Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Then she asked a question she regretted as soon as the words were out of her mouth. “Is he a Norman?”

  UNKISSABLE KNIGHT

  TWELFTH NIGHT

  Dressed in a fashionable new gown, Victorine awaited the arrival of Adrian de Caulmont. Her belly was aflutter with anticipation and she was glad Dervenn de Roure waited with her in a dimly lit corridor not far from her chamber. He had given permission for the young knight to escort her to the Twelfth Night celebrations. He’d also arranged for seamstresses to sew the new gown, for which she was grateful. It seemed her temporary guardian was a resourceful man.

  He paced impatiently, his brow creased.

  “Do you not like the frock?” she pouted, well aware that he did.

  He rolled his eyes. “For the tenth time, I like the gown. The red becomes you.”

  He’d insisted on red. Indeed, he’d taken extraordinary interest in the fashioning of the garment, adamant it have a high neckline. Even her father had allowed more décolletage.

  She smoothed a hand over the rich wool of her skirts. “I will repay you when the king grants my dowry,” she murmured, ashamed that she’d been left a pauper. Her father had gone off to war without making provision for her.

  He glared, adjusting the cuffs of his dark green tunic. “I have already told you I am not concerned about the cost.”

  His impatience was getting on her nerves. “Then what is it? You seem out of sorts.”

  He inhaled deeply and ceased pacing. “Forgive me. It is cold and draughty in these dank English halls and Sir Adrian is late.”

  It was easy to forget sometimes that Dervenn too was far from his native land, living among foreigners, not fully accepted by the Norman conquerors though he’d lost much on their behalf. “I agree that castles at home are warmer in winter. Will you return to Bretagne?”

  A sadness crept into his eyes, betraying a hint of brown in the dark depths. “Non. I am a second son. My older brother will inherit my father’s lands.”

  They had more in common than she’d thought. “My cousin inherited the de Toeni estates,” she replied. “My father had never even invited him to visit before. He’s probably turning over in his grave.”

  Dervenn frowned. “He should have considered that before he and his sons sailed for England.”

  A short time ago, she’d have lashed out at such criticism of her sire, but Dervenn spoke the truth. “He thought he was invincible.”

  Her guardian eyed her curiously. “Speaking of graves, mayhap one day I’ll take you to see where we buried the dead of Hastings, including your brothers. William has commissioned an abbey for the place.”

  It was a deep seated need she’d refused to acknowledge, even to herself, yet he had sensed it. “I would like that,” she replied hoarsely.

  He shrugged. “We are getting too serious. Twelfth Night is a time for celebration, and here comes de Caulmont now.”

  ~~~

  It was on the tip of Dervenn’s tongue to berate the young knight for his tardy arrival. It was irritating enough that he was obliged to chaperone the pair. What he wanted to do was take Victorine to his chamber, peel off the red dress and sink his needy shaft into her virgin sheath. He’d made sure de Caulmont wouldn’t get a glimpse of her breasts, but the velvet emphasized the tempting curves.

  In the days since the kissing bough incident, he’d used the excuse of the dressmaking to see her every day. The seamstresses must think him strange—a warrior who took an interest in the fashioning of a lady’s gown.

  Yet he craved her. The more time he spent with her, the greater his understanding of her prickly exterior. He suspected that beneath the haughty snobbishness lay the heart of a passionate woman.

  She had softened her demeanor towards him, and apparently forgotten the kissing bough incident. However, she was fragile, still reeling from the loss of her family, though she rarely spoke of it. He resolved to be gentle and wait patiently until she came to see he was the right man for her.

  In the meantime, there was the charade of Adrian de Caulmont to be played out.

  “My heartfelt apologies for being late,” the young knight panted breathlessly after a polite bow. “I was fishing and lost track of the time.”

  Victorine clenched her jaw. “Fishing?”

  Dervenn cleared his throat, tempted to chuckle. It seemed Adrian wouldn’t be much of a threat after all.

  “In the Tamesis,” he explained with a grin, though he glanced at Dervenn, apparently sensing something was amiss.

  Victorine’s eyes widened, but her jaw remained clenched. “In January?”

  Adrian studied his feet, but then quickly shifted his gaze to the rafters. Dervenn understood when he noticed dried mud on Adrian’s boots. He’d guess from the scowl on Victorine’s face, she’d seen it too.

  An evening Dervenn had dreaded suddenly promised to be quite entertaining.

  ~~~

  Victorine again entered the crowded great hall of Westminster, this time on the arm of a young knight who hadn’t cleaned the mud off his boots.

  She felt more confident in her own attire, though Dervenn had insisted the gown be elegant and not ostentatious. She’d protested some of his suggestions, but the admiring glances of other guests suggested he was right.

  They joined the informal procession making its way to the great hearth where the yule log still burned. A servant handed each of them a cedar frond as they approached the fire. She held the fragrant fir to her nose and inhaled the familiar aroma, recalling yuletides of the past.

  She stood before the flames, feeling the heat on her face. The men took up a position either side of her. She turned to her guardian. “We have this same tradition in Normandie,” she explained, uncertain of customs in Bretagne. “My mother broke apart the cedar wreaths she’d fashioned for Yuletide so we could throw a frond in the fire and make a wish.”

  “We did the same thing at home,” he replied hoarsely.

  She sensed the loneliness in his voice. For all his gruff exterior he couldn’t hide his homesickness.

  “I’ll go first,” Adrian declared, tossing his cedar twig into the glowing embers. “I wish for a prosperous estate as my reward from the king…and for good fishing this year…and…” He looked about the hall as if trying to settle on something else to wish for.

  She shook her head. Obviously he hailed from a different part of Normandie. “You only get one wish.”

  She closed her eyes and considered her wish. Unexpected thoughts assailed her.

  I wish for Dervenn’s happiness.

  I wish for a miracle to rid Dervenn of his disfigurement.

  I wish…

  Enough! She should be thinking of her own future. She tossed her frond. “I wish for a happy marriage.”

  “I wish for that too,” Adrian said with a weak smile, as if he realized he should have said it before.

  She risked a glance at the battle-scarred warrior standing beside her. He stared into the flickering flames, looking like a burnished Norse god, the frond clutched in his massive fist like Thor’s hammer.

  Her heart pulsed in her ears. What was his deepest wish?

  He tossed the frond. “I wish for Victorine’s happiness,” he rasped.

  “Me too,” Adrian echoed.

  When Dervenn turned his dark gaze on her she knew with a sinking heart the kissing bough episode had been no passing fancy.

  ~~~

  Dervenn cursed himself for a lovesick fool. He’d betrayed his emotions, something he never did, and Victorine was astute. She knew now he craved her.

  He hoped Adrian didn’t suspect, but thought it unlikely. The lad’s demeanor toward him seemed not to have changed as the evening wore on and they enjoyed the wassailing and mummery.

  The youth went off in search of the traditional food and drink, returning with ginger snaps and tankards of spiced ale. “Now we can toast the Three Kings at midnight when their feast begins,” he declared with a broad grin. He nudged Victorine with his elbo
w almost causing her to spill the ale. “Spiced ale—get it? And ginger. The Magi brought spices to the stable. The Three Kings.”

  He stared at them, evidently expecting some congratulatory remark for his revelations.

  Victorine was apparently having none of it. “Everyone knows the origin of the traditions,” she said with more than a hint of derision.

  Dervenn almost felt sorry for the crestfallen youth, but Adrian recovered quickly. “I’ll get us fruitcake. Hope I find the fève in my piece.”

  Victorine watched her suitor hurry away. “You’re making him nervous,” she said.

  Adrian had proven to be a courageous warrior and an expert swordsman at Hastings, but that didn’t mean he knew how to take care of a wife. Dervenn resisted the notion to share his opinion that the youth was too immature for her. “It wasn’t my intention.”

  They stood in strained silence for long minutes. Victorine nibbled a ginger snap and sipped the ale, wrinkling her nose at the spicy taste in a way he found endearing.

  Adrian returned bearing three portions of fruitcake. “Choose,” he told Victorine.

  She took the middle piece.

  He wagged his head from side to side, evidently trying to decide which one to select for himself. Dervenn lost patience and grabbed one of the two remaining pieces. The way the evening had progressed it was more than likely he would find the fève and be obliged to play the role of villain for the rest of the night. It seemed to be his lot in life.

  UNKISSABLE KNIGHT

  SAYING GOODBYE

  Dervenn lurked a respectable instance from the chamber door where Adrian was bidding goodnight to Victorine. Even in the shadowy hallway, the youth’s face glowed like a beacon. He’d gleefully run himself ragged playing the part of the villain after finding the fève in his fruitcake.

  Actually, he’d acted the fool more than the villain, to the vast amusement of all at the assembly—except Victorine. Her deepening pout made it clear she didn’t appreciate being left alone with Dervenn.

  Still obviously excited and pleased with himself, the young man made no effort to whisper. “I very much enjoyed your company this evening, my lady.”

  To her credit, she didn’t reply, though the set of her jaw indicated her annoyance. The lad was lucky to escape a tongue-lashing. Dervenn fervently hoped he wouldn’t attempt to kiss her. She might punch his nose.

  The notion of another man kissing Victorine didn’t sit well. He strode out of the shadows. “Be done with your goodnights, sir.”

  Adrian bowed. “I hope to see you again, but on the morrow I ride for my new estate in Sussex.” He glanced nervously at Dervenn. “If all is well there, mayhap when I return I can take Lady Victorine to see it.”

  His spirits rose. He’d be rid of Adrian sooner than he thought and there was no way on God’s green earth he was going to give permission for such an excursion. However, a flicker of interest in her eyes held him back.

  “How far is Sussex?” she asked.

  “Not far. I believe it’s thirty miles or so to my estate.”

  She looked at Dervenn appealingly, and he had no choice. “We’ll see.”

  To his consternation she smiled at the lad and offered her hand. “Until your return, then, Sir Adrian.”

  He clenched his fists when the young knight brushed a kiss on her knuckles and bade her goodnight.

  Blushing, she shot Dervenn a defiant glance and disappeared through the door of the chamber before he could say another word.

  ~~~

  A lone candle flickered on the mantle of the cold hearth. Marie lay asleep in the big bed. Jumelle dozed in a chair. Victorine pressed her back against the wooden door and inhaled deeply, trying to sort the emotions swirling in her heart.

  Her maid stirred. “My lady! I fell asleep.”

  She stepped into the chamber and a yawning Jumelle began unfastening the laces of the red gown. “Tell me all about your evening.”

  The girl had been her faithful servant for years, but Victorine had never been allowed to socialize with young men. She was grateful for a confidante, especially one with common sense. She embarked on a litany of the night’s events as Jumelle helped her undress.

  “But what of your knight?” her maid asked, fastening the ties of a nightgown.

  She sat down in the still warm armchair. Jumelle knelt at her feet. “Adrian is handsome, dashing some might say.”

  Jumelle grinned.

  “He has promised to show me his newly acquired estate, which must mean he really likes me.”

  Jumelle frowned. “Yet you seem hesitant.”

  “Well, he left me alone with Sir Dervenn for part of the evening.”

  Jumelle chuckled.

  She deemed it better to ignore the maid’s sly smile. “I can’t fault him for it. The winner of the fève is expected to play the fool and entertain, and he certainly did that in full measure.”

  “He won the fève?”

  “Yes and I suppose there is nothing wrong with having a good sense of humor.”

  “But?”

  Her hands felt clammy. “It’s obvious he’s well liked.”

  “But?”

  She was suddenly tired to the point of exhaustion. “He likes fishing,” she murmured.

  Jumelle laughed out loud. “Fishing?”

  She got up abruptly. “I hear it’s a worthy pastime. Anyway, Sir Dervenn kept me company and that’s that. He’s my guardian after all.”

  Jumelle used the arm of the chair to push herself up from the planked floor. “I doubt he objected to being alone with you.”

  As Victorine climbed between the linens, she pushed away the annoying truth that she’d enjoyed Dervenn’s company more than Adrian’s. She didn’t want to admit that the disfigured knight’s smoldering glances caused peculiar flutterings in private places, whereas Adrian—well, he was nice.

  “I’m not sure what you’re inferring, impertinent girl. De Roure’s a Breton after all. Now get to bed.”

  UNKISSABLE KNIGHT

  WINTER OF DISCONTENT

  As the Feast of the Annunciation and the beginning of a new year approached, Dervenn couldn’t recall ever looking forward as much to the end of winter. It had been a season of tormented discontent.

  He had grown weary of Victorine’s constant badgering as to the reasons for her suitor’s prolonged absence when Adrian de Caulmont failed to return from Sussex by the end of January.

  The youth sent a brief missive informing her that the estate was in a poor state of repair and necessitated more of his attention than he had foreseen.

  Victorine’s sullen pout betrayed her disappointment the letter was devoid of any expression of endearment.

  By February’s end he feared he might go mad. He had no explanation to offer and truly didn’t care why Adrian hadn’t reappeared, though it would be an easy matter to send heralds to inquire. “Mayhap he drowned while fishing,” he quipped, wishing he had the courage to tell her he loved her more with every passing day.

  But he dreaded she might yet reject him.

  He’d found an unexpected ally in Jumelle, who confided her belief that Victorine didn’t have a high opinion of Adrian.

  He wasn’t surprised and suspected she pined for the young knight simply because he seemed to have abandoned her. He felt her pain. She’d suffered enough abandonment.

  He hoped for William’s return for the celebrations of the spring equinox, but it was rumored the king had gone to Normandie. He’d waited overlong for his promised reward. Other knights who’d sacrificed less than he were already establishing themselves on newly granted properties. Some had even been given earldoms.

  Mayhap if he had something to offer Victorine, other than his scarred face and Breton blood, she might look upon him more favorably.

  ~~~

  With a pouting Jumelle in tow, Victorine scoured Westminster, searching for Dervenn. She found him in the stables brushing his horse. On the point of brandishing the long-awaited parchment under his
nose, she was momentarily distracted by what looked like personal belongings and a makeshift pallet in the corner of the stall. She knew he’d sacrificed his chamber for his charges, but it had never occurred to her he’d been relegated to the stables. “Surely you don’t sleep here?”

  He carried on his task. “I prefer it. Haritz is good company.”

  With a firm grip on Jumelle’s hand she studied the huge gelding. “I don’t really like horses,” she admitted.

  He chuckled. “I can tell. He senses it too. See how he’s giving you the eye?”

  She averted her gaze. “It’s a strange name.”

  “It’s Basque. I named him for the indestructible oak tree.”

  He’d chosen well. The beast’s long legs did indeed look like sturdy oak limbs. A strong horse for a strong man.

  He ceased brushing and turned to her. “Did you need something?”

  Annoyed she’d been distracted from her errand, she shoved the parchment at him. “He has sent for me.”

  The words didn’t emerge with the triumphant tone she had planned, but she attributed her nervousness to the intimidating horse. After all, a perverse urge to let Dervenn know Adrian hadn’t forgotten her had driven her to find him. His scowl at the news as he took the missive was somewhat satisfying.

  She watched him scan the message.

  “He has invited me to his estate, as you see.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “And you hope I will give permission?”

  There was pain in his fiery gaze, but she soldiered on. “Yes.”

  Jumelle snorted.

  Victorine glared at her maid. Telling the girl in confidence that in truth she had no desire to travel to Adrian’s estate had evidently been a mistake. Her servant made no secret of her opinion Dervenn was the man she should marry.

  However, as she’d pointed out, he was a Breton, and horribly scarred. In addition he was landless. She had to think about the future, and it was flattering that a handsome young man, a hero of Hastings, had invited her to his estate.

  It was of no consequence that Adrian didn’t fire her blood, whereas Dervenn evoked all kinds of emotions, including anger. Adrian was safer and in time she would come to love him.