pecans, navel oranges, and gold ribbon. He took her hand and stood a foot away from being underneath it.

  He turned and faced her. “I have had a change of heart, Camille. But it had nothing to do with what Tante Izzy said. It had to do with who you are. From the moment I saw you on your water chariot the day you arrived here, I felt your peace. Yes, it’s true, I came to Louisiana thinking Cypress Island was where I’d find my peace and I was right. This is where I found you. I’m so in love with you, Camille, in what seems a crazy short period of time, but I am. The island may have chosen me, but my heart chose you. I’m asking you now. . .Do you choose me?”

  Camille looked into his warm, beautiful eyes, and a peace she didn’t know she was seeking seeped into her heart and soul. She sucked in a breath, and she saw that Hunt was perspiring around the edges of his dark hair. She took his hand and pulled him under the mistletoe.

  “I choose you.” She stood on her toes and kissed him. “And, I choose to be home here in Fa La La.”

  He picked her up and spun her around as the chorus sounded on the speakers through the trees-’Tis the season to be jolly, Fa la la la la, la la la la.

  The End

  A NOTE FROM

  TINA DE SALVO

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you enjoyed -Hunt for Christmas-. It was such a pleasure to write this story for you as part of the Under the Kissing Bough collection. I truly loved sharing some of the Christmas traditions that we celebrate with our families in Cajun Country in this work of fiction. If you’d like to add a bit of Cajun Holiday cheer with your family, visit my website - http://tinadesalvo.com for some yummy recipes that have been passed on for generations (including the pecan pralines prepared by Tante Izzy and Madame Eleanor in the story).

  I wish you and your family a very Merry Christmas and plenty of kisses Under the Kissing Bough!

  Joyeaux Noel,

  Tina DeSalvo

  P.S. Hunt for Christmas is part of my Second Chance Novel Series where some of the same characters you’ve gotten to know, appear again in stories of romance, warmth and fun.

  ABOUT TINA DESALVO

  Tina DeSalvo, a fresh, humorous voice in romance, brings her knowledge and passion for the culture, traditions and people of Cajun Country (where she lives) and New Orleans (where she grew up) to her Second Chance Novel series-Elli, Jewell and Abby (coming in 2017!). Two novellas are in this series too – A Second Chance in Vegas and Hunt for Christmas. A Breast Cancer Survivor, Tina donates her proceeds from Elli to help individuals fight the disease. She loves to write, but she especially loves spending time with readers...sharing laughs, tears and hugs.

  Learn more about Tina at tinadesalvo.com

  HOLD ME, THRILL ME, KISS ME

  A BRETHREN OF THE COAST NOVELLA

  BARBARA DEVLIN

  HOLD ME, THRILL ME, KISS ME

  PROLOGUE

  Kent, England

  November, 1808

  A pristine blanket of snow cloaked the landscape, as Lord Nicholas Sheldon trailed Lady Almira down the hill. Laughing, he scraped up a handful of the icy fluff, tamped it good, and threw the ball at her, and she darted to the side, evaded his playful attack, and shrieked.

  “Faster, Almira, because I am going to catch you.” In a rush of exhilaration, he gave chase and reached for the hood of her bright red pelisse. “I have you now.”

  “You do not.” With a squeal of delight, she picked up her skirts, favoring him with a scandalous display of her calves, as she sprinted toward the verge. “I am too fast.”

  “We shall see.” As she veered to the right of a massive oak, he charged left, and she bolted straight into his arms. “A-ha, I have you, and I will never let go.”

  “Nicholas, stop.” With palms pressed to the lapels of his wool coat, she protested. “What if someone spots us?”

  “Does it matter?” Pulling her close, he shrugged and admired her shimmering blue eyes, which danced with amusement. “The contracts are signed, and we are to marry in the spring, just after your sixteenth birthday, and I cannot abide the delay.”

  “Until then, we will observe all proprieties, sir. Because I am a good girl.” Glancing to the side, she sniffed, but her coy demeanor did not fool him for an instant, since he doubted not that she harbored genuine fondness for him. “Now, unhand me, you brute.”

  “Not until you grant me a kiss.” How he adored her fit of pique, which combined with the chill and colored her cheeks a lovely shade of pink. “Please, just one kiss?”

  “It would not be proper for a young lady of character to indulge in such dreadful behavior. As it is, we should not frolic about the countryside, unchaperoned, and I know not why my father permits it.” Yet she bit her lip. “Perhaps, next month, when the kissing bough hangs in the entry to the drawing room, you might stake your claim, and I shall be only too happy to accommodate you.”

  “But I cannot wait, my dear Almira.” With his nose, he traced the curve of her jaw and inhaled the subtle jasmine scent that was uniquely hers. “Shall I beg? Should I drop to bended knee and make my plea on pain of insanity?” In her ear he whispered, “I love you, Mira.”

  “Do you?” She flinched, as his declaration snared her full attention. “Truly?”<
br />
  “Indeed, you own my heart.” He tucked a wayward brown tendril beneath the crown of her blue velvet poke bonnet. “You always have, given our fathers betrothed us from birth. And while I considered you a friend when we were younger, what I harbor for you now far surpasses anything so casual, and I sincerely look forward to the day when I can call you mine, in every way.”

  “Then more’s the pity, as I share your affinity.” To his surprise, she pressed her mouth to his, giggled, broke free, and scampered down the hill. Over her shoulder, she called, “If you tell anyone, Nicholas Sheldon, I will never forgive you.”

  Stunned into silence, and incapable of motion, he stood there and grinned like a giddy debutante. Although their first kiss posed no extended, intimate affair, it manifested a cherished memory he would carry for a lifetime and beyond. Calming warmth spread from top to toes, his ears rang, and a chorus of fanciful cherubs magically appeared overhead. When he blinked, came alert, and found himself alone, he dug in his heels and pursued his bride-to-be.

  Across the back meadow, they ran at full speed, until they rounded the east end of her home. In the drive, two carriages, one of which belonged to his family, loomed. The other magnificent coach boasted an impressive coat of arms he did not recollect.

  On the side steps of the porte-cochère, his father lingered, as her sire shook hands with a tall and distinguished nobleman Nicholas did not recognize. As usual, Almira raced to the top of the stairs.

  “Almira Dorothea, behave yourself.” Lord Kettering wagged a finger. “Would you embarrass yourself before your prospective husband? It would not surprise me if Lord Moreton rescinded his most generous offer.”

  “What do you mean, Papa, as you speak in riddles?” Her joyful expression faltered, and something inside Nicholas fractured. “Everyone knows I am to wed Nicholas.”

  “Not anymore.” Lord Kettering glared at Nicholas, and he shuffled his feet. “You are to be the marchioness of Moreton, as opposed to a mere countess. Is that not grand, my dear?”

  “No, it is not.” When Lord Kettering drew her to his right, she resisted. “I wish to marry Nicholas, and I care not for the title.”

  “You will do as you are told.” Lord Kettering yanked her to the fore, and Nicholas jumped but checked himself. “Forgive her, Lord Moreton, as she does not understand the great honor you bestow upon her.”

  “That is quite all right.” The marquess gazed upon her and leered, and Nicholas gritted his teeth. “She will learn her place, soon enough.”

  For Nicholas, that was the last straw.

  “Let her go.” Without hesitation, he hurried to aid his intended. “Our betrothal is sealed, and Mira is mine, as we were bound from birth.”

  “You forget yourself, sir, and I would thank you to leave my property and never return.” Despite the longstanding friendship between their two families, Lord Kettering appeared a stranger in his unmistakable ire. “Lord Waddlington, the contracts are voided, and our business is concluded. Take your son and leave.”

  “Come along, Nicholas.” To his horror, with nary an objection, Father flicked his wrist. “Let us away.”

  “No.” He shook his head, even as his sire dragged Nicholas to their rig. “Mira is to be my wife, and I cannot abandon her.”

  “Nicholas.” Her plaintive cry struck him as a punch to the gut, and she wrestled with her father. “Nicholas, stay.”

  Clenching and unclenching his fists, he squared his shoulders.

  “I would not do it, if I were you.” Stretched to full height, Lord Moreton smirked. “Your actions do you great credit, but this is not a battle you can win.” All trace of civility vanished from his expression, and what Nicholas glimpsed in the man’s gaze, a palpable malevolence, frightened him. “The girl is my property.” Then Lord Moreton narrowed his stare. “Have you touched her?”

  “How dare you insult Lady Almira by questioning her virtue.” In the shadow of the marquess, Nicholas retreated. “She is pure of heart and character. Indeed, she is the sweetest creature I have ever known.”

  “Excellent, as that is just what I seek, and I would gain an equitable return on my investment.” Again, the marquess exhibited an illicit tendency, when he gazed on Almira, and Nicholas’s skin crawled. “Now, run along, pup. This game is for men.”

  “No.” Almira struggled to break loose. “Nicholas, please, do not leave me.”

  In the face of such formidable opposition, he relented, and something within him died in that moment. “I am sorry, Almira. I hope you will be happy.”

  As she screamed in protest, he climbed into the coach and sank into the squabs. Again and again, she called his name, which echoed in his ears, in a loathsome refrain, and he peered out the window. Pressing his nose to the glass, he wept as Mira wrenched from her father’s grasp and followed in their wake.

  “Nicholas, come back.” Frantically, she waved, tripped, and fell into a large rut. “Nicholas.”

  HOLD ME, THRILL ME, KISS ME

  CHAPTER ONE

  London

  December 1, 1815

  Utter ruin had a way of changing a man, of harkening to past regrets, of emphasizing the importance of family, of accentuating such desirable aspirations as hope and love. Ah, love. The singular sentiment could carry him to the highest peak or deliver him to the gates of Hades, depending on the circumstances. Condemned to the latter, having tasted the former, a poor soul might have been quick to yield.

  For Nicholas, the reluctant patriarch of a dynasty entangled in scandal and on the brink of extinction, ignominy offered a chance for something more. For happiness. After years of languishing in his private hell, chasing light skirts among the demimonde, indulging in excess drinking and gambling, all the while denying the truth of his character and his conscience, it appeared fate gifted him one last opportunity to travel the righteous path and thereby seize the long-cherished prize.

  The rig came to a halt, and he descended the unmarked black coach, as no one of quality would publicly receive him. As he skipped up the entrance stairs of the respectable residence marked twenty-four, Upper Brooke Street, he reflected on his reception. Braced for hostility, he grasped the knocker and pounded twice on the oak panel.

  When the door opened to reveal the host, he retreated in surprise. “Admiral Douglas.” Nicholas backed down a step. “Sir, if you do not wish to speak with me, I understand. I apologize if I—”

  “But you mistake me, Lord Waddlington.” The naval legend extended a hand and flicked his wrist. “Please, do come inside, as it is quite chilly today.”

  “Thank you.” With shaking fingers, Nicholas doffed his hat and coat. Absent a butler, he hung the items on the hall tree. “I appreciate you taking this appointment, sir.”

  “Must admit I am intrigued, especially in light of the attendees you requested I gather, which I did, in accordance with your instructions.” The admiral nodded once. “They await your arrival, in the study, along with Crown Prosecutor Berwick, given the case against your brother. If you will follow me.”

  “We could have met at White’s, in a private room.” The empty corridor and missing servants gave Nicholas pause. “I have no wish to inconvenience you.”

  “But you are no inconvenience, as I often receive my guests, given I was not to the manor born.” Douglas chuckled. “My wife lunches with friends, our youngest naps in his cradle, I have naught better to do with myself, and I am satisfied that you played no part in the crimes for which your brother stands accused and your father was murdered. Does that put you at ease?”

  “It does, sir.” The walls seemed to collapse on Nicholas, and his pulse raced, as he ventured further into the home, and he rolled his shoulders. “How did you know I spoke the truth?”

  “Lady Elaine provided substantial testimony, regarding the details surrounding the previous earl of Waddlington’s demise, and Her Grace insists you had nothing to do with her kidnapping.” As the admiral paused, he tilted his head. “Ready to face the firing squad?”


  “A novel but apropos choice of words, I suspect.” Nicholas swallowed hard, as he loomed on the metaphorical banks of his Rubicon.

  Seated in the elegantly appointed study, His Grace, Blake Elliott, duke of Rylan, Sir Dalton Randolph, Sir Ross Logan, and another gentleman lingered, and tension filled the cigar smoke tinged air. An empty chair had been situated to the right, and he assumed his place.

  “So what is this all about?” As Nicholas anticipated, Rylan, laced with contempt, led the charge. “Have you come to beg for mercy? Do you intend to plead your brother’s cause?”

  “No, Your Grace.” Swallowing hard, he drew a parcel of envelopes from his breast pocket and tossed the lot atop the blotter of Admiral Douglas’s desk. “I come to bring you these.”

  “Letters?” Arching a brow, Rylan sneered. “I have no interest in your personal correspondence, Waddlington.”

  “You mistake me, Your Grace.” Nicholas untied the ribbon and handed the first missive to the duke. “These posts belonged to my father, and they were written by my brother, while he remained on the Continent, in the service of General Teversham.”

  That revelation brought everyone to their feet.

  As the duke scanned the contents of one envelope, Dalton perused another note. Tension built with each passing minute, marked by the constant ticking of the mantel clock. When Rylan at last glanced at Nicholas, he shifted his weight.

  “I cannot believe it.” The duke opened and then closed his mouth, as he scanned another post. “Your brother recounts the entire nefarious scheme.” He scrutinized the franking. “Where did you find the letters?”

  “In my father’s desk, when I sought a full accounting of the real estate and financial holdings for the earldom.” Indeed, the task had been an enlightening experience, in more ways than one, and Nicholas still could not comprehend how his sire kept so many secrets. “Believe me, I was just as stunned when I located the bundle of incriminating evidence.”