Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas Read online

  UNDER THE KISSING BOUGH

  SANDY BLAIR

  SUZANNE FERRELL

  KATHRYN LE VEQUE

  ANNA CAMPBELL

  TINA DESALVO

  BARBARA DEVLIN

  JOAN KAYSE

  CATHERINE KEAN

  ANNA MARKLAND

  HILDIE MCQUEEN

  MEARA PLATT

  ELIZABETH ROSE

  JORDAN K. ROSE

  LANA WILLIAMS

  JEANNE ADAMS

  COPYRIGHT

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Tartan Bows and Mistletoe Copyright © 2016 Sandy Blair

  Close to Santa’s Heart Copyright © 2016 Suzanne Welsh

  Upon a Midnight Dream Copyright © 2016 Kathryn Le Veque

  Mistletoe and the Major Copyright © 2016 Anna Campbell

  Hunt for Christmas Copyright © 2016 Tina DeSalvo

  Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me Copyright © 2016 Barbara C. Noyes

  An Iris Gift Copyright © 2016 Joan Kayse

  One Knight’s Kiss Copyright © 2016 Catherine Kean

  Unkissable Knight Copyright © 2016 Anna Markland

  Christina, A Bride for Christmas Copyright © 2016 Hildie McQueen

  If You Loved Me Copyright © 2016 Myra Platt

  Destiny’s Kiss Copyright © 2016 Elizabeth Rose Krejcik

  Her Vampire Protector Copyright © 2016 Kimberley A. Dias

  Dancing Under the Mistletoe Copyright © 2016 Lana Williams

  A Yule to Remember Copyright © 2016 Jeanne Adams

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Dragonblade Publishing

  The Brethren of the Coast Badge is a registered trademark ® of Barbara Devlin.

  Cover art by Lewellen Designs

  FIFTEEN KISSES

  Tartan Bows and Mistletoe

  Sandy Blair

  Close to Santa’s Heart

  Suzanne Ferrell

  Upon a Midnight Dream

  Kathryn Le Veque

  Mistletoe and the Major

  Anna Campbell

  Hunt for Christmas

  Tina DeSalvo

  Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me

  Barbara Devlin

  An Irish Gift

  Joan Kayse

  One Knight’s Kiss

  Catherine Kean

  Unkissable Knight

  Anna Markland

  Christina, A Bride for Christmas

  Hildie McQueen

  If You Loved Me

  Meara Pratt

  Destiny’s Kiss

  Elizabeth Rose

  Her Vampire Protector

  Jordan K. Rose

  Dancing Under the Mistletoe

  Lana Williams

  A Yule to Remember

  Jeanne Adams

  TARTAN BOWS AND MISTLETOE

  SANDY BLAIR

  “Wooing is a costly dame.”

  ~Old Scottish proverb

  TARTAN BOWS AND MISTLETOE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Clachankirk Keep

  Clachankirk, Scotland

  December 1878

  “Time to rise and shine, m’lord!”

  The tall shutters guarding John Colin MacNab’s mullioned bedroom windows suddenly screeched. “MacGill! Ye’re dismissed.”

  Shutters thudded against the walls. “You can’t dismiss me, m’lord. I quit three years ago.”

  “Then why the hell are ye still here?”

  “Should I take it upon myself to leave, m’lord, I’ll be taking Milly with me and then ye’d starve to death. Can’t be having that on my conscience.”

  Snarling, Colin rolled away from the sun’s cold glare. The man spoke the truth. MacGill’s wife had reigned over Clachankirk’s kitchen and distillery since before Colin’s birth and would likely remain after his death. Which truly would be a blessing at the moment.

  Damn, his head hurt.

  And not simply due to the copious quantity of aqua vita he’d consumed last night.

  Colin’s financial situation was abysmal. The full extent hadn’t become painfully apparent to all until two months ago when he’d released dozens from service with the hope that they’d find employment elsewhere. His neighbor, the Duchess of Maitland, had graciously hired a baker’s dozen, which eased some of his guilt, but not nearly enough.

  As for the rest of his staff, he’d told them that they were welcome to remain in their crofts at a greatly reduced rate until such time as they could relocate.

  MacGill and his wife Milly had refused to go. They’d rolled their eyes as they waved away the meager severance Colin offered saying they had no desire to live elsewhere. They’d been born at Clachankirk and would die here. And so he and what remained of his staff soldiered on, each struggling as best he or she could to keep the leaky roof over their collective heads.

  MacGill shook out Collin’s black frock coat and matching trousers, what they’d both come to think of as Colin’s ministerial garb. “Best get moving, m’lord. Ye’ve only thirty minutes before ye’re due on the green with the litter of wee pigs.”

  Good God Almighty!

  Colin had completely forgotten he’d promised the widow Bryce he’d deliver the piglets by ten o’clock. All within the village kenned Mrs. Bryce and the annual Christmas fair awaited no man.

  Rolling out of bed, he muttered, “Did Milly find ribbon?”

  “Aye. She cut bits from some gowns she’d found in yon attic.”

  “Excellent.” Colin stretched his six foot, three inch frame to its full height. When his shoulder joints popped, he padded across the cold stone floor to where MacGill stood with razor in hand by the wash stand.

  The last thing Colin needed in his current state was to find himself on the bad side of the formidable Widow Bryce. Not after a night of solitary drinking, something he did every December 30th on the anniversary of his father’s death.

  “Hair of the dog, m’lord?”

  Colin cast a scathing glance at his butler. “I’m quite alright, thank you.”

  MacGill attempted but failed to mask a smile. “As ye wish. Did I mention ye have a missive below from Blythe Hall?”

  Colin groaned. Two decades ago he’d been alarmed discovering stone masons working on what would become his neighbor’s impressive forty room Georgian mansion. He couldn’t understand why the masons were building at the far end of his glen, on the rich lands that had long belonged to Colin’s family.

  He reported this to his father, which is how he learned his luckless sire had gambled away most of Clachankirk’s fertile land and along with it Clachankirk’s ability to remain self-sufficient.

  Aye, he’d been shocked but hadn’t fully appreciated the impact the loss would have on his and the villagers’ way of life until after his father’s death. To this day he thanked God the ruins for which the village and his 16th century keep were named had been entailed or his feckless father would likely have wagered them away as well.

  “Nothing from the Bank of Scotland?”

  “Nay, m’lord.”

  Good. Last October he’d borrowed as much as he dared on the estate’s future wool
production, using Clachankirk’s flock as collateral. But the note was coming due. With wool prices slipping, he now worried he wouldn’t garner enough from the wool. If he could convince the banker to hold off on collecting the debt until May, he could sell off the spring lambs to make up the difference. He was painfully aware that doing so would only create a new downward spiral but it had to be done.

  “Shall I retrieve the Duchess’s missive, m’lord?”

  “Nay. I know what it contains.”

  ‘Twas his annual invitation to the Duchess’s winter ball, where he’d find a dozen well-heeled maidens of various descriptions and dispositions hoping to snag and marry an eligible and titled gentleman. Of which he was not.

  Oh, he was single and held a title. But he was also kirk-mouse poor, which placed him at the bottom of most aspiring father’s—and maiden’s—wish lists.

  Aye, he understood the game better than most.

  It was common knowledge that many an impoverished heir traded his title for a dowry that would keep his estate intact and his seat in Parliament. Unfortunately, many of these men then found themselves tied to women they couldn’t abide, living out lives of quiet desperation.

  Then there were the other men, the foolhardy. They gambled away their inheritances then married heiresses to alleviate their massive debts only to again squander their new found wealth on fancy phaetons and horseflesh. On elegant attire and gambling clubs.

  In the end and no matter their goals, these men were universally pitied and more often than not mocked by their peers behind their backs.

  Colin had little doubt he was pitied by those like the Duchess of Maitland who knew his situation well, but he’d be damned if he’d again set himself up to be mocked.

  For every peer in the realm knew that at events like the Duchess’s ball one not only found the requisite number of aging wallflowers, but would also find the beautiful foreigners, the truly ambitious, spoiled daughters of successful American merchants and industrialist. These accomplished women charmed, flirted and flattered and then feigned love for the sole purpose of acquiring a title and living out a favorite fairytale.

  Aye, this later group he understood only too well. He’d fallen hard for one such viper. They’d courted, he’d asked for her hand and she’d happily agreed. Then Colin’s father had been killed in a coaching accident and he’d discovered the true depth of his indebtedness. An honest man, he’d shared this information with her and his plans for righting the situation. He even admitted it would likely take years, even with her financial help.

  The next day when he came to call at the townhouse in Edinburgh’s New Town in which she was staying, he was informed that she, ill, had taken to her bed. A week later he learned she’d fled.

  Never again.

  He shook his head to clear the memory and finished his morning ablutions.

  In the courtyard, he found Clachankirk’s gillie standing before an ancient gray dray and equally ancient cart loaded with caged piglets. “Angus, are we ready?”

  His gillie grinned. “Aye, m’lord. Twelve polished squeakers as ordered by the good widow for the bairns’ winter fair.”

  Colin sighed, eyeing the squealing pink and black beasties he’d promised to deliver before Sunday service over which he’d again be presiding. He couldn’t afford to maintain a real Presbyterian minister anymore either.

  He settled on the cart’s bench seat and took up the reins. He’d only been awake a few minutes and he’d gone from being lord of the manor to pig drover.

  Desperate times certainly did call for desperate measures.

  TARTAN BOWS AND MISTLETOE

  CHAPTER TWO

  Blythe Hall

  Olivia Conor settled on the stool before an elaborate French dressing table in her lovely, pale green fourth floor guestroom and stared at the letter in her hands. She loved her father and missed him dearly, she truly did, but she didn’t want to open his letter. He’d have questions about her progress in hunting down—his words, not hers—an eligible and titled gentleman. Responding to his inquiries would require that she dissemble. Again.

  Oh, she liked men well enough in the broadest sense. She found a few quite interesting. Some were especially pleasing to the eye. Many proved charming, even humorous, but most often they just proved...useful. Particularly when moving heavy furniture and books about. And for moving such things she could hire all the men she wanted. Her father was rich.

  So why on earth would she be the least interested in finding a man to marry?

  More importantly, what her father proposed reeked of skullduggery on both sides. What woman could respect a man who only wanted her for her money?

  She shuddered.

  No, her time here in Scotland would be better spent reading as many articles by Isabella Burton and Lady Frances Balfour as could be found in the Edinburgh National Society for Women’s Suffrage journals, by attending these ladies’ lectures and speaking with them directly. She desperately wanted to start a vibrant New England Suffrage organization such as these women had established in Scotland. One that was respected and visible. Good Lord, she had so many questions for them.

  But answering her father’s letter took precedence. If he didn’t hear from her soon, he’d worry. And a worrying Michael Conor was never a good thing as his competitors often discovered much to their chagrin. He hadn’t become one of America’s greatest shoe manufacturers by ruminating over problems. No. He faced them head on, charged at them with a singular Irish fervor and his deep-seated belief that his instincts were rarely, if ever, wrong.

  This meant if she didn’t read his missive and post her response today she could expect him at Blythe Manor’s massive front door in short order, ready to take any and all measures that might prove necessary to ensure that his dreams for her came true. And that would prove disastrous for her dreams.

  Liv heaved a resigned sigh and reached for the letter opener. Before the blade pierced the vellum her door blew open. In the doorway stood Augusta Beauregard, a pretty eighteen year old blonde in a midnight blue bonnet and riding habit.

  Flapping her hands, Augusta hissed, “Come! Did you forget the time? Put down that letter. It’ll be here when we get back.”

  Oh, good heavens. How long have I been sitting here fretting? “Augusta, I’m so sorry. Is it ten o’clock?”

  “It most certainly is. Now hurry. The Duchess is most anxious to decorate the great hall and ballroom and she can’t begin until we collect all the boughs.”

  “Of course. My apologies.” Liv pocketed her father’s unopened letter, pulled her chestnut brown dolman—the most serviceable of the coats she’d brought with her—and matching bonnet from the armoire and followed Augusta down Blythe Manor’s broad center staircase.

  At the base she found a pacing Miss Crawford, the newly-arrived and bubbly nineteen year old daughter of a New York shipping tycoon. This, Liv had learned, was Miss Crawford’s second season, her first in London having apparently failed to attract an eligible suiter. Liv suspected this was due in great part to the young woman’s unfortunate habit of snorting like a stuck sow—or honking like a furious goose—whenever the dear girl laughed. Which was often.

  ~*~

  An hour later Liv found herself teetering at the top of a ladder beneath a huge oak simply because she was the tallest in their party of four and therefore possessed the greatest reach.

  “Not that bunch, Olivia!” Augusta shouted from her place of safety on the ground next to young Angus who held the ladder. “Stretch a bit more to the right. That’s it. Now cut that clump. Yes, the one with all the berries.”

  Liv huffed but did as she was told and then carefully descended. After placing the berry-loaded bough in the bucket Miss Crawford held, she said, “Surely we have enough now.”

  Miss Crawford apparently thought the same and murmured, “I should think so.”

  Augusta examined their finds. “Yes, I do believe that’s enough. Now to return to Blythe Hall and make the kissing balls
.”

  Not understanding, Liv asked, “What are kissing balls?”

  Her companions exchanged astonished looks then giggled. That they did so in unison caused them to laugh outright, which set Miss Crawford to honking like a Canadian goose. That caused even Liv to laugh, which in turn set poor Miss Crawford to snorting like an outraged sow.

  It took several minutes for their laughing to abate and to finally catch their collective breaths, in order for Augusta to ask, “Don’t you have kissing balls in Massachusetts?”

  Liv shrugged. She had no idea. She’d been raised by a busy widower who took no interest in holidays. “We might, but I’ve not had the pleasure.”

  “And a pleasure it is,” Miss Crawford assured her. “First we’ll shape the mistletoe into attractive clumps tied with festive ribbons then we’ll hang them from doorways and such, anywhere a lady might linger for a moment during the Yule season. Any gentleman finding an interesting lady thus may then steal a kiss without any ramifications. Quite entertaining really.” She sighed. “Some kisses are so wondrous they’ll curl your toes. But then others...well, they’ll turn your middle.”

  Augusta nodded. “It’s true. You quickly learn to look up whenever one of the older, foul-breathed gentlemen approaches just to be sure you’re clear of any mistletoe.”

  Liv frowned. “Can’t you just refuse?”

  Both young women looked aghast. “If you refuse a kiss,” warned Miss Crawford, “tradition holds that you’ll not marry in the upcoming year.”

  “And this goes on for the duration?” Liv asked, not believing her ears.

  “Oh no,” Miss Crawford assured her. “Whenever a gentleman steals a kiss he must also pluck a berry from the mistletoe. When all the berries are gone, all kissing must come to an end. Any couple found kissing after that is assumed to be engaged or thought to be...indecent.”

  “I see.” Liv decided she would take pains not to linger in doorways until such time as all the berries had been plucked.

  “Are ye done then, m’ladies?” asked Angus, their freckled fourteen year old helper. A stable lad, he’d been up since before the cock’s crow, had cut hundreds of pine boughs from the forest and deposited them at Blythe Manor before picking up Liv and the ladies. The lad was tired and wanted his mid-day meal.