Enchanted at Christmas (Christmas at Castle Keyvnor Book 2)

by Christy Carlyle

  Completely unacceptable. No, and no again. This woman, whoever she was, and she was clearly a lady, no matter the state of her hair, was a dangerous distraction to the most important thing in his life: his stables, not to mention his kennels. He had no time for distracting women, none at all.

  Marriage, yes, eventually. But marriage could never be a distraction from his passion: his breeding program. The woman he chose to marry would be proper, appropriate, and fit neatly into his life.

  This woman gave every appearance of being the complete opposite of those requirements.

  “Lady Rose?” the groom said. “Would you like an escort back to the castle?”

  Snow turned to study the woman once more. Lady Rose. He seemed to recall that Rose was one of the names Banfield had given one of his many daughters. Snow sighed.

  “If you will allow me, Lady Rose?” Snow said.

  “You did not wish to be driven to the door, Lord Snowingham?” Rose said, which was hardly an answer.

  “I always stay with my horses, to see that they are well cared for,” he said. He sounded like a prig of the first water. “They are my business, you see.” Now he sounded like a merchant. Blast it, so he was, and not ashamed of it.

  “They are quite impressive,” Rose said, casting a quick glance into the darkening sky.

  “Allow me to escort you in, Lady Rose. You are without even a shawl, and the weather looks changeable.”

  “Yes,” she said, darting a look at his right hand. At the ring? “Yes, thank you, Lord Snowingham. I am a bit chilled.”

  Snow cast a look at Ridley, knowing the man would take care of things in the stable and get his luggage into the house. He had some expectation of staying at the castle, based on his last communication with Blackwater.

  Snow offered Rose his left arm. The ring on his right hand sent out a slow, dull pulse of energy, a heartbeat, of sorts. Lady Rose laid her hand upon his arm and they walked in silence together. He hoped the silence would continue; knowing women, he was not very hopeful.

  Keyvnor was a magnificent pile, old and gnarled with age, exuding a presence upon the soul that could be physically felt. Grimston Hall, his ancient pile, had something of the same presence. He’d been in enough old homes throughout England to know that this wasn’t always so. Houses had souls, if one wanted to be metaphysical about it. Snow never wanted to get metaphysical about anything yet he could not dispute this conclusion, one reached on his own, without any aid from Pammie and her fantastical ramblings.

  He did worry about her sanity at times.

  Rose’s hand moved upon his arm, just a few fingers rubbing against the wool of his coat, his cape swirling gently around his calves. She had long fingers, strong fingers. He found them oddly appealing.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, Lord Snowingham,” Rose said, her fingers twitching slightly, “but does your ring glow often?”

  He knew it had been a foolish hope.

  Snow didn’t want to discuss it. He didn’t want to think about it. He certainly was not going to tell Pammie about the ring glowing, or the knife in his hand, or the boom of thunder. If he wouldn’t discuss the issue with his own grandmother, he was not disposed to discuss it with a perfect stranger.

  He cleared his throat softly. Ridley would have known what that signified. Rose Hambly did not

  “Does it?” she asked, peering into his face. She was tall enough that she could peer into his eyes quite readily. “I’ve heard the legend of the Grimstone ring, of course. I never imagined it to have even a grain of truth to it, but now, obviously, I shall have to admit that I was wrong. I do hate being wrong.”

  Snow laughed, a bark of sound that caught him unawares.

  “As do I. A universal condition, I should think,” he said.

  “Oh, I don’t think my sister Morgan minds being wrong at all. She takes in quite in stride. If I’m being honest, I’ve never understood it.”

  “Blackwater’s bride?” he said. When Rose nodded, he added, “I should think that a wonderful quality in a wife. I must commend Blackwater on his choice.”

  Rose didn’t stiffen. She quivered.

  “Of course you must. Everyone must commend the groom at his wedding. It’s customary. As you are Hal’s friend, you will surely offer the loudest and longest congratulations of anyone. Won’t you, Lord Snowingham?”

  They were under the shadow of the castle now, the gloom of the day intensified by the gloom of the rising stone. He cast a glance down at his ring; it was not glowing. Not yet. Yet he felt . . . something.

  “It’s not glowing,” Rose said, startling him. She did seem to have a talent for that. “You never answered me, Lord Snowingham. Does your ring glow often? Does it glow at Grimston Hall? But it shouldn’t, should it? The legend of the ring is that it drives out ghosts. Is it a permanent dismissal or must you walk the perimeter every dusk and clear the place out?”

  “At dawn,” he snapped. “At dawn, to have things quiet and peaceful for the day ahead.”

  “I should think a good night’s sleep preferable to--”

  “A profitable working day?” he cut in. “I have little trouble believing that.”

  She withdrew her hand from his arm. He was delighted. They were at a side door into the castle, a heavy oaken door with nail heads and iron banding that looked fit to keep out demons from hell.

  “Does driving away ghosts always make you so cross?” she said, staring him squarely in the eye.

  She shamed him. It was disquieting. The whole place was disquieting. He was not going to admit that Pammie had warned him something of the kind likely to happen.

  “Lady Rose, I apologize,” he said. “I’m afraid the trip has tired me more than I realized.”

  She looked up at him, her cheeks pink with either the cold or the conversation, a half smile twitching across her mouth. “Lord Snowingham, your apology is both appreciated and accepted. However, I do not believe for an instant that anything less than fighting a ghostly legion of Roman soldiers could possibly tire you. And you still have not answered my question about the ring.”

  He bowed, opened the heavy door, pushed her through it, and closed it behind her. He would enter by the front entrance, as a guest of the house should.

  The only thing that troubled him as he wound his way to the front was that he had never, in all the tales about Castle Keyvnor, heard a word about Roman legionnaires haunting the place. He grew weary just imagining it.

  Chapter 7

  “It’s true,” Rose said, clutching her arms about herself as she hurried to her bed chamber. “Well, and why not? Now that you know ghosts are real, why shouldn’t there exist a ring that can drive them away?”

  Rose was alone, muttering to herself as she nearly ran to her room to collect a wrap and change out of her damp shoes. She would never have admitted any of this to anyone, and perhaps not even to Gwyn.

  She hurried up one of the lesser stairways and down less traveled corridors, avoiding everyone, which was becoming more difficult as the castle and town were filling for the coming wedding. She did hope that Snowingham had a bed in the castle. Perhaps the ring worked even when it wasn’t glowing, and wouldn’t that be lovely?

  “Oh!” she said, almost bumping into Hal. “Just who I was searching for. Your friend, Lord Snowingham has arrived. You should greet him. And offer him a bed.” Hal blinked, then chuckled, then nodded in a mildly conspiratorial manner. “I thought you were off blondes?”

  “I beg your pardon?” she said. Then she remembered Snowingham’s blond hair and intense blue eyes, and her earlier, murderously awkward conversation about potential husbands. “Oh, that. I hardly noticed his appearance. I was thinking that it would be nice for you to have your friend close by.”

  “You hardly noticed his appearance? Most women find him quite handsome, like a Viking of old, so I’ve heard.”

  “Yes, I suppose that fits, doesn’t it?” she said. He did look fully capable of raping and pillaging an entire village if the
mood struck him. She hardly thought it a flattering observation. But what he could do with that ring, now that was attractive. “Old Viking blood, isn’t that the legend?”

  “You’ve heard about that?”

  “Hasn’t everyone?” she said, striving for nonchalance. She knew full well that not everyone had heard the legend. The only reason she knew of it was that Hal had mentioned it to Morgan and Morgan had said something in passing to Gwyn, who had laughed about it with her. “Isn’t it said that the ring was crafted from a thunderbolt from Zeus?”

  “Thor. Zeus is Greek mythology. Thor is Norse mythology,” Hal said. “As neither deity exists, I think the ring has more mundane origins.”

  “You’ve seen it, I suppose?”

  “Of course. The heir is required to wear it constantly, according to legend.”

  “Then Lord Snowingham must believe the legend, since he wears it. Do you think he believes there is power in the ring?”

  Hal gave her a searching look, the exact sort of look she wished most to avoid. “I think that Snow is a man who honors his family obligations, and wearing the family ring is a family obligation. Do you have cause to believe the ring has power over ghosts?”

  “Ghosts?” she said crisply, and she hoped, dismissively. “I thought the legend was that the ring was a weapon against supernatural enemies?”

  “The legend has several variations, as often happens with legends.”

  “I don’t know why you should mention ghosts.” “Don’t you?” Hal said, looking deeply into her eyes. “Keyvnor has its own legends, Rose. You can’t be unaware of them.”

  “I am just as aware as anyone else,” she said, “and not one bit more. I should think that every ancient family in England, or Ireland, has legends attached to it. Do you have any family legends?”

  “None worth repeating,” Hal said.

  “That’s a shame,” Rose said breezily. “Perhaps it’s not too late to invent one or two, to give your ancestral home some color. You must excuse me, Lord Blackwater.”

  “Certainly, Lady Rose,” Hal said, bowing crisply, his dark blue eyes trained far too carefully upon her face.

  “Don’t forget to offer Lord Snowingham a bed!” she said as she hurried away.

  “As you wish,” Hal said, casted one last pondering look at Rose before she was out of sight.

  Hal Mort, Lord Blackwater abandoned his previous destination, the billiards room, and made for the great hall. He arrived in the cavernous space as Snow was being greeted by Morris, the castle’s butler.

  “I’m sorry, my lord; I have received no instruction as to where to house you.”

  “Lord Snowingham can bunk with me, if he’s not averse to the idea,” Hal said. “The bed is large and the room is lavish. I know how high your standards are in such matters,” he added, grinning. Snow was the least demanding man of his acquaintance.

  “Very kind of you,” Snow said, smiling at Hal. They bowed to each other, a matter of heads moving more than backs. They had spent too many hours at Newmarket, going over the fine points of each mount, to have much left for each other in the way of formal courtesy.

  “I shall have your trunks taken to Lord Blackwater’s chamber,” Morris said.

  “Now, that’s settled,” Hal said. “With what shall we occupy our time until dinner?”

  “I’ve just come from the stables and see you did not bring your latest stallion with you,” Snow said. “If you had, I’d suggest a return to the stables so that I might have a closer look at him. You acquired him and were away with him before I had a chance to offer an unbiased appraisal.”

  “Which would have been?”

  “He’s magnificent, of course. He’s a fine addition to your stables,” Snow said.

  The two men crossed the length of the great hall. The original fireplace, large enough to roast an ox, blackened by ancient use, dominated the space. The room exuded history, seeming fully capable of birthing ghostly legend and embracing fireside tales of ghouls and witches with effortless ease. So it had seemed to Hal when he had first arrived last October. He cast a glance at Snow to see how, or if, he was reacting to Keyvnor in any obvious way.

  He was not.

  Snow’s thumb rubbed his family ring, and that was all.

  “An impressive pile,” Snow said.

  “And an ancient one. Legends surround it, as I’m certain you’re aware,” Hal said, an exploratory jab into a topic, no matter his personal experience, he was not eager to touch.

  He and Morgan had shared an experience of ghosts. He and Morgan had, by mutual consent, resolved to refrain from speaking of it. That ghosts, two in particular, had played some small part in their personal love story was merely incidental. They would have discovered each other without ghostly aid, of that he was certain. He had seen Roland and Nell, had heard their voices, had felt their passion and fury in his blood, but he remained his own man, making his own decisions, and he was not a man who believed in ghosts. Not even ghosts he had conversed with. Something could exist without his direct participation, was how he thought of it, whenever he did think of it. Which he studiously avoided. Morgan was of like mind and had reached the same conclusion. They were very well-suited to one another. Their marriage, only days away now, would be most cordial, most, most convivial. Especially once they lived across the sea from Castle Keyvnor.

  “It would be impossible to live in England and not hear the tales of Castle Keyvnor,” Snow said. “As I have a legend of my own to contend with, I am all sympathy.”

  “Hmm,” Hal said. Did that mean that the Grimstone legend had as much claim to reality as the Keynor legend? A disturbing thought, to be sure. Hal resolved to avoid all disturbing thoughts. He was about to take a wife. That was enough to occupy any man. “How does billiards sound to you?”

  “As good as it ever does,” Snow said. Snow had an uncanny eye and an unshakeable hand; it was what contributed to his being such a fine horseman.

  They said nothing more until they were in the billiards room, coats off, the clink of the balls soothing them into less guarded speech.

  “I happened upon Lady Rose earlier,” Hal said, just as Snow was drawing back his cue. Snow cast him a quick mocking glance and then dealt the ball a sharp, precise blow. “I take it you met at the stables earlier?”

  “We did, quite by chance,” Snow said, walking around the table, looking for his next shot.

  “What was your impression of her?”

  “I don’t know that I formed an impression of her, Blackwater. She seems perfectly ordinary, as young women go.”

  “I suppose she is that,” Hal said. He happened to know that he had acquired the best of the bunch in Morgan Hambly. She put her sisters quite in the shade. “It’s a fine-looking family, all in all.” “I’ll take your word for it.”

  Was it his imagination or was Snow being more than usually abrupt? The man wasn’t a font of poetry, ever, but these responses seemed especially dismissive.

  “You must have made an impression on her. She was quite insistent that you bed down within the confines of the castle.”

  “Very hospitable of her,” Snow said.

  Hal would not have listed hospitality as one of Rose’s main character traits.

  “So you would say you did not make an impression on her,” Hal said.

  Snow straightened from the table, stood with his cue like a spear at his side, and looked Hal squarely in the eye. “If this is an attempt to ruin my game, it will fail. Lady Rose and I do not share amorous dreams of each other. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

  “Did you come to blows, then?” Hal said, grinning. Snow was perturbed. He had never managed to crawl under Snowingham’s reserve before; it was oddly entertaining.

  “Is that how you manage your women? Either by blows or kisses? No middle ground?” Snow countered.

  “It depends on the woman, doesn’t it?” Hal said, still grinning. “What sort of woman did Lady Rose turn out to be?”

  Into Snow�
��s mind came the image of Rose, standing within the warm glow of his ring, hair tumbled, breath ragged, her eyes alight with unearthly fire. She had stared into his eyes with all the alert attention of a wolf catching the scent, ready and willing to run or attack, whichever he had chosen.

  And he had chosen to do nothing.

  Somehow, the thought shamed him.

  There had been something there, some force that reacted to and ignited the ring. He had felt it, like a humming in his blood, and if he was honest, Rose had felt it, too. Rose had been part of it. Rose Hambly, a woman unknown to him twelve hours before, was someone who he felt more connected to than anyone he had ever known.

  It was idiotic. It was unacceptable. It was undeniable.

  Beyond ignoring the whole event, Snow had no way of dealing with it.

  “You know her better than I,” Snow said. “How would you describe her?”

  “Available,” Hal said.

  It struck Snow instantly as the exact wrong word. Rose was not available. She was his, had to be his, would always be his. He knew this in his blood, and his mind revolted at the thought.

  Snow took his next shot. He missed.

  Hal walked around the table and considered his options.

  The table was well lit, the rest of the large room in shadow. The hour for dinner was fast approaching, yet Snow did not want to leave the cloistered confines of the billiards room. The women would be dressing, their hair done up in some style that someone had told them was the latest from Paris, choosing jewels, applying scent. He imagined Rose at her dressing table, her golden hair shining, her eyes sparkling . . . He was not going down to dinner. He was not that hungry.

  “I suppose, in the spirit of fair play,” Hal said, lining up his shot, “that I should inform you that Rose and Gwyn, whom I suppose you have not yet met, are very much interested in acquiring husbands.”

  “Hardly astounding news,” Snow said. “All unmarried women are looking for husbands. It’s to be expected.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be alarmed,” Hal said, “but I did want to warn you.”