Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas

by Kathryn Le Veque

  A chorus of chipmunk chittering echoed along the path. Brady squinted into the foliage at a dozen or so of the small animals standing on their hind legs, staring at them, their noses twitching with curiosity. "Anyone ye know?"

  Before Killian could answer, three of the creatures separated from the group and scurried onto the beaten path and faced them. A pulse of blue—and—purple magic obliterated the tiny animals. When it cleared, two slender, women and a boy stood had replaced the animals.

  "Greetings Killian, son of Caitronia."

  "Close yer mouth, ye shite," Killian said to Brady from the side of his mouth. "Ye act as if ye've not seen magic before."

  "Not with such winsome eyes," Brady breathed back.

  The younger of the females, a girl with chestnut curls spiraling down her back, giggled and ducked her head shyly.

  The other woman tsked. "Siri. Decorum, if ye please."

  "Yes, mother," replied the cailin.

  "Aye, and ye have a lovely voice, too," continued Brady.

  His brother feigned confusion at Killian's sharp glare. He returned his attention to the shifters. "I am searching for Rua, Missleigh. He's not responded to my summons, and the entrance to yer new fairy mound has evaded my search."

  "Our chieftain is attending the Fae Council," replied Missleigh. "His return is uncertain."

  Feck.

  "Who has he left as his second?"

  Missleigh tilted her head. "Do ye not know, son of Caitronia?"

  Double feck.

  "My grandfather." The matter at hand had just gone from dangerous to volatile. The dark threat in Lycingsham's eyes flashed through his mind. He squared his shoulders. "I would speak to him."

  Missleigh lifted her face to the tree tops. "He is sailing the skies today." She closed her eyes, then nodded as if she'd been listening to someone. "If ye go to the shifter glen, he will attend ye by day's end."

  The crafty bastard. Broc refused to speak to Killian directly, as he'd yet to accept his daughter had sullied herself with a Leithprachaun. He blew out a frustrated breath. This matter was too important to allow familial grudges to stand in the way. He nodded his agreement.

  Missleigh acknowledged him in turn, then spoke to

  Siri and the boy. "Come, children. Now we will learn the way of the fleet rabbit."

  Another burst of energy, and two red and one chestnut—colored hares sat on the dirt. With synchronized hops, they disappeared into the brush.

  "Ah, Christ," Brady moaned. "I hope Siri will be safe."

  "No worries," Killian answered, walking down the trail. "Missleigh's natural form is a wildcat. Anybody messing about with her progeny would be shredded to pieces in a matter of moments."

  They walked on for several miles, Brady complaining the whole way that this was a barbaric manner in which to travel, quieting only when Killian invited him to leave.

  He didn't know if it was the shifter or the Irish, but he found solace in the mundane task of walking, relished the beauty, the serenity of the land and forest. It brought a settling to the turmoil that was inherent in Leithprachauns and himself in particular.

  Ever since his treasure had been ripped from him, his joy for life, for being, had been strained. Killian knew all of his siblings suffered, but at times he felt as if he were on the brink of an abyss. The powerful lure of losing himself frightened even a warrior.

  Mortals are the key. Patric's proclamation sounded in his head. Aye, unlike most Fae who at best enjoyed a bit of frolic with mortals, his existence was intertwined with theirs. The verve for life existed within his fabric, and if anybody needed it, it was the mortals. And they in turn provided him with a center, a base from which to balance the chaos.

  He picked up his pace as the sacred clearing came into view. Devotion to mortals was one thing. Devotion to particular mortals another. He would not abide a threat to the people of Keshlea. To Colin or, especially, to Kathryn.

  She is not for you.

  Aye, she was. He was a warrior, a warrior whose instincts to protect had been triggered by this unidentified danger. And he would protect them, Fae and mortal alike.

  "Now what are we supposed to do?" grumbled Brady, scanning the small clearing.

  The one thing Leithprachauns hated most. "We wait."

  The minutes turned into hours, the hours into eternity. Brady sat on the ground, his back against an ancient oak, ankles crossed, his head nodding.

  Peace at last.

  Well, that wasn't exactly the truth. Killian was feeling no peace whatsoever. There might as well be a large bell tower tolling the end of the world over his head for all the worry racing through his mind.

  He ran through the events of the day. Colin had left the estate early, annoyed being a mild description when Killian had informed him he had other matters to attend and would not be accompanying Lycingsham and his crew to the valley. What, the earl had demanded, could be more important than protecting Keshlea?

  Nothing. There was nothing more important than that, which was why he was freezing his arse off in the middle of a forest, waiting for…

  The air stirred, as if a huge storm were brewing. Brady launched to his feet, batting at the swirling leaves and twigs. Killian only broadened his stance, crossed his arms, his gaze focused on the large limb of the same tree where Brady had been taking his rest.

  With a flapping of wings that sounded like the sky was tearing apart, an enormous horned owl landed on that branch.

  "What the feck?"

  Killian felt his brother's warrior instincts spring to life. But he knew better than to avert his gaze from the bird of prey scowling down at them. "Steady," he warned his brother.

  The bird swiveled its head back and forth then screeched so loud Killian's ears rang. A wave of energy rippled through the clearing, the air seeming to implode on itself. Unable to bear the pressure, Killian blinked—and found his grandfather in mortal form standing a foot away.

  "What do ye want?"

  Direct as ever. "I'm here to give yer clan a warning."

  Broc grunted, lowered silver-winged brows in the perfect glare of an owl. "About what?"

  How to explain? "There are men from London at Keshlea Manor."

  "Mortals? We are shifters. Mortals are nothing to us." He leaned forward, his keen eyes piercing. "We have magic. They do not."

  Killian's anger spiked. "I'm not so certain as ye, grandfather." The old man's glower deepened at the reminder of their shared blood. "I suspect there is dark magic at play, and seek to bring a halt to it."

  Broc straightened his shoulders and mirrored Killian's stance. "The shifters take care of their own."

  Killian blew his anger out on a long breath. "Old man, set aside yer stubbornness for once and listen to me."

  "Listen to ye?" His craggy face tightened. "Listen to the whelp who chose a path away from the shifter life?"

  "Are ye serious? Are ye feckin' serious?" Killian's hands curled into fists. "Ye drove me out, could not tolerate the tainted blood of my sire."

  "The Leithprachaun bastard who damaged my daughter, brought shame to my house."

  And there it was.

  "I'll not revisit grudges. The mortals are in danger and 'tis shifters I seek to protect as well." Advise yer clan to avoid the valley and strengthen their wards. And if any see or hear anything amiss, to inform me."

  Broc's eyes glazed over. "Do ye mean information such as the dark mortals ye fear meeting a lady traveling on the road to the village?"

  AN IRISH GIFT

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "I assure you, sir. I need no assistance."

  Kathryn's voice greeted Killian, as he came to form within the trees lining the road from the magistrate's house to the village.

  Sir Randall sat on a sleek, ebony stallion, blocking the road. The beast tossed its head and snorted its impatience. "Are you not certain, my lady? It would seem a woman traveling alone invites peril."

  Kathryn's mare side-stepped, as if anxious about the abrupt
change in plans. But she held the reins firm.

  Killian scanned the group for Colin, but he was not there. Only the emissary and his men. A cold chill raced down his spine.

  "I have matters to attend to, sir, so please clear the way." Kathryn spoke in a strong voice, but Killian sensed a thread of uncertainty beneath it.

  An oily smile, slowly curved the emissary's cruel mouth.

  Without conscious thought, Killian latched onto his shifter magic and transferred his essence into Kathryn's horse.

  The equine was startled at first—all of the animals he possessed experienced a moment of surprise—but he quickly soothed it, settling its uneasiness, providing Kathryn with a surer sense of stability.

  The other horses must have picked up on the change, because they began to prance. Their riders, though, continued to stare at their leader. No register of what was transpiring, what was being said, what they might be tasked to do. As if they were dead inside.

  Its consciousness melded with Killian's, the revelation caused the mare to snort and toss its head. Sir Randall's eyes riveted on the horse, and Killian sensed he and whatever dark magic he was using was probing for entry. He blocked it.

  "I really must insist…"

  Sir Randall bowed his head. "At your service, my lady."

  He guided his horse to the side of the road to allow her passage. Killian sensed the light kick from Kathryn's boot, and the mare trotted forward. He could disengage from the animal now, but he would see her safely to her destination.

  The journey did not take long, as she urged the horse to a steady pace. Killian felt her concern grow to anxiety, but was relieved to find she was traveling to Keshlea Manor.

  Looking for Colin?

  The realization was disheartening, but he forced himself to set it aside. Discovery of what sinister plot was afoot took precedence over his desires.

  Kathryn stopped the horse, dismounted, and handed the reins to a stable lad. Killian concentrated and with a soft, silent whoosh disengaged from the mare.

  He took form amidst a trio of well-manicured, tall, shrubs, set to the far side of the main entrance. It concealed him well, but allowed him to hear what was being said. Before he could hear anything, pain lanced through his head, spearing him from the base of his neck to the front of his skull.

  He sucked in a sharp breath, clutched his head, and waited for the agony to subside. The price he paid for mixed magical heritage.

  He focused on his breathing as his sister and healer of their clan, Bridget, had taught him. In and out, take his mind to a calm place. Unfortunately, that place was eluding him. There was no time to feel calm, not when there was a threat looming.

  The throbbing ebbed until there was only a dull ache, and the blur from his eyes cleared in time to see the manor's housekeeper open the door.

  "'Tis grand to see ye again, Mistress."

  "And you as well, Mrs. O'Leary. I've brought the ribbon the Countess wanted."

  The two women entered the house. Killian groaned, as using more magic at this point would slice his head in half, but he spirited to the kitchen.

  "Oh, fine," said Mrs. O'Leary, pulling long lengths of deep—green and burgundy velvet ribbon from a box Kathryn handed to her. "This will do nicely for the Kissing Bough."

  "I thought it might," responded Kathryn. "The Dowager does enjoy her Christmas traditions."

  "Aye." The housekeeper smiled, stretched the ribbons out on a wooden table covered with cords, bowls of fruit, and an assortment of wooden vines. "I've sent my Denny to start collecting the mistletoe."

  "It will make a fine display." Kathryn took off her gloves, glanced around. "Is the earl here?"

  Mrs. O'Leary's cheer dimmed. "No. His lordship went out to the excavation in the valley." She shook her head, smoothed a ribbon. "'Tis a strange thing, this whole affair. But, Sir Randall has provided work for many of the villagers. So perhaps 'tis not a bad thing."

  Kathryn looked doubtful. "Have they found the gems they anticipated?"

  The housekeeper chuckled. "None but McNamara's rosy red nose what might be mistaken for a ruby."

  Kathryn smiled. "I hope the beastly man will withdraw soon." She shivered. "I ran into him and his men on the way here. It was unpleasant."

  "Aye, he's a disturbing way about him."

  "Mrs. O'Leary, have the suckling pigs been ordered from the butcher?"

  Both women and Killian in all his invisible glory, turned as one toward the Dowager Countess of Keshlea.

  Killian considered the woman. Age was taking its time laying its mark on her regal brow. A few, rare strands of gray hair mixed with the brown of her youth, and there were no creases around her eyes and mouth. A testimony, to Killian's mind, that the lady disdained anything as mundane as smiling or laughing. While she maintained a constant demeanor of aloofness, her sharp, gray eyes took in everything, including Kathryn. "Miss Smithfield, have you the items I requested?"

  No greeting, no pleasantries, just command. Thank the goddess, Colin took after his mother.

  "Yes, my lady." Kathryn held up the ribbons. After a thorough look down her nose, the Countess sniffed. "Those will do. I anticipate all of the invitations being accepted, as this is the first Christmas ball my grandson has attended in several years. I want the Kissing Bough to reflect the grandeur of that."

  Killian shook his head. The Kissing Bough. An English tradition at Christmas based, they might be shocked to realize, on ancient pagan rituals. If a man and woman find themselves beneath the greenery they must kiss or forfeit marriage for the year or, as some spinsters lamented, ever. He'd attended several over the decades and was always thankful for his ability to disappear.

  "Perhaps his lordship might find a pretty cailin to kiss?" Mrs. O'Leary's good cheer faded at the Countess' glower.

  "I should hope not. He is a peer of the realm, and shall marry as is befitting his station." She sniffed. "Unlike his father."

  The acrimony was nearly as sour as Broc's had been. Good to know that children disappointed in both the Fae and mortal worlds.

  "Do not fret, my lady," said Kathryn, her voice crisp. "Despite his occasional loss of good sense, I suspect he is more than capable of finding a wife worthy of his devotion and his title."

  More bitterness.

  Christ, maybe Patric was right. Mortals could be draining. With a thought, he sailed from the house, across the stable yard, to the forest edge. Kathryn was safe at the moment. Now to see to the rest of the village.

  ###

  Killian arrived at the mouth of the valley cavern, maintaining his invisible state. The place was a beehive of activity. Men hired from the village dug with shovels, intent on enlarging the cave opening. Others were set to carting buckets of dirt and rock away. The crews had been at it for three weeks, and by his observation, no progress had been made. His senses picked up a magical barrier, imbued with illusion. Thank the goddess Rua had taken precautions.

  On the far side, he identified shifter spells that strained beneath the weight of festering, oily ones trying to breach them.

  He slid his gaze to the hillock beyond where Sir Randall stood with his assistants, watching the work. The air of anticipation was so keen he could feel its slice.

  Colin also watched, his coat off, his cravat loosened. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and Killian knew the earl worked alongside his tenants. The tight lines of his features reflected his concern for their well—being.

  "Man down!"

  The men halted their work, looked back toward the cave. Before any of them could react, Colin was striding in. Killian started to join him, then remembered Lycingsham and held back. In a matter of moments, Colin came out, bearing a wounded man in his arms.

  "All will be well, Burke," he was saying lying the man on the ground. Killian could see a long gash on his left leg, blood leaking out in a steady stream.

  In quick order, Colin had the man loaded onto a wagon and on his way to his home. He instructed two others to accompany
him and then to fetch his personal physician to attend him. When he finished, he stalked to the ridge and Lycingsham.

  Killian came to form and mingled with the idle workers to cover his arrival before he headed to join them.

  "This is enough, Sir Randall," Colin was saying, "Over three weeks have passed, and not one bit of evidence to prove gems or precious metals are buried beneath here has been discovered. Five men have been injured, and my patience has found its end."

  Sir Randall gave him a bland look. "I have my orders, but I will allow the day has been long." He signaled his men to leave, then paused beside Colin as he followed. "Stop fighting the inevitable, my lord. It only makes the end harder."

  Killian heard the words as he arrived at Colin's side. Sir Randall flashed him a cursory look before he stalked past them both, the weight of the man's darkness swinging at him like an anvil.

  Killian watched him leave, then turned to Colin. "Are ye all right?"

  "I won't let this stand, Killian," Colin grated out. "My people, my land are being exploited. I will put a stop to it."

  Ah, but there was fire in his friend, passion. A true warrior, even as he dressed in aristocratic clothes. "Ye have my support, aye? But ye must be cautious." He searched for the right words. How was he to explain that Colin's enemy was possibly a demon?

  Colin scowled. "Do not patronize me, Killian. I am well aware the man is not of this world."

  Killian watched, mouth agape as Colin mounted his steed.

  "'Tis always the quiet ones that surprise ye."

  Killian scowled at Brady, who had popped in beside him. "How much do ye think he knows about the magic in his world?" his brother asked.

  "Not enough," Killian growled. "Not nearly enough."

  AN IRISH GIFT

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  "Gracious, Killian. You look awful."

  Killian lifted his head and regarded Kathryn, as she approached his table at the tearoom. Aye, he was exhausted. He'd spent the past two days calming Colin down, ascertaining just how much he suspected about Randall and any magical involvement, and avoiding being drawn into the whirlwind that was the Dowager Countess' preparations for Keshlea's Christmas ball. Christ, there was not a tree in the region that hadn't been stripped of mistletoe.