Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas

by Kathryn Le Veque

  She was, after all, the daughter of a prominent lord who’d been of immense help to Radley. Tristan would be wise to ensure he didn’t upset or disappoint her, not when he’d be introduced to Lord de Bretagne on the morrow.

  As Tristan’s career advanced, he might one day need to ask a favor of his lordship.

  “We will not be too long upstairs,” Tristan promised. “Once we join you in the hall, we will tell you of some of our adventures together. If you would like that, of course.”

  “Oh, I most certainly would.”

  ONE KNIGHT’S KISS

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Tristan has such aristocratic features,” Lady Whitford said, once the forebuilding door had shut behind them.

  “He does,” Honoria agreed, while Willow raced up the stairwell to the great hall, no doubt heading for the hearth.

  The air in the forebuilding smelled dank after the freshness of outside. Burning reed torches along the walls banished some but not all of the murky shadows as Honoria helped her mother up the uneven stone steps.

  “I wonder if Tristan is married.”

  Honoria silently groaned. Not this conversation again.

  For years, her mother had been trying to see her wed. Despite the numerous suitors who’d visited the castle and whom Honoria had met at tournaments, feasts, and other events, none had seemed quite right for her. That feeling of “rightness” was crucial; the knights and damsels in the old stories knew when they’d found their soul-mates, and that’s what she aspired to, too.

  “Did Radley mention if Tristan is wed or betrothed?” her mother pressed.

  “He did not.” Thankfully, there were only a few more steps until they reached the hall.

  “I will try to find a way to ask.”

  “Please do not meddle. I do not need help finding a husband.”

  “Honoria—”

  “I will marry when I have found the right man.” She would have added ‘as Father agreed,’ but it didn’t seem fair to bring her deceased sire into the discussion just yet.

  They reached the vast expanse of the hall. In the sunlight filtering in through the high, animal-horn-covered windows, Lady Whitford paused and studied Honoria—a look that still had the power to make Honoria feel five years old and inadequate.

  Maidservants at the rows of oak trestle tables were setting out jugs of wine and ale in readiness for the evening meal. The table nearest the hearth was still heaped with the branches of evergreens, pine cones, twine, and red silk ribbon that Honoria had been using to decorate the hall.

  Aware that her mother’s gaze hadn’t wavered, Honoria said quietly, “Father said I did not have to wed until I wished to.”

  “I remember. I only want what is best for you. I want you to live, to experience love, and not merely in the pages of your books.”

  Honoria did tend to escape into her tomes, but she simply couldn’t help it. Her father had read some of the stories to her when she was a girl, and the tales kept his memory alive. When she read the words on the parchment pages, she heard her sire’s voice and felt his arm around her as she snuggled in close.

  A draft swept across the hall floor; someone had opened the outer door to the bailey.

  Lady Whitford shivered. “Please, help me to the hearth. I need to sit by the fire.”

  “Of course.” Honoria slid her arm around her mother’s waist and guided her toward the blaze, where Willow was dozing.

  “You have done a fine job of the decorating,” her ladyship murmured as she sank down into a carved oak chair. Firelight flickered on the evergreen boughs tied with clusters of pine cones and red ribbon bows that swept around the massive stone hearth. Honoria had also looped evergreens around most of the iron brackets holding the wall torches, and the piquant scents of pine and fir now lingered in the air.

  Honoria smiled, for she was pleased with the decorations. Her father would have liked them, too—and would have hidden wrapped sweets amongst the evergreens for the servants’ children to find and enjoy. “There is still more to do, but I am hoping Cornelia will help me.”

  Male voices echoed in the forebuilding, along with girlish laughter. Radley, Tristan, and Cornelia emerged into the hall. The men were carrying weapons and saddlebags. Cornelia was clearly trying to snare Tristan’s attention.

  He glanced over the hall and then found Honoria. Her body immediately recalled when their gazes had locked outside, and a peculiar heat whipped through her, a sensation akin to standing too close to the flames.

  How annoying that he should affect her so.

  She swiftly turned to pick up the fire poker and jab it in the blaze, dislodging one of the logs and stirring up a cloud of sparks.

  “Careful, Sis,” Radley said as they walked past. “You might set the garland alight.”

  Tristan tsked. “She might set herself alight.”

  Cornelia giggled.

  “I am not a fool.” Honoria hated that her cheeks grew hot. “I have tended a fire before.” Keeping the fires going was one of the servants’ tasks, but still, she’d added logs to the hearth in her chamber now and again, especially on freezing cold nights.

  Tristan faced her. Regret touched his gaze as he said, “Forgive me. I did not mean any offense.” He smiled in a most charming, boyish way, and she suddenly felt a bit lightheaded. “What I should have said is that ’twould be a shame if your costly garments were damaged by sparks, or if you suffered a burn on your fair skin.”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t realized he’d been concerned. She had indeed seen burn marks, caused by wayward sparks, on servants’ clothes. “Well, you are most kind.”

  He nodded, an elegant dip of his dark head. “Damsels are to be protected, after all.”

  As Cornelia moved in to warm her hands at the fire, Tristan again fell in alongside Radley and they climbed the wooden stairs up to the landing overlooking the hall. They disappeared into the upper corridor leading to Radley’s solar, the chambers belonging to the rest of the family, and the guest rooms.

  “Well,” Lady Whitford said with an astonished smile.

  Honoria inwardly cringed. Knowing her mother, she was now convinced that Honoria and Tristan were going to be married by Christmas.

  “That conversation meant naught, Mother,” Honoria said firmly and returned the fire poker to its holder.

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “I am. He was only being chivalrous.”

  Crossing her arms, Cornelia studied the garland around the hearth. Yesterday, when asked to help with the decorating, the younger woman had set her hand to her brow and insisted the smell of evergreens was making her feel ill and that she needed some fresh air or she might swoon, leaving Honoria to work on her own while her mother rested upstairs.

  Was Cornelia now going to find a flaw in the decorations to criticize?

  Doing her best not to give in to annoyance, Honoria faced her parent. “Are you feeling warmer? Shall I ask the servants to bring some mulled wine?”

  “’Twould be lovely,” her mother said.

  Cornelia sniffed, a disparaging sound, and gestured to the garland. “Where is the mistletoe, Honoria?”

  “Mistletoe?”

  The younger woman arched her eyebrows. “The greenery with white berries? The one that grows in the orchard’s apple trees?”

  “I do know what it looks like. I decided not to include it in the hearth decorations.”

  “We will need some to make the kissing bough.” Cornelia straightened a ribbon bow. “Surely you are not waiting until Christmas Eve to gather the mistletoe? Few folk still heed the ancient custom that says it cannot be brought inside before then.”

  “We follow some of the old customs at Ellingstow, but not that one.” Her ladyship chuckled. “Honoria’s father enjoyed the fun of the kissing bough too much.”

  Honoria fought a pang of regret, for she remembered her sire, his eyes sparkling with mischief, stealing kisses from her mother under the kissing bough the Christmas before he’d di
ed. “I had intended to gather mistletoe on the morrow,” Honoria said.

  “Why not today?” the younger woman asked.

  “Well, because we just got home, and ’twill be getting dark soon.”

  Cornelia’s attention shifted to the upstairs corridor. “Those two might be a while. We can pick it now.”

  “Now? But—”

  “Do not be so disagreeable. ’Twill not take us long.”

  ***

  “You did not tell me Honoria is a beauty.”

  Radley, leaning in the doorway of the guest chamber, seemed surprised. He shrugged. “She is my little sister.”

  Tristan set his saddlebag on the oak-framed bed in the small but spotlessly clean room. “So? You are a man. You have eyes.”

  Radley grinned. “I do, but I do not think of Sis in such a manner. She will always be the curious girl I taught how to catch grasshoppers, fish, and swim in the river before I was sent to Lincolnshire to train as a page.”

  An astonished laugh broke from Tristan. “Did you really teach her those things?”

  “Aye. Being two years younger than I, she looked up to me. We had many adventures together.”

  Envy gnawed at Tristan as he unbuckled his bag, for Radley’s affection for Honoria was clear in his voice. Tristan had never had that kind of relationship with his siblings. As far back as he could remember, he and his brothers had always competed against one another, to see who was best at shooting arrows, or fastest at rowing across the lake, or able to woo the prettiest castle maids. His father had encouraged their ambitions, vowing his sons would grow up to be among the most renowned and honorable knights in all of England—a measure by which every other accomplishment, large or small, was measured and judged. Tristan, destined to be his sire’s heir, had been subject to especially rigorous expectations, and still was, as he’d learned during his last conversation with his father.

  Mentally shoving aside stirred-up anger and regret, Tristan said, “Your sister seems too well-bred to have ever picked up grasshoppers.”

  “Aye, well, she changed as she grew up, especially after our parents became good friends with the de Bretagnes. When Cornelia moved here to be a ward of my sire, Sis felt responsible for her, as if Cornelia were her younger sister.”

  “I see.”

  Radley shook his head. “Honoria was also Father’s favorite. When he was brought here, near dead after the ambush, she refused to leave his side. In his herbal, she found recipes for poultices and ointments that she showed to the healer, and together, they worked day and night to try and save him. Honoria was determined that he was going to live. When he died, ’twas as if something inside her shattered. She was devastated.”

  Tristan’s gaze dropped to the bed. He knew all too well the anguish of losing a beloved parent. “I am sorry about your sire.”

  “I strive every day to rule Ellingstow as well as he did.” Radley’s expression turned thoughtful. “I know your relationship with your brothers is strained after what happened with Odelia. But, if friendship is what all of you want…?”

  “Mayhap.” Tristan reached into his bag for clean garments and set them on the coverlet. “Such matters can wait until after the holidays.” By then his sire’s anger might have cooled somewhat. “Right now, I want to make merry and enjoy the season to the fullest.”

  “An excellent plan. Yet, tell me, why are you so interested in Honoria? Do you wish to court her? I thought you had sworn off relationships.”

  “True, I—”

  “Knowing you, you are more interested in Cornelia.”

  He was certainly not tempted by the younger lady.

  Before Tristan could answer, Radley stepped inside the chamber and shut the door. Crossing to the bed, he said quietly, “I might as well tell you now. I was going to tell you anyway.”

  Radley sounded terribly grave. “Please do not say you have suddenly decided to forsake all earthly pleasures, including excessive drinking and rowdy singing.”

  “I am not going to do that,” Radley said, laughing.

  “Thank God.”

  “’Tis an unfortunate circumstance I must reveal to you. However, I trust ’twill make Cornelia’s brazenness a little more understandable.”

  Tristan was well-experienced with the fairer sex and knew what a woman wanted when she flirted with him. Yet, Cornelia was a gently-raised young lady. She’d surely been taught that bold flirtation wasn’t appropriate for a woman of her refined lineage.

  Did she act the way she did out of defiance, then?

  “It happened about two years ago,” Radley said.

  It happened. An event, then. Some kind of tragedy?

  “Cornelia, her mother, and older brother were traveling to a town several leagues away when a bad storm hit. The road became slick with rainwater and mud and their carriage capsized. It rolled down a slope and hit trees.”

  “God’s blood,” Tristan murmured. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “The carriage driver survived, but not the guards. Cornelia’s mother and sibling also perished. Cornelia hit her head in the accident and was rendered unconscious. While she recovered well enough, apart from a mark on her cheek, she has never quite been the same. The accident…changed her.”

  “How tragic,” Tristan said. “Poor girl.”

  “While her scar is hardly noticeable to others, Cornelia frets about it constantly. She fears it makes her less appealing to suitors. Hence, her boldness.”

  Tristan shook his head. The young woman had no reason to worry. “She is young, pretty, and her sire is rich. She will not have trouble finding a husband.”

  “As I have told her. Her father has said such as well.” Radley sighed. “His lordship, of course, suffers guilt over what happened to his wife and heir. Cornelia is the only family he has left, which explains why he has spoiled her.”

  “Spoiled?” Tristan said dryly. “I had not noticed.”

  Radley chuckled, before he again sobered. “His lordship finally acknowledged he needed help with Cornelia, and my father agreed she could live here as his ward. They both believed that Honoria would be a good influence on her.”

  “’Tis a lot of responsibility to place upon your sister.”

  “Aye, especially when Father died unexpectedly. Yet, I vow his death helped her form a strong bond with Cornelia; they share the pain of loss. Because of that bond, Sis tolerates Cornelia, even when she is mean.”

  Radley’s sister was beginning to sound worthy of sainthood.

  “Keep in mind what I have told you when dealing with Cornelia, all right?” Radley asked.

  “I will.”

  “You are also not to repeat one word of what I said.”

  “I swear, as a knight of honor, I would never betray your confidence.”

  “Good.” Radley strode to the doorway. “When you are ready, knock on my chamber door, and we will go down to the great hall together.”

  ONE KNIGHT’S KISS

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Standing on the leaf-strewn ground beside Cornelia, Honoria peered up at the steward at the top of the ladder, a basket slung over his left arm. She would have loved to gather the mistletoe from the apple tree herself, but Sydney, who had served their family for over thirty years, had insisted he be the one to climb the ladder, for he’d never forgive himself if his lord’s sister fell and broke an arm or leg days before Christmas.

  “Can you cut that bunch to the right?” she called to him.

  Sydney pointed with his dagger to a cluster of white berries. “This one, milady?”

  Cornelia hugged herself as the cold breeze whistled through the orchard. “How long is he going to take?” she muttered.

  “Hush,” Honoria answered. ’Twas shameful how rude Cornelia could be. “You were the one who insisted we pick mistletoe today.” As the steward pointed to another bunch, seeking her approval, she said, “Closer to the fork in the branch…. Aye, there.”

  Leaning sideways, Sydney angled the knife.

  T
he ladder wobbled. Honoria clutched it with both hands. She certainly didn’t want Sydney to tumble to the ground. He’d be hurt, with so many tree roots having pushed up through the soil.

  The steward didn’t seem worried, though. With a leafy rustle, the cutting dropped down onto the branch near his waist, and he gathered several more bunches before putting them into the basket.

  They would need plenty of mistletoe if they were to honor the tradition of plucking a berry from the kissing bough each time a kiss was stolen under it. No woman wanted to find herself under the kissing bough without a berry to be picked. She also mustn’t refuse a kiss under the bough; if she did, according to lore, she wouldn’t marry within the next year.

  A tremor wove through Honoria, for what if Tristan happened to catch her under the kissing bough? She’d have to kiss him, a thoroughly exciting but daunting prospect.

  “We must have plenty of mistletoe by now,” Cornelia said, as the breeze gusted again.

  “Aye.” Honoria motioned for Sydney to come down.

  “Look,” the younger woman shrilled, “’Tis Radley and Tristan.”

  Honoria caught sight of the men walking toward them and sucked in a fortifying breath. She was not going to let Tristan unsettle her again. She was a grown woman, after all, not a young girl prone to infatuation.

  Sydney stepped down from the ladder and handed her the filled basket, just as the men approached.

  “Milords.” The steward bowed.

  “Good afternoon, Sydney,” Radley said.

  “What are you two doing in the garden?” Cornelia asked with a coy grin. “Did you miss us? Or did you want to get your hands on some mistletoe so you can kiss us witless?”

  Honoria choked down a mortified groan. Did Cornelia ever think before she spoke?

  Tristan’s gaze sharpened, but Radley didn’t seem bothered by the younger woman’s questions. “Mother told us you were gathering mistletoe. We thought we would come and help, since I need to speak with Sydney anyway.”