Page 47 of Ten Lords for the Holidays

“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 isnotenough. 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 iswhyhe’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.”

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