Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas

by Kathryn Le Veque

  DE TOENI

  Many members of this noble Norman family fought at Hastings and are listed on the Battle Abbey Roll compiled by the Duchess of Cleveland in 1889. The name Berenger de Toeni appears on a plaque in the church in Dives-sur-mer in Normandy where William and his knights said mass before embarking for England. It lists all the knights who took part in the invasion.

  MILTON REGIS

  Is still renowned today for its oysters.

  MEDIEVAL NEW YEAR CELEBRATIONS

  In the early Middle Ages, the new year began on March 25th with the Feast of the Annunciation, and not on January 1st. For that reason I characterized the December 31st celebration in my story as a carry over of festivities for Yuletide and the Conqueror’s coronation on Christmas Day 1066AD. Dervenn glosses over what went awry at that ceremony but a full account can be found in my book Conquering Passion.

  DERVENN DE ROURE

  I took his last name from the Catalan language. It means oak. Mistletoe growing on oak trees was considered a rare and highly prized find in medieval Europe. (Like Dervenn himself)

  HARITZ

  Is the Basque word for oak.

  ABOUT ANNA MARKLAND

  Thank you for reading An Unkissable Knight. If you’d like to leave a review where you purchased the collection, I would appreciate it. Reviews contribute greatly to an author’s success. For a complete list of my books, you can visit my website. I’m on Facebook at Anna Markland Novels. Tweet me @annamarkland, and join me on Pinterest. If you want to try another sample of my work, you can download a FREE novella, Defiant Passion.

  In my bestselling, page-turning novels passion conquers whatever obstacles a hostile medieval world can throw in its path. Besides writing, I have two addictions-crosswords and genealogy, probably the reason I love research. I am a fool for cats. My husband is an entrepreneur who is fond of boasting he’s never had a job. I live on Canada’s scenic west coast now, but I was born and raised in the UK and I love breathing life into European history. Escape with me to where romance began. I hope you come to know and love my cast of characters as much as I do.

  I’d like to acknowledge the assistance of my critique partners, Reggi Allder, Jacquie Biggar, Sylvie Grayson and LizAnn Carson.

  CHRISTINA, A BRIDE FOR CHRISTMAS

  HILDIE MCQUEEN

  CHRISTINA, A BRIDE FOR CHRISTMAS

  CHAPTER ONE

  November 1870, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  One never planned a life of bleakness and monotony, nor did a young lady of society ever aspire to forget what it was like to dream, because dreaming made the reality of each day harder to endure.

  The corridor to her father’s study stretched even longer that bleak morning as Christina Mills carried a tray laden with a teapot, two cups and honey. With each step, the clink of the items bumping against one another made her flinch.

  Throbs pulsated up her right arm and her injured wrist protested the load. Any moment now, the crash of breakable items onto the barren floor would assure a new set of bruises.

  Thankfully, the door was ajar, so she was able to push in with her hip and enter the space.

  “Whatever took so long?” Her father’s eyes went from her face to the tray and narrowed. “That is not the pot I like my tea prepared in.”

  “I’m sorry, Father, I thought you’d enjoy the brightness of this one on such a gloomy morning.” Christina held her breath in anticipation of his rebuke. The one he preferred was shattered in pieces. It had slipped from her unsteady hands when she’d washed it earlier that morning.

  The heavy curtains hanging from the large windows didn’t allow a view of the outdoors. Whether the day was gloomy or sunny, he kept them firmly drawn. “I don’t expect you to think.” He cocked his head to the side at the sound of the items clinking as the tray grew heavier the longer she held it.

  “Keep that up and you’ll chip all our china.” Finally, he motioned her over and Christina set the tray down on a small table.

  The scratching of his pen on the paper was not enough to keep Christina from wishing for more noise. That way, he’d not hear the rattling of the spoon as she tried to stir the honey into the tea or the clattering of the cup on the saucer as she approached him with it.

  Just as she placed the cup at his elbow, he snatched her injured right wrist and Christina crumpled to the ground. There was an evil twist to his lips as he stared down at her. “Stupid little fool, you will spill tea all over my work.” Spittle splashed across her face, not that it bothered her so much at the moment. The agony of his hold was unbearable and tears trailed down her cheeks.

  Finally, he let go and she fell back cradling the throbbing arm against her chest. “I’m sorry, Papa.”

  There was silence. Although she knew what he expected, she waited in hopes that, for once, he’d allow her to leave. “May I go?”

  “Pour your tea and sit down. I must speak to you.”

  Christina bit her bottom lip. With a throbbing wrist, it would be impossible to pour tea properly.

  The scratching commenced again as she rose and went back to the tray. Using her left hand, with slow progress, tea was finally poured. She forewent the honey and sat at the chair in front of her father’s desk. The amber liquid was bitter but she sipped it obediently.

  “I require you to speak to your mother today and discuss your upcoming nuptials.” Her father hesitated for effect. A cold chill traveled down her spine at picturing the man she was being forced to marry. That man was about the same age as her father with a similar unpleasant cold demeanor.

  Just two evenings earlier, her intended, Oliver Winston, arrived greeted by her father with broad smiles and a welcome like one not seen in the household in years.

  Earlier that day, Christina and her mother had been discharged to the hairdresser and instructed to wear their finest dresses for the occasion.

  All throughout dinner, Oliver Winston watched her with the interest of a predator over a potential meal. It had been all she could do to remain civil and swallow her food.

  After dinner, the men had gone into her father’s study where they talked for several hours. After the visitor’s departure, her father announced Christina would marry Oliver Winston.

  Upon her immediate protest, he’d grabbed her by the arms and thrown her against the wall so hard her teeth had rattled. Several times, he’d grabbed her by the wrist to pull her to stand only to shove her away again as he went over how, exactly, she’d act for the next month. Finally, hours later, bruised and sobbing, she’d been banished to her bedroom.

  If only that had been her only punishment, but alas, an hour later, her enraged father entered with a whip in hand. He’d dragged her from her bed and beaten her. When she lifted her hands to protect herself, he’d grabbed her injured wrist with so much force it almost made her faint.

  Now, two days later, Christina had yet to see her mother, who’d not left her chambers. Surely, she’d heard the beating, but Norma Mills had remained absent, never coming to her rescue.

  Whatever could her mother have to say about anything, the woman rarely left her bedroom?

  Christina refused to show any emotion as she lifted her gaze to her father’s. “Yes, Father.”

  Somehow, she managed to remain sitting in the hard chair for another half-hour as he ignored her and continued writing. She imagined a beautiful garden beyond the drapes. Brightly colored blooms, where butterflies fluttered from one to another. Sunrays and brightly colored birds joined in to decorate her imaginary sanctuary. There on a bench, she’d sit for hours reading or just being, in peace.

  In her surreal fantasy, she lived a life of no worries, an existence that did not include involuntary flinching when someone reached toward her. Nor the constant feeling of heaviness over her head.

  Her father’s throat clearing brought her out of her musing. “You are dismissed. Before you go, pour me another cup of this dismal excuse for tea.”

  Her life was a constant no-win situation, since her
father’s frugality prohibited her from purchasing anything more than the absolute lowest quality of anything. Nonetheless, she was expected to perform miracles on a daily basis.

  The expectation of leaving the dank room helped her ignore the pain in her wrist as she carefully refilled his cup and added the half-teaspoon of honey he preferred.

  Moments later, the tray clattered onto the kitchen counter and Christina allowed herself a few moments to lean against it. Most days were a routine of suffering through whatever mood her father was in that particular morning, followed by chores and cooking.

  There were only two meals served in the Mills’ household, breakfast and supper. Although a light repast in the middle of the day was allowed, there was rarely enough left after a meal for it.

  It was only when her father attended his bi-weekly meetings with his council at a local hotel that she and her mother were at liberty to let down their guards and relax.

  Christina pulled her right sleeve up and, after applying liniment, wrapped it as tightly as she could with her left hand. Once that was completed, her wrist immediately stabilized enough that she could wash her cup.

  Her morning duties were not complete until serving her mother. Carrying a smaller tray to Normal Mill’s bedroom was easier. Upon it, Christina set toast and a cup of the leftover tea.

  Her raps on the door were answered by a soft reply to enter. Christina walked in to find her mother abed, pale face drawn and hair completely askew. Usually claiming one illness or another, Norma often hid for days in the sanctuary of the bedroom as her husband slept down the hall in a larger one. Christina didn’t blame her. On the contrary, she applauded the ingenuity.

  “Good morning, Mother.” Christina set the small tray on a table next to her mother’s bed. “Are you able to eat a bit?”

  “Never mind that.” Her mother became surprisingly animated. Norma patted the bed surface, motioning Christina to sit. “It is of utmost importance that you listen to what I have to tell you.”

  Christina attempted to place an additional pillow behind her mother’s back only to be waved off. “We have no time to waste.” Her eyes darted to the door. “Ensure it is locked.”

  Without questioning her, Christina obeyed and locked the door and then sat on the bed.

  Her mother leaned forward her wide gaze locked to hers. “Listen well. You have to secretly steal away tomorrow afternoon. Meet Lady Price at this address.” She pulled a slip of paper from the pillow and held out with a shaky hand.

  “Why ever would I go to Lady Price?” Christina slid a look to the door. “Father will not stand for it.”

  Seeming exhausted again, her mother closed her eyes and sunk back into the pillows. “You won’t be returning, dear. Once you meet her, she will help you with safe transport to Wyoming.”

  Much like being shocked at the sudden appearance of an out of control carriage, her heart banged against her breastbone and breath left Christina’s lungs. “Mother, what are you talking about? Have you been dreaming, perhaps?”

  With a sudden burst of strength, Norma took her by the shoulders and shook her. “Bide my word, if you don’t leave immediately your life will grow horrible for you. I have stood idly by allowing your father’s abuse. But I will do everything in my power to keep you, my only child, from a life like my own. It is bad enough that I must suffer my husband’s treatment year after year and that you have as well. However, it would be worse if you marry that man. Oliver Winston is worse than your father, he is capable of horrible things.”

  Christina soothed her mother. “I will listen to what you have to say, but I am not sure how I can get to Lady Price’s house without being seen. She lives along the town square.”

  “You won’t be going to her home, but to the address written on the paper. A coach will meet you there to take you away to a train station in another town. Lady Price assures me she will be there and explain everything.”

  “Where am I going? I am so confused, Mother. When did you meet with Lady Price?”

  Her mother motioned to the French doors that allowed exit out into the back gardens without impediment, not that either of them had in recent months. “Beyond the overgrown ivy in the far corner, there is a gate. Your father does not know about it. I never showed it to you for fear you’d run away without any sort of plan in place.”

  Her gaze traveled from the doors to her mother’s face and to the bedroom door. Any moment, her father could burst in and demand to know why she was there for so long and not attending to whatever chore he deemed was most important at the moment.

  “I should return to my duties.”

  Her mother leaned closer and whispered, “Tomorrow, come here as soon as your father leaves for his meeting. Bring a coat and wear an extra chemise, petticoat and shawl. Make sure to wear your most serviceable pair of shoes and put extra stockings in the coat pockets.”

  Too numb to form a verbal reply, Christina rose and dashed to the bedroom door. Before closing it behind her, she looked to her mother who’d picked up a rosary. Eyes closed, Norma mouthed prayers, her finger rubbing over the well-worn beads.

  “Christina!” her father summoned from his parlor as she made her way toward the kitchen.

  What was happening? Surely, he’d notice her paleness and inability to breathe. Perhaps he would take it as her being nervous over her upcoming nuptials. Releasing a long breath, Christina walked in.

  Her father stood in the front room, his attention on the fireplace. Since it wasn’t freezing as yet, there was no fire burning. “Did your mother explain about your upcoming nuptials?”

  Christina swallowed, unsure how to answer. Her mother had not said anything about what she was expected to know. “No, Father, she is quite poor this day. She fell asleep without drinking her tea.”

  He accepted her explanation with a nod. “Very well, ensure you return to speak to her before day’s end.”

  With slow steps, more out of measurement than because he was ill in any way, her father paced. “I do believe your mother may require medical assistance. Perhaps, I will forego my meeting tomorrow and see about it.”

  Her heart sank. If he went to fetch a doctor, he’d return earlier. The time he’d be gone would not be long enough for her to reach the address on the slip of paper in her dress pocket.

  “I believe a proper bowl of hot broth will be enough for now, Father,” she said with more assurance than she felt. “If you would allow me to use the entire ration of meat, I can make it now.”

  For a moment, he looked up to the ceiling. “Very well.”

  Christina escaped to the kitchen and began sorting out ingredients for the stew. Her hands shook and, several times, she dropped things. She prayed to be able to make it through the rest of the day without nerves overtaking her. Escape anywhere, much less to the west, was not something she’d ever considered. Even at the moment, she wondered if her mother had fabricated the entire thing from fantasy.

  Shivers raced through her entire body until Christina’s teeth chattered. If ever she needed a friend, this was the day. Arms to sooth combined with soft words to provide a salve to her nerves would do wonders at a time like this. However, it was not to be. It had been over a year since she’d visited anyone. And the young women she’d gotten to know had finally stopped visiting her, as well.

  Christina staggered to a stool and sat. “It’s can’t be true.” Her hollow voice, barely above a whisper, seemed to linger in the air. What if she went to the address and no one was there?

  Lord, what if someone was? No matter how dreadful her life in Philadelphia, it was familiar.

  Going west could prove to be a horrible mistake. There, she’d be alone with no one to care whether she lived or died.

  She studied her short fingernails. Of course, if she died in Philadelphia, it would be more of an inconvenience than a sad event where her parents were concerned.

  Although there was a possibility that Norma Mills had emotions, they’d been suppressed for so long tha
t Christina barely remembered a smile or any sign of caring to cross her mother’s face.

  As the stew simmered, Christina decided whether it a mistake or not, anything was better than a future tied to a cruel man who had access to not just her mind, but her body, as well.

  Her gaze traveled over the familiar space. This could be the last time she cooked there.

  Tomorrow, she would leave. If what her mother said was true, she’d head west to Wyoming where a future full of promise awaited.

  “Lord, help me.”

  CHRISTINA, A BRIDE FOR CHRISTMAS

  CHAPTER TWO

  Blanchard Creek, near Casper, Wyoming

  Alexander Barrett Patterson hummed. The steady movement as he worked soothed his tattered body.

  Wood shavings floated to the floor of the shop, a never-ending pattern of curls and specks, as he ran the plane steadily across the large plank of pine. Although the door was flung open, the work and fire in the small cast iron stove kept him plenty warm.

  It was his custom to keep the place aired out, open to the elements, unless the weather became unbearably cold. Barrett hated winter and from the looks of the graying sky, it would be a long, hard one this year.

  Leaving the work bench, he reached for a shovel and scooped up a mound of shavings. He hobbled to the hearth and tossed them in. Immediately, the fire grew, the bright red flames lighting his face. For a few minutes, he leaned on the shovel, allowing it to take the weight of his right side. Since losing his leg from the knee down during the Civil War, it often ached once the weather became cooler.

  Arthritis, the town doctor had said, which to him made no sense. How could a missing limb have anything? What the doctor failed to understand was that someone forgot to tell his upper leg the portion past the knee was gone.