Lords of Oak and Holly

By Frances Pauli

When her interpretation of a traditional holiday scene loses Maris the annual ice sculpting competition, her favorite season takes a turn toward dismal. The rent is due and her landlady won’t accept a fourth place ribbon. When the enigmatic Lord Brayce arrives with a last minute commission, Maris jumps at the chance. As her host’s icy exterior begins to melt away, Maris finds there is far more to him than meets the eye and his attentions leave her wishing this particular job could last forever.

When Brayce’s family arrives for the holiday, Maris is plunged head-over-heels into a world of secrets and an age-old conflict between brothers.

Can an ordinary girl survive at the center of a battle straight out of myth? And if her impossible suspicions are correct, what are the odds that Maris can win her prince?

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Dec 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781554877539

Frances Pauli

Frances Pauli is a hybrid author of over twenty novels. She favors speculative fiction, romance, and anthropomorphic fiction and is not a fan of genre boxes. Frances lives in Washington state with her family, four dogs, two cats and a variety of tarantulas.

Book preview

When her interpretation of a traditional holiday scene loses Maris the annual ice sculpting competition, her favorite season takes a turn toward dismal. The rent is due and her landlady won’t accept a fourth place ribbon. When the enigmatic Lord Brayce arrives with a last minute commission, Maris jumps at the chance. As her host’s icy exterior begins to melt away, Maris finds there is far more to him than meets the eye and his attentions leave her wishing this particular job could last forever.

When Brayce’s family arrives for the holiday, Maris is plunged head-over-heels into a world of secrets and an age-old conflict between brothers.

Can an ordinary girl survive at the center of a battle straight out of myth? And if her impossible suspicions are correct, what are the odds that Maris can win her prince?

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Lords of Oak and Holly

Copyright © 2010 Frances Pauli

ISBN: 978-1-55487-753-9

Cover art by Martine Jardin

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by Devine Destinies Books

An imprint of eXtasy Books

Look for us online at:

www.devinedestinies.com

Smashwords Edition

Lords of Oak and Holly

By

Frances Pauli

Chapter One

The sculpture only had a few hours of life remaining. Maris eyed the lines her chisel had driven into the block through lowered lashes and tried her best not to think about the fact that it melted a fraction more with each passing instant. The ice sparkled in the gallery lighting, flashed like a diamond and threatened to drip. Her vision, her entry and her last hope sat dissolving on its unremarkable wooden pedestal.

Around her, the gallery glistened with other pieces, other stories born from someone else’s chisel. Her fellow artists drifted, lost and anxious, between their own work and the competition. Each brow squirmed against the tension in the air. Less than ten minutes remained before the judging.

Maris shifted her weight from one foot to the other and focused on her own piece. No sense in fretting over the others, no sense in worrying now, when she had no time left at all. She closed her eyes and thought of the prize money, not enough to swoon over, but certainly an amount that could serve her purposes. It came with the reputation as well. The accolade would mean commissions. It would mean work, and steady pay.

A throat cleared nearby. Maris started, opened her eyes and nearly slapped the hand away on reflex. A man stood opposite her, and his long fingers stroked the sculpture she’d spent so many hours shaping. She clenched her jaw against the urge to chastise. He might be a judge, or a potential patron, but he had a lot to learn about ice.

She followed the hand with her eyes, willed it to lift away from the lines she prayed didn’t blur at his attention. The heat from a finger—Maris cringed—could ruin her efforts in mere seconds.

The epic battle. His voice held no hint of his opinion on the piece. It stated fact only.

Maris tore her gaze from his disobedient hand. She followed a tailored, indigo suit sleeve to the man’s face, and found her words frozen in her throat. He had eyes that pinned you in place, clear blue, backed by an unnamed authority. She sensed little amusement when he smiled at her. His expression simply cracked.

He nodded toward the sculpture, and his finger pointed to the apex. Night black hair danced around his angular face with the gesture. If I’m not mistaken, he continued. You’ve veered slightly from the traditional formula.

A small, artistic license. Maris’ spine stiffened. As intimidating as the stranger looked, she felt compelled to defend her work. Years of school may have prepared her for criticism, but exposure hadn’t lessoned the sting of it. The Summer Prince would typically be ascendant. She pointed to indicate the sculpture’s deviance. I’ve chosen to feature his adversary, in honor of the season.

Delightful.

Pardon? She had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. This time the smile held at least a trace of humor at the corners. His eyes flashed and held hers captive, frozen in a field of ice blue.

I like it. His smile cracked wider, one end curling as he nodded again. Wonderful.

Before she could respond, he spun on his heel and stepped away, taking three long strides across the open gallery to join a cluster of men that Maris instantly recognized as judges. She shivered, shook off the sense of weirdness and examined her entry one last time. Her heart fluttered. She breathed deep and tried to gather her nerves back together.

His finger hadn’t damaged the work. As far as she could tell, the Winter Prince still reigned over the mountain’s peak in as sharp of detail as ever. She snuck a glance toward the judges and caught sight of the suit. Strange man, she thought. Still, he liked her sculpture. She squinted at her enraged Summer Prince struggling to dislodge his brother’s foothold. Maybe he held some sway with the judges.

She smiled, pressed a section of her nut-brown hair back into a wave over one ear and watched the men begin their tour of the room. Maybe, maybe tonight luck would stay on her side.

Interesting. The bald head danced up and down, but the face continued to frown. The technique is well executed.

Maris held her breath and her tongue. The two judges clutched their clipboards and leaned closer to her work. She said a silent prayer and watched the scowls deepen.

What’s this then? The shorter, squatter man turned a pinched expression up to face her. You’ve switched them round.

Maris tried to smile. He seemed far less delighted by her choice than her earlier admirer. She struggled to remember the exact wording she’d practiced to explain the deviance, but her memory scattered under the judges’ stares.

Eh? The second one chimed in. It’s bad luck, that. Switching them round.

Don’t be superstitious, Henry. His partner chided. He focused on Maris. "It is unusual, my dear."

Yes. She managed a choked whisper, cursed her stupid nerves and forced herself to stand taller. It seemed appropriate, in honor of the season.

Uh? The judge squinted at her. The fallow season?

Bad luck, his fellow muttered.

I like it. The new opinion floated over the judges shoulders. Behind them, the man in indigo cracked his grin again and sparkled a wink at Maris. I think it’s wonderfully sensitive.

Huh. What’s that? The judge twisted over his shoulder and craned to see the newcomer. Ah, Your Highness, he said. Please, join us.

I think this one is my favorite. The blue eyes danced above the bowed heads. I should like to own it.

It’s ice, man. The superstitious judge continued to scowl at the frozen battle. Already melting.

Maris felt her knees wobble. She gripped the rim of her pedestal and