Enchanted at Christmas (Christmas at Castle Keyvnor Book 2) Read online

  Enchanted at Christmas

  Christy Carlyle

  Jerrica Knight-Catania

  Claudia Dain

  Copyright © 2017 by Christy Carlyle, Jerrica Knight-Catania, and Claudia Dain

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  A Love for Lady Winter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  About Christy Carlyle

  His Christmas Angel

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  About Jerrica Knight-Catania

  Lady Rose and Lord Snow

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  About Claudia Dain

  The Castle Keyvnor Collections

  A Love for Lady Winter

  Christy Carlyle

  To Erica Monroe and Christina McKnight. You're both wonderful and wise, and I can't thank you enough for giving me feedback on this story.

  ~ Christy

  Chapter 1

  Bocka Morrow, Cornwall, December 1811

  Ghosts didn’t frighten Lady Winifred Gissing, though they seemed to disturb her aunt, Miss Elinor Renshawe, a great deal.

  “Let us agree, my dear, that we shall not be unsettled by this talk of haunted castles. We are reasonable ladies, neither of us given to fairytale nonsense.” Rearranging the knitted shawl she’d been using to warm her lap, Aunt Elinor pulled the sage green square tight around her shoulders. “Fairies and ghosts and ghouls. Utter fiddle-faddle.”

  It was the fifth such denunciation she’d offered during their journey from London to Cornwall. Win might have believed her, if not for the shudder that rippled through the older woman’s plump frame each time she mentioned specters.

  After more than a day of travel, they were finally approaching the village of Bocka Morrow. The road had turned rutted and rough, slick in some spots due to the weather. When their hired coach careened around a bend, Win tipped forward and clasped her aunt’s hand. “Not to worry. Perhaps the rumors about Castle Keyvnor have been exaggerated.”

  They were certainly plentiful. The family seat of the Earls of Banfield was notoriously haunted by an assortment of ghosts, while the nearby woods were said to host pixies and witches.

  “Yes.” Elinor patted Win’s hand. “Just so. Exaggeration. Tittle-tattle, no doubt. A tale to frighten children.”

  Win couldn’t resist asking, “While growing up near the castle, did you ever see a ghost, Aunt Elinor?” Hope fizzed in Win’s chest. She held her breath and squeezed her aunt’s hand.

  “I don’t remember.” Aunt Elinor squirmed on the coach’s squabs and shook her head until a few ruddy curls slipped from her bonnet. “I’m certain I didn’t. How could I? There’s no such thing.”

  Win settled back and let out a sigh. For moment, she’d considering confessing the secret she’d never confided to a single soul.

  Aunt Elinor was wrong. Ghosts did exist. Win knew because she’d been encountering the unearthly creatures all her life.

  From earliest childhood on, she’d sensed figures hovering at the edges of her vision. Glimpsed their misty shapes flickering at the far end of hallways. Too curious to ignore the strange manifestations, she’d sought them, desperate to solve the mystery of her visions. The closer she got to the apparitions, the more she felt their anguished yearning to be remembered by those they’d left behind.

  Their pain disturbed her so much, she’d pleaded with the specters to fade from her view. Once, she’d lost all patience and confronted one with the blunt edge of her father’s old regimental sword. But swords didn’t frighten the dead, and the restless departed proved tenacious. Despite her pleas, they’d remained. Lingering. Watching. Yearning, she sensed, to take part in the ordinary matters of the living.

  Eventually, their constancy became a strange kind of consolation. An expected cure to the loneliness she often felt, even as one of four siblings. During her failed Season, she’d begun to understand the wraiths who clung to the shadows. With her pale skin and colorless hair and eyes, she’d lingered ghostlike at the edge of ballrooms too, wishing some gentleman would ask her to dance. None ever did, though she’d heard a few laughing over the nickname they’d bestowed on her.

  No doubt little Lady Winter is as cold and bloodless as she looks, the season’s handsomest rake had declared.

  That’s when she decided she didn’t want to be odd anymore. To be strangely pale. To see spirits inhabiting every space she entered. That night, with the pain of a rogue’s words cutting into her heart, she’d longed to be like every other young lady.

  But her longing changed nothing, and Win never told anyone of the spirits she saw. Mama sometimes scolded her for disregarding her decorum lessons, but she’d learned enough to know that ladies did not speak of specters. Especially if they were ladies of Gissing Hall.

  There was a great deal no one spoke about in that great rambling estate tucked among the green fields of Buckinghamshire. And there was much for its old Tudor frame to hide. Mama’s secrets. Papa’s rages. The peculiar ability Win had been cursed with.

  Lately, since moving to London to live with Aunt Elinor, she’d seen fewer spirits. For months, she’d encountered none at all. Perhaps seeing them was an ability that waned as one aged. She prayed it was true.

  Above all else, Win wished to be normal.

  Whatever that meant.

  “What are you pondering, my dear? All the light has faded from your pretty eyes.” Aunt Elinor studied her with a warm, searching gaze. A look of kindness and concern that Win wasn’t quite used to. “Have I insisted you travel too soon? While you’re still too filled with grief?”

  “Not at all.” She could wake now, most days, without thinking of her parents’ death fourteen months past. “I enjoy accompanying you on your travels. Especially to places I’ve never been.” In truth, Win had never traveled much at all, other than the occasional journeys from Buckinghamshire to London and back. Her family had been a solitary lot. Even now, her three older siblings had drifted their separate ways, as if their family’s tragedy was best faced alone.

  But Win didn’t like being alone, and she was grateful for her aunt’s generosity. After the loss of her parents, her mother’s oldest sister had offered kindness, companionship, a home. Aunt Elinor never assigned her duties, but Win was happy to manage her correspondence, pen invitations, and arrange the menus in
their London home.

  They rubbed on well together and had much in common. Aunt Elinor was a spinster, as Win expected to be. They both loved Bach concertos, bad poetry, and bawdy novels. And both of them had been blighted with odd coloring. Her aunt confessed her bright red curls had earned her as much derision as Win’s white blonde waves. Most of all, Aunt Elinor was patient. She never shouted or criticized. And she was amusing. Few could resist her lively conversation, even if much of it during this trip had been about a haunted castle on the Cornish coast.

  “Thank goodness we’re not staying at Keyvnor.” Her aunt’s tone wasn’t completely convincing. There was a note of intrigue in her voice whenever she spoke of the castle. “They are expecting quite a crush, I understand. The chambers will be overflowing with attendees arriving from all corners of England.”

  “With two couples marrying, there must be a veritable army of guests.” The thought of attending an event with so many people tied a knot in the center of Win’s throat. Yet it was the purpose of their journey to Cornwall. A double wedding was to be held on Christmas Eve, and ancestral connections between the Renshawes and Banfields resulted in an invitation for both of Win’s aunts.

  The aunt she would soon meet, Aunt Cornelia of Cornwall, had become a kind of mythic figure in Win’s mind. Her mother spoke fondly of her wild, adventurous sister who’d married a privateer and settled in a humble cottage overlooking the sea that had claimed him.

  “Look, dear. We approach Penwithyn.” Aunt Elinor fussed with the broach at her neck as she peered through the carriage window toward a two-story structure gilded in afternoon light. “Shockingly tiny, isn’t it? I did warn you that Cornelia’s home is much smaller than what you’re used to.”

  “I prefer cozy spaces and small houses.” Gissing Park had been too cavernous for Win’s family. Half the chambers went unused by anyone. Except for the ghosts.

  “Despite its appearance, Penwithyn is full of cozy rooms, and Cornelia assures me we shall each have our own bed chamber.”

  As they approached the cottage, Win glanced toward the sea. The land tilted down and she studied the hazy line where the water met the sky. With her own odd tastes, she’d hoped for ominous clouds and churning waves along the coastline. From all she’d read of Cornwall, it was the perfect setting for the Gothic novels she favored. But the day had been cold and clear. Only one object obscured her view. An odd free-standing round tower on the horizon, not far from Penwithyn. “What’s that?”

  “I haven’t a clue.” Aunt Elinor retied her bonnet and pushed stray strands of hair back into their pins. “T’wasn’t here the last time I visited. Some fancy of her ward, mayhap. Cornelia says he’s of a scientific bent. He always was a curious boy.”

  “Inwardly curious or outwardly so?” Whenever Win had been called curious, it had not been intended as a compliment.

  Aunt Elinor let out a soft chuckle. “A bit of both, I suppose. You may soon judge for yourself.”

  Soon came very quickly. The coachman drew the horses to a jangling stop outside the cottage’s battered wooden door. A moment later, a woman emerged who took Win’s breath away, for she was the very image of Win’s mother.

  “Ellie, my goodness, I’ve missed you.” Aunt Cornelia took her sister in a long embrace and then turned her attention to Win. “You must be Winifred, Mariah’s youngest. You have her stubborn chin and quite the loveliest eyes I’ve ever seen.” She enveloped Win in her arms, the edges of her cloak wrapping around to warm them both. “Let’s get you both inside. I have some mulled wine brewing on the hearth.”

  Mulled wine sounded delicious, but another sound captured Win’s notice. The music of the sea. On the air, there was a steady hum, and far off, the cry of gulls. She turned her head toward the sound and drew in a long brine-tinged breath.

  “The sea calls to you, does it, my dear?” Aunt Cornelia smiled at her, and the curve of her lips reminded Win of the rare times her mother had been happy.

  “I’ve never seen a body of water larger than the Thames or the pond behind Gissing Park.” She cast a questioning gaze at Aunt Elinor. “Might I take a walk to work the ache from my legs before coming inside?”

  The two elderly sisters carried on an entire conversation consisting of pursed mouths, quirked brows, and the tiniest of nods.

  “You must promise not to go far.” Aunt Elinor removed her shawl and settled the warm lavender-scented fabric around Win’s shoulders. “Darkness will fall soon, and there is quite a drop down to the beach.”

  “Avoid the cliff entirely. We shall explore tomorrow. Tonight, I’d advise going no further than the tower.” Aunt Cornelia turned her face toward the sea and added, “Any closer to the cliff and the wind will whip that garment from your shoulders.”

  “I promise. Just a short ramble and I’ll come to claim my wine.”

  As Aunt Elinor waved her off, she watched Win warily. The lady fretted over Win’s wellbeing as no one else ever had.

  “I’ll be fine,” Win assured before pivoting on her heel and striding toward the horizon.

  She filled her lungs, taking in deep breaths of the bracing Cornish breeze. The air had a luxurious thickness to it, dense with water and a unique green, salty scent. As she walked, the ground rose slightly below her feet and then began a sharp descent near the tower. She was curious about the structure. Had it been part of an ancient fortress meant to fend off seafaring invaders? An observatory for mapping the stars? Squinting into the waning light, she realized the facade was constructed, not of old stone, but new. They were of varying sizes and shapes, as if they’d been dug from the craggy ground beneath her feet. On closer inspection, she noted the tower wasn’t truly round either. More of a hexagon.

  Through a misshapen portal, a set of stairs beckoned, sirenlike. Climb me. Explore the secrets inside. Win glanced back toward her aunt’s cottage. How long would it take to ascend and come back down? The biggest danger was getting caught up in staring out at the sea, watching the gulls circle and dive in the gloaming light.

  She picked up her stride and headed for the stairs. But a few paces from the tower, the air began to change. Though the sky was clear and had been all day, a mist rolled across the ground. The chilly haze climbed, wending around her ankles, thickening with every step. By the time she reached the tower, she could make out little more than the patch of bricks before her eyes and a gap in the stones where an oil lamp had been left burning.

  An object whizzed past her ear. A moment later the plink of metal sounded at her feet. Win bent to get a closer look.

  “Don’t touch that!” A deep male voice boomed from above.

  Win jerked back and nearly lost her balance. Planting a palm on the ground to steady herself, her fingers brushed a then metal cylinder. She snatched her hand back and got to her feet.

  “I told you not to touch that.” An enormous black-clad figure swooped down in front of her, the long raven wings of his overcoat flapping in the mist. Crouching on his haunches, he snatched at the grass before rising to face her. “My calibrations will be ruined.”

  With his back to the seaside, the man formed a tall, bulky broad-shouldered outline against the red-gold sky. “What are you?” He leaned closer. Close enough for Win to make out dark brows, the wide slash of a mouth, and eyes far lighter than the crow’s wing black of his hair. “A sea witch? Some vengeful fairy come to spite me?”

  His words sliced through her like an iced blade, leaving a cold, stinging pain in the center of her chest. She’d been called a witch before. Each time the word had been spat like a curse because of her strange eyes and hair that lacked any hue. By people that didn’t even know she was far worse than just a colorless young woman.

  She was an unnatural creature who saw specters too.

  “Ah, I see. The lady is silent.” A lilt of amusement lightened his deep voice. “Have I frightened you? Or are you simply the sort of witch who prefers to keep her secrets?”

  “I’m not a witch, and it’s only your man
ners that I find frightful.” Win shot him a glare she hoped he could see through the fog and lifted the edge of her traveling gown. She intended to get away from the odious man quickly and had no wish to trip and end up sprawled at his feet like a fool. “I do not lack the power of speech, as you see. Indeed, with a clear voice, I bid you good riddance. To you, your poorly constructed tower, and your metal trinket. Which, I might add, I never touched.”

  The dull roar of the sea still called to her, but she turned her back on the water, and the odd man, and started toward her aunt’s cottage.

  She should have curbed her curiosity and settled for a warm hearth and mulled wine.

  A terrible thought struck. Win turned back to him. “Are you the ward of Cornelia Shaw?” It seemed unlikely. Aunt Elinor referred to him as a boy. But why did this man have permission to tarry on her aunt’s land?

  “No.” The single word came as a low rumble carried on the breeze. “I’m the Carwarren.”

  A gust whipped against Win’s face and when she turned to catch her breath, the dark-cloaked man—the Carwarren, whatever that was—drew closer.

  “That tower is perfectly constructed. I designed the observatory myself. Every stone was laid with care and to my detailed mathematical calculations.”