Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas

by Kathryn Le Veque

  "Don't fool yerself," muttered Brady. "The acorns never fall far from the tree."

  "Stop intruding," Killian growled.

  Brady barked out a laugh. "It can't be helped. Yer head's so loose."

  The orb of green fire Killian lobbed at Brady met empty air. A melody of tinkling harp chords flowed through the yard, yet the second one he threw also met with empty space.

  "Tsk, tsk," laughed a disembodied Brady. "Yer reflexes have gone to shite. Too much dancing, not enough fighting. Pfft. A warrior?"

  Killian tossed the tea cup into the air, where it disappeared. He made a slow circle, while he pushed the sleeves of his shirt past his elbows. "Ye want to see my reflexes, ye buggering edjit? My fists will prove how fast they are."

  He eyed the tree line, listened for the whisper of a musical note, any hint of magic. A faint vibration thrummed behind him. Killian narrowed his eyes, spun around, right fist punching into an invisible iron wall—two inches from the face of Patric, High King of the Leithprachauns.

  Brady's laughter pealed from the ether as Killian shook out his throbbing hand. He sent a hot glare in the general direction of his piece-of-arse brother, then a lesser one at Patric. "What the devil, Patric?"

  "Is that how ye address yer High King?"

  "It 'tis when he's acting the arse," Killian muttered.

  Patric raised one black, winged brow.

  "Pardon, yer Majesty, but ye were suppose to be that—" he pointed to Brady, who had formed and was leaning against a tree, delighting in his predicament. "—arse."

  Patric's eyes flared brilliant blue, and Killian sensed the wall was gone, but the stern, cold look of his High King's expression was as formidable a barrier.

  He watched from beneath hooded eyes as Patric wandered the small courtyard, arms crossed over a warrior's chest. His dress was contemporary—linen shirt finer than his and Brady's, a frock coat of deep forest green. Buff breeches made a fine line down his long legs, accentuated by black leather boots that would make the Prince Regent weep with envy. In rustic Ireland, he stood out in the crowd. But then, as the Leithprachaun High King, he avoided crowds altogether.

  Killian heaved a sigh and matched Patric's posture. "All I wanted was a quiet morning, and yet here ye both are. Brady, just because he's an arse, but ye, yer Majesty. Ye only ever come with purpose."

  If he didn't know better, he'd have thought he saw a glint of approval in Patric's enigmatic eyes.

  "The clan has always underestimated ye, Killian, with yer gift of frivolity."

  Killian tensed. "Enjoyment of life can hardly be considered frivolity," he responded through clenched teeth. "A noble goal for mortal and Fae alike."

  Patric tilted his head as he sat down. "Aye, for many are the trials of mortals." He considered Killian. "'Tis a wonder that ye can still influence them with yer treasure lost."

  The treasures of the Leithprachaun. Each of his siblings held a different one—knowledge, healing, success, perseverance. Brady's was the music of the soul reflected in the melodies of the Isle. His? Well, his was celebration of life. Difficult as hell to pull off when yer own existence felt hollow.

  Killian stared at Patric. "Ye've come interrupting my morning peace to point out old news?" Unbelievable. "I know…we all know…that our treasures are missing."

  Lost. Stolen. Depended on the perspective.

  The Fae Council called it various things, with incompetence and negligence at the top of their list. But the Leithprachaun knew the truth: Mab, the Dark Banshee Queen, had cursed them away when jilted by Finn—who also was nowhere to be found. Hence the reason why Patric, the eldest, now held the lofty title of High King.

  Patric continued. "And they need to be found."

  Brady joined Killian. "Have ye new information, then? Has the banshee bitch slipped and divulged where they are?"

  "No."

  Brady exchanged looks with Killian, his mouth open. "Then I'll be siding with my brother as to why ye interrupted our quiet time to point out the ridiculous."

  Killian managed to not roll his eyes at Brady's mercurial manner, lest the High King misinterpret it.

  "There is change in the air," Patric replied, absently. "Something has gone amiss."

  And cryptic was ever the way with the Fae. "And what would that be, Patric? Can we expect rain? When does it not rain in Ireland? Or perhaps the isle is being invaded? I imagine the Crown would take umbrage, if that were the case."

  Patric leveled a look at him that was pure royal power. Brady, the bugger, faded to the background.

  "A battle it may be."

  Killian sliced his hand through the air. "Enough, Patric. Speak yer mind."

  The High King's sharp attention felt like a knife to Killian's throat.

  "Ye've been around mortals too long, brother. 'Tis one of their failings, to believe so many things are as cut and dried as a healer's herbs." He straightened his shoulders. "Ye are Fae, ye are Leithprachaun and ye know there is never an easy path."

  Aye, and wasn't that the truth. He'd come out to enjoy a peaceful, solitary morning in his garden, and now was dealing with mysterious messages and dire warnings.

  "Fine, then. I'll be leaving the mortals to their own devices, steer clear of them." In truth, he felt as if any further celebrations would do him in. The Leithprachaun were solitary Fae, and he'd not had enough solitude since autumn changed to winter. Every mortal of any standing in the area felt compelled to pack their personal revels in before the grand Christmas celebration at Keshlea manor.

  "On the contrary, ye cannot leave them to their own devices. The key lies with the mortals."

  Killian stifled a groan. "I'd ask what key, but I know ye would only give me another riddle."

  Patric released a long sigh, as if releasing a burden. "Life is a riddle, brother. But solve this one and ye will save yer own.

  AN IRISH GIFT

  CHAPTER THREE

  He felt like shite.

  Killian walked with a stride more leisurely than the whirl in his head. It had been three days since Patric's enigmatic proclamation, and it had only added to the banging in his skull.

  Despite his High King's insistence to stay involved with the mortals, he'd decided to seek solace on the west coast. But in truth, selecting his brother Michael's stark, round tower on the Galway shore—not to mention that Leithprachaun's dour company—had only darkened his mood.

  He inhaled the crisp, morning air. Truth be told, he found he did miss the mortals. For all of their foibles, they knew how to have fun.

  "Move yer blasted arse."

  The answering bray of a donkey had Killian laughing, as the noise was filled of defiance. He followed the ensuing curses to the corner of the dressmaker's shop, where an old man in a weathered cap and jacket tugged on a rope halter.

  Killian paused beside the animal, brushed his hand against its coarse mane. The animal rolled its head around and looked at him. With soft, gentle strokes of magic, he popped into the animal's mind.

  I don't want to pull this blasted wagon. I want a carrot.

  The corner of Killian's mouth lifted. Aye, well, perhaps ye will get one when yer master finishes his delivery.

  The donkey snorted. They're potatoes, ye dolt. Who would miss them?

  Killian raised his eyes, found the old fellow frowning at him. He stroked the stiff hair again. A starving man would.

  The donkey stilled, and Killian could feel his disconcertion. Mortals would laugh at the notion that a simple beast of burden had a conscience, but shifters knew.

  He knew.

  The donkey tossed its head, then took a halting step forward. Killian shook his head as the animal laughed, when his master stumbled at the sudden movement. Aye, they had a conscience but could still act the arse.

  He stood for a long moment, watched the two continue down the cobbled path. When they arrived at their destination, friend donkey would find a handful of crisp, fat carrots nestled in his portion of hay.

  Feeling lighter
, Killian continued on his way, soaking in the quaintness of his surroundings. The village wasn't large but sported a fine, central hub, with an assortment of shops and establishments meant to support the tenant farmers, and gentry, of the region. It was quaint, yes, but also prosperous, a claim not every Irish village could make. And he'd have to give the credit to an Englishman.

  Well, half-English at least.

  The mother of Colin, Earl of Keshlea, had been Irish, and if that hadn't been scandalous enough, she'd also been a commoner. The old Earl had stood his ground, married her, and raised a family all under the hawkish eyes of his own mother, the Dowager Countess. The gossips claimed that the only thing that had kept the family from losing their titles had been the old woman's royal connections.

  Killian glanced up at the oak trees that rose behind the row of buildings. Gossip was a key ingredient to social gatherings, and so he'd already heard of Colin Keshlea's dubious lineage while making the rounds of the popular clubs and pubs near Trinity College in Dublin. Oh, he hadn't been enrolled there, no, indeed. He was Leithprachaun; what more could he need to know? But he'd been drawn to the gatherings of young bucks who sought to blow off steam after laboring over texts and examinations. And that's where he found that Colin was different.

  A more pragmatic lad Killian had never met. He was a devoted student who craved knowledge like an Irishman craved a good pint. He enjoyed a good time, joined in the fun, though there would never be a time that you'd see him jump up on a table and sing a bawdy tune to a barmaid. Killian cleared his throat, straightened his neck cloth. Not that he had, either…or multiple times.

  No, Colin, Lord Keshlea was a solid man and a good friend.

  Not that Killian had any experience with friends.

  "Killian?"

  Killian shook off his melancholy and smiled at Kathryn Smithfield.

  He took the hands she offered and marveled at the difference between them. His dwarfed her small and delicate ones. Though covered in silk, he imagined her skin was just as enticing

  "Kathryn, what brings ye out so early on this fair morning?" Tripe talk. It was always tripe with society folk. Yet, Killian sensed the genuine pleasure from Kathryn when she squeezed his hands and laughed.

  "I woke much too early and found I couldn't abide sitting about the house. Father was feeling well enough to make a trip to Killarney, and so I decided to see to my errands."

  His gaze shifted to the maid and the houseboy standing behind her, their arms filled with wrapped packages. "Are the stores empty, then?"

  Her smile broadened. "Not quite. Small gifts for the children of the tenants. For Christmas, you see."

  He raised a brow. "Gifts for the Yule?"

  "Tokens, really." She toyed with the cords on her reticule. "Winter is just so bleak I thought it might brighten their day."

  "You're very generous," observed Killian. Another point in favor of mortals, as, contrary to most Fae's opinions, they were not all selfish, arrogant pricks.

  "No. It's just being fair. They work hard and deserve consideration."

  Killian's heart gave a bump at her kindness. A perfect woman for someone such as himself.

  "Are you well, Killian?"

  Killian blinked, saw Kathryn's concerned focus on him. "Aye, no worries."

  The relief in her smile added to his yearning. "Well, I won't keep you from your business."

  Business? Shite, he had no business, no work, no estate, nothing to occupy his time save joining in revelries. Many Fae found that a benefit to possessing magic, but true satisfaction came from purpose. Christ, now he could add maudlin to melancholy, and he possessed cheer and joy in life?

  Meh.

  He gathered the negativity into a tight ball and sent it to the edges of his consciousness. He'd deal with that in time but for now, this beautiful woman needed his attention. "I've no pressing matters," he replied with an easy smile.

  Kathryn's brows knitted. "Still, you look pale, like a man who overdoes."

  He opened his mouth to assure her he was not pale—Leithprachauns did not get sick—when a hard slap on his back nearly knocked him into the lady.

  "This blighter overworked? Not likely, as he's a known slaggard and wastrel."

  Killian's warrior instincts roared, and it was a testament to his control that Percy Fitzsimmons did not now lay dead at his feet.

  The buffoon looked as if he'd just rolled out of bed, with his rumpled shirt and neck cloth askew. His hair hadn't been combed, much less washed, and his eyes were streaked with red vessels. "Fitzsimmons."

  "No fair, old chap, charming the lady without benefit of competition."

  The bastard's words were clear, but it didn't take magical senses to smell the lingering alcohol on his breath. He glanced at Kathryn, who looked on with a mixture of pity and consternation. He could send the wretch away, land him in his own bed with just enough of a spell to keep him sleeping till he had the good sense to recover from his excesses before showing his face in public, but he supposed that would cause a spectacle. Killian heaved a sigh. Fine, the mortal way it was.

  Fitzsimmons flung an arm around Killian. "What say we go share a pint at the pub?"

  "At eleven o'clock in the morning?" Kathryn asked, aghast.

  Killian knocked Percy's arm off, intrigued at the approval in the lady's eyes. He turned to set him on his way, when the fop slipped around Killian to Kathryn's side.

  "What about you, my lady?"

  Magic roiled up with Killian's anger as Percy leaned into Kathryn, his expression slanted into a decided leer. In less time than it took to blink, a green orb formed in his hand. But before he could dispatch the arse, a muscled arm shot out and grabbed Percy by the collar.

  Killian just managed to leash his cumhacht, his power. With a silent pop and sizzle, he dissolved the orb and stared at Lord Keshlea.

  They were of the same height, the same stature, but there was a presence about the man that caused those around to give respect. Percy was paying close attention as he was drawn up to where his toes danced upon the pavement. More along the lines of terror, than deference.

  With the ease of brushing a nettle from his coat, Colin tossed the man aside.

  Killian's male pride couldn't help but be rankled, but it was far outweighed by his Leithprachaun astonishment. How had a mortal been able to react faster than a Fae? He shifted his gaze surreptitiously around the area, looking for signs of Brady. He breathed a sigh of relief when he sensed no concentration of magic. That was one torment he'd be saved. He shifted back to Colin. However, male pride was another matter.

  "I believe you owe the lady an apology," Colin said, his tone casual yet commanding. An inborn trait for a Lord of the realm.

  Yer a Prince of the Fae.

  Killian set his jaw.

  Fitzsimmons, to his credit, kept quiet when it was clear he wanted to tell Colin to kiss his arse. Instead, he ran a shaky hand through his hair, did an inadequate job of straightening his coat, and sketched a bow which threatened to send him toppling.

  "Milady, I beg pardon for any offense that may have been taken from my desire to uplift the day."

  The apology would have carried more weight if the blighter hadn't expelled a large belch at the end of it.

  Kathryn shared arched looks with Killian and Colin. "No offense taken, Mr. Fitzsimmons. I would suggest you find your rest with a bit of tea and toast."

  Christ, she was kind even in the face of blatant stupidity. He could see them sharing a life together. Even as the thought crossed his mind, Killian knew he was dreaming.

  Leithprachauns were not allowed happiness.

  Oh, it wasn't scribed in the Chronicles of their clan, at least not that Michael, their scholar, had ever found, but it was ingrained in each of siblings that joy was not part of their existence. At least, not the enduring type espoused by poets.

  Percy mumbled something unintelligible and stumbled off, leaving he, Kathryn, and the Earl standing in an awkward cluster. After a handful o
f uncomfortable moments, Colin spoke.

  "My apologies for interrupting." Colin extended his hand. "It's good to see you, Killian."

  Killian allowed his annoyance to slip and clasped his arm in welcome. It had been five years since last they'd seen each other, his friend sent off with purpose to serve the British Empire, while he had stayed behind doing naught.

  The grating doubt that his existence was indeed frivolous caused him to shift inside. He met Colin's appraising gaze, forced away any sign of his discomfort and gave him a broad smile. "Not 'atall, Lord Keshlea. I was merely passing the time with the lady. May I introduce…?"

  "Our magistrate's daughter," Colin interrupted. He bowed, ever the perfect aristocrat. "I've the pleasure of having made her acquaintance during my sojourn in London."

  Kathryn acknowledged him with a crisp nod. "Indeed, I am amused that you recall, my lord. Our acquaintance, as you say, was so brief."

  Killian narrowed his eyes at the sharp tone.

  She continued. "Your grandmother has spent countless hours regaling the ladies of the region of her grandson and his accomplishments."

  Now Colin looked uncomfortable. "The Dowager does love to weave tales. I can assure you most of them have no merit."

  "Only most?"

  A different emotion grated Killian, an urge to defend. For what, he wasn't quite certain, but in some way the Earl of Keshlea had upset the woman who might well be the one of his dreams.

  Still, he wondered if what he was experiencing might be what the mortals called jealousy? He mentally scoffed. That was ridiculous. He was Leithprachaun, Colin was not. There was no comparison.

  Colin's smile was smooth. "There are a few I could not dispute."

  With quick, sharp movements, Kathryn pulled at the hem of her gloves. "Would those be the tales of your magnificent feats in Parliament? Or the ones that extoll your skills with the ladies of the ton?"

  A glint of temper in Colin's eyes marked a slip in his cool reserve. Even without understanding the source of the tension, Killian's natural instinct was to avert further discord. "I can assure ye, I've known the Earl for a number of years, and his follies far outweigh his accomplishments "