Hugh stepped back and released her waist. “So I am, but never fear, Tris…” He patted his shoulder. “There’ll be plenty for you.” And with a wink, he dashed off toward Mrs Pugh who shrieked…then ran at him full pelt.
“I hope,” Tristan rumbled, “he didn’t bruise you?”
Gwen placed a hand to her hip and wafted the mistletoe at him. “I’m not fragile, Tris. And Hugh is just teasing. You’ve bussed my cheek in the past.”
“Yes, but not on the…” His gaze wandered to her lips, lingered, before it snapped up. “Excuse my unwarranted intrusion then.” And off he limped, stomping his good foot.
“Well…” Gwen murmured. “What a–”
“Jealous green-eyed monster?” whispered Isabelle with sly eyes.
“No, surely not. He doesn’t rememberusat all.”
“But what if…” Isabelle raised a brow. “What if he doesn’t need to?” And with that, she grabbed a sprig of mistletoe and swept to her husband, who most certainly did not settle for a buss on the cheek.
Everyone focused on the leafed ground or the blue sky or their assigned jobs as the duke and duchess celebrated the mistletoe for far longer than was considered decent.
Gwen seated herself on a tree stump while she tied her mistletoe with ribbon.
“Lady Gwen?”
She glanced up to find Mari, green eyes so troubled. “Yes, dearest?”
“May I borrow your scissors?”
“Certainly. But they won’t cut through laurel stems.”
“Oh. It’s just that Papa’s knife is too sharp.” She peeped back over one shoulder to where Tristan was slashing a stem to bits, leaves hurtling aloft, and Gwen smiled: he’d always been happiest whittling wood.
“I think that task requires a sharp tool.”
Mari smiled yet it was forced and…sad. “Of course. It’s just…”
“Yes?”
“Nothing. Thank you, Lady Gwen.” With shoulders seemingly bowed with the weight of the world, the young girl returned to her father and whispered in his ear. With a nod, he handed her the knife and she endeavoured to cut the laurel herself.
Tristan donned his spectacles and leaned in to show her how to use it while Mari’s brow became ever more rumpled.
Hmm.
Gwen rose from her stump to make her way to them, and damn her heart for beating so as Tristan glanced up and cocked a brow, appearing so handsome.
“Mari…” She cleared her throat and looked to his daughter. “May I borrow you for a moment?”
“Of course.” The young girl gracefully rose and placed the blanket which had covered their knees back upon her father’s.
Tristan frowned. “Er, thank you, Mari. Can I have the knife back? I’ll cut a few while you are being borrowed.”
His daughter scrunched her nose. “How about using Lady Gwen’s scissors? I might need the knife for…whattling?”
“Whittling?”
“Yes, that.”
Gwen handed over her finest silver embroidery scissors – the ones she used for soft stem cutting – and couldn’t help but smile at the sight of them in Tristan’s calloused broad hand.
“Shall we go?” And she linked arms with Mari.
