Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Just then, women’s voices carried from the forebuilding. Servants were returning to the hall to bed down for the night.

  “Before we hang this over the entrance to the hall, we need to try it out,” Cornelia said. “Which one of you rogues is going to kiss me, or shall I choose?”

  Radley had been right about needing to beware. A kiss on the lips between a lord and a lady in front of witnesses—including servants—could be interpreted as a promise of courtship, or even betrothal. He didn’t know Cornelia well, but he sure didn’t trust her; not when her sire’s influence could advance or destroy a nobleman’s career.

  Cornelia could easily turn her face at the last instant and make what was meant to be a kiss on the cheek into one on the mouth. That was a trick he’d expect from Odelia, and by God, he was not going to let a woman manipulate him ever again.

  Tristan set his hands on the arms of the chair to rise, but the younger woman lunged to stand in front of him. She raised the bough, clearly readying to hold it over his head and steal a kiss.

  Rebellion sparked like hot fire within him. He shoved back his chair and stood, thwarting Cornelia’s trickery.

  Disappointment filled her gaze. He offered an apologetic smile to soften the sting of his refusal. “I just remembered I must go and check on my horse.”

  Cornelia huffed. “But—”

  Radley caught her free hand. “Will you sit with me while I finish my wine? I hate to drink alone.”

  She answered, but Tristan was already across the hall and loping down the forebuilding stairs, passing three maidservants on the way. While he wasn’t keen on abandoning his friend to Cornelia, Radley obviously knew how to handle her. Tristan did need to check on his destrier, as well as calm his mind. The night air would help purge his annoyance.

  He stepped out into the dark bailey and headed for the stable. The breeze held a forewarning of overnight frost as it nipped at his face and hands.

  The sweetish scents of horses and hay surrounded him as he entered the stable. He strode to a middle stall, where his destrier put its head over the door and nuzzled him. Once Tristan was satisfied all was in order, he started back to the keep, but movement on the battlement caught his attention.

  Illuminated by torchlight, a woman strolled the parapet: Honoria. She’d loosened her hair and it flowed behind her on the wind. How captivating she was, and yet, she also seemed unbearably lonely.

  A heavy ache formed in his chest, for he was responsible for upsetting her.

  He must go to her. His honor demanded it.

  ONE KNIGHT’S KISS

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Honoria fingered windblown hair back from her face as she walked the battlement with Willow. The closest wall torch had gone out, but more burned farther down, where guards kept watch on the bailey below and the lands surrounding the castle.

  The wind stung her eyes, but she didn’t bother to pull up her cloak’s hood. There was a wildness to the frosty night air that she loved; in the morning, the ground would glitter as if thousands of stars had fallen from the heavens.

  She reached down and patted Willow, remembering how the dog had enjoyed walks with Honoria’s sire. Her father had savored the crispness of icy mornings. Indeed, he’d cherished the holiday season for the way it brought family and friends together in good cheer and love.

  Father, how I wish you could be with us this Christmas.

  Instead, she had to deal with Tristan.

  In hindsight, she wished she’d spoken differently in the hall tonight, acted differently, but she could do naught about that now.

  The muffled thud of a door closing made her glance over her shoulder into the darkness. Willow halted and looked back, too. A guard had likely arrived to relight the torch, which meant an end to her solitude.

  A man emerged from the blackness. “Honoria.”

  A silent groan welled inside her. “Tristan.” He wasn’t wearing a cloak or gloves, which meant he’d left the hall quickly. Had he been searching for her? Worry flared as she asked, “Is all well inside?”

  “I expect so.”

  “What do you mean? Has something happened to Mother?”

  “I have not seen her since she went to her chamber. As far as I know, she is fine.” He halted a few paces away. “I answered as I did because I left Cornelia and Radley together with the kissing bough. I am sure you can guess what is happening between them.”

  Honoria could indeed imagine. However, her brother adored Cornelia, even though the younger woman seemed oblivious to his interest. Radley wouldn’t mind if she used the kissing bough on him.

  “I did not intend to leave them alone for long,” Tristan added, “but when I saw you up here, I thought I should come and check you are all right.”

  “Of course I am all right.”

  He studied her intently, causing a tightness to form in the pit of her stomach. “You were not all right when you quit the hall.”

  It seemed he, too, had been pondering what had taken place between them.

  He moved nearer, close enough now to reach out and touch if she so wished. “For my idiocy tonight, I am sorry.”

  His apology sounded genuine this time, not akin to a command as it had done earlier. “Thank you.” She couldn’t allow him to bear all of the blame, though. “I am sorry, too.”

  His brows rose, a silent request for explanation.

  She turned and set her gloved hand on the rough, mortared stone of the nearest merlon. “I realize now, after considering what happened, that I…reacted rather harshly. I regret I was intolerant. I suddenly found myself overwhelmed by my concern for the book.” Her voice softened. “I was also very much missing my father.”

  Tristan set his hand on her shoulder. “I understand.”

  Honoria expected protective Willow to object to him touching her. But, the hound didn’t bark or growl, merely walked over to her side and sat down.

  Tristan’s touch was unwavering, sure, and comforting. She savored the companionable silence, a bond forged by loss, and remembered Radley telling her that Tristan’s mother had died when he was young.

  Looking back at him, Honoria said, “I am not usually such an overly emotional or witless damsel.”

  He smiled. “You are far from overly emotional or witless. In my opinion, in the hall, you were a warrior queen, fighting for what rightfully belonged to her. I mean, you.”

  A blush threatened. “Please, cease.”

  “Do you not like thinking of yourself as a warrior queen?”

  “I am hardly brave. I am not trained for battle, nor do I have royal blood running in my veins.”

  “Even so, I will always remember you in such a way. Regal, determined, and unforgettable…like Guinevere.”

  Oh, mercy. No one had ever compared her to King Arthur’s wife. ’Twas a glorious compliment, but one that reminded her again of her sire and the book. She ached to remember how her father had brought those wondrous legends to life for her.

  Tristan’s fingers gently squeezed her shoulder. “You have gone quiet.”

  “I was…thinking.”

  “About?”

  The emotions tangled up inside her intensified. How did she put into words what she was feeling? How did she say that while she appreciated his touch, it somehow made her turmoil even more complicated?

  When she didn’t immediately answer, his hand fell away, and he moved in beside her to gaze down into the bailey lit by torches.

  The wind sighed, bringing the tang of torch smoke to Honoria, along with the faintest hint of Tristan’s scent: leather and soap. The enticing smell made her long to lean in against him, close her eyes, and inhale deeply, but ’twas hardly ladylike behavior.

  “Tell me your thoughts,” he coaxed.

  She could refuse, but she didn’t want to. They’d forged a bond of trust. “I am thinking…that your kindness has made me feel even more foolish about earlier.”

  “We have all said and done things we later regretted.”

/>   “Have you?” she asked.

  “Oh, aye.”

  “What happened, if you do not mind my asking?”

  Tristan’s visage had hardened with reticence; she’d clearly stirred up difficult emotions for him. Yet, he reached to his neck and drew out a thin cord from beneath his garments. Fastened to the cord was a small leather pouch.

  He opened the bag and tipped the contents into his hand: a lock of hair, wrapped around with fine gold thread.

  “A lady’s hair?” she asked.

  “Indeed, a lady’s hair.”

  ***

  Odelia’s tresses lay in Tristan’s palm like a dangerous temptation. He closed his fingers around the token he’d kept close to his heart. He’d meant to destroy it, but then had decided to keep it as a reminder of his folly—and his vow to focus on duty, not love.

  Beside him, Honoria remained silent. She was obviously doing her best to be patient, even though she longed to know more.

  He slowly opened his fingers again. When Odelia had cut the lock and placed it in his palm, a romantic gesture that had resonated with his sense of chivalry, he’d pledged his devotion to her. He’d never imagined she’d forsake him.

  “Do you love her?” Honoria finally asked.

  “Odelia betrayed me months ago.”

  “Oh, I did not realize.”

  “While I do not believe I loved her, I did care about her.” He brushed his thumb over the silken parcel. “I thought she cared for me, but I was mistaken.”

  “I am sorry.”

  How he loathed talking about Odelia; but, he wanted Honoria to know the truth. For some reason he couldn’t quite understand, he felt compelled to tell her all. “She is the daughter of an earl, and our sires are allies. When I courted her, my father was thrilled and encouraged me to wed her.” Tristan laughed roughly. “My sire and I are often at odds, but when I told him I planned to marry her, I became a favored son. The union, you see, would have brought my family great renown.”

  “Oh, Tristan.”

  “She had agreed to marry me, and, as was proper, I was going to ask her father for her hand in marriage. The night before I was to speak with her sire, I found her…in another man’s arms.” His hand closed around the thread-wrapped hair again, while he fought fury and disappointment.

  Honoria touched his arm. Her fingers pressed, offering reassurance.

  He was suddenly short of breath. The air in his lungs became frozen, suspended in a tantalizing moment of possibility.

  ’Twas as if he’d been caught up in an enchantment.

  His thoughts reeled, rekindling what he knew of the legend of Tristan and Iseult. Was this how Tristan had felt after he’d drunk the love potion?

  Ah, God, but he was just so aware of Honoria. Sensation raced through his body: intense cognizance of her nearness; of her gaze upon him; of the floral fragrance that surrounded her.

  He fought the pleasure elicited by her touch, tried to break free of the spell cast upon him.

  Never again would he fall in love.

  He hardened his heart to the longing to know her in all ways.

  Never.

  “What did your father say, when you told him of her betrayal?” Honoria asked.

  The torment inside Tristan twisted like the blade of a knife. “He told me I was a fool to have ended the relationship.”

  “Really?”

  “Aye. He told me I should have wed her anyway, because of all that I—and my family—would have gained.”

  Her fingers pressed again.

  He shuddered, fighting his yearning for her.

  Never….

  With effort, he broke from her touch, more abruptly than he’d intended. The craving for her diminished, but ’twas still there, smoldering like an ember that could be stirred up in an instant. “My father and I have not spoken since,” he added gruffly. “If there are matters he and I need to discuss, I send missives through one of my siblings.”

  Honoria shook her head and stared out into the darkness. “I thought all fathers were like mine; that all sires supported their children.”

  “In his own way, I guess my father did. He saw an opportunity for me to advance my career, increase our family’s holdings—”

  “At the cost of your happiness.”

  Tristan managed a careless shrug. “It does not matter now.”

  “It does matter. Odelia forsook you. Your sire hurt you as well.”

  “I will persevere.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and again, he saw the queen that he’d witnessed in the hall. “You are right to want a marriage founded on true love. To have children born of that love.”

  Damnation, but he wished she wasn’t so magnificent. His gaze fell to her mouth; perfectly formed, lush lips. Suddenly, he wanted her to touch him again. Even stronger was the urge to lose himself in her kiss.

  He blinked hard. What in hellfire was he thinking? He must be under that enchantment again.

  “Since you are familiar with the ancient tales,” Honoria was saying, “you will know they are not just love stories. They also honor knights who undertook perilous quests. Those men endured great hardships, but became heroes because of the challenges they faced.”

  Was she going to compare his plight to what the legendary knights had endured? How flattering.

  “Mayhap what you went through recently was destined to make you stronger.”

  “It sure as hell will not destroy me,” he said.

  “I hope not.”

  Her hushed voice was akin to a caress; a lover’s hand trailing over his naked skin. A tremor rippled through him, chased by desire. A sinful part of his conscience told him to pursue the invitation in her voice and eyes, to bury his hand into her hair, tilt up her chin, and kiss her full on the lips—a kiss to rival any she’d read about in her books.

  As he stared down at her in the darkness, her mouth slightly parted, her eyes questioning, he sensed she wouldn’t refuse him. He was skilled enough at kissing that he’d ensure she enjoyed it.

  “Tristan?” she whispered, as if she didn’t understand the struggle within him, or within herself.

  God’s bones, he wanted so very much to kiss her. Yet, he’d made a vow to himself. He must keep it.

  Moreover, if one of the guards on the battlement opposite saw him kiss Honoria, he could find himself committed to her; the same dilemma he’d faced with Cornelia in the hall.

  “I fear I have left Radley alone too long already,” he said as the wind stirred his hair and garments. Somehow, he hadn’t realized ’twas so bloody cold outside until now. “I should return to the hall.”

  She must have seen him shiver, for she asked, “Would you like to borrow my cloak?”

  He laughed at the reminder of his offer in the orchard. “We can both go inside and see Radley.”

  “Nay, I will return to my chamber.”

  “Return to your tomes, you mean.”

  Tension defined her posture now. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but she must know that for a woman as young, beautiful, and intelligent as she was, there was far more to life than old tales.

  He returned the lock of hair to its leather pouch and tucked it under his shirt. “With your knowledge of the old stories, you will recall that the heroines had to endure difficult trials too.”

  Surprise and wariness registered in her expression. “I am aware—”

  “Good. Then I trust you will not allow your hardships to destroy you. You are destined for far greater things.”

  Honoria stared at him, her mouth agape.

  He longed to say more, but he’d already said more than was wise. He bowed and strode away, leaving her to finish her walk.

  ***

  Sitting up in bed with the book of tales, Honoria sighed and slumped back against her pillows. For some annoying reason, she couldn’t stop thinking about her conversation with Tristan. His words echoed over and over: Do not allow your hardships to destroy you.

  What gave him the right to comment
on her situation? ’Twas clear he didn’t understand at all. She wasn’t being destroyed by her grief; she was mourning her beloved father, as a daughter should.

  Wasn’t she?

  Beside her on the bed, Willow pawed her hip. Honoria scratched the dog’s chin. “You understand, do you not, Willow?”

  The hound’s shaggy tail thumped on the coverlet, and she licked Honoria’s hand.

  “Tristan was most bold to say what he did.” He’d been rather bold in other matters, too. His gaze had held a kind of hunger, one that had made her grow warm with a delicious heat. What, exactly, did it mean when a lord looked upon a lady in that way?

  After he’d left her on the parapet, she’d gone straight to her chamber. She’d disrobed by the hearth, pulled on her chemise, and climbed into bed, hoping to ease her restlessness by reading. Usually, that worked. Tonight, it had not.

  She turned the next few pages, wishing there was more detail on what happened right before a knight and a damsel kissed. How did the lady feel when she sensed the kiss was about to happen? Did she experience that delicious heat?

  Mayhap she could ask Radley. He’d been kissing women since he was twelve. Yet, such questions would reveal to him just now ignorant she really was, and she couldn’t bear such humiliation.

  Setting the tome aside, Honoria blew out the bedside candles and lay back. Firelight threw shifting shadows across the ceiling.

  Do not allow your hardships to destroy you.

  She scowled. On the morrow, she’d show Tristan she wasn’t allowing life to pass her by.

  She was a lady who overcame obstacles and became stronger for them.

  ONE KNIGHT’S KISS

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Lord de Bretagne has just ridden into the bailey, milady.”

  “Thank you.” With a nod to the man-at-arms, who quit the hall, Lady Whitford set down the gold silk bliaut she’d been mending by the fire; the one she intended to wear on Christmas Day.