Elen commenced tearing off lower leaves with abandon while Miss Brecken smiled.
“Did you never have mistletoe, Elen? Or holly at your parents’ home for Christmas?”
“Oh no, Father thought it pagan and Mother disliked nature indoors. In fact,” she said, biting her lip, “my parents thought Christmas rather frivolous altogether.”
Gwen frowned. All of them were used to rolling their eyes at Elen’s prim nature but she was beginning to feel most sorry for the lady’s cheerless upbringing and Gwen vowed to treat her with understanding from hence forth. “Well then,” she said with a smile. “You must decorate the mantelpieces, if Isabelle is agreeable.”
“Of course!” the lady of the house declared, waving her ribbon for bundle tying, although how she could hear with ear muffs the size of dinner plates was anyone’s guess. “I’d appreciate all the help I can get.”
“I could assist also,” said Miss Brecken.
“Thank you.” Elen pursed her lips and patted her oversized gloves together. “But how does one go about it? Is there a book or a pamphlet?”
“Not that I know of,” replied Isabelle. “And I assume you didn’t decorate last year?”
“No.” Elen pulled the knot on a neat ribbon around two stems of holly. “What with Tristan being…dead.”
They all looked across the clearing to where Tristan sat beneath a gnarled oak and cut laurel to size with a knife, Mari sitting aside him and fluffing a blanket for them both.
“Oh, look,” gushed Elen. “Captain Brecken has found some hawthorn. Excuse me.”
Gwen absently nodded but her eyes were still fixed upon Tristan as his brother approached him with armfuls of laurel. They bantered words to and fro, laughter roiling in the cold air, before Tristan prodded his twin with his cane and he sallied forth for more greenery.
“Well done with those two,” whispered Isabelle.
They exchanged a conspiratorial grin. “And well done to you. Getting Rhys to the mausoleum could not have been easy.”
“I have my ways.” She fluttered her eyelashes.
Gwen flattened her grin, however, as she noticed Mari’s rumpled forehead, teeth nibbling lips to a cherry hue. “Is Mari quite well?”
Isabelle folded her arms. “I know. She was looking forward to all this, but she’s been so quiet and… Not Mari at all.”
“What do you think–”
“Eeuuuggh!” Elen squawked as she was abruptly grabbed at the waist by Hugh, puckering his lips and waving a monstrous sprig of mistletoe as though it were a flag of conquest.
“No, Hugh! I’ll not be party to pagan ways, and besides, you are my fifth cousin by marriage. There will be no such osculation between us.”
Hugh merely grinned and bussed her cheek, to which Elen blushed, before he released her, circled and grabbed Isabelle, swinging her around and beneath a certain ducal glare, bussed her on the cheek also.
Before she could run for the woods, Gwen was caught, his arm tight around her.
“Ah ha!” he exclaimed. “Here’s a beauteous maiden who won’t resist my wicked attentions.” With blue eyes brimming with glee and mischief, he planted a kiss on her lips.
Such a scoundrel. “MrCadwalader!” She laughed, batting him on the nose with a stem. “You taste of peppermint.”
“Best to have a mint at hand on mistletoe gathering day. ‘The readiness is all.’”
“Hugh,” came a low growl.
She twisted her head.
Tristan stood at their side, hair windblown, chin stubbled and green eyes narrowed, a dark rough villain to Hugh’s blond blithe hero.
Gwen quivered somewhat.
“You are crushing the mistletoe.” His voice was so low it sounded as though he was gargling gravel.
