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“It is,” he agreed, looking down at her. “I’m looking for signs of mating pairs, or for any sign of them in the region at all, actually.”

“It’s a noble cause, Sir Knight—but do hang on!”

He stowed the glass. “I’m coming down.” Retracing his route, he jumped the last bit. “Here you are.” He handed over the mistletoe and then laid a hand on the oak’s majestic trunk. “And many thanks for the sharing of it,” he said to the tree.

Lady Gwyn flushed again and frowned a little. “I hope that is not meant to mock me, Lord Locryn.”

“Not at all.” He hesitated. Surely he must step carefully, if he wanted this acquaintance to turn out differently than so many in his past. And he did, he wanted it quite badly indeed. But she was being so forthright, how could he be anything else? “I did hear you speaking to the tree earlier and I found it charming—for purely selfish reasons.”

“Selfish?” she echoed, puzzled.

He nodded. “Until that moment, I thought I was the only person who talks to trees, shrubs and plants.” He gave a shrug. “It’s odd, I know, so I only do so when I’m alone, but don’t you feel as if they hear it, somehow?”

Her head lifted. Her frown faded. Slowly, brightly, with an air of welcome and . . .relief—she smiled.

And Locryn walked through a metaphorical door, leaving nerves and panic behind—and embracing a painfully joyous hope, instead.

For several long moments, neither moved. They merely stood there, smiling in recognition, undoubtedly looking like a pair of gobsmacked fools.

Entirely appropriately.

She broke the spell at last, moving to place the mistletoe into a basket waiting by the wall. It already contained cuttings of holly and ivy.

He raised a brow and he spoke over his rapidly beating heart. “Making a kissing bough for the holiday, Lady Gwyn?”

“Very like. I’m making a Cornish Bunch, actually.” She cast her eyes downward. “It involves kisses, I do believe, but also dancing—and a bit of a pagan ceremony, as well.”

“Pagan.” He widened his eyes and used the excuse to lean closer to her dainty, elfin face. “Lady Gwyn, you are not a druid, are you?”

She laughed. “No, more’s the pity. Would that not be interesting?”

“It would be fitting for a resident of Keyvnor, I imagine.”

“Alas, I am nothing so exotic—and still too different for my mother’s tastes. But it’s the differences I’m interested in.”

“Differences?”

“Yes.” She shrugged. “Things like the Cornish chough. And the Cornish gilliflower, too.”

He must have looked blank, for she forged on. “It is an apple tree—known to grow only in Truro, where we lived before Keyvnor. Why only there, I would like to know?” She waved a hand. “I like to know the unique things about a place. The plants that grow, the foods that people eat and traditions that they follow and words that they speak. All the differences that make a place like Cornwall special.”

Somehow he knew that her heart was beating as fast as his own. “Yes,” he said softly. “The differences.” He took a step closer. “And the similarities.”

She nodded. “Those can be . . . fascinating, too.”

Fascinating.

She gave herself a little shake. “Well, if you are interested, perhaps you’d like to join us this evening for the ceremony? According to our housekeeper, it should take place at midnight. My sisters and I and a few early wedding guests are planning a late tea and a bit of festivity.” She looked up through her lashes. “Gryff will be there. Tamsyn has promised to take care of the kissing portion of the thing, in any case. We should love to have you, as well.”

His heart echoes her hopeful smile and he nodded. “Thank you, I should like that.”

Dancing. Kisses.

Differences.

She was the difference—between his dry, lonely past and his happy, fulfilled future. He knew it.

He would make sure of it.