Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas

by Kathryn Le Veque

  She just wished he’d shown as much enthusiasm for her as he did for fishing.

  Dervenn arched a brow. “I see he has invited you to go fishing with him.”

  Jumelle laughed out loud, earning another glare.

  Victorine had grown up not far from the sea coast. She was aware fishermen used nets to catch fish for eating during Lent and on other fast days set by the Church. Most of Adrian’s missive consisted of explaining how he used a pole and line to “fish for fun.” It was beyond her comprehension.

  Still, it might be amusing. “Yes. Do you grant permission?”

  Insanely, she hoped he would refuse.

  “A fine pastime for the spring equinox,” he replied, though there was no humor in his deep voice. “I will accompany you. Be ready to leave on the morrow.”

  UNKISSABLE KNIGHT

  COCK FEATHERS

  Adrian’s estate lay half a day’s ride south from Westminster through a mostly flat landscape. He’d also invited his three chums, Baptiste, Constant and Georges, which saved Dervenn the trouble and expense of hiring and paying mercenaries to escort him and Victorine and the maid.

  His ward chatted amiably with the three young men, though her startled expression upon learning they were to be part of the get-together betrayed her dismay.

  When the dilapidated manor house came into view, he wondered aloud what improvements the young knight had spent nearly three months working on.

  Victorine didn’t hide her disappointment as they rode into the overgrown courtyard. He’d come to admire that about her. Neither parental neglect nor grief had succeeded in crushing her spirit. She wasn’t afraid to express her opinions. Many men might not appreciate that in a woman, but Dervenn found it a refreshing challenge. He almost looked forward to the fishing expedition. She wouldn’t hesitate to let Adrian know how she felt about his pastime, but at least she was brave enough to try it.

  Their grinning host emerged from the house to greet them, shaking hands with his cronies. “Don’t worry, my friends, it looks better inside.”

  Had he even noticed Victorine scowling atop her horse? Dervenn dismounted quickly, put his hands on her waist and lifted her down. She gripped his shoulders as their eyes met. He controlled the overwhelming urge to hold her against his needy body as he set her feet on the cobblestones.

  She said nothing, nor did she smile, but a hint of something in her gaze—longing, exasperation, resignation—provided both amusement and hope.

  Adrian hurried over. “Welcome to my humble abode, Lady Victorine.”

  She gathered her cloak more tightly around her shoulders. “I’m anxious to see what you’ve achieved inside the house,” she remarked.

  Dervenn took note of the sarcasm in her voice, but it was evident Adrian hadn’t noticed. Still smiling, he gestured to the door. “Please, come in.”

  ~~~

  After Jumelle had helped her struggle into a more suitable gown in the cupboard Adrian referred to as the guest chamber, Victorine proceeded to the dingy dining room, full of misgivings. The house and grounds were a shambles, but Adrian hadn’t taken kindly to her suggestion he would be further ahead to tear the place down and begin again.

  The men were already seated at the table and came to their feet when she entered. Adrian seemed to have recovered from his pout. Baptiste, Constant and Georges had changed clothing and looked refreshed. Stern-faced as usual, Dervenn wore the tunic he’d travelled in, though he’d removed his gambeson.

  She was surprised to be seated next to her guardian, while Adrian sat between two of his friends. Perhaps he thought it more appropriate.

  She relaxed somewhat when it occurred to her she actually preferred to sit with Dervenn.

  Even before the food—fish, naturally—was served by an ancient retainer who she feared might collapse in a heap at any moment, Adrian began his treatise on fishing.

  He prattled on about hooks and rods and lines, talking with his mouth full. Dervenn shifted in his seat several times. Sensing the tension emanating from him, she risked a sideways glance. He gaped at their host as if he didn’t quite believe the bad manners.

  It was astounding that Adrian was clearly oblivious to the bored expressions on the faces of every one of his guests as they picked at the mediocre meal. Any woman who married him would have her work cut out for her; it would be akin to marrying a child.

  Undeterred, he launched into a description of what he called a fly. “I wrap dark red wool round a hook and tie on two feathers,” he explained.

  Evidently trying to appear interested, Baptiste asked, “What kind of feathers?”

  Adrian didn’t blink. “The ones that grow ‘neath the wattles of a cock.”

  Dervenn laughed out loud, no doubt envisioning their host plucking feathers from an indignant rooster. She tried without success to control the laughter bubbling up her throat.

  Adrian frowned but then laughed with everyone else, though it was plain he didn’t understand the humor. “Aye,” he went on, “they are wax colored.”

  More guffaws.

  Tears rolled down Baptiste’s cheeks.

  Constant hiccuped.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier just to use a real fly?” Georges asked.

  When everyone paused for breath, Adrian continued. “The fly is fixed to the line and lowered; the fish is attracted by the color and rises to eat the pretty thing that will give him a rare treat.”

  Victorine sobered, suddenly feeling very sorry for the poor fish.

  “But the fellow’s jaws are pierced by the hook, and he doesn’t get to enjoy the feast when he is hauled out of the water.”

  Utter silence greeted his gleeful pronouncement.

  Victorine pushed away her trencher of half eaten trout, resolved never to eat fish of any kind again. There must be other acceptable things to consume during Lent and other fasting days.

  She sensed Dervenn’s dark eyes on her and knew without looking his face bore the enigmatic smile she’d come to love.

  His solid presence was like a lifeline in a swollen river full of unsuspecting fish.

  UNKISSABLE KNIGHT

  POLES APART

  Victorine slept surprisingly well in the cramped chamber, but feigned feeling out of sorts when everyone broke their fast the following morning. “I fear I won’t be able to join in the fishing expedition, Adrian,” she lamented, distracted by a sliver of straw from the stables in Dervenn’s hair.

  Her suitor’s shoulders sagged. He gazed at her in disbelief. “But I was looking forward to teaching you,” he murmured.

  Like most of William’s army Dervenn had shaved his head during the invasion, but his golden hair had grown to caress his shoulders and cover part of the scar on his brow. Removing the straw would allow her to feel its texture—silky, she’d warrant. Did hair grow on his chest as it did on her brothers’ torsos?

  “Men have been fishing since Biblical times,” Adrian intoned solemnly, jolting her from her reverie. “The book of Job talks about drawing out a Leviathan with a fish hook.”

  She was tempted to protest that Job likely said nothing about women fishing, but he evidently wasn’t to be dissuaded. “Saint Matthew reports Our Blessed Lord told his followers to go to the sea and cast a hook, and take the first fish that came up.”

  “Seems we have no choice if Our Lord commanded it,” Baptiste said with a wink.

  “Agreed,” Constant echoed.

  Georges rubbed his hands together. “Me too.”

  Adrian brightened. “Please come with us, my lady,” he pleaded.

  To refuse would seem churlish, but she doubted her guardian would join the expedition. “Will you go?” she asked him.

  He raked the hair off his face with one hand, clearly surprised when he found the straw. “I will have no choice if you agree,” he replied.

  “Then I will go,” she whispered, watching him twirl the straw between his elegant fingers as a curious tingling hardened her nipples.

  ~~~

 
Adrian emerged from the stables carrying several poles at least six feet long. “It’s but a short walk to the Medway,” he explained, thrusting a pole at each of his friends.

  When he offered one to Victorine she eyed it like a venomous snake. “You expect me to walk carrying that?”

  Dervenn doubted Adrian had any sisters since he seemed to have no idea how to treat a woman. He took the pole from the youth. “I will carry it for her.”

  His gesture earned him a genuine smile, but she fisted her hands in the skirts of her gown. “How can I trudge through fields in this?”

  Adrian scratched his head as if she’d spoken in Greek.

  Anxious for another sign of her approval, Dervenn rode to the rescue. “I will take you on Haritz.”

  Uncertainty flickered in the green depths, and he wanted it gone. “Don’t be concerned. He’s a gentle giant.”

  “That’s settled then,” Adrian announced. “I’ll carry your pole, Sir Dervenn.”

  “I won’t be needing one,” he replied, handing Victorine’s pole to her. “You gentlemen go ahead while I saddle Haritz.”

  As he strode away to the stables it occurred to him he’d let himself in for more sexual frustration. It was unlikely his tarse would behave itself with Victorine sitting on his lap.

  ~~~

  Winged creatures fluttered in Victorine’s belly when Dervenn scooped her up as if she weighed nothing, mounted Haritz and sat her on his lap. “He’s a gentle beast at heart,” he soothed.

  The same might be said of him. The gruff, disfigured warrior was a thoughtful gentleman, a true knight. When he set the beast in motion, her fishing pole tucked under his arm like a lance, she imagined herself in one of the ballads the troubadours sang about courtly love.

  Adrian’s short walk turned out to be a slow ride of at least a mile. She inhaled the pleasing aromas of dew-laden grass, leather harness, horse and man. She felt safe in his strong arms. “I thought I would be nervous atop this mighty steed,” she admitted, “but I’m not.”

  He chuckled. “And I thought it was me you were afraid of.”

  It was true she’d found him intimidating at first, but now…

  “You have given me no reason to fear you,” she replied, aware of his warm breath tickling her ear.

  “Nor will I ever.”

  ~~~

  Dervenn clenched his jaw. She would be afraid if she understood the hard need pressing against her derrière. The dragon breathing fire at his groin urged him to set her down in the deep grass and fall on her like a raving beast.

  But when he took her—and he was more resolved than ever that she would be his—it would be in a sweet-smelling bed.

  He was almost relieved when he caught sight of the quartet a few yards ahead, standing atop the steep bank of a wide river.

  He dismounted, lifted her down and handed her the pole. She clung to it with both hands, gazing at the brown water, clearly afraid. He smiled in an attempt to allay her dismay. “Good luck.”

  Legs braced on the muddy ground, pole in one hand, Adrian extended his other hand to her. “The boat’s just down the bank.”

  Dervenn’s hackles rose. “Boat?”

  Victorine shook her head. “I refuse to get in a boat.”

  “It looks quite safe,” Baptiste called from out of sight. “Clinker built.”

  “Unsinkable,” Adrian declared.

  Dervenn had to see for himself. He sidestepped down the steep bank. The rowboat was large, plenty big enough for five fishers. It was indeed clinker built, the hull constructed from overlapping planks fastened with iron nails.

  With Adrian’s help and using the long pole as a staff, Victorine arrived at the bottom of the bank, clearly distressed by the mud on her shoes and skirts. “Is it safe?”

  “Of course it is,” Adrian protested. “Our Viking ancestors sailed from Norway in clinker built boats.”

  Despite his misgivings, Dervenn had to agree. “It is well built, and such boats are almost impossible to tip. It’s not a swift-flowing river. I’ll stand watch.”

  He held the boat steady for the four young knights to climb aboard, then lifted Victorine over the side. Once she was safely settled on one of the benches, he shoved them off as Constant and Georges plied the oars.

  They rowed to the middle of the sluggish river, where Adrian showed them how to drop the lines into the water after attaching what Dervenn supposed were flies to the end.

  Satisfied all was well, he climbed to the top of the bank, and found a grassy spot from where he watched the tableau.

  Victorine seemed more relaxed as she stared at the line in the water.

  He had to agree it was an idyllic spot and could almost understand the appeal of spending an hour or two floating in a lazy river, far from the challenges of taming a newly conquered land.

  Mayhap when he and Victorine married they might take up fishing, although he had a more pleasurable sport in mind. He’d never thought of making love in a rowboat.

  Newly leafed weeping willows hung over the opposite bank. The sun was already warm on his back. Birds chirped, one or two flying by with twigs.

  Soon they’d be feeding babies. He closed his eyes, conjuring a pleasing vision of Victorine’s belly round with his child.

  He blinked them open when he heard Adrian’s triumphant shout. “Got one.”

  An icy hand gripped his gut when Victorine’s panicked voice reached his ears. “Sit down, fool.”

  UNKISSABLE KNIGHT

  GONE FISHING

  Victorine’s belly lurched as Adrian struggled to bring in the fish he’d caught. He stood with legs braced, his efforts causing the boat to wobble alarmingly.

  She let go of her pole and gripped the sides. It floated for a second or two, then sank quickly.

  “Sit down, Adrian,” Baptiste shouted.

  “Just another few seconds,” he replied. “It’s a big one.”

  The more he tugged, the more the boat rocked.

  “Stop that,” Dervenn yelled from the shallows. She hadn’t noticed he’d come down the bank, but he still seemed miles away.

  “You’re making me nervous,” Georges complained.

  Adrian clenched his jaw. “One last heave, and…”

  She stopped breathing when the line broke and he tumbled backwards into the water, arms flailing. The resulting splash soaked them all.

  When he resurfaced, the frantic fear in his eyes struck dread into her heart.

  “I can’t swim,” he spluttered, thrusting out his chin.

  Baptiste came to his knees and leaned over the side, his hand held out to his friend. “Take hold,” he shouted.

  The pulse constricting her throat eased when Baptiste managed to grab him by the scruff of the neck, but when he tried to haul the wretch into the boat, it tipped, throwing them all into the river.

  “Dervenn,” she screamed, seconds before the icy water sucked greedily at her skirts and she sank into the muddy depths.

  ~~~

  Thankful he’d already shucked his cloak, Dervenn removed his gambeson, all the while toeing off his boots. He strode into the water, then fell into the familiar strokes when his feet no longer touched bottom. He cursed loudly that he hadn’t taken into consideration Adrian might be a complete idiot. As a result the woman he loved was in danger of drowning.

  When he reached the overturned boat, Baptiste had his arm around Adrian’s neck. He would beg forgiveness later for the unchristian wish the river had claimed the fool.

  Georges and Constant were swimming for shore.

  There was no sign of Victorine.

  He held his breath and dove under, searching the murky water. He almost missed her. A few feet below him she struggled to surface, hampered by her gown.

  Tangled tresses swirled around her head and face. When he put his arms on her waist and clamped their bodies together, there was no mistaking the terror in her eyes.

  He bent his knees and kicked off the bottom with all his strength, carrying her to t
he surface, where they both filled their lungs. Still in the grip of fear, she flailed her arms. He forced her onto her back and put his arm around her ribs. “Don’t fight me,” he rasped.

  Gulping air, she obeyed and he struck out for the bank, uttering a silent prayer of thanks that he was a child of coastal Bretagne.

  The weight of her sodden skirts made hauling her out of the water difficult. They collapsed together next to the four knights who lay in the mud, panting and coughing.

  Georges suddenly sat up and retched, apologizing profusely for his delicate constitution.

  “We understand,” Adrian replied hoarsely.

  The urge to strangle him was powerful, but Dervenn was concerned for Victorine. She shivered uncontrollably. It was a warm day, for springtime, but a dousing in cold water could quickly lead to fever. “We must get her back to the house, and out of these wet clothes.”

  She clung to him as he carried her up the bank. He set her on her feet, retrieved his cloak and furled it around her shoulders. Teeth chattering, she stared at him. “You’re wet,” she murmured.

  He feared the shock had momentarily stolen her wits. Adrian scrambled up the bank and abruptly informed them they’d best hurry because a monk was due at the house to discuss drawing up a betrothal agreement.

  She glared at him and snarled, “Monseigneur de Caulmont, I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man in christendom.”

  It was music to Dervenn’s ears.

  UNKISSABLE KNIGHT

  COCOONED

  Victorine had fallen alarmingly silent and Dervenn babbled incoherent nothings in an effort to keep her awake. He’d seen men wounded at Hastings fall into a deep sleep from which they never awoke.

  Confident Haritz would find the way back, he gave all his attention to the woman in his arms. Even soaking wet and bedraggled she was beautiful.

  When the house came in sight he shouted for Jumelle. She came running out into the courtyard. “My lady, my lady, my lady,” she sobbed, reaching up to touch Victorine’s wet skirts.