Page 38 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

Her brow wrinkled. “I remember what your aunt said about that bird. Not natural.Sent. Do you believe that ghosts are interfering with . . .” She blushed. “With us?”

“I rather thought it was the Pixies, since it all began at Lancarrow.” His eyes widened suddenly. “And it was on the very day that we met, for the first time.”

“Tell me,” she urged.

He did. All of it. Every embarrassing, shameful bit.

She listened. She asked intelligent questions. And she made no mention of Bedlam or priests. All of which made him fall ever so much deeper and harder in love with her.

“All of that cannot be coincidental,” she mused. “It does sound as if something or someone is working against you. But why?”

“I don’t know. I confess, I was a randy young buck, but no more than any other lad my age. And I never mistreated a woman.”

Her calm acceptance strengthened his sense of ill use—and his resolve. He reached for her hand. Just her touch set his heart to stumbling. The thought of never going further? It was not to be borne.

“I admit, in the past, I just . . . gave in. Stopped trying. It was easier, less painful. But not now. I don’t want to let you go.” His tone lowered as he searched her face. “I can’t.”

“Don’t.” She took his other hand. “Please, don’t.” She stepped into the curve of his arm and tucked her head against his chest. “Surely there is something we can do.”

“There must be. There will be.” Determination surged in his chest. “But we will have to fight, I fear.”

She lifted her chin and smiled at him. “Fight for us? There is nothing I would rather do.”

He ached to kiss her. But what might happen? He couldn’t put her at risk.

“First, we must discover what we are up against.”

“Maybe Paul will help? I’ll get Tamsyn to ask him.”

He nodded. “It can’t hurt.” He looked away, toward Lancarrow. “We need someone with knowledge beyond ours. You start with the ghost child. I’ll go to my aunt.”

* * *

Thistle popped back in next to Morcom and found he hadn’t moved. “I had to chase that bird all the way back to the barrow wood. What did I miss?” She leaned over a branch to look down. “Did they do it? Did they kiss?”

“No.”

She slumped. What had happened? “Are they leaving? Oh, but he’s holding her hand.” She held her breath, hoping they would kiss on parting.

They both looked pale and solemn, and when they reached the main path they faced each other, spoke for a moment, then went their separate ways.

Thistle sat back heavily, bowed in defeat. Why would Lord Locryn not kiss that girl and set them both free?

“Thistle?”

She looked up. Morcom knelt before her. He took her hand, just as Lord Locryn had done with the girl. His strong brown hand dwarfed her smaller, greenish one.

“I’m sorry for that girl’s pain,” he said. “But Thistle—do you know how much we’ve missed you? You’ve been here in Cornwall, but you’ve felt far away.”

“We?” she asked dumbly. She’d never heard Morcom say so much.

“All of us. The little acorn sprites miss your songs, the ones you used to sing when the ocean breeze wafted all the way to the barrow. We all miss your smile. The crabs on the beach ask me why you won’t chase them anymore. The sea birds—their memories are so short that they can’t even recall how you used to race them down the coast.” He dropped her hand and touched a lock of her hair. “Even your hair has faded.”

He stood. “You bring joy to so many. You deserve to be happy.” Looking toward the wood, he said, “I’ll see to it.”

When had Morcom grown so passionate? So full of strength? So handsome? How had she never noticed?

He popped out and she blinked. And she sat, stunned, until the shadows grew and the sun drifted behind the trees.

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