Oh, surely he would make an appearance here today. The wedding was the reason for his visit to Cornwall, was it not?
She waited.
The great hall filled. The family took their seats at the front of the space, near the massive fireplace. There were so many guests that all the seats filled and others stood at the sides and in the back. Thistle watched closely, but saw no sign of Locryn. She moved to a pillar toward the back, and ducked into a garland of greenery and hothouse flowers as the two happy brides came down the stairs on either side of their beaming father.
At that point, when they moved through the crowd to join their grooms and all eyes were fixed on the spectacle, the great outer doors opened and Locryn came in.
Thistle’s heart pounded. He would seek Gwyn out. She knew it. And if he did not, then she would do . . . something. Lure him with the scent of sea holly, perhaps—
She stopped. Locryn carried a large box with him. He gave it over to a footman with whispered instructions. The servant nodded and departed, climbing the stairs with it.
Locryn moved quickly and quietly into the great hall. He kept to the side, hugging the wall beneath the minstrel’s gallery and making his way forward through the crowd.
This made it easier for Thistle to follow. She popped from pillar to pillar, peering ahead and picking her spot carefully so that she would be concealed behind the evergreens and ribbons.
When Locryn reached the front of the hall, he stopped. Gwyn sat near the bridal couples with her family. He watched her from the shadows and the light that the girl engendered in him flared higher and more brightly than Thistle had yet seen it.
She sighed at the sight—and drew strength from it, too. This was about more than her own guilt. These two were meant for each other, meant to create light and love. She would help them find it.
The ceremony was nearly over. Announcements were made. The happy couples turned to beam at their guests. The crowd sighed. Some wiped tears away. Others applauded. A few stood and moved to embrace the newly mated humans. Locryn began to maneuver through the crowd. He made his way to a space behind Gwyn and touched her on the shoulder.
The girl spun around and the light flared in her too. Thistle sighed. Perhaps they could use the cover of the crowd and kiss?
But no, Locryn only passed her something, something small enough to fit in her hand. Thistle scanned the area near them, desperate to get closer. A pedestal with a massive arrangement of hothouse flowers stood nearby. She concentrated, picking a spot to pop into—but then she gasped.
Froze.
Morcom.
Morcom was already there, peering out from behind a huge white lily. He wore a frown that intensified as Locryn leaned in to whisper something. Morcom held out a hand, poised to—do what? Magic?
But Locryn pulled back, bowed and turned to move away. Morcom’s expression eased as his gaze followed and after a moment, he disappeared.
Thistle sank back into the shelter of the evergreens. What had she just seen? Was Morcom the reason the pair of humans had not shared a kiss? She knew her curse hadn’t been preventing it! Had he sent that bird? Interfered in some other way, in the garden? But why?
Why would he be so kind for so long, but work against her dearest wish now?
She didn’t understand.
She had to understand.
Popping herself out of the castle and into the familiar woods, she headed for the Pixie’s barrow.
Chapter 7
The Yule Ball was in full sway and the castle looked wonderful. Bright candles lit all of the dark corners. Wood and stone gleamed. The green, red and white of the decorations made a stunning backdrop for the brilliant variety of the ball gowns.
Gwyn barely noticed it all. She moved through the crowd, looking for certain members of her family.
“Rose!” Her sister stood next to Lord Snowingham—extremely close. “Rose, will you do me a favor?”
“Yes, of—” Rose stopped, mid-sentence. “Gwyn, what are you wearing? I know you had a new gown made for the ball.”
“I did, I know. But I decided to go with this tonight.” She waved an impatient hand down her white velvet gown trimmed in silver. “If Mother asks after me, will you tell her that you’ve just seen me head toward the dancing? Or Father, of course.”
“Yes, but what—”
“Thank you!” Gwyn pressed a kiss on her sister’s cheek and moved on.
She found Tamsyn and Gryff near the refreshment table. “Tamsyn!” She clutched her sister’s hand.
“Gwyn? What’s this? Where is your new gown?”
She sidled closer to her sister. “I’m hoping to save it for a more . . . personal occasion. If you’ll help me tonight?”
Tamsyn’s brows lifted and she squeezed Gwyn’s hand. “What do you need?”
“Distract Mother and Father for me? If they ask, say you’ve just seen me go out for a breath of air, or off to the retiring room.”
“They are looking for Marjorie just now,” Tamsyn said. “I’ll do my best, and I’ll tell Morgan too.”
“Thank you!”
“Good luck!” Tamsyn pressed her lips together and held her crossed fingers in the air.
Gwyn slipped away, heading past the main staircase and through a baize door. Making her way through the labyrinth of servant’s passages, she arrived at the back end of the castle. No one moved about back here, they were all occupied with the ball. Opening a little-used closet, she still winced at the squeak of the door. But her bundle waited, undisturbed. She pulled it out, along with her cloak, and slipped outside into the gardens.
Here, she knew her way.
Ten o’clock. Beneath the oak. Tell no one.
It was all the note had said.
But Locryn had whispered to her as well. “Tonight. Wear what I brought you. Remember what I told you.”
She remembered. Passing the maze, she crossed through the rose garden and headed for the woods—and for Lancarrow.
Lancarrow sat dark and largely empty. The family had all gone to attend the Yule Ball at Castle Keyvnor. Most of the servants had gone to Bocka Morrow, to take part in the guise dancing and other revelries.
Locryn moved through the house on silent feet. His costume moved around him. It was an eerie feeling, in the dark. He saw and heard no one as he crept out into the gardens and made his way toward the oak tree.
But that didn’t mean that no one was there.
He paused a few feet from his destination, as he’d done before, on that first night. She was there ahead of him once more. Gwyn.
His heart swelled at the sight of her—and with his unswerving resolve to win her, once and for all.
He caught the flash of metal in the dim light and moved closer. She was dressed in a white velvet gown with silver trim at the hem. It could not have been a more perfect fit for what he’d planned this evening.
“You remembered,” he said as he drew closer. She was bent over, using a pair of scissors to cut her skirts into ragged strips.
She straightened, staring into the dark and her eyes widened as he stepped toward her. “Locryn?” she whispered.
“Who else?” He removed his mask and grinned. “You had better not be meeting anyone else out here in the dark.”
“No one else,” she said weakly. “And I did remember. Fancy clothes, but cut into tatters, you said.” She drew a deep breath. “Heavens, but you look magnificent. That mask . . .”
“Thank you.” He’d worked hard on his costume, and with his Aunt Morwen’s help, had accomplished something grand. His mask was a felted badger’s face, all in black and white, with silver tufts at the ears and jowls. He wore black trousers, a silver embroidered waistcoat and an old black frock coat—all of them in tatters. White, black and silver strips of ragged fabric were attached to his shoulders and sleeves, and they moved with his every step.
Still, he was nothing next to Gwyn. She was a snowy owl, her mask a masterpiece of variegated feathers and a sharp, black, down-
turned beak. She wore a high ruff of white and silver feathers. Her white gown, tattered with the scissors, complimented it all perfectly.
“Wait,” he paused. “Your wings?”
“I couldn’t get them attached without help.”
“Ah. Allow me?”
A quick tie at the shoulders and the wrists, and she trailed wings of white and grey.
“You look stunning.”
She twisted and turned, admiring the swoop of the new addition to her outfit. “I couldn’t believe it when I opened that box. How did you ever accomplish all of this so quickly?”
“With my aunt’s help. She is an amazing woman. And she protected the process, as well, arranging it so that no one could tell what we were doing.”
“How?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea. She has the Sight, you know. She says it behooves her to also know how not to be seen.”
She nodded, but her gaze kept running up and down his form. “Our colors are so similar, we look like we go together.”
Swallowing, he took her hand. “We do. We absolutely go together, Gwyn. And we’ll be together—tonight and for all the days and nights ahead. I have a plan. It will work, we’ll make sure it does—and we’ll make sure we can spend our futures together.”
She inched closer. “Paul says we must kiss.”
He laughed. “A witch told me the same thing.”
“A witch?”
“A friend of Aunt Morwen’s.”
“I should not be surprised, I know,” she said with a sigh. Her tone lowered. “Should I perhaps, take off my mask, then?”
“Not yet. Not here.” He reached for her other hand. How tempting it would be, to try. Perhaps . . . He shook his head. “No. We asked for help from those who understand these matters for a reason. We’ll stick with the plan.” He glanced around and a quick, cold shudder ran through him. “In any case, we’re entirely too close to the Pixie barrow, for my comfort.”
She looked up and around as well. “You don’t think we’re alone?” she whispered.
“Doubtful.” He smirked and bent close to her ear. “Although I did pay a footman to leave my room dressed in a different guise costume, an hour ago. Let’s hope he led our ill-wisher, whoever or whatever it is, astray.”
Her eyes grew wide behind her mask. “You didn’t!”
“I did. He should be wandering around the gardens at Keyvnor right about now, and I fervently hope our enemy is following him.” He bent to whisper to her again. “The witch says that the stroke of midnight is our time. Let’s go have some fun before then.” He stepped back and tied his mask back into place.
“Locryn?” she said as he took her hand and they set off for the village.
“Yes?”
“What costume is the footman wearing?”
He knew she couldn’t see his grin, but it stretched wide beneath the badger’s face. “He’s a Cornish chough. What else?”
Chapter 8
It was a night made for magic. Hand in hand with Locryn, Gwyn made her way to the village, reveling in the warmth of his grip compared with the cold, crisp air, basking under the starlit sky and the passion in his regard.
The streets of Bocka Morrow were alive with sparkle and magic too. Revelers laughed and danced and sang. Many wore costumes. Some did not. Gwyn and Locryn sang carols with a group near the church and sang Wassail songs with another group down by the Crown and Anchor. They huddled together on a bench and ate fresh roasted chestnuts from a cart vendor. A great roar called them and others to the performance of the traditional play of Saint George and the Dragon. And when it was done, they held hands and marched along with the other costumed villagers in a procession through the town, laughing and accepting accolades for their inventiveness and skill.
“All of those compliments are for you, my lord,” she said coquettishly as she spun around with her wings outspread. “And I add my own to them.”
“I accept them on behalf of my aunt,” he answered. “I brought her the vision and the sheer, stubborn drudgery, but she had the skills to make the costumes a reality.”
She moved closer to him and looked up into the warm gaze behind his mask. “But I’m offering them to you, Locryn. Just as I’m offering up my heart and my hopes for the future.” She edged further into the circle of his arms and placed her hands on his waist. “I want you to know how thankful I am, how lucky I feel to have had the blessing of these last days with you. My heart is so full—and I never knew it to be empty at all. Even if we cannot . . . if we don’t . . .” She couldn’t even finish the terrible thought. “I’m happy. I’m more content than I knew I could be. As long as I’m with you—”
“No,” he said roughly, grabbing her up and pulling her in. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. This is not enough. Not for you and not for me. We will have a future together, Gwyn. One filled with more joyous nights just like this one, and likely harder, sadder nights too. We will have laughter and tears and joy and sorrow. I want babies and breakfasts and ballrooms and travels and nights at home in book-filled rooms. We’ll have love, Gwyn. All it will take is just a little kiss—then it is all ours.”
He pressed his forehead to hers. “That’s what we are fighting for. Do you understand?”
Tears welled and slipped down her cheeks, hidden from the world by her mask. “Yes,” she said thickly. “Yes, yes. We’ll do it. We’ll make it happen.”
“The church bells will ring at midnight. That’s our moment. The masks come off and I’ll kiss you then, Gwyn Hambly, and I might not stop until Twelfth Night.”
She laughed.
Suddenly, his eyes widened behind the felt of his mask. One hand left her shoulder and clapped behind his head. “Someone let loose the ties to my mask,” he said, sounding annoyed. His other hand reached up to hold it in place.
Just then, someone rudely pushed between them. Others followed, intent on . . . what?
“The bonfire! The fire lights at midnight!” someone called.
Gwyn tried to step around the rush of people following the call, but more of them pushed through by the second. She was being swept further and further away from Locryn. She shoved with her shoulder, tried to fight back, but to no avail. She opened her mouth to call his name—and nothing came out.
She was sucked into the river of people heading for the edge of town, caught in the flow. She couldn’t even see Locryn now. She tried to call for help, but again, the words would not come.
Horribly, silently, she began to panic.
Thistle was growing desperate. Morcom was nowhere to be found. She’d searched the barrow and all of his usual haunts. She’d tried popping into the plots of ivy, mistletoe and other vine plantations that he tended regularly, but met with no success. She tried her own usual spots, thinking he might be looking for her, with no luck.
Similarly, Locryn appeared to have entered Lancarrow after leaving the castle—and then disappeared. She could find no sign of him anywhere.
At last, giving in to despair, she’d made her way to Derowan’s tree. “Have you seen Morcom?” she asked the dryad, first off.
“No. Not today. Why?”
Thistle told her everything. “Can you credit it? I was so frightened I’d bollixed up that spell even worse than I’d thought—but it’s been Morcom interfering with that pair of lovers this time.”
“Oh,” Derowan sighed. “I was afraid of that.”
“You knew?” she demanded, shocked.
“I suspected. It’s why I asked you to talk to Morcom.”
“I’m trying to talk to him now, but I cannot find him anywhere,” Thistle complained. “What I don’t understand is why he’s doing it? Do you know?”
“I have a theory,” the dryad admitted.
“Well?”
Derowan sighed. “Think, Thistle! Think about Morcom with a clear head for a moment. Think about all he’s done for you.”
“It’s all I’ve been thinking about!” Thistle cried. “He’s been wonderful!
And he’s been . . . different, lately. I feel differently about him, too. Like I’ve had scales removed from my eyes.”
“Good!” the dryad said with relief. “You’ve been pining for affection so long and ignoring it right under your nose.”
“I know. I’ve been a fool. But if you believe that Morcom feels the same way—”
“He does.”
“Then why is he trying to prevent Locryn from breaking free of my foolish spell at last? Doesn’t he know that once Locryn is free, then I’ll be free to—” She closed her eyes.
“To pursue your own happiness?” Derowan asked gently.
“Yes! How can I chase happiness and leave that poor man in misery?”
“I think that Morcom is confused. He’s preventing that human from kissing the girl because he thinks . . .”
“What? What?”
“I believe that Morcom thinks that you want the human male for yourself. That you want his kisses for yourself.”
Thistle’s mouth dropped. “No!”
The dryad nodded.
“How could he—what would make him—” Thistle clapped her hands over her brow. “Oh, it all makes sense now!” She stared at her friend. “Why didn’t he just say something?”
Derowan smiled. “Morcom communicates with his deeds, not his words.”
“Ohh,” Thistle groaned. “He does! I know that! Why couldn’t I see it? He’s been telling me all along!” She stood up. “I must find him.”
“He’s probably in the village,” Derowan shrugged. “That’s where your two lovebirds are.”
“Not at the castle? How do you know?”
“They met here.” The dryad pointed. “Down below. They left for the festivities at the village.” She cocked her head. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to talk to Morcom,” Thistle said firmly. “In his own language.”
Chapter 9
A veritable flood of villagers had somehow pushed between him and Gwyn. Locryn couldn’t see her any longer. Nor could he call for her—or even curse the blue streak that he longed to let loose—because it appeared he’d somehow lost the power of speech. Something was pushing at him, keeping his words locked inside.
Charmed at Christmas (Christmas at Castle Keyvnor Book 1) Page 7
