A Merry Medieval Christmas: Historical Romance Holiday Collection

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Dervenn’s hackles rose. “Mayhap I’ll be obliged to kill you in that event,” he said softly.

  The fool backed off. “No need to take offence.”

  Perhaps he’d overreacted, but Victorine pressed more closely. “Thank you,” she whispered, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t want to kiss him.”

  Holding his goblet high above the increasing crush of the crowd, the knight stuck out his bottom lip. “Beware,” he warned. “A maiden who refuses to be kissed ‘neath the bough is fated not to wed for at least a twelvemonth thereafter.”

  The taunt roused the blood of Celtic ancestors that flowed in Dervenn’s veins. Here was his chance to taste Victorine de Toeni with no strings attached—probably the only opportunity he would ever get. She couldn’t refuse if she wanted to marry. He feigned a serious demeanor and cleared his throat. “Pagan peoples regarded mistletoe as a representation of divine male essence.”

  When a pretty flush stole up Victorine’s neck, he risked a wink.

  She averted her gaze.

  The sensible Breton in him knew he was on dangerous ground, but the mischievous Celt urged him on. He lowered his voice to a whisper for her ears only. “When you have male essence, you have fertility and vitality.”

  He wished he could see her face as they were carried along with the crowd, but she avoided looking at him.

  Marie clung to his neck. “What’s fertiltee?”

  He might have known the perceptive child would overhear.

  The drunken knight tittered and sipped more wine.

  Victorine faltered. Dervenn put his free arm around her waist to make sure they passed beneath the waiting bough together.

  ~~~

  Swept along by the sea of excited revellers, Victorine was drowning in conflicting emotions. She was more than grateful for the solid strength of Dervenn’s arm. The heat of his palm pressed firmly on her waist penetrated the fabric of her gown and gave her a reassuring sense of protection.

  But the notion of a relationship with a man such as de Roure was unacceptable for the daughter of the great Seigneur de Toeni.

  She glanced at him briefly and feared from the impish glint in her champion’s dark eyes that he intended to request a kiss. Surely not! Yet there was something appealing about his sensuous mouth and ruined features that set her heart racing in a very unladylike manner.

  And if she refused—which she must—she risked remaining unwed for a twelvemonth. Absurd! A superstition of ignorant peasants if ever she’d heard one.

  Her gaze became fixed on the beribboned branch of cedar fronds with mistletoe poking out here and there. It loomed like a giant bird of prey hovering in the entryway. A pulse thudded at her throat as Dervenn tightened his grip on her. Evidently he had no intention of allowing her to sidestep the bough.

  Suddenly they were next in line, watching a knight who held his lady in a fond embrace, all the while kissing her lustily as loud laughter and cheering filled the air.

  Oh to be kissed with such…

  She trembled when the tipsy fool they couldn’t seem to get away from wiggled his eyebrows at her.

  The kissing couple swept on, arm in arm, lost in each other’s gaze.

  Dervenn set Marie on her feet under the bough, bent the knee and took her hand. “Will you grant me the honor of a kiss, demoiselle?”

  The child beamed a broad smile, bobbed a curtsey and pecked a kiss on his cheek.

  Loud applause greeted her gesture. Victorine breathed more easily.

  But then he stood and turned to her and she was lost in the depths of his dark eyes.

  A dizzying desire to be kissed by this man seized her. She wanted to taste his lips, find strength in his embrace. If he didn’t ask, she would die of a broken heart.

  But if he did…

  He took hold of her hand. The heat of his skin sent tendrils of warmth spiralling through her body. “Lady Victorine, will you grant me a kiss?”

  There was no mention of honor. He knew what he wanted and he’d asked for it. He was daring her to refuse him.

  “Kiss him,” the dandy urged.

  “You want to,” another shouted.

  “Give him a kiss,” echoed off the stone walls.

  The superstition reared its ugly head. The prospect of twelve more months of unbearable loneliness was intolerable.

  Her father’s angry face loomed in her mind’s eye, reminding her she was a de Toeni. She inhaled deeply in an effort to calm her racing heart and thrust out her chin. “The only man I intend to kiss is my betrothed,” she declared loudly.

  The crowd fell silent and everyone gaped at her in apparent disbelief. Evidently she had disappointed them, but Dervenn de Roure’s hooded gaze betrayed nothing of his emotions.

  ~~~

  Dervenn laughingly shrugged off the insult and the crowd quickly resumed the fun. He left the hall and watched Victorine scurry away, dragging the protesting Marie by the hand. His body and his heart told him it was useless to deny his desire for the haughty woman. She had somehow insinuated herself into his blood.

  However, to his surprise, he’d seen his own longing reflected in her green eyes. She’d refused him, but she wanted his kiss. The possibility that a beautiful woman was drawn to him despite his disfigurement renewed his hopes for the future.

  He came to a decision. He would accede to the king’s wishes and take her to wife, but only when she was ready to admit she had feelings for him. He ached for love, not resentment or pity.

  He hastened his pace to follow, only making his way to the bed of straw in the stables when he was sure they were safe in their chamber.

  On the morrow he would speak to the king.

  THE GUARDIAN

  Summoned by the king shortly after dawn, Dervenn was surprised to find his monarch dressed in full armor, pacing the antechamber. He hadn’t received any marching orders yet William was evidently off on some military excursion. He’d lain awake all night, carefully planning details of the campaign to win Victorine’s heart, but if he had to accompany the king, it would all be for nought. He bent the knee. “Majesté.”

  Scowling, William ceased pacing and waved him to his feet. “Vite, de Roure. I must have your decision quickly regarding Victorine de Toeni. It’s likely I shall be away many sennights dealing with rebellion in the northern reaches of my realm, and young Adrian de Caulmont has requested permission to court her.”

  Dervenn’s throat tightened. It was a relief that he apparently wasn’t expected to aid the king against the rebels, but he’d assumed incorrectly that the young knight had no interest in marrying. Once again his instincts had been proven wrong. The pursuit of a woman had unsettling effects on a man’s ability to think.

  This news necessitated a change of plan. “He is a worthy suitor, Your Highness, honorable, but landless.”

  William shook his head. “I’ve granted him a small estate in Sussex. One of Harold Godwinson’s former holdings.”

  Another change of tactics. “Might I suggest, Majesté, that I be appointed demoiselle de Toeni’s temporary guardian in your absence? I foresee interest from many young knights and she is still young and inexperienced.”

  The king eyed him curiously. “Sounds to me you are beginning to care for her.”

  William, Duke of Normandie and Conqueror of the English was astute. Lying was pointless and would serve only to alienate him from the king’s affections. He’d sacrificed too much for that to happen. “If I were to take a bride,” he conceded, “she is the one I would choose.”

  This admission earned him a hearty slap on the back.

  “However,” he continued, “I envy you your wife, Matilda. I too want a marriage with love at its core, not resentment.”

  As he’d hoped, William preened, his hand still on Dervenn’s shoulder. “My brave friend, you deserve such a union, although you know Matilda was at first unwilling to wed with me. We must hope Victorine is woman enough to see your battle scars for what they are, badges of honor.”

&nbs
p; Dervenn smiled. “I suspect she is equally concerned that I am Breton.”

  “Nonsense! Without you and your Breton cavalry, none of us would be here now.”

  The king spoke the truth, though many Normans avoided acknowledging it. However, they didn’t have time to debate the issue now. “Am I granted guardianship?”

  “Of course. I’ve sent for her, but I must be off. You can inform her of my decision when she arrives.”

  ~~~

  Victorine dropped into a full curtsey, her heart careening wildly when the king burst abruptly through the doors of the antechamber and swept past her.

  He was gone before she had the opportunity to apologise for her tardy arrival, though she had come as soon as she received the summons.

  She stared after him until she became gratefully aware of a hand extended to help her rise. She recognised the unique scent of Dervenn de Roure even before she looked up at the scarred features. “I was to meet the king,” she said hoarsely once she was on her feet. She held on to his hand when her knees threatened to buckle.

  “Affairs of state,” he explained, drawing her into the antechamber. “He has appointed me your guardian in his absence.”

  It was an insult—a mere knight, a Breton at that, guardian to the daughter of Berenger de Toeni; and yet it was a relief. Dervenn might be disfigured and bold, but the king trusted him. Truth be told, so did she, despite the kissing bough episode. She’d thought long and hard on the matter and deemed it a momentary lapse of judgement on his part. “I see,” she replied.

  He bade her sit in one of the row of seats that lined the walls of the room. “Sir Adrian de Caulmont has asked the king’s permission to court you.”

  It was good news, yet she felt no excitement. She gripped the wooden arms, worn smooth by years of use. “Oh. Very well. I suppose.”

  The corners of his mouth edged up in an intriguing half smile. “He was the tallest of the four knights we met yestereve. Do you wish to reject his suit?”

  Sir Adrian was handsome, if a little thin. She’d never had to make a decision and was beginning to realize she wasn’t good at it. All the more reason to rely on Dervenn’s judgement. “Non. If you approve.”

  He frowned. “You should perhaps question if he has the income to support you in the manner to which you are accustomed.”

  She hadn’t thought of that, which was strange because her father wouldn’t have approved of a man of inadequate means. “Er, does he?”

  The enigmatic smile returned. At their first meeting she had found it annoying, but now she was glad to see it reappear.

  “The king has granted him an estate in Sussex that belonged to King Harold.”

  “Then it must be large and prosperous.”

  He arched his brows. “Small was the term William used, but I’ll discuss the matter with de Caulmont.”

  There it was again. The use of the king’s given name. She meshed her fingers together in her lap, grateful to be relieved of the burden of ascertaining the size of Adrian’s fortune, or lack thereof.

  It was as though Dervenn had stepped into her father’s shoes.

  She stifled a giggle at the absurd notion. She was more at ease with de Roure than she’d ever been with her father, an incredible truth considering she’d known him only a few days.

  Then she asked a question she regretted as soon as the words were out of her mouth. “Is he a Norman?”

  TWELFTH NIGHT

  Dressed in a fashionable new gown, Victorine awaited the arrival of Adrian de Caulmont. Her belly was aflutter with anticipation and she was glad Dervenn de Roure waited with her in a dimly lit corridor not far from her chamber. He had given permission for the young knight to escort her to the Twelfth Night celebrations. He’d also arranged for seamstresses to sew the new gown, for which she was grateful. It seemed her temporary guardian was a resourceful man.

  He paced impatiently, his brow creased.

  “Do you not like the frock?” she pouted, well aware that he did.

  He rolled his eyes. “For the tenth time, I like the gown. The red becomes you.”

  He’d insisted on red. Indeed, he’d taken extraordinary interest in the fashioning of the garment, adamant it have a high neckline. Even her father had allowed more décolletage.

  She smoothed a hand over the rich wool of her skirts. “I will repay you when the king grants my dowry,” she murmured, ashamed that she’d been left a pauper. Her father had gone off to war without making provision for her.

  He glared, adjusting the cuffs of his dark green tunic. “I have already told you I am not concerned about the cost.”

  His impatience was getting on her nerves. “Then what is it? You seem out of sorts.”

  He inhaled deeply and ceased pacing. “Forgive me. It is cold and draughty in these dank English halls and Sir Adrian is late.”

  It was easy to forget sometimes that Dervenn too was far from his native land, living among foreigners, not fully accepted by the Norman conquerors though he’d lost much on their behalf. “I agree that castles at home are warmer in winter. Will you return to Bretagne?”

  A sadness crept into his eyes, betraying a hint of brown in the dark depths. “Non. I am a second son. My older brother will inherit my father’s lands.”

  They had more in common than she’d thought. “My cousin inherited the de Toeni estates,” she replied. “My father held the man in contempt and had never even invited him to visit before. He’s probably turning over in his grave.”

  Dervenn frowned. “He should have considered that before he and his sons sailed for England.”

  A short time ago, she’d have lashed out at such criticism of her sire, but Dervenn spoke the truth. “He thought he was invincible.”

  Her guardian eyed her curiously. “Speaking of graves, mayhap one day I’ll take you to see where we buried the dead of Hastings, including your brothers. William has commissioned an abbey for the place.”

  It was a deep seated need she’d refused to acknowledge, even to herself, yet he had sensed it. “I would like that,” she replied hoarsely.

  He shrugged. “We are getting too serious. Twelfth Night is a time for celebration, and here comes de Caulmont now.”

  ~~~

  It was on the tip of Dervenn’s tongue to berate the young knight for his tardy arrival. It was irritating enough that he was obliged to chaperone the pair. What he wanted to do was take Victorine to his chamber, peel off the red dress and sink his needy shaft into her virgin sheath. He’d made sure de Caulmont wouldn’t get a glimpse of her breasts, but the wool emphasized the tempting curves.

  In the days since the kissing bough incident, he’d used the excuse of the dressmaking to see her every day. The seamstresses must think him strange—a warrior who took an interest in the fashioning of a lady’s gown.

  Yet he craved her. The more time he spent with her, the greater his understanding of her prickly exterior. He suspected that beneath the haughty snobbishness lay the heart of a passionate woman.

  She had softened her demeanor towards him, and apparently forgotten the kissing bough incident. However, she was fragile, still reeling from the loss of her family, though she rarely spoke of it. He resolved to be gentle and wait patiently until she came to see he was the right man for her.

  In the meantime, there was the charade of Adrian de Caulmont to be played out.

  “My heartfelt apologies for being late,” the young knight panted breathlessly after a polite bow. “I was fishing and lost track of the time.”

  Victorine clenched her jaw. “Fishing?”

  Dervenn cleared his throat, tempted to chuckle. It seemed Adrian wouldn’t be much of a threat after all.

  “In the Tamesis,” he explained with a grin, though he glanced at Dervenn, apparently sensing something was amiss.

  Victorine’s eyes widened, but her jaw remained clenched. “In January?”

  Adrian studied his feet, but then quickly shifted his gaze to the rafters. Dervenn understood when he
noticed dried mud on Adrian’s boots. He’d guess from the scowl on Victorine’s face, she’d seen it too.

  An evening Dervenn had dreaded suddenly promised to be quite entertaining.

  ~~~

  Victorine again entered the crowded great hall of Westminster, this time on the arm of a young knight who hadn’t cleaned the mud off his boots.

  She felt more confident in her own attire, though Dervenn had insisted the gown be elegant and not ostentatious. She’d protested some of his suggestions, but the admiring glances of other guests suggested he was right.

  They joined the informal procession making its way to the great hearth where the yule log still burned. A servant handed each of them a cedar frond as they approached the fire. She held the fragrant fir to her nose and inhaled the familiar aroma, recalling yuletides of the past.

  She stood before the flames, feeling the heat on her face. The men took up a position either side of her. She turned to her guardian. “We have this same tradition in Normandie,” she explained, uncertain of customs in Bretagne. “My mother broke apart the cedar wreaths she’d fashioned for Yuletide so we could throw a frond in the fire and make a wish.”

  “We did the same thing at home,” he replied hoarsely.

  She sensed the loneliness in his voice. For all his gruff exterior he couldn’t hide his homesickness.

  “I’ll go first,” Adrian declared, tossing his cedar twig into the glowing embers. “I wish for a prosperous estate as my reward from the king…and for good fishing this year…and…” He looked about the hall as if trying to settle on something else to wish for.

  She shook her head. Obviously he hailed from a different part of Normandie. “You only get one wish.”

  She closed her eyes and considered her wish. Unexpected thoughts assailed her.

  I wish for Dervenn’s happiness.

  I wish for a miracle to rid Dervenn of his disfigurement.

  I wish…

  Enough! She should be thinking of her own future. She tossed her frond. “I wish for a happy marriage.”