Lady Tamsyn and the Pixie's Curse

  Lady Tamsyn and the Pixie’s Curse

  The Haunting of Castle Keyvnor

  Deb Marlowe

  Copyright © 2017 by Deb Marlowe

  Previously in Bedeviled Copyright © 2016 by Kate Pearce, Deb Marlowe & Michelle Willingham

  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

  Dedication

  For my two boys, who embraced the fun of Halloween with me and always kept the costume/prop box busy all year long.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  The Earl of Banfield’s Last Will & Testament

  About Deb Marlowe

  Also by Deb Marlowe

  The Castle Keyvnor Collections

  Prologue

  Castle Keyvnor

  1803

  She’d been told not to wander. But the sun shone warm out here and the sky echoed blue against the sea and Castle Keyvnor was such a brooding, gloomy place. Tamsyn’s papa said it was their duty to visit, however, as he stood to inherit the Banfield earldom—and the castle came with it.

  Such an odd, heavy sort of home. It sometimes felt as if the walls pressed down on her shoulders. The gardens were lovely, though, and as Tamsyn had just reached her fifteenth birthday, Nanny had agreed to allow her some time to spend outdoors and away from the schoolrooms and her four younger sisters.

  Never would the nurse have allowed it had she known it was more than a bit of freedom that had lifted Tamsyn’s chin and set her heart to beating.

  Gryff.

  Mr. Gryffyn Cardew, to give him his due. She sighed. Tall and broad even at just three years older than she, he’d set her pulse to fluttering the first time they met. Apparently his family was important in local society and their land shared a narrow border with the old earl’s. They’d had a quick introduction when his father brought him along to the castle on a bit of business, and there had been an exchange of interested, lingering glances between them.

  And then—an encounter in the local village of Bocka Morrow. Nanny had been in a tizzy that day, trying to get her errands accomplished with all five girls underfoot. Gryff, encountering them in the street, had offered to give the girls a tour—and Nanny had gladly accepted.

  He’d taken them rambling all over the little hamlet, from the docks where the fishing boats were unloading, to the shops and even to the dimly lit apothecary where he spooked the younger girls with tales of the wizened proprietress and the odd, blue symbols etched on her fingers.

  They’d met all manner of people that day, but Tamsyn never worried a moment. Gryff was as tall and sturdy as a young bull. He listened more than he spoke, although he had a dry wit. He showed a font of patience with her chattering sisters and she liked the way he greeted all and sundry with familiarity and ease.

  She liked that he spent a great deal of time watching her, too. And that he answered her questions with attentive speed, and shared several more lingering glances and shy smiles as the day wore on.

  “We’re to see a bit of Lord Banfield’s tin mine tomorrow,” she’d told him before they exchanged farewells—and thank heavens, he’d heard the invitation that she didn’t dare speak outright. For when they’d left the mine, there he’d come, riding along the coastal track when they headed home. He’d climbed down and walked with them, and if Nanny had glanced askance when they dropped back behind the girls, she hadn’t objected. Tamsyn was mad for horses and had greatly admired his mount. They’d spoken of the local hunt, of racing and purebreds for all the remaining twenty minutes of the walk.

  But today—today was the most thrilling of all. A note had been left at her plate at breakfast. An invitation. He wished to show her a pretty spot in the woods, an ancient barrow where it was rumored the pixies danced on the night of the full moon.

  She’d shivered. Was it odd to find the thought of a raised earthen burial mound romantic? She didn’t care. Tamsyn had tucked the note away before anyone saw and had spent the morning aquiver with excitement. Even now, moving through the formal gardens toward the distant path he’d indicated, the structured elegance was lost on her. She could only think of his broad shoulders, his large hands, those dark eyes and the way the sun shadowed his angled jaw and got lost in the depths of his dark hair.

  She had to pay attention, however, as she moved farther away from the main grounds. Only a narrow strip of Cardew lands bordered the earl’s, and her destination lay on that edge.

  Take the path by the gnarled oak

  Tamsyn had seen it once before, in her wanderings. She’d caught a glimpse of a young boy a few days ago, and followed his enchanting giggle through the gardens. She’d called to him, but he’d merely laughed and ran on. She’d lost him near just such a tree, but had feared following him and getting turned around in the forest beyond.

  She felt only anticipation now, though. And there was no sign of the boy or anyone else when she reached the tree. She took the chance, therefore, to stop and adjust her bodice.

  Her walking dress was new—and marvelous. A bit lower cut than her usual gowns, it made her feel quite grown up. Which was why she’d worn it, even though the special stays she’d had made for it had somehow been left behind in Truro. She’d just made a few modifications—with the help of a couple of old lace-trimmed handkerchiefs she’d found in her bedchamber. As long as she kept to a careful and sedate pace, no one would ever know. And if there was a bit of a padded effect to that which had nature endowed her in that area—then so much the better.

  With a final tug, she touched a twisted branch as she ducked past the tree and stepped into the dappled beauty of the forest beyond.

  How lovely it was. Wild in comparison to the well-groomed paths she’d left and full of birdsong and the hum of insects. Everything shone in varied shades of green, lit by an occasional golden shaft of sun.

  Navigate the fallen log over the stream

  Not a very wide stream, thank goodness. Tamsyn balanced carefully—until she reached the middle, looked up and caught her breath at the sight of what lay at the end.

  Cross the open meadow

  She could see the open space, but before that, at the end of the log, was a gorgeous scene. Large shrubbery and a couple of draping trees had crowded close and formed a sort of bower to step through, and clustered beneath, at the edge of the stream, bloomed a riot of wildflowers. She spotted buttercups and kidney vetch and sea pinks. It was so lovely she hurried the rest of the way across, hopped down and bent to gather handfuls of blossoms.

  A wayward branch snagged her hem. She leaned forward to free herself, then paused as she heard an odd, snuffling sound. Clutching her flowers close, she looked up—and froze.

  A massive boar stood at the other end of the cleared meadow.

  Huge. Heavy. Deadly.

  Still making quiet sounds, it stood with its nose down and its head tilted oddly.

  Tamsyn stifled a gasp of panic. Tried to think over the sudden, fearful racing of her heart. Grasping a branch for stability, she began to ease her way backwards, but another twig snagged her bodice, and another caught her sleeve.

  Her fingers shook. The branch at her sleeve bent as she tried to free herself, then let go with a snap that rustled the rest of the tree—and sounded loud in the quiet.

  The
boar started and looked over at her.

  Fear-laced fog invaded her brain. Tamsyn’s breath rasped as panic won. She struggled and wriggled and only succeeded in getting herself more entangled. Were the branches alive? Multiplying? She slapped and tugged and fought and at last, desperate as the boar straightened, still staring at her, she yanked backwards, ignoring the ominous sound of ripping fabric.

  Something struck the back of her legs. The log? Another branch? She didn’t know. She only knew she was falling backward, her hands milling wildly and flowers flying everywhere.

  Her bottom hit the log. Her legs flew up. Before she could catch a breath she’d rolled off of it and into the water with a splash.

  It wasn’t deep.

  It was cold.

  She sat up, coughing, crying, wiping her eyes and trying to see if the wild beast was upon her.

  It was gone.

  She blinked. Checked again. The boar was gone and the meadow empty.

  But her feet sat high on the bank and her bottom low in the stream. Her skirts were ripped, as was her bodice. A sea pink stuck in her hair and hung in her face. One of the lace-edged handkerchiefs spilled from her front and the other dangled from a tree above.

  And laughter, deep, loud and heart-felt, echoed all around.

  Mortification speared her. She wanted to sink into the ground. She wanted to slap the cad who laughed instead of coming to her aide.

  Instead, heart breaking, she clutched her bodice close, climbed to her feet and fled back along the path to the gardens and the waiting, gloomy Castle.

  How long had it been since he’d laughed?

  A hundred years, at least.

  But Tuft, ancient Pixie and caretaker of this forest, laughed now. A good, long, sidesplitting laugh too—the kind that comes up from your toes, rises and rips out into the world like an explosion.

  An apt comparison. For a Pixie’s laugh is a magical thing. A young Pixie’s giggle can send a flower bursting into bloom. A mature Pixie’s chuckle can ripen all of the apples on a tree.

  But Tuft’s laugh? It was of another caliber altogether.

  Because of his age. Because of his vast experience with the ancient power of the earth. And yes, because of the rarity of it, too—Tuft’s laugh erupted out of him and across the forest on a wave of joyful magic.

  A carpet of bluebells appeared in the meadow in the wake of the wave and nearby currant bushes burst forth with a late crop that would last until the first snow. The mass of trampled wildflowers repaired itself. The wave caught Tamsyn and cleared her few adolescent blemishes—permanently. It traveled just as swiftly behind them and found Gryff as he made his way near, and erased the bruise on his shin he’d got helping a tenant raise a plow from a ditch.

  The magic that poured from Tuft healed the ailing boar that had come to him for help and been frightened off. It cleared the burn across its mouth and jaw that had come from a stream of mineral heavy, acidic water leaching from a nearby mine.

  Most importantly, it tempered, tamed and transformed the heavy elements in the mine leak, accomplishing in an instant what would have been the work of a hundred years—and saving a multitude of animals from similar suffering.

  The girl was long gone by the time Tuft finished laughing. He drew a deep breath as the small figure of young Master Paul from the Castle popped into the meadow. The ghostly boy looked around in wonder. “What happened?”

  Tuft shrugged. “A good laugh.”

  He said nothing further, just retreated back to the long, earthen barrow where the Pixies lived—but far, far away a pair of storm-grey eyes popped open and a creature no longer just a man turned a calculating gaze toward the Cornish coast.

  Chapter 1

  Castle Keyvnor

  1811

  Here he was, back again. Gryff frowned as he followed the servant through the darkly paneled passage toward the earl’s study. Back at Castle Keyvnor, where he had no wish to be. Where he hadn’t set foot in ten years, since he’d been a callow youth chasing a pretty girl—a noble girl who, in the end, had turned out to be too proud to associate with a mere Cornish gentleman.

  “Come in, Mr. Cardew.”

  He knew Mr. Drake, the castle’s steward. They sometimes shared a pint or a game of darts at the Mermaid’s Kiss in Bocka Morrow.

  “This is Mr. Hunt, Lord Banfield’s solicitor. He’s here for the reading of the will—and to take care of business related to it.”

  Gryff shook the smaller man’s hand—and gave him credit. He didn’t stare, even if Gryff did tower over him. “I assume this is about that plot of Lancarrow land? And its transfer back to my family?”

  “It is indeed.” The solicitor indicated a seat at the desk.

  “I shouldn’t think there would be a problem.” He sat. “The lease was laid out clear enough. The land is to be granted back to my family on the earl’s death.”

  “I do remember it to be just so,” Drake said. “The transfer is mentioned in the will, of course.” He looked slightly embarrassed. “But oddly enough, I cannot find the paperwork related to the lease anywhere.” He shook his head. “Never has such a thing happened to me.”

  “Your files are exemplary in every other respect,” Mr. Hunt assured him. “I’m sure they will turn up.”

  “I don’t know.” Drake rubbed his temple. “There was something about that agreement. Something odd—but my mind has gone a bit fuzzy about it.”

  Gryff agreed—there was something odd about the thing. He’d thought so ever since he first heard of the transaction. That bit of land was small, and although it did contain an old quarry that hadn’t been worked in years, it also contained the Pixie Barrow.

  It was an old family legend—that the pixies lived in the barrow. The family takes care of the pixies and the pixies take care of the family. That was what was carved—in old Welsh letters—into the mantle above the huge fireplace in the old great hall—and what the older generations passed along to the young.

  And perhaps they were right. In truth, his family was lucky. Their children were largely healthy, their crops generally good. The tenants on the land were loyal and long-lived. Storms often missed them. And they usually managed to be on the right side of a battle or political fight.

  All of this was why Gryff had been so shocked when his father made the bargain in the first place. And why he was anxious to get the land back.

  Drake sighed. “Maybe I’m getting too old for the job.”

  “Nonsense,” Hunt declared. He turned to Gryff. “But there are a few details that I need to verify and would like to note. We were hoping that you would share your copy of the lease, sir.”

  “Of course.” Gryff tamped down on a surge of annoyance. “You should have sent word, I would have had the papers delivered to you.” And saved himself a trip to this cheerless pile of stone.

  “That’s just it. I don’t quite trust the matter to a servant. Not with the oddity of our missing files.”

  “Then perhaps you would both care to join me at Lancarrow tomorrow morning? You can find what you need and I’ll promise you a plate of amazing pasties. My cook makes the best in the district.”

  “You are kind, but I must impose upon you again, sir. I’m quite bogged down, readying for the reading of the will. I’d hoped you’d come back and bring them here?”

  “Bring them yourself,” Drake interjected, giving him a long, measuring glance. “That way we’d know they’d be safe enough.”

  Gryff’s jaw clenched. He hated references to his oafish size.

  “We are sorry to inconvenience you,” Drake apologized. “A multitude of beneficiaries is descending on the castle. Some have arrived. The new earl is due today. We are awash in preparations.”

  The earl coming in today? Gryff abruptly stood—intent only on getting out before Banfield—and his daughters—arrived. “Very well. I’ll bring them by early tomorrow.”

  Very early. Before any of the family or guests arose.

  “I’ll walk you ou
t.” Drake followed as Gryff headed for the door.

  The other man watched him appraisingly as they moved toward the front of the house. “It will be good to have the old place full again,” he sighed. “You met the new Lord Banfield and his family when last they visited, did you not?”

  At Gryff’s nod, the steward continued. “Then perhaps you will consider spending some time here? There will be several days before the reading of the will. No celebrations or parties of course, but everyone will gather for dinner and spend time together in various activities while they wait.” He raised a brow at Gryff. “As one of the beneficiaries yourself, you should feel free to come. You could use a bit of socializing, lad—and there will be five pretty daughters here.”

  Four pretty daughters—and one beauty who wore charming freckles, smelled of lilac and disdained to know him. He shuddered. “Thank you, but no.”

  “Come now, it will be winter soon enough—and you’ll be hunkered down at Lancarrow until the thaw. Why not have a bit of fun before—” The steward paused, his head cocked. “That’s a carriage. No, more than one. It must be the earl’s party. Come on, man!” He hurried toward the front door. “Here’s your chance to be neighborly.”

  He didn’t want to be neighborly. He wanted to be gone.

  Gryff had no disillusions about who he was. He was a gentleman landowner, and a damned rich one at that. But he was no London beau. He was too big, too rough, too gruff. He had blistered hands and scuffed boots. He was as happy in a tenant’s cottage eating hevva cakes as he was dining on lobster patties at a lord’s table.