Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Colin stretched his hand up, caught Killian by the shirt. "Leave me. Save my people," he rasped. "Save Kathryn."

  Killian stared at him. Colin was not understanding. He needed to be saved. He needed to be with Kathryn under the kissing bough. He needed to help Killian recover his treasure. Shite, he needed to live.

  "Please. Killian." Colin's fevered eyes searched his face. "I can trust only you, my friend."

  Dammit to seven hells. He looked at Bridget. "Save his stubborn arse." Then to Patric. "We have a ball to attend."

  Patric nodded once, and they left their sister and Colin in the cave.

  The others are already meeting the enemy, Patric said as they streamed through the ether.

  Killian acknowledged it with a grunt.

  The sounds of battle met them as they approached the manor house. Killian could make out flashes of magic orbs and the high-pitched yowls as Shadow Wolves fell. He and Patric landed and took form back to back in the middle of the manor yard, surrounded by salivating beasts. Gripping scian and staff, he fought them off as they charged, one after the other.

  In the far yard, close to the shrubbery, he saw Broc and another shifter battling a pair of wolves. His grandfather shifted into owl form and, with a deafening screech, picked one of the bastards up with his talons and slammed him into the ground. The sound of his neck snapping preceded the animal's explosion into oily ash.

  I will devour your soul, Fae.

  Killian rolled his eyes at the wolf who stalked in a circle around him, his eyes glowing red with the lust of battle. Raising one end of his staff, the animal prepared to meet the blow only to find Declan's knife across it's throat. It landed with a thud at his brother's feet.

  Declan panted, wiped his arm across his eyes. "Only a hundred left to go."

  Killian nodded than glanced around. His brothers were making quick work of the remaining pack, as were Broc and his clan. Goddess, he hoped none had been lost.

  "Go," said Patric as he smoothly round—kicked a stumbling wolf. "See to the mortals."

  Killian tossed his weapons into the ether, waved a hand to cleanse the blood from his clothes, and replaced his torn and dirty warrior clothes back to formal wear. With purpose, he strode through the front door of the manor.

  "I'm telling you, Percy will not believe it."

  He took in the scene. The guests were as festive as they had been, if not a bit sluggish from having devoured the sumptuous feast in his absence. The musicians still played, and couples twirled around the floor.

  He found Kathryn sitting on a secluded settee, her expression forlorn. Straightening his waistcoat, he approached her.

  "He doesn't care, Killian," she said without preamble. She flicked her sad eyes to him as he gingerly sat beside her. "Colin is too caught up in his own affairs to bother with anything else."

  "Do not leap to judgement." He searched for a way to tell her the earl had thought of her in the midst of danger. That he wanted her safe even as he…he swallowed hard. Even as he died. "He is a brave man, even for a mortal."

  Kathryn gave him that odd look again, and he realized where he had slipped. "What I mean to say is…"

  "At last, the host has arrived."

  He and Kathryn's heads shot up and Killian stared as Colin, Earl of Keshlea entered through the garden doors. He was pale and weak, as evidenced by the support Brady and Bridget gave him as he walked in, but he was alive.

  Killian shot Bridget a look, but she only smiled and shrugged, projecting, He's a strong bastard.

  Beside him, Kathryn leapt to her feet. Killian sensed her hesitancy. "Go to him," he whispered in her ear. He thought to add a magical nudge but there was no need. He stood back and watched as she raced to meet him in the middle of the ballroom.

  Brady and Bridget stepped aside as Colin caught Kathryn to him.

  "You are safe," he murmured, running his hands over her hair, her face. "Did they hurt you?"

  "Who?" she whispered back.

  The clock in the adjacent hallway started to chime. Midnight. Killian shot a look to the kissing bough. One berry remained. One, fecking berry. He took in another couple dancing in that direction. With a wave of his hand, the man caught his heel in the woman's dress, ripping the lower portion completely off. She shrieked and gathered the fabric in her hands, running to her lady's maid, with him fumbling apologies behind her.

  With purposeful strides, he met Colin and Kathryn. "Is this anyway to celebrate the Yule?" He patently ignored Colin's pointed look. "Come share, celebrate in proper fashion." He all but body shuffled them under the festive bough.

  The clock struck seven.

  Colin gazed down into Kathryn's face. "I could never imagine life at Keshlea without you by my side."

  Hurry, hurry.

  "Nor could I," she replied with a smile.

  Ten.

  Dipping his head, Colin caught Kathryn's lips in a kiss.

  A cheer went up from the assembly, overshadowing the Dowager's outburst of dismay. Killian glanced up at the kissing bough. Of its own accord, the last berry disengaged and floated to the ground.

  ###

  "Isn't it a marvelous party?"

  Killian spared a glance to the same chit who had accosted him on the night of the Christmas ball. She still possessed the same tendency to giggle, but most were now in response to her new suitor. He hid a wry smile, as the shopkeeper's son struggled to throw his chest out in a show of possession. He really did try not to laugh as the lad met Killian's gaze and withered like a leaf at autumn's end. The girl didn't notice, but giggled and led her intended away to swoon over the flowers adorning the entry.

  Of course there were flowers in abundance, as the Dowager Countess of Keshlea hosted magnificent weddings as well as Christmas balls.

  Though six months had passed, the events of that night were as clear as if they had occurred yesterday.

  Five Keshlea tenants and villagers had lost their lives in that cave, including the unfortunate Percy. With the shifters' assistance, the Leithprachauns had made it appear as if they had expired from a virulent form of food poisoning.

  The earl had attended each funeral, stoic and consoling and close mouthed about the events. Which was interesting, considering they'd not wiped his memory.

  As to his miraculous recovery? Bridget could only attribute it to his strong will…and the wee bit of Fae blood she'd sensed within him as she poured her healing cumhacht to his wounds. Another mystery, that.

  As to Killian's mother? Well, all Broc would say was that had been found was safe. A blessing, that.

  "They make a lovely pairing, do they not?"

  The widow Riley. Somehow, he wasn't surprised.

  "Indeed they do," Killian murmured surveying the happy couple. Kathryn was stunning in a gown ordered from London. Gossip had it that she'd won the tussle with Colin's grandmother over style, opting for simple lines with tiny shamrocks embroidered in pale pink, yellow and blue. While the Dowager mourned the loss of satin rosettes, her grandson looked as if he had died and entered heaven. Aligning with his bride, he sported a fawn morning coat and matching breeches, and a sloppy smile that made Killian want to roll his eyes.

  He sighed, took a sip of mead. "I will say that I've not had any indication of my treasure's location."

  "Hmm…haven't ye?"

  Killian looked at the woman. She was dressed as any successful woman of business—a simple wool dress and matching bonnet. But there was something different, a soft, blue glow that edged her person.

  "What are ye?" he mused.

  "A friend, my dear," she answered with a pat on his arm. "A friend. Aye, ye did the right thing, bringing those two together beneath the magic of the kissing bough. As to yer treasure? Well, let us just say that time will tell."

  As he watched, she began to fade away, and from the ether he heard her repeat.

  "Time will tell."

  ABOUT JOAN KAYSE

  Joan Kayse loves two things: storytelling and romance. She
lives in Louisville, Kentucky but wishes she could live in Ireland among the beauty and mystical wonders of that island..and the mead. (Ask her about how well she Irish dances :D) She shares her home and keyboard with two baby cats, Cricket Marie and Grayson the Monkey Cat. She believes in HEA and that Prince Charming could be right around the corner.

  Um, excuse her, while she peeks around the corner.

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  ONE KNIGHT’S KISS

  CATHERINE KEAN

  ONE KNIGHT’S KISS

  CHAPTER ONE

  The town of Wylebury, Hertfordshire, England

  December 22, 1209

  “Is that a book?” Standing at a merchant’s table laden with fragranced soaps, Lady Honoria Whitford leaned sideways to better see what appeared to be a leather-bound tome lying on a blanket spread on the ground just a few paces away. Market shoppers moved past with their baskets full of goods and blocked her view of the peddler and his wares.

  Honoria set down the soap she held. Her pulse fluttered with excitement, for her collection of books was her greatest treasure. She’d frequented the shops at Wylebury since she was a girl, and ’twas rare to find a tome for sale. She must be quick, or someone else would buy it before she could.

  Pushing back the hood of her woolen cloak, she tried to locate her older brother, Radley. He’d escorted her and a ward of their late father’s who lived at Ellingstow Keep, sixteen-year-old Lady Cornelia de Bretagne, to the town for the last market day before Christmas. They’d wanted to purchase gifts, to be given on Christmas Day, as had become the custom at the castle. Merchants had all kinds of lovely items for sale, including exotic spices to flavor holiday dishes, painted figurines, table linens, and beribboned bunches of mistletoe. The scent of freshly-baked mince pies wafted from the baker’s shop.

  Radley had arranged to meet up with a nobleman named Tristan de Champagne, whom he’d befriended years ago when they were both squires at the same castle in Lincolnshire. They’d trained together to achieve knighthood. While Honoria had never met Tristan before, he’d be spending the holidays with them at Ellingstow.

  Rising up on tiptoes, Honoria searched the throng for her brother. Some parts of the market square were obscured by smoke from fires where folk had gathered to warm themselves on the clear, wintry day. Radley had told her and Cornelia that for their safety, they should stay together at all times. One of the armed guards who had accompanied them on the day’s journey was near Cornelia, though; she was stacking soaps into a pile and wouldn’t want to leave her shopping to go with Honoria to see the peddler’s offerings.

  If Honoria was quick, she could buy the book and be back before Cornelia even noticed she’d gone.

  Honoria motioned for another Ellingstow guard, who was holding purchases handed to him earlier, to follow her, and went to the peddler sitting on the ground with his hodgepodge of wares. The man, his hair unkempt, his garments torn and stained, scrambled to his feet and bowed to her.

  Her sire would have handed this poor soul a few coins to at least get some fare, especially at this time of year, when ’twas important to think of those who were less fortunate.

  Oh, Father. How very much I miss you.

  Forcing aside her anguish, Honoria reached past the earthenware candle holders, bent hairpins, and assorted wooden toys and picked up the book.

  The plain, brown leather cover wasn’t at all remarkable. When she opened the tome, though, the piquant scent of parchment wafted to her: a smell that signified fascinating discoveries, grand adventures, and limitless knowledge. Joy tingled through her as she carefully turned the pages and glanced over the drawings and notes. The book contained the personal writings of a noblewoman who had managed a keep while her lord husband was away on Crusade with King Richard the Lionheart.

  Feeling the weight of the peddler’s stare, Honoria asked, “How much for this book?”

  “’Tis not fer ye, milady.”

  “’Tis for sale, is it not?”

  “Aye, but—”

  “I have money. More than enough, I vow.”

  The peddler’s grubby fingers twitched, as though he was counting out coins. Then he scowled and held his hand out for the book. “As I said, ’tis not fer ye.”

  Honoria simply had to have it; ’twould be the perfect addition to the small collection her sire had given her before he’d died. Also, she was eager to know more about the lady who had taken such care to document her life’s accomplishments. One day, Honoria hoped to marry, and then she would be responsible for running her husband’s fortress when he was away visiting other lords, inspecting his estate, or attending meetings in the great city of London; she could learn a great deal from another lady’s experiences. “Please,” she insisted. “Kindly tell me the price.”

  “Fine. Thirty pieces o’ silver.”

  “Thirty pieces?”

  “Robbery,” a man said from behind her. “Unless that book is penned in gold.”

  Startled, she glanced over her shoulder. A broad-shouldered man with dark-brown hair that brushed his shoulders stood a few paces away. He was very handsome; as beautiful, she was sure, as the heroic knights in the book of romantic tales she’d inherited from her sire. The stranger was obviously a nobleman, for his black cloak was of fine quality. A sheathed sword rested at his left hip. As his steady, brown-eyed gaze held hers, a shiver trailed through her. Fighting an odd feeling of breathlessness, she focused again on the peddler.

  “The book is special.” He held out his dirty hand again.

  “What is so special about it?” The nobleman’s voice was deeper than Radley’s, and had a slight rasp that made Honoria think of a dagger grazing a whetstone. Yet, ’twas the deliberateness of his words that made her uneasy.

  Had he recognized what a prize the book was? Did he want to buy it, too? Well, she wouldn’t let him; she’d seen it first.

  Still holding the tome, she glanced about for her brother again, in case she needed his help. Relief washed through her when she saw him talking with her guard. She would have heard Radley’s voice earlier, but his conversation was being drowned out by men haggling with a wine seller.

  “The book, milady,” the peddler insisted. “I will not change me price.”

  The nobleman moved closer. “May I see it?”

  Part of her immediately protested. Yet, the tome didn’t belong to her. Not yet, anyway.

  She handed it to him. He opened it, the binding creaking slightly, and flipped through the pages. As he angled the book to better see a drawing, she saw that the cover had been damaged at some point and repaired; the leather buckled slightly along the back edge.

  That didn’t matter to her, though. The damage was part of the provenance of the tome.

  The nobleman shut the book. “While I am no expert on tomes, I see no reason for the extortionate price.”

  Sweat beaded on the peddler’s brow. “I ’ave a livin’ ta make.”

  “As do all merchants in this market. Overpricing of goods, however, is a crime. Shall I find the sheriff and tell him the price you asked of the lady? This tome cannot be worth more than a few pieces of silver.”

  The peddler’s gaze darted away. Honoria followed the direction of his glance to see another man had stopped to watch what was going on. A puckered scar slashed down the onlooker’s face. Catching Honoria’s gaze, the man nodded in greeting and then stooped to pick up a candleholder.

  “Please,” the peddler whined, “I do not want trouble.”

  Honoria reached for the coin purse she wore on a long cord around her neck. “I will give you five pieces of silver for the book,”—she tipped money into her palm—“and five more, so you can buy food and clothes.”

  “’Tis a generous offer,” the nobleman said firmly. “I suggest you take it.”

  The peddler hesitated, what looked like fear in his eyes, but then snatched the money.

  Smiling, Hon
oria tucked the tome under her arm. The book was hers.

  ***

  The lady was clearly thrilled with her purchase. Happiness sparkled in her hazelnut-brown eyes.

  A raw ache gripped Tristan, for Honoria’s winsome smile reminded him of his former intended’s. Lady Odelia Putnam had captivated him with her beauty, won his devotion, and then, three months ago, had crushed him as if their relationship had been a frivolous game—not the beginning of a lifetime together. While he hadn’t loved her with the all-consuming passion some couples experienced, he had cared for her, enough to ask her to be his wife, and her shocking betrayal had been akin to being stabbed through the heart.

  Thankfully, his heart had been hardened by other experiences in his twenty years of life. Odelia had wounded him, but not destroyed him—and he’d vowed never to be that vulnerable ever again.

  Aware Honoria was still smiling at him, he managed a smile back.

  “Thank you, milord,” she said.

  Tristan bowed; he might be bitter, but he’d always be chivalrous when in the presence of a noblewoman. “My pleasure, Lady Whitford.”

  “How do you know my name?” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you Tristan?”

  “I am indeed. Your brother pointed you out to me. When I heard your conversation, I felt obliged to step in.”

  Setting his hand at her waist—a bold move, when they’d only just met, as her astonished expression conveyed—Tristan guided her away from the blanket. Working for the past four years as a bodyguard for a wealthy merchant in the town of Lincoln had taught him to rely on his instincts; they’d never failed him, and were warning him now to put distance between her and the peddler, as well as the man with the scar who was lingering nearby.

  Tristan escorted her to the soap table, where Radley joined them. “I see you have met Tristan, Sis.”

  “He was a lot of help moments ago.” Honoria gestured to the tome.

  “Another book?” Radley groaned. “You already have four.”

  “I plan to have many more,” she said with a cheeky grin. “A whole shelf of them.”