Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “I am sure he will be.” She linked her arm through Tristan’s. “Also, when your father finds out Odelia’s brother is a traitor, he will be glad you did not marry her. You saved your family from being drawn into a scandal.”

  “True. Hopefully now, my sire and I can resolve our differences. By the way, the King told me you should expect a letter from him soon.”

  Her pulse jolted. She was to receive a letter from the sovereign? “Really? Why?”

  “You saved many lives by purchasing that tome. You might even have prevented a war.”

  She’d never have believed that what was hidden in a book could affect all of England—not until this Christmas.

  They walked to the keep, Cornelia and Radley a short distance behind them.

  In the hall, Lady Whitford greeted the men warmly and ordered a servant to bring mulled wine. “Guillaume sends his regards,” she said. “He returned to his fortress several days ago, but will be back at Ellingstow this evening. He is anxious to know what happened in London.”

  “We will be glad to tell you what we can,” Radley said, setting down his saddlebag.

  To Honoria, Tristan said, “I have something you must see. A surprise.”

  “What kind of surprise?”

  Radley grinned. “One you are sure to like.”

  As everyone gathered round, Tristan set his saddlebag on the nearest trestle table and pulled out a rectangular, cloth-wrapped object. “For you, my love.”

  A heady thrill rippled through Honoria as she set the parcel down. She drew back the fabric to reveal a tome with an exquisite, tooled-leather cover. “Oh, Tristan!”

  “This one’s extra special,” Radley said, his arm around Cornelia’s waist.

  Honoria’s hand trembled as she opened the front cover. The Romance of Tristan and Honoria was written in elegant script on the front page. Beneath the title were two beautifully painted figures: a knight in chain mail armor and a lady in a flowing gown, facing each other and holding hands. Tristan must have commissioned the book while he was in London.

  Cornelia cooed. “How incredibly romantic.”

  “And perfect,” Honoria’s mother murmured.

  ’Twas indeed a perfect and most thoughtful gift. When Honoria turned to the next page, and the next, though, she saw they were blank. “Why—?”

  “The story of our love is yet to be written,” Tristan said.

  Her stomach somersaulted as she met his gaze. “Are you certain about us? We have only known each a short while—”

  “And yet, in our hearts and souls, we have known each other forever.”

  They had indeed. Oh, he was going to make her weep, saying such lovely things.

  Tristan caught her hand and kissed it, before dropping down on one knee before her. He reached into the leather bag at his hip and withdrew a gold band inlaid with gemstones.

  Honoria gasped.

  “Lady Honoria Whitford, will you be my beloved damsel for the rest of our lives? Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  I will. Oh, I will! How she wanted to immediately agree, yet she had to be absolutely sure about the decision. “Can I keep Willow and my books?”

  He laughed. “Of course you can. That dog is your devoted protector. As for the books, we will start our own collection. We can read the stories to our children.”

  Her heart soared. “I would like that.” Remembering the tomes from his youth that his sire had ruined, she said, “Mayhap in London we can find a craftsman to repair your books, so they can become part of our collection.”

  “Agreed.” Still down on one knee, he asked, “So, my love, is that an ‘aye’?”

  Tears in her eyes, she nodded. “Most definitely an ‘aye.’”

  He slid the ring onto her finger. When he stood, she threw her arms around his neck and soundly kissed him.

  Cornelia squealed.

  Honoria’s mother sniffled and wiped her eyes. “Oh, Honoria, your father would be so thrilled for you.”

  “Many congratulations, you two.” Radley said. “Now, if I may, I have something to ask Cornelia.” He dropped down on one knee on the rushes in front of the younger woman and presented her with a gold ring set with a blue gem the color of her eyes.

  “Radley?” the younger woman whispered.

  “Will you be my wife?” he asked solemnly. “I have loved you since we were children, although it took the danger on Christmas Eve for me to realize just how much. We can have a fine life together, if you are willing.”

  “I am.”

  Radley put the ring on her finger and stood. They kissed.

  “Three betrothals in just a few days,” Honoria’s mother said. “Who would have guessed?”

  With a contented sigh, Honoria gazed up at her husband-to be. “This has been a remarkable holiday.”

  “It has indeed.” He kissed her, so tenderly. “You might like to know that when we were riding to London, I threw the pouch with Odelia’s hair into a river. There was no sense holding onto it any longer. The vow I had made to myself was pointless, because my destiny is to be with you.”

  “Oh, Tristan, I love you.” Those words didn’t come close to conveying how much she treasured him or how truly happy she was.

  “I love you, too.” He winked. “In the coming weeks and months, we will fill our book with incredible stories. We might start with our first meeting in the market and how the mischief of this year’s kissing bough ended up with us getting betrothed.”

  Honoria smiled. “What a good idea. ’Tis quite an extraordinary tale, indeed.”

  ABOUT CATHERINE KEAN

  CATHERINE KEAN is a Kindle Unlimited All-Star author and an award-winning, bestselling novelist of medieval romances. Among other accolades, her books have won the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence and finaled in the National Readers' Choice Awards.

  Visit Catherine's website at catherinekean.com

  Love Historicals Page: http://www.lovehistoricals.com/historical-romance-authors/catherine-kean/

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/catherine.keanauthor

  Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/695820.Catherine_Kean

  UNKISSABLE KNIGHT

  ANNA MARKLAND

  “As a child of eight Mr. Trout had once kissed a girl of six under the mistletoe at a Christmas party, but there his sex life had come to an abrupt halt.”

  ~P.G. Wodehouse

  UNKISSABLE KNIGHT

  VICTORINE

  December 28th 1066 AD.

  When the white cliffs loomed out of the mist, Victorine de Toeni grasped her maidservant’s hands. “Thanks be to the saints I didn’t retch in front of them,” she confided, thrusting her chin at the other eleven wards of William, Duke of Normandie. The newly crowned King of England had magnanimously declared himself their guardian and protector. It was, she thought, the least he could do for motherless daughters whose fathers had been slain at the Battle of Hastings.

  The youngest, a whimpering green-faced child of unremembered name, was seven; the eldest, the overly chatty Guerlaine, possibly eighteen. However, none came from a family as illustrious as Victorine’s. It wouldn’t do to show weakness in front of girls of lower rank.

  Jumelle smiled. “We are fortunate the sea was calm this day. Mayhap it’s for the best the captain refused to sail for four days.”

  Her maid’s sarcasm wasn’t lost on Victorine. She had been less than kind in her choice of words when told of the seaman’s intransigence. However, that was all in the past. “Bien, I am disappointed I missed my guardian’s coronation, but I suppose the celebrations will still be ongoing.”

  She dug her fingernails into the wood as the longboat scraped bottom. Crewmen jumped into the shallow water and heaved the vessel onto the sandy shore. Relieved she’d survived her first sea voyage, she inhaled the chilly air, determined to be optimistic. “King William will soon find a husband worthy of me among his brave knights,” she told Jumelle confidently. “Given my father’s rank, I’m c
ertain he will choose a noble warrior, a hero of Hastings, perhaps.”

  She disembarked carefully with the captain’s assistance, mindful of what had happened to Duke William at Pevensey in October. In his haste to come ashore and begin the invasion he’d fallen flat on his face in the mud.

  Once on the beach, she surveyed the newly conquered land that had cost her family dearly. She’d never touched the heart of Berenger de Toeni, the arrogant father who’d lavished his love and attention on his sons. Now they were dead too, ground into the muck and gore of Hastings. The extensive de Toeni estates had passed to a male cousin.

  She held on to Jumelle when her feet sank in the wet sand. “There is nothing left for us in Normandie. England is our future now.” She gazed up at the stark white cliffs that seemed to mock her fragile hopes.

  The captain pointed down the beach. “Yonder comes the escort sent by His Majesté.”

  She narrowed her eyes. The winter sky was overcast, but the glare off the water made it difficult to see anything but the silhouette of a tall knight who strode towards them. He looked like a giant, but mayhap it was the armor that made him appear larger.

  He effected a bow when he reached them, though the gesture certainly wasn’t as deferential as it should have been. She thought perhaps the blame lay with the sand. However, this wasn’t the lavish reception she’d expected. “Surely our escort consists of more than one knight,” she said peevishly.

  Annoyance prickled her nape when he chuckled. “Indeed not,” he assured her in the deepest voice she’d ever heard. “I am Sir Dervenn de Roure, milady, and I bring Yuletide greetings from King William. I’ve men, horses and wagons aplenty beyond the beach.”

  He eyed the baggage stacked on the longboat. “Hopefully, we brought enough wagons.”

  Bristling at his mocking tone, she shaded her eyes and moved slightly to get a better view of his face. Her belly dropped to her boots, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the livid scar that ran down the right side of his face, from hairline through eyebrow to lip. His narrowed gaze rendered it impossible to tell if the vicious wound had taken his eye. His hair was cropped short in the style of the Norman cavalry, but blonde, like his bristly-looking beard. There was something different about his manner of speech.

  “Souvenir of the battle,” he growled, jolting her thoughts back to the beach.

  She looked away hastily, noticing a score of soldiers making their way towards them. “I—”

  “No need to apologise,” he said gruffly. “My disfigurement takes everyone aback.”

  She stiffened her spine. Apologise! As if a de Toeni would apologise to…whatever this brute was. “I was about to say that most warriors wear their battle scars with pride.”

  She clenched her fists, annoyed the words hadn’t come out as she’d intended. The man had obviously paid a heavy price at Hastings. If he wasn’t married he’d have a difficult time finding a woman who’d want to wake up every day and see…

  Sweat trickled down her spine despite the winter chill, a most distasteful state of affairs. The sun must have come out.

  He turned away without reply and shouted orders to the soldiers, then proffered an arm. “You have had a long journey,” he said. “May I escort you to your horse?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to remark that it was about time he showed some courtly manners. However, when she accepted his offer, the astonishing strength of his rock-hard arm stoppered the harsh words before they could emerge.

  UNKISSABLE KNIGHT

  DERVENN

  Victorine de Toeni was exactly what Dervenn had expected. He’d known Berenger de Toeni, and wasn’t surprised the daughter was spoiled, arrogant, and rude. Hence his reluctance to fulfill this errand. However, when a king commands…

  What he hadn’t expected were the perfect breasts, the willowy form, the pouty lips that looked deliciously kissable. She’d probably be mortified if she realized the wind had caused her wimple to go slightly askew, revealing wisps of hair. A blonde with green eyes. An unusual and potent combination. If she ever smiled she’d be a beauty.

  But it was pointless to let his thoughts wander in that direction. She’d reacted predictably to his wound, drawn to stare in horror, despite herself. Just like the others.

  Wait till she found out he wasn’t a Norman. Though the Bretons had fought side by side with the Normans for every inch gained at Hastings, a Breton knight would never be considered good enough by the likes of Victorine de Toeni, no matter that King William had hinted at the possibility of such a match.

  It amused him that she was obliged to depend on his arm as they made their way up the sloping beach, though she tried valiantly not to lean on him.

  “I am anxious to hear about the coronation,” she gushed nervously. He suspected this proud woman loathed appearing weak, but then she’d recently lost her father and brothers. Facing life as an orphan in a newly-conquered foreign country couldn’t be easy.

  “Things didn’t go exactly as planned at the Abbey,” he replied, recalling the chaos that had erupted at the Christmas Day ceremony thanks to the overly zealous Norman guards. “But William is indeed King of England.”

  She came to an abrupt halt. “Surely my guardian doesn’t allow you to call him by his given name?”

  She averted her gaze when he turned to face her. “As a matter of fact he does,” he replied with more belligerence than he intended. “Something to do with my saving his life and nigh on losing an eye in the process.”

  She glanced up at him, doubt plain to see in those green eyes, but she said nothing, evidently deciding not to rise to the challenge in his own gaze. Strangely, her refusal to spar with him was a disappointment. The prospect of trading wits with such a temperamental beauty kindled a spark of excitement he hadn’t felt since before Hastings.

  When they reached the horses, she inspected the mount he indicated was to be hers. “A passable palfrey,” she finally allowed.

  He bent the knee and meshed his fingers together.

  She looked at him as if he’d asked her to put her foot into pig-swill. “Is there no mounting block?” she asked, her voice dripping disdain.

  The urge to put her over his knee and smack her bottom was powerful and led to another desire he’d disciplined his body to stifle in the three months since life had changed completely. So he said nothing, leaving her with no alternative but to accept his offer to boost her into the saddle.

  She hesitated a moment or two, both hands on the pommel, until it apparently occurred to her if she attempted to mount that way she would likely end up on the ground on the other side of the horse.

  It gave him immense satisfaction when she put a hand on his shoulder. Too much in fact. This was dangerous territory. He couldn’t afford to become preoccupied with a woman like Victorine de Toeni, or with any woman for that matter. His future was set. He would dedicate his solitary life to helping his king establish Norman law and order in England.

  The irony wasn’t lost on his Breton sense of humor.

  Once she was safely mounted, he turned his attention to the youngest of his charges. He hunkered down in front of the pale child who stood holding the hand of one of his men, eyeing the horses that were all obviously too big for her to ride. The lingering odor of mal de mer suggested she’d endured a rough crossing. She gaped at his scar and moved closer to the soldier.

  “Would you like to ride with me, demoiselle Marie de Monluc?” he asked. “I’m not as scary as I look. Antoine will help you.”

  He’d discovered that children tended to accept his disfigurement more readily, so he wasn’t surprised when she smiled and nodded. He mounted Haritz and Antoine lifted her into his lap. She nestled into him, sparking a twinge of regret that he would never hold a child of his own. He loved children and had always assumed he’d sire many strong sons and beautiful daughters.

  Antoine signalled that the baggage was loaded onto the wagon. Dervenn suspected that one of the handful of maids riding amid the i
ron chests served Victorine.

  As he set the column in motion towards Westminster it was of some satisfaction that the haughty blonde glared at Marie. He chuckled inwardly. Mayhap he should have offered her a ride in his lap.

  UNKISSABLE KNIGHT

  MILTON REGIS

  Half of the cohort led the cavalcade, the remaining men brought up the rear. Dervenn positioned himself with the women in the middle. Victorine made it clear she considered herself above the others by riding alongside him, her back ramrod straight. She didn’t make conversation, but then most of them were strangely quiet. He had to keep reminding himself they’d suffered horrendous losses in their young lives.

  His feelings about Victorine’s silence were mixed. Marie had quickly fallen asleep and he didn’t want her to waken. He felt comfortable with the haughty woman’s closeness. It would be easier to protect her should they come under attack. William may have won the crown but the Saxons were far from contained.

  A thousand bees buzzed in his head, each bearing a notion of how to get beneath her bristly armor.

  To his surprise she seemed quite taken with the rolling Kentish landscape, so he began there. “Today we will journey to Milton Regis, milady Victorine, where we will lodge at an old Roman villa.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “I did not give leave for you to use my given name,” she said. “And I prefer we proceed directly to Westminster.”

  He inclined his head, concealing his amusement. She had no notion of the distance involved and had risen so readily to the bait. “Your pardon, milady de Toeni,” he replied, lowering his voice so as not to alarm Marie. “Unfortunately, travelling all night would render us vulnerable to Saxon bandits and it’s likely none of us would make it to Westminster alive.”

  He regretted the fear in her green eyes when she swivelled her head to look at him, but best she be aware of the dangers. This was a ride through newly-conquered lands fraught with peril, not a leisurely jaunt in the Normandie countryside.