"One Yuletide Knight" Black Friday Deal 99cents today. "The Protector" by Patti Sherry-Crews

The Christmas anthology, "One Yuletide Knight" is a Black Friday deal and just 99 cents today!

In this wonderful collection of Medieval Romance Christmas and Yule novellas by several authors, we have as a sample an excerpt by the writer Patti Sherry-Crews from her intriguing story, "The Protector," the blurb of which is here:

Blurb

What can Juliana Basset, the daughter of an English merchant, have done to put her in the sights of the most powerful men in the country? It’s not what’s she’s done but what she knows. She harbors a secret that could topple the monarchy. A knight, Sir William, is sent to take her into protection until things settle down.
Stowing her away in a convent until things settle down seems like a good idea. Except Juliana stumbles upon yet another secret while there. Things are not adding up at the convent—literally. When she can't help but dig around, the place of sanctuary could be the death of her. Trying to keep the lovely lady out of harm's way turns out to be more of a challenge than Sir William anticipated.

Excerpt

“...twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.” Juliana, her finger hovering over the fresh loaves of bread, counted under her breath. She put her finger up and tapped her bottom lip. Why fifteen? Always that number when there are only fourteen mouths to feed?

“Juliana?...I mean, Sister Clementine!” Sister Agnes scolded herself. “You have a visitor.”

Surely, there would only be one person to visit her and the way the silly girl swung her hips and flamed as red as a poppy, Juliana knew exactly who waited for her.

“Where is he?”

“In the visitor’s room, of course.”

Juliana hitched up her ugly woolen grab and went as fast as she could out of the kitchen. Soon they would be called for prayer again and she didn’t want to lose time with Will. Not that she was especially excited to see him, she told herself. But she was so tired of the company of nuns, she longed for word from the outside.

She left the warmth of the kitchen and ran down the cloister to the visitor’s room. A thick layer of snow covered the inner courtyard and blew feathery drifts over the stone tiles on the covered way, making it slippery. Juliana entered the room she remembered being shown three days before, shortly after her arrival. Only three days, yet it felt like a lifetime.

There he stood. His tall, broad back to her, examining a painted panel on the wall. Her heart lurched at the sight of his lovely hair. It looked clean and groomed since she saw him last. Would he be glad to see her? She’d look for signs of it in his face. A sparkle in his eyes. A softening of his features….

Sensing her approach, he spun around slowly. Their eyes met, and his face contorted in an unexpected way. Out came a roar of laughter as he bent over to slap both thighs with his hands. He laughed so loud, she feared someone would ask him to leave.

She placed both hands on her hips and glared at him. “Is that how you greet me?”

“Ho, ho! I’m sorry, but they’ve made a real nun out of you!”

“Well, I don’t think it so amusing. Why are you here?”

He wiped the tears from his eyes. “I was passing and thought I’d spy in on you. By Jove, I’m glad I did. What a sight!”

“Now you see I’m fine, you may be on your way.”

“Don’t be tetchy, little rabbit. I come bearing gifts.”

She perched on the tips of her toes, watching him search his tunic. “What is it?”

He pulled out something wrapped in cloth. When he took the cloth off, her body flooded with relief.

“I knew it troubled you when you thought you’d lost this.” He handed her back her book of poetry.

“How did you...You went back to the inn for this? For me?”

“Tis one thing I could do. It wasn’t such a hardship.” He shrugged.

Juliana remembered the flirty serving wench and her stomach twisted. “No? Did you just ride in and find my book, or did you have to root around. Mayhaps you even had to spend the night?”

“Why do you have pique in your voice? I thought twould please you. That’s all. I had no other motive in going back there.”

“Of course not. I’m very grateful.”

They stood still and uncertain a moment, their sights trained on the floor. Juliana fought the impulse to throw her arms around him.

“So, how goes it?” he asked at last.

“It takes some getting used to.”

“I imagine. Well, I can’t imagine being in a nunnery, really. But, tell me did you find Sister Ursula?”

“Oh, yes! Not at first, and I wondered if you were mistaken about her being here.”

“I am not mistaken.”

“I know now. I found her in the scriptorium working on manuscripts. Tis so beautiful! They let me work there for part of the day.”

“Nay, don’t tell me they let an untrained girl touch a page! It takes much skill and practice to reach the level of--”

“I know! I could never...but, Sister Ursula, she lets me grind stones and mix paint for her. She talks to me while she works. Tis very interesting.”

“She talks to you. Huh.” He had a bemused expression on his face she thought odd. “Anyway, what else do they have you doing here?”

“I work in the kitchen and other chores as they come up like working in the laundry.” She leaned in and switched to a low voice. “There’s something mysterious going on here.”

He leaned in and raised an eyebrow. “Tis a holy order. I expect there to be mysteries.”

“Nay, not like that. I’ve been noticing something. Things are always odd in number.”

“Oh dear, very mysterious.” He ran his finger down her cheek which disconcerted her to the extent she forgot all else for a minute.

She drew back. “Don’t tease! Listen, there are fourteen of us living here, but I always count fifteen trenchers, fifteen candles, fifteen sheets and garments.”

“What of it? Maybe there’s a fifteenth nun in the infirmary.”

“There are two nuns in the infirmary and I counted them in the fourteen. Meals are taken to them, which is openly done, but then a fifteenth meal disappears.”

He stared at her a long moment. His expression blank. “Are you very bored?”

“Why do you ask me that?”

“I just wonder if you’re fabricating--”

“I’m not! I’m kept too busy here to make up stories. I’ve never been so busy in my life. They wake us up in the middle of the night for prayer, then we get to go back to bed, only to be woken up at daybreak to hear scripture, only to be called to prayer two hours later. After that we’re sent to work--and it’s still only morning! At noon there are more prayers after which we get to eat, and then back to work.  Then before supper we pray again, only to be called to Complin for the final prayer before going to bed. My head is full of bells, the way they ring them all the time.”

His lips twitched in suppressed amusement. “Mayhaps your mind is becoming overwrought.”

“Tis not! I’m going to find out what they’re hiding here.”

He frowned and put a heavy hand on her arm. “Leave it be. You have enough trouble of your own without calling attention to yourself. Tis possible someone is seeking shelter here and by poking your nose around, you might be putting them in danger as well as yourself. Promise me you’ll do nothing outside of being a good little nun.” He squeezed her arm when she hesitated. “Promise.”

“I promise,” she said, with no intention of keeping it.

“I can see I’ll have to visit often...to make sure you’re not getting yourself in trouble.”

She clutched her beloved book to her chest. “You might have to do that.”

Patti's Author page and newsletter: http://pattisherrycrews16.wix.com/author-blog

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One Winter Knight - Medieval Romance Anthology. Lindsay Townsend

One Winter Knight is a medieval romance anthology filled with stories perfect for a snowy winter and Christmas-time. My story is 'Sir Thomas and the Snow Troll.'

Here's a blurb and the first chapter.

LINDSAY TOWNSEND—SIR THOMAS AND THE SNOW TROLL
Sir Thomas no longer knows who he is, or even who his natural father is. Adrift, Thomas sets out on a winter journey to discover more, finding adventure and passion on the way that he ever expected. Fiery Ruth, a young woman who has escaped a terrible servitude to live alone in the northern forest, is proud of her independence from all others...but can Thomas protect her from the dreaded and terrible Snow Troll?


Two lost souls, striving through long winter nights and days, find each other—but can they begin to truly live?

Winter 1134, Northern England

You were always the son of your father’s soul. You were not his seed but you were always his heart. He loved you my child, never doubt that.
His mother’s voice pounded in Sir Thomas’s head as he rode through the forest, his mind as purposeless as a ship without a rudder. Believed to be on her death-bed, Christine of Carcassone had confessed to her son what Thomas had long suspected—that his father, Sir Guillelm of Normandy and Tissaton, was not his sire.
Sir Thomas, Tom to his family, squire and friends, snapped the ends of his horse’s reins against his right thigh, caught between pity, exasperation and relief. For of course his mother, contrary as ever, had then rallied after her confession and was even now on her feet and gadding, chattering of the Yule to come, keeping the servants busy with Christmas preparations. She had gaily waved him off that morning, assuring him she would be quite safe and well.
“You know how I love Christmas, Tom, and the whole month beforehand with all the gathering and cooking and preparations. My ladies and I will be very happy and snug in the keep. Take that long face of yours away! Go forth and seek your natural father! Look to your roots! You have my blessing.”
Beneath her bright and airy manner Christine had been determined and Tom, torn between staying at Tissaton to hover over her or striding out to find his native father, had found himself agreeing. Now, after riding for several hours along the great north road in the northern forest, he was less sure.
I am pushed from my nest like a dazed fledging chick but Mam is surely right, as she usually is. Tom knew Sir Guillelm had loved him. It had been in his father’s every look and smile and gift, in his teaching Tom to ride and count and to fashion baskets and panniers and reed fertility charms from the rushes of Tissaton’s sprawling, watery estate. Scarcely a month since his father’s death and Tom still missed him with a tearing ache in his chest, still longed to hear his stumbling footsteps on the floor of the great hall and see that cheerful, gap-toothed smile.
I will call him father still, for he was ever one to me.
Is this how a cuckoo feels? Tom scowled at the idea and snapped his reins again, wincing as his mount reacted with a surge of speed along the snowy track and the persistent, nagging wound in his backside stung and ached anew. A knight for three years since he had won his spurs in Normandy, Tom had become used to carrying injuries from the battle and tourney fields, but this embarrassing stab was slow to heal.
Were my father alive, I would ask his advice. I will not ask the other.
The other was how Tom thought of his natural sire, the one who had cast his seed into his mother and then abandoned her. He snapped his reins a third time as his mother’s voice hissed in his head, cold and hard as the winter sleet he rode through.
Never think that, my son! she had scolded, soon after they had buried his real father and she had taken ill herself, dropping the equivalent of a siege boulder on his head before making a miraculous recovery and then taking him to task. Tom could picture her clearly, round and red as a robin and as furious, hopping about the solar of Tissaton keep, barely a day after she had left her fatal sick-bed.
“Magnus does not know of you,” she had told him then. “I took care he would never know. He was a lad, a squire, just fifteen years old, when I tempted him into my bed and took his virginity. A fine, sweet romp for us both, and a parting with no ill-will on either side. Magnus wanted to court me, but I told him no. I was ten years older, and I had my sights fixed on your father, Sir Guillelm. A fifteen-year-old swain did not suit my purpose.”
Fifteen years old. God’s bones! All lads are idiots at fifteen.
Catching her son’s distaste at her seduction, Christine stared back at him until Tom had blushed. “It was Yule and feasting and Magnus was handsome, then,” she had snapped. “Do you think only men can feel desire?”
“But Sir Guillelm—” Tom had started, unsure what to say, but feeling he should protest.
His mother folded her arms beneath her bosom and glowered still more. “Had a loving, splendid son and the heir he needed,” she answered swiftly. “You were both tall and dark and if your features do not match your father, your gestures do. Guillelm was always proud and pleased of you.”
“Of another man’s bastard!”
“A youth, not a man, Tom, and a single time, only. I married your father within a month of bedding Magnus. Once we were betrothed, I was always faithful to Guillelm, so for years I thought you were his.” Her round face softened and her pretty gray eyes sparkled. “We were content, very content.”
Remembering her flushed and dreaming expression Tom could not snarl, not even when his horse skidded on an ancient cobblestone on the old Roman road and the wound at the top of his thigh flared again. His parents had been happy, and for an age he had dreamed of a marriage like theirs.
It was a marriage built on a lie, and yet...
“We were not blessed with children,” Christine had added, after a heavy, breathing pause. She had stared from the small lancet window in the solar, her pleasant features becoming as pale and blank as the snow outside. “After our first year of marriage, Guillelm was not strong, or hale or vigorous.”
Tom nodded, recalling how his father had frequently taken to his bed, especially in winter.
“If he ever wondered about you, as I imagine he did when you grew more and more like Magnus in looks, he was prudent enough to recognize you as his heir. You are a good son, Thomas. Guillelm was proud to claim you as his scion and tactful enough never to ask questions. And now those who might have made trouble for us are all dead, of age or disease or war.”
Tom had shuddered at his mother’s cool assessment. The larger part of him wanted to flee the solar, with its cushions and bed and books, and disappear into a new battle-fray. He did not because he
respected his father, Sir Guillelm, who had trusted him with his lands and title. Only this fall, when the man was still alive, Tom had promised the older man that he would care for Christine—Guillelm had insisted on that vow.
He never asked aloud, but father realized I was less than his. And yet, he loved me. I know he did.
You were always the son of your father’s soul.
Perhaps Guillelm’s actions had been directed by self-interest and prudence, as his mother’s had certainly been, but there was a loving kindness, too, Tom thought now, ducking under a low arch of trees to avoid a tangle of wind-whipped branches. Yet perhaps, damn all the heavens, his mam was right. Guillelm had loved him.
Would I be as generous with a child not of my own flesh and blood?
The fact he did not know chilled him.
Again, he drove his heels into his horse’s flanks and the black surged forward, foam falling hot from its gleaming mouth. Off in the distance, the low winter sun burned in Tom’s eyes and the bare trees seemed to crowd ever closer. For an instant, he wondered if he had strayed from the track, but then the puzzles of the moment overcame him afresh.
The other, the man whose face he wore, what kind of creature was Magnus? Brooding, Tom hunched lower in his saddle and considered what his mam had said. Drawing knowledge from her was always as tricky as taking honey from a hive, but he recalled the most.
“He was so handsome then, just like you, my son.”
“Then?” Tom had prompted, flinching as his mother sighed.
“He was almost pretty at fifteen, though not any more. Magnus, so I have heard, was much cut about in his final crusader battle.”
A crusader! At just twenty years old, Tom was still boyish enough to feel his heartbeat racing up in awe.
“He was at Azaz,” his mother added.
A great battle, Tom thought. This Magnus must be a mighty warrior. I am still glad Sir Guillelm is my real father.
“He is married, or so I have heard. A slip of a wench, a red-head. They live over beyond Great Yarr and have a son. Of course, the babe must survive infancy, but I have heard it does well. Still, you can make a claim on Magnus, if you wish. I think you should. After all, you are his mirror, and a knight making his way. He will be proud of you.”
A baby son, Tom had thought, a strange sinking sensation sucking at his bones, a healthy baby son. I have no place in this new family. And yet, Great Yarr was only twenty miles away, off to the north.
He was brought back to sharp attention by his mother’s next statement.
“’Tis said to be a love-match, which is typical for Magnus. He ever let his heart rule his head.”
Unlike you, Mam?
Tom winced as the grinding cold bit through his leather cloak and a heap of slush and sleet tumbled from an overhanging branch onto his head. What was he doing out in this white murk, quit from all company?
Because I am fit for no human-kind at present. Had I stayed, I would have roared and raged at my mother and told her the dark truth, that I am ashamed of her. Yet, who am I to judge?
He had broken his promise to his real father, too, and that made him more ashamed. Christine had manipulated him, suggesting he seek out his roots, whatever that meant.
If the other is married now and has a child, what am I? Mam said he would be proud of me, but for what?
Peering through the ever-falling sleet, shaking his head to rid his eyelashes of the snowy crust, Tom decided he was lost. His whole flight from Tissaton had been a poor design, half-baked notions of seeking out his native parent, and for what? Material as ever, his mam had strongly suggested he make a claim against Magnus, but truly how could he accuse Magnus of anything? The lad, as he had been as an eager fifteen-year-old, had tried to court Christine.
If I find him, what then?
The idea of intruding on a grizzled warrior, who had earned his respite, plus a new wife and baby, sickened Tom.
He wheeled his horse about, determined to turn back, if only to gallop to the closest town where he could squat down in a stew or inn over Christmas and leave those with true connections to themselves.
Distracted, he missed the overhanging cloud of mistletoe and blundered head-first into the mass, almost swallowing a milky berry. Rearing back, he overbalanced and skidded from the saddle, untangling his feet from the stirrups just in time.
The snow stopped falling around him for an instant as the world seemed to slow, and then he was down, struggling to right himself like a clumsy beetle tipped onto its shell.
I may die down here. The thought held no malice or alarm, sliding through his mind like a shaft of sunshine.
Get up! He told himself and rolled sideways.
Agony lit through him as the wound on his backside burst open. Tom fought the dancing black dots in front of his eyes but the pain closed about him, choking as a fist, and he felt himself going.
At the very edge of his consciousness, before he blacked out, he thought he heard a voice exclaiming, “Idiot male!” but then, he knew no more.


To read the rest and more stories, please go to Amazon Com or Amazon UK 

This anthology is FREE with KU (Kindle Unlimited.)

Sir Thomas' father Magnus is the hero in 'The Snow Bride' and 'A Summer Bewitchment' and he and Elfrida appear in my 'Medieval Captives' Series.

All these novels and novellas are on Amazon, Kindle, Nook, Kobo, Apple, Bookstrand. Excerpts and Reviews of these can be seen at Bookstrand, from my author page there. http://www.bookstrand.com/Lindsay-Townsend 

My Dearest Valentine

My Dearest Valentine is an e-collection of  Regency Valentine's novellas, originally published in print in Zebra and Walker Regency anthologies.

FROST FAIR

In February 1814, the Thames froze and a Frost Fair was set up on the ice.

Excerpt

Rosabelle stopped to look out over the Thames. The sound of barrel-organs, fiddles, pipes and drums floated across the ice in the sparkling air, punctuated by the shouts of barkers. Flag-bedecked tents, stalls and booths were laid out in two main streets, crossing in the middle.

"Oooh," sighed Betsy in ecstasy, "a merry-go-round, and swings! And look, Miss Ros, donkey rides! Could I? Not all of them, I mean, just one?"

Continuing down the stair, Rosabelle smiled at her companion's childish delight. "If I have enough money on me. They may charge exorbitant prices because of the setting. Which will you choose?"

"I'll have to look closer afore I make up my mind. What about you? What d'you fancy?"

"Oh, the donkeys, I think. I still remember being sick on the swings at Bartholomew Fair when I was a little girl, and why ride a wooden horse when you can ride a real, live donkey?"

"I will, too, then," Betsy decided.

...

A fingerpost stuck in a barrel of stones, pointing towards Southwark on the south bank, announced Freezeland Street. The first tent, a hastily erected shelter of sailcloth over a rough wooden frame, was a tavern. On the benches within, men sat quaffing ale and bantering with serving wenches bundled up in warm wraps. Opposite was a skittle alley, and next to it a barker invited passers-by to step up and try their luck at the Wheel of Fortune.

"Oysters! Fresh oysters, sixpence a dozen," cried a woman carrying two buckets on a yoke.

"Hot chestnuts, roasted on ice!" called a man sitting by a brazier full of glowing coals. Though it was raised on iron feet, it stood in a puddle.

"I hope the ice is good and thick," said Betsy.

"Let's have some chestnuts," Rosabelle proposed. "They'll warm your fingers."

She bought two-penn'orth. They strolled on, peeling off the charred, crackling skins and munching the sweet insides.

There were toy shops and a Punch and Judy show. Rival printing presses tried to top each other's ballads celebrating the Frost Fair. Dogs barked at small boys sliding on a smooth patch of ice, and fiddlers sawed away while young men hopped and swung with their sweethearts on an improvised dancing stage.

"Fry your own sausages! Take 'em 'ome pipin' 'ot."

"Lapland mutton, roasted right 'ere on the river, shilling a slice!"

"Prick the garter! Try your skill and win a vallible prize!"

"Buy my brandy-balls!"

"Cut and a shave," shouted a barber, his chair set up in the open with the striped pole stuck in the ice. "Cut and a shave. Razors sharper'n icicles!"

Rosabelle stopped to glance over the wares of a bookstall, while Betsy admired the gaily painted swings next door. The attendants, their breath puffing out in clouds, pushed the gondolas higher and higher, while the girls seated inside with their swains squealed and giggled.

"Changed your mind?" Rosabelle asked.

"It does look like fun, but it'd be better if you've got a young man. No, let's find the donkeys."

"Over that way, I think."

As they turned right on the Grand Mall, which ran down the middle of the Thames from Blackfriars Bridge to London Bridge, Rosabelle glanced back down Freezeland Street. Beyond tents and booths, behind the wharves and warehouses of the City, the spires of churches rose, and over to the left, Paul's great dome towered high above the rest.

...

"There they are." Betsy pointed to where a string of patient donkeys plodded across the ice towards a space marked with hoofprints and other unmistakable evidence of a less mentionable nature. "Aren't they sweet? I hope I can ride that one with the red and yellow ribbons, the one with a side-saddle. I wish I had a lump of sugar to feed it."

"Perhaps the stall next door will let us have some, that one with the 'Dibden, Pastrycook' sign. Look, they are selling hot chocolate, so they must have sugar. I'll tell them we shall buy chocolate after our ride, to warm us."

"Can we really? I'm ever so glad it was my turn to go with you today, Miss Ros!"

Rosabelle went up to the counter beneath the slapdash, hastily painted sign. On it were laid out trays of tarts and biscuits and gilt gingerbread shapes. From the back of the stall came the mouthwatering aroma of hot meat pies, mingling with the sweetness of the fragrant steam from the chocolate pot on its spirit lamp.

A young man with curly brown hair peeking from beneath his hat was serving a customer with a crisp, golden, hot apple turnover, redolent of cinnamon and cloves. He took the money and turned to Rosabelle.

"What can I do for you, madam?" he enquired, an appreciative light in his sparkling blue eyes.

Though she was not unaccustomed to admiration from the opposite sex, Rosabelle felt a blush rise in her cheeks. No doubt they matched her nose and her cloak, she thought ruefully. But there was nothing to take offence at in his merry gaze, so she smiled back.

......................

"Do you think the ice will melt soon?" Rosabelle asked.

"I fear it is already melting from below. The chief danger, though, is not sinking through as it melts but that it will break up. I've talked to people coming off who speak of creaks and groans underfoot. It isn't only that the air is too warm. Today is a spring tide, with high tide a little while ago. In winter the sea is always warmer than rivers, and salt water freezes at a lower temperature than fresh."

"So the ice is being undermined? I wondered about the effect of warmer rainwater flowing in from the west."

His glance was admiring. "I hadn't thought of that." He turned to gaze westward. Dark banks of clouds were building beneath the haze which had spread across the sky during the morning. "A good point. But the main factor, I believe, is that as the tide continues to ebb, the ice is left unsupported. When it fails, it may collapse very suddenly."

"Any moment now?" asked Fanny, who had been listening with a bemused expression. "Eh, Miss Ros, I'm that glad we didn't go to the fair. Can we leave now? I don't want to see all those people drownded!"

As one, Rosabelle and Mr Rufus turned to stare with dread out across the river.

"What can we do?" cried Rosabelle.

"Nothing, now. I've tried to explain my reasoning to everyone I've spoken to. Some listened. Some didn't."

Rosabelle listened, trying to hear the creaks and groans of the overburdened ice. All that came to her ears was the merry notes of barrel-organs, fiddles, pipes and drums, the shouts of barkers, the hum of the crowd's myriad voices.

"I can't—"

With a crack like a thousand coachmen's whips snapping in unison, the ice split. The music ended in a horrid jangle and screams rent the air. The watchers on the wharf saw jagged channels open, dark, toothed mouths gaping for their prey.

The prey fled, those who could, swarming across the remaining ice towards the banks, leaping the widening gaps. Some made it.

Some did not.

Rosabelle closed her eyes in horror. When she opened them, Mr Rufus was gone, as were the boatmen. In less time than seemed possible, from stair after stair, the Thames wherries pulled out into the stream. Boathooks reached, caught, dragged the hunted from the hungry current into the frail cockleshells dodging between the floes.

Mr Rufus appeared at the top of the stairs, soaked to the waist, a dripping child in his arms and a weeping woman clinging to the skirts of his coat. Rosabelle ran to him.

He thrust the child at her. "Take care of them. There's not much more I can do from here. I'm going out in a boat, to wield the boathook so that the rowers can concentrate on their oars."

He leaned forward, over the wailing child's head. His kiss was warm on Rosabelle's mouth. Then he was gone again.

Rosabelle cast a last glance at the dreadful scene, then set about helping the woman and child. They were soaked to the skin, and beginning to shiver convulsively. She sent Fanny to the carriage to fetch a lap-rug, while she stripped the little girl naked and her mother to her shift.

As Rosabelle wrapped the child in her own pelisse, Fanny came back with the rug. Before the woman had been enveloped in its folds, another dozen drenched fugitives reached the wharf, with more behind.

....

A MAID AT YOUR WINDOW

Philomena and her sister Aquila, having left Vienna after their diplomat father's death, are staying  in the countryside in England with a widow and her small son, distant relatives.

Excerpt:

"I know the way," Toby told her importantly. "I'll show you."

Philomena's modish grey, fur-collared cloak was more suited to strolling in the Prater in Vienna than to climbing stiles and tramping down a Lincolnshire lane. Fortunately, the overnight freeze had hardened the muddy ruts and even glazed the puddles with a thin layer of ice. Though Marsh Cottage was isolated from the village of Valentine Parva, they were soon close enough to see a trickle of smoke rising from the chimney.

Between leafless hawthorn hedges, the lane ran down a slope to ford a small stream, with a narrow wooden bridge for foot passengers. On the other side, in a dank, overgrown hollow, stood the wattle and lath cottage.

"It's situation does look aguish, as Mrs Barleyman said, but it's not really tumbledown," Philo commented as they stopped, by silent mutual consent, to observe their goal. "Just dilapidated."

"What's lapidated mean?" Toby held her hand tightly, his round cheeks pink with cold and anticipation.

"Badly cared for. It needs a coat of whitewash, and the tiles are covered with moss, though there don't seem to be any holes in the roof, nor broken windows. But the fence has fallen down, and it looks as if the garden has grown wild for years."

"That's good, 'cause there's lots of bushes for us to hide behind when we look through the windows."

Philo was struck with the impropriety of their expedition. She had not really intended to do more than view the place from a distance. I don't care, she thought rebelliously. It was all very well for Aquila to be a model of decorum; her mother had been their father's lawful wife. As Aquila's aunt and cousins had made plain, the offspring of an unmarried Italian opera diva was beyond the pale no matter how well behaved.

"Come on," she said. "We'll climb through that gap where the fence has fallen down."

Philomena's cloak caught in a tangle of bare rose stems, and Toby reached the diamond-paned window first. He peeped over the sill, then ducked and made hurry-up gestures, mouthing silent words, his eyes sparkling with excitement. She joined him, crouching.

"It's a real wizard," he whispered. "Look!"

Cautiously she straightened until she could see into the room. Amid a clutter of glass tubes and vessels burned a lilac flame. By its ghostly light a dim figure was visible, moving in the background. A hand reached out, holding a beaker, and poured something over the flame.

A flash of brilliant white light and an earsplitting crack made Philo jump and blink. In the afterglow of the explosion, she saw a black face, oddly distorted, that slowly sank from view.

"Stay here!" Philomena cried to the open-mouthed Toby. "I must see if he's hurt."

The cottage's front door opened directly into the room. After a momentary hesitation on the threshold, Philo hurried round the equipment-laden table. The wizard was sitting on the floor, his soot-masked expression somewhat dazed.

"Are you all right?" she demanded sharply.

"I think so." His speech sounded educated. Struggling to his feet, he added, "Only, I don't seem to be able to see very well."

She pulled off a glove, reached up, and removed the blackened spectacles from his nose. He grinned, his teeth startlingly white.

"Thank you, Miss...?"

"I am Philomena Ware."

Despite his filthy blue smock, his bow was gentlemanly. "Thank you, Miss Ware. Allow me to present myself: my name is Robert Mayhew." Centred in pale circles that had been protected by the glasses, his hazel eyes smiled at her...

WOOING MARIANA 
[original title: A Kiss and a Kitten]

A governess, inheriting enough money to live on, retires to a cottage in a small village and crosses swords with the Lord of the Manor.

Excerpt:

What on earth would his army companions think if they knew his errand? he wondered ruefully. Lieutenant Colonel Perrincourt riding out at daybreak in search of a kitten to comfort a little girl!

The second cottage he came to on the way to the village was Miss Duckworth's. Glancing over the hedge, he saw her standing on the doorstep.

He tipped his hat.

"A glorious day!" she called, smiling.

Her head was bare, her pinned-up braids glossy in the slanting sunbeams. The nip of the frosty air had brought a becoming colour to her cheeks. She must have just stepped out to admire the scene, for she wore neither pelisse nor gloves. Her blue gown, in spite of its demure neckline and long sleeves, displayed her maturely elegant figure to advantage.

Damian was seized by a burning desire to make up for his previous gruffness, to mend relations between them. Miss Duckworth, now moving down the path towards him—she had on boots, he was glad to note—seemed quite prepared to let bygones be bygones. He could do no less.

He wanted to present himself in a favourable light. An ex-governess would approve of his efforts on Lucy's behalf, he thought, and perhaps she knew of a litter of kittens in the village. He might even ask her advice as to whether he was doing the right thing for the child.

He drew rein.

Around the corner of the cottage pranced a yellow dog. Damian instantly recognized the colour, the size and shape, the long, blunt muzzle, floppy ears, and feathered tail.

"Your misbegotten hound killed my niece's kitten!" he burst out furiously.

Miss Duckworth gave him an icy look and turned back towards the cottage.

"Come, Lyuba!" she said. The dog followed her.

Damian was not going to let her get away with ignoring his complaint. He swung down from the saddle, scarcely conscious of wrenching his back in his haste. Flinging his mount's reins over the gate post, he stormed after her up the snowy path.

"Did you hear me, madam? Your wretched whelp caught and killed Lucinda's kitten in the woods! The child is heartbroken. If you cannot discipline the vicious brute and teach it to behave itself, I shall—"

The door closed in his face.

Raising his hand to bang the knocker, Damian hesitated. It would be more dignified, and very likely more productive, to write to her, warning that he would have the beast shot if she failed to train it not to kill. A vivid but calm description of Lucy's sorrow was more likely to rack Miss Duckworth with guilt than shouting at her.

He had frightened her...or had he? She had not fled, but retreated in good order before his boorish attack. Why did he find it so impossible to treat her with ordinary, gentlemanly courtesy, as he did every other female of his admittedly limited acquaintance?

The door opened.

Miss Duckworth stepped out, closing the door behind her. In her arms she bore a fluffy white kitten with a black patch over one eye, a purring kitten which she deposited in his hastily extended hands.

"Might I suggest," she said coldly, "that in future you attempt to ascertain the facts before going off at half-cock? Good day, Mr Perrincourt."

She went back into the house and shut the door.

Chapter 10

Just before her front door thudded shut, Mariana heard a yelp of pain. Seething, she attempted to ignore it. The latch clicked into its slot and she turned away.

Lyuba gazed up, her bright brown eyes innocent, loving—and just a trifle reproachful?

With a sigh, Mariana addressed her: "So you wish me to heap coals of fire upon his head, do you? I dare say he merely raised his hand to push on the door, and bashed his knuckles against it."

The tip of the puppy's tail swished gently, but she continued to regard her mistress with unwavering reproach.

"Or is it that you want your new little friend back?" Mariana sighed again. "No, you are right, I must at least see if the chucklehead has damaged himself."

Once more she opened the door. Mr Perrincourt stood there, half bent over in an awkward posture, one hand pressed to the small of his back, the other arm cradling the kitten. His face was shockingly pale, and below the brim of his top-hat, Mariana saw beads of sweat bespangling his brow.

"My dear sir, what is it?" she cried, alarmed. "You are in pain. Come in and sit down!"

"I cannot move without support," Mr Perrincourt choked out. "Have you a walking stick? Or an umbrella..."

She flew to his side. "Here, give me the kitten." She could not resist a sly dig: "If you trust me with him. Now, can you put your arm across my shoulders? I am strong, sir, you need not fear to put your weight on me. That is it. Be careful of the step."

"The step is where I came to grief," he said ruefully, leaning on her heavily as they crossed the threshold. "I moved backward without care and twisted to keep my balance. My back..."

"Mrs Perrincourt has mentioned your injury. What will suit you best?" Mariana asked, supporting him into her sitting room. "A straight chair, or to lie upon the sofa?"

"I am best off lying flat upon the floor," Mr Perrincourt confessed with embarrassment, "but quite apart from the discourtesy, I fear I cannot get down there without aid, far less rise again when your patience is exhausted."

"I shall call my maid, and if need be, send for your servants to help you up when my patience is exhausted," she said dryly. "Hetta!"

Grumbling under her breath, the maid lent her assistance. Soon the Squire was flat on his back on Mariana's rug, with a cushion beneath his head and another under his knees. Though the procedure obviously hurt him a good deal, not a murmur escaped his lips until he was settled there, when he produced a groan of relief.

The dog, an interested spectator, trotted over to lick his face.

"Lyuba, come away!"

"No, let her be," said Mr Perrincourt. "I deserve that she should bite off my nose. I do not deserve that you should be so kind."

..........

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