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Thistle flushed. “I didn’t mind,” she agreed. “And then the girl wandered close. Her family was all gathered further up the docks, watching the fishermen unload their catch. She caught sight of Locryn—and he looked up to see her. And, oh! They did like each other! The spark was there—that flare of interest. They spoke a while and she remarked on his eyes—how they matched the color of the sea holly blooms. How she blushed, then!”

Thistle blushed too, remembering.

“But he merely smiled and picked a handful for her and told her she must keep them to remember him by.”

Both females sighed.

A distant footfall sounded. Locryn heard it too, and stood to face the path.

“Wait,” Thistle whispered indignantly. ‘That’s not the same girl at all!”

“Oh, no. That’s just one of the maids. She walks here sometimes, usually with one footman or another.” Derowan’s disappointment sounded clear.

Lord Locryn did not appear to share it. He greeted the girl with a smile. “Good evening, Trudie. I feared for a moment that you were not going to keep our appointment.”

“I almost did not, my lord.” The maid rolled a shoulder. “I likely should not dally with a guest.”

“I’m a member of the family,” he protested. “Surely we can share a conversation?”

“Surely we can.” Trudie glanced coyly through her lashes. “But was that all ye wished to share with me?”

“Well, I confess a kiss or two wouldn’t go amiss,” he answered with a grin.

“Oh, Lord Locryn!” she tittered.

Thistle’s heart dropped.

The pair sat on the low wall. They spoke of Lancarrow folk and village events. Young Lord Locryn edged closer to the girl and his tone lowered. He gazed into her eyes.

Thistle grew more and more indignant. How could he dally with this girl? There was no soft glow in either of them—nothing like the light that had shone in him and the Hambly girl earlier today. Just hours ago! Granted, Lady Gwyn had been younger and perhaps not ready for the sort of flirtation he seemed interested in.

But the maid appeared to have doubts about it, too. She giggled and sighed, but she also edged away from the young lord and dropped her head when he leaned in close.

“Come, Trudie. It’s just a kiss. Naught to worry over, is it?”

The girl twittered, then brazenly looked up.

Thistle straightened, suddenly outraged.

Just a kiss? As if it were nothing and should not be an exchange of mutual tenderness and respect and acknowledgement of that special glow? When she, Thistle of Cornwall’s Pixies, had never been kissed, or even come close, in her long span of years?

He leaned in closer. The maid raised her face.

“No!”

Thistle spoke with power and command—and time and space obeyed her. The garden spot below and every creature in it sat abruptly unmoving and unaware.

She popped down next to the frozen pair. “Kisses should bemagic!”

Raising her arms, she allowed the earth’s ancient forces to flow through her. “A kiss should be full of the enchantment of true love and desire. They are not to be wasted on titillation and misadventure.” She felt the deep and unassailable truth of it.

She waved a hand and the girl rose, floating out of her spot. Thistle deposited her at the base of the wall on a stretch of soft turf. She took the girl’s place, hovering before Lord Locryn’s handsome face, suspended in expectation.

“You shall not kiss the maid,” she declared. “Or any other with whom you do not share that warm bud of love.”

Leaning in, she placed her lips on his.

Her power gathered and flared. Light flashed. She popped back up next to Derowan, who stared at her in open-mouthed disbelief.