by Kate Pearce
* * *
Navigate the fallen log over the stream
* * *
Not a very wide stream, thank goodness. Tamsyn balanced carefully—until she reached the middle, looked up and caught her breath at the sight of what lay at the end.
* * *
Cross the open meadow
* * *
She could see the open space, but before that, at the end of the log, was a gorgeous scene. Large shrubbery and a couple of draping trees had crowded close and formed a sort of bower to step through, and clustered beneath, at the edge of the stream, bloomed a riot of wildflowers. She spotted buttercups and kidney vetch and sea pinks. It was so lovely she hurried the rest of the way across, hopped down and bent to gather handfuls of blossoms.
A wayward branch snagged her hem. She leaned forward to free herself, then paused as she heard an odd, snuffling sound. Clutching her flowers close, she looked up—and froze.
A massive boar stood at the other end of the cleared meadow.
Huge. Heavy. Deadly.
Still making quiet sounds, it stood with its nose down and its head tilted oddly.
Tamsyn stifled a gasp of panic. Tried to think over the sudden, fearful racing of her heart. Grasping a branch for stability, she began to ease her way backwards, but another twig snagged her bodice, and another caught her sleeve.
Her fingers shook. The branch at her sleeve bent as she tried to free herself, then let go with a snap that rustled the rest of the tree—and sounded loud in the quiet.
The boar started and looked over at her.
Fear-laced fog invaded her brain. Tamsyn’s breath rasped as panic won. She struggled and wriggled and only succeeded in getting herself more entangled. Were the branches alive? Multiplying? She slapped and tugged and fought and at last, desperate as the boar straightened, still staring at her, she yanked backwards, ignoring the ominous sound of ripping fabric.
Something struck the back of her legs. The log? Another branch? She didn’t know. She only knew she was falling backward, her hands milling wildly and flowers flying everywhere.
Her bottom hit the log. Her legs flew up. Before she could catch a breath she’d rolled off of it and into the water with a splash.
It wasn’t deep.
It was cold.
She sat up, coughing, crying, wiping her eyes and trying to see if the wild beast was upon her.
It was gone.
She blinked. Checked again. The boar was gone and the meadow empty.
But her feet sat high on the bank and her bottom low in the stream. Her skirts were ripped, as was her bodice. A sea pink stuck in her hair and hung in her face. One of the lace-edged handkerchiefs spilled from her front and the other dangled from a tree above.
And laughter, deep, loud and heart-felt, echoed all around.
Mortification speared her. She wanted to sink into the ground. She wanted to slap the cad who laughed instead of coming to her aide.
Instead, heart breaking, she clutched her bodice close, climbed to her feet and fled back along the path to the gardens and the waiting, gloomy Castle.
How long had it been since he’d laughed?
A hundred years, at least.
But Tuft, ancient Pixie and caretaker of this forest, laughed now. A good, long, sidesplitting laugh too—the kind that comes up from your toes, rises and rips out into the world like an explosion.
An apt comparison. For a Pixie’s laugh is a magical thing. A young Pixie’s giggle can send a flower bursting into bloom. A mature Pixie’s chuckle can ripen all of the apples on a tree.
But Tuft’s laugh? It was of another caliber altogether.
Because of his age. Because of his vast experience with the ancient power of the earth. And yes, because of the rarity of it, too—Tuft’s laugh erupted out of him and across the forest on a wave of joyful magic.
A carpet of bluebells appeared in the meadow in the wake of the wave and nearby currant bushes burst forth with a late crop that would last until the first snow. The mass of trampled wildflowers repaired itself. The wave caught Tamsyn and cleared her few adolescent blemishes—permanently. It traveled just as swiftly behind them and found Gryff as he made his way near, and erased the bruise on his shin he’d got helping a tenant raise a plow from a ditch.
The magic that poured from Tuft healed the ailing boar that had come to him for help and been frightened off. It cleared the burn across its mouth and jaw that had come from a stream of mineral heavy, acidic water leaching from a nearby mine.
Most importantly, it tempered, tamed and transformed the heavy elements in the mine leak, accomplishing in an instant what would have been the work of a hundred years—and saving a multitude of animals from similar suffering.
The girl was long gone by the time Tuft finished laughing. He drew a deep breath as the small figure of young Master Paul from the Castle popped into the meadow. The ghostly boy looked around in wonder. “What happened?”
Tuft shrugged. “A good laugh.”
He said nothing further, just retreated back to the long, earthen barrow where the Pixies lived—but far, far away a pair of storm-grey eyes popped open and a creature no longer just a man turned a calculating gaze toward the Cornish coast.
Chapter 1
Castle Keyvnor
1811
Here he was, back again. Gryff frowned as he followed the servant through the darkly paneled passage toward the earl’s study. Back at Castle Keyvnor, where he had no wish to be. Where he hadn’t set foot in ten years, since he’d been a callow youth chasing a pretty girl—a noble girl who, in the end, had turned out to be too proud to associate with a mere Cornish gentleman.
“Come in, Mr. Cardew.”
He knew Mr. Drake, the castle’s steward. They sometimes shared a pint or a game of darts at the Mermaid’s Kiss in Bocka Morrow.
“This is Mr. Hunt, Lord Banfield’s solicitor. He’s here for the reading of the will—and to take care of business related to it.”
Gryff shook the smaller man’s hand—and gave him credit. He didn’t stare, even if Gryff did tower over him. “I assume this is about that plot of Lancarrow land? And its transfer back to my family?”
“It is indeed.” The solicitor indicated a seat at the desk.
“I shouldn’t think there would be a problem.” He sat. “The lease was laid out clear enough. The land is to be granted back to my family on the earl’s death.”
“I do remember it to be just so,” Drake said. “The transfer is mentioned in the will, of course.” He looked slightly embarrassed. “But oddly enough, I cannot find the paperwork related to the lease anywhere.” He shook his head. “Never has such a thing happened to me.”
“Your files are exemplary in every other respect,” Mr. Hunt assured him. “I’m sure they will turn up.”
“I don’t know.” Drake rubbed his temple. “There was something about that agreement. Something odd—but my mind has gone a bit fuzzy about it.”
Gryff agreed—there was something odd about the thing. He’d thought so ever since he first heard of the transaction. That bit of land was small, and although it did contain an old quarry that hadn’t been worked in years, it also contained the Pixie Barrow.
It was an old family legend—that the pixies lived in the barrow. The family takes care of the pixies and the pixies take care of the family. That was what was carved—in old Welsh letters—into the mantle above the huge fireplace in the old great hall—and what the older generations passed along to the young.
And perhaps they were right. In truth, his family was lucky. Their children were largely healthy, their crops generally good. The tenants on the land were loyal and long-lived. Storms often missed them. And they usually managed to be on the right side of a battle or political fight.
All of this was why Gryff had been so shocked when his father made the bargain in the first place. And why he was anxious to get the land back.
Drake sighed. “Maybe I’m getting too old for the job.”
“Of course.” Gryff tamped down on a surge of annoyance. “You should have sent word, I would have had the papers delivered to you.” And saved himself a trip to this cheerless pile of stone.
“That’s just it. I don’t quite trust the matter to a servant. Not with the oddity of our missing files.”
“Then perhaps you would both care to join me at Lancarrow tomorrow morning? You can find what you need and I’ll promise you a plate of amazing pasties. My cook makes the best in the district.”
“You are kind, but I must impose upon you again, sir. I’m quite bogged down, readying for the reading of the will. I’d hoped you’d come back and bring them here?”
“Bring them yourself,” Drake interjected, giving him a long, measuring glance. “That way we’d know they’d be safe enough.”
Gryff’s jaw clenched. He hated references to his oafish size.
“We are sorry to inconvenience you,” Drake apologized. “A multitude of beneficiaries is descending on the castle. Some have arrived. The new earl is due today. We are awash in preparations.”
The earl coming in today? Gryff abruptly stood—intent only on getting out before Banfield—and his daughters—arrived. “Very well. I’ll bring them by early tomorrow.”
Very early. Before any of the family or guests arose.
“I’ll walk you out.” Drake followed as Gryff headed for the door.
The other man watched him appraisingly as they moved toward the front of the house. “It will be good to have the old place full again,” he sighed. “You met the new Lord Banfield and his family when last they visited, did you not?”
At Gryff’s nod, the steward continued. “Then perhaps you will consider spending some time here? There will be several days before the reading of the will. No celebrations or parties of course, but everyone will gather for dinner and spend time together in various activities while they wait.” He raised a brow at Gryff. “As one of the beneficiaries yourself, you should feel free to come. You could use a bit of socializing, lad—and there will be five pretty daughters here.”
Four pretty daughters—and one beauty who wore charming freckles, smelled of lilac and disdained to know him. He shuddered. “Thank you, but no.”
“Come now, it will be winter soon enough—and you’ll be hunkered down at Lancarrow until the thaw. Why not have a bit of fun before—” The steward paused, his head cocked. “That’s a carriage. No, more than one. It must be the earl’s party. Come on, man!” He hurried toward the front door. “Here’s your chance to be neighborly.”
He didn’t want to be neighborly. He wanted to be gone.
Gryff had no disillusions about who he was. He was a gentleman landowner, and a damned rich one at that. But he was no London beau. He was too big, too rough, too gruff. He had blistered hands and scuffed boots. He was as happy in a tenant’s cottage eating hevva cakes as he was dining on lobster patties at a lord’s table.
He’d known plenty of women who’d liked all of that about him—especially after they glimpsed him working shirtless in his fields. But other women, especially the young, marriageable ones, raised their brows at him and his odd ways. Gryff was only human—it stung to be found wanting—but no rejection had ever hit him as hard as the first one.
Lady Tamsyn’s.
He hadn’t expected it. Their regard had been mutual—he was sure of it. She’d felt the same rising heat of interest turning to hope. The burn of intrigue transforming to anticipation.
But something had happened to change her mind. Perhaps someone had pointed out his lack of title or town bronze. She’d missed their forest meeting and refused to see him afterwards, no matter how many times he called or how many notes or bouquets he sent.
The last time he’d stood on this side of the bridge it had been misting rain, just as it did now—and he’d been turned away without apology or explanation.
And there she was, across the way, climbing down from a carriage with a couple of her sisters close behind.
He swore the sun liked her best. Even in the drizzly gloom her hair caught the light, turned to flame, and cast the rest of the girls into shadow. He was caught, just as he’d been so long ago, helpless in the face of her perfection. That gossamer skin and the determined, pointed chin. Her cat eyes, flashing green—until they landed on him.
And there it was—exactly what he’d hoped to avoid. That instant, haunted look of dismay. A vicious stab in the gut. What had he done to earn such a look?
He turned away, unable to bear the thought of her hiding it behind a polite mask. And then someone called his name.
She was back. Back at Castle Keyvnor, the scene of her greatest humiliation—where she had no wish to be.
Marjorie was as unhappy as she—for different reasons. Her sister worried about not meeting any eligible gentlemen. Tamsyn worried about meeting one particular gentleman again. Waking from her feigned sleep as the carriage pulled to a stop, she climbed down as soon as the footman set the stairs, hoping prodigiously that since this was a solemn occasion it would seem natural to stick to the castle grounds, to avoid the villagers and neighbors.
Or at least one neighbor.
“Gryff!”
Tamsyn’s heart stopped. Gwyn had descended from the other coach and now her sister stood grinning and waving toward the portico in the inner wall. Slowly, Tamsyn turned to follow the direction of her gaze.
And there he stood. Practically the first person they all saw, when she’d been praying he’d be the last.
Hmmph.
He had not obliged her and grown stout. Or a snout. Or ogre’s ears and curved tusks, like she had imagined so many times since that afternoon of utter embarrassment. If anything, he looked more handsome. Bigger, broader and more splendidly masculine.
It didn’t matter, of course. She was long over her embarrassment, just as she was no longer interested in the hard, even-more-sharply-chiseled lines of his face. Or the intriguing, undeniably old-fashioned, long hair he’d fastened into a queue.
No, she wasn’t interested. But her parents had moved over the bridge that spanned a dry moat and into the courtyard to speak with the castle steward. Marjorie’s friend Jane was chasing a windblown wrap. Her sisters all flocked to Gryff where he stood just outside the arched entrance. Not wishing to appear rude, Tamsyn followed them, her heart pounding. He smiled and greeted the girls all around, until he came to her, when his grin faded and he offered a frosty nod.
She stiffened. Truly? He greeted her with a pained look and a frosty nod?
“Gryff, do you remember when you showed us around the village?” Gwyn asked. “You carried me over the fish guts on the dock.” She sighed. “No one has acted so chivalrously toward me since.”
“He allowed me to hide behind him when I was afraid of the apothecary,” Morgan said.
Her sisters were reverting to the children they’d been on that long ago visit. Tamsyn would not be acting the same, trusting fool.
“You must come to dinner,” Marjorie said with a smile.
He spared Tamsyn a glance, and shook his head.
“Oh, but you must,” the others chorused.
“Likely not tonight,” Gwyn continued. “Mama will be tired from traveling. But perhaps tomorrow?”
“Girls,” Tamsyn said sharply. “You must not pester Mr. Cardew. He has declined.” She arched a brow at him. “Our visit is, of course, not a happy one. I’m afraid we won’t have much to offer in the way of amusement.”
Goodness, that came out sharper than she had intended.
His expression went rigid. “Of course. My sympathies to you all. I’ve no wish to intrude.” He paused significantly. “I never intend to push in unwanted, or make myself into an object that must be . . . avoided and cast aside.”
Tamsyn frowned. Clearly he mean
t to send a message, just as she had. But what did he mean?
With a general bow to them all, he took his leave and strolled off towards the stables.
Her sisters all continued into the courtyard. Tamsyn started to follow—but then stopped—and stared after Gryff.
Ire rose inside of her. Why was he so stiff with indignation? She’d been mortified every time she thought of their last visit. Every time for the last eight years. She was the one who should be indignant.
Raising her shawl up over her head, she stepped out after him, hurrying down the flagstone path. The stable yard stood empty, the main stable door left propped open. She hurried forward and slipped inside—only to stop and gaze in awe.
Gryff was taking his horse from a groom—and what a pair they were. This was not the same mount she’d admired long ago, but one even more impressive, just like he had turned out to be. Large and strong, both of them, with powerful chests and long, sturdy legs and chestnut hair. She forced herself to ignore the picture they made and faced him with crossed arms. “Mr. Cardew.”
“Lady Tamsyn.” He busied himself with the girth strap.
“I think we must clear the air.”
“It’s a stable. Open the door.”
“You know what I mean, sir. We will be neighbors here. You must know that my sisters will not cease until they have you as a guest. And my mother? She has five daughters. She’ll encourage it in hopes that you’ll marry one of them.”
He shot her a sharp look. “That’s a very politic way of phrasing yourself, my lady.”
She blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Your mother will fancy me for one of them. Not one of us. If that is an oblique way to tell me that you are not interested, then there’s no need to exert yourself. That message was received years ago.”
She still didn’t follow—and he was still trying to steal her indignation. “I’ve no notion what you mean, sir. When last we met, I think it was you who broadcast that message, very loudly indeed.”
