“Careful. They’re—”
“Prickly.” She withdrew her hand sharply and sucked on a finger.
“Forgive me—I wasn’t thinking. Here, let me see.”
Again, he was surprised by how quickly she acceded to his request and gave up her finger for inspection. Though her hands were rough and work-worn, the fingers were slender and delicate.
“No more than a pinprick.” He retained her hand, liking the feel of it in his. He wanted to kiss each fingertip and brush his lips over her knuckles.
He wanted to do—what?
He dropped her hand like a hot ember. “Suck on it. Let me shake the artichokes out for you.” Happy to have something to do other than relish sinful imaginings about Cecily Neville, he tipped the artichokes onto a chopping board.
“Artichokes?” She sounded puzzled.
“Aye. From our walled garden. Lettice has no notion of how to cook them, but I thought you might. And if you don’t like them, pray, offer them to someone who does. You know the villagers far better than I do.”
“You are too kind.” She placed her hand on his arm again, bringing her face close to his. Easily within kissing distance. His loins tightened, and he licked his lips in wicked anticipation.
“Kind enough, mayhap, to rethink the additional fee for renewing the leases?”
He rolled his eyes. So that was what all this was about—he might have known. But just how far would she go with her game of manipulation? Would it do any harm to steal a kiss from a willing woman? An exotically beautiful one at that? He lowered his head but, suddenly, something wafted past his ear, causing him to jerk back in alarm.
“Jesu, what was that?”
There was a soft jingle of bells, and when he swiveled in search of the sound, it was to see the peregrine settling on its perch, folding its wings, and staring at him with its bright black eyes.
“I thought you said the bird never left your side?” What timing it had! He should have had the thing destroyed when he’d had the chance.
Cecily had stepped away, her expression shuttered. Was the bird’s arrival a relief to her or not? That was a question to which he desperately wanted to know the answer. He felt angry, cheated, taken for a fool. Which he probably was when it came to Cecily Neville.
“I left him behind at Anselm’s. He knows how to fly home when commanded. I told you I had him well trained.”
“You must have a close relationship with Anselm if you trust him with your bird and if you’re prepared to miss church for him.”
Did he sound jealous? He hadn’t meant to. Wait, was that a flash of fear in her eyes? Surely, he hadn’t said anything to frighten her?
“He’s my uncle. Few people ever leave Temple Roding village—you will find a good many of the inhabitants are related to one another. Not that my kinship with Anselm is any of your concern.”
Ah, back on terra firma. He knew where he stood when they were arguing.
“As your landlord—as lord of the manor, in effect—I am the local justice. So, what goes on in the village is my business. If a man has a complaint against his neighbor, who will he come to first? Me. If someone’s chickens or swine go missing, who will they inform? Again, me. Just because I bring you a gift does not give you leave to insult me, Wench.”
“And just because I am your tenant, that doesn’t give you leave to pry into my affairs. Anyway, why should it be you, and not Master Clark, who presides over manorial matters, if he owns the larger share of the property?”
Because he now knew Kennett to be a lazy fool who couldn’t be trusted. But he wasn’t going to tell her that. “I have everyone’s best interests at heart, I assure you.”
She was standing close to him again, bristling and angry. It didn’t, alas, make him any less eager to kiss her. A plague upon it! He’d been celibate too long.
“And does Master Clark not care about our interests?”
He ignored the question. “The agreements that have been made between me and Master Clark are none of your concern.”
Her fists clenched, and he readied himself for her to fly at him. But she gained control of herself and said icily, “Take your artichokes with you, sir. I can, indeed, cook them to perfection, but I hate the things.”
As much as I hate you. Though she never uttered the words, he could read them in her eyes. So, it had all been a ploy then, that moment of tenderness when she’d touched his lips. Hurt stabbed at him, and he turned away.
“Have no fear that I shall darken your door again, to bring you unwanted gifts. And I’ll certainly not enter your cottage while that bird is loose.” He gestured at the artichokes. “Find someone else who will appreciate those.”
Without bidding her farewell—because at that precise moment, he couldn’t care less if she fared well or not—he strode off. He was half-expecting to feel the thud of an artichoke against his head as he went, but nothing happened.
He didn’t look back to see if she was watching him, nor did he look to either side to find out if any of the villagers had overheard their disagreement. Doubtless, someone had, and word would reach Kennett, who would then mock him for his weakness in not putting the girl firmly in her place.
It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but if he needed to gain the obedience of the occupants of Temple Roding village, he might need to make an example of her. And, because he knew deep down he couldn’t bear to see the proud young woman hurt or publicly humiliated, he would have to do something about that accursed peregrine instead. And the sooner he had evidence of its murderous rampages, the better.
Chapter Eight
Mercifully, Cecily had seen naught of Master Smythe for the past two sennights. There had been no news about the rents, and she was hoping her show of coy interest had endeared her to him and that he’d agreed to her earlier request for a delay.
At the same time, however, she was heartily ashamed of having tried to tempt him. She was no better than Eve in the Garden, tempting Adam, and ought to do penance for it. Only—there was so much at stake.
Such thoughts kept her from enjoying the warm sunlight of the mid-September day and destroyed her usual pleasure in the scenery as she walked along the highway. She was making her regular trip to sell her eggs at the market in Bulforde and would usually have the distraction of good company. Benedict enjoyed escorting her into town, keen to hear the latest news, and always living in the hope of some change of heart from King Edward, and a return to the Church of Rome. But, alas, Benedict had a poisoned toe and was being attended to at home by Martin.
The bustling market put an end to her dismal musings, as she conversed with people she knew and succeeded in selling all her eggs. It wasn’t until she was taking her ease in front of the Boar’s Head Tavern, enjoying a cup of small beer, that disaster struck.
“What have we here? A beautiful maiden quaffing ale outside? Why don’t you come indoors with me and protect your unblemished skin from the sun?”
She shaded her eyes. The man before her was dressed as a gentleman, all silks and velvets—which must be hot on a day like today. He smelled of cheese and ale, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“Not thinking of refusing, are you? Don’t say you think yourself too fine to keep me company, for I can tell you that you are not.”
She squared her shoulders. “Do you think that insulting me will make me more eager for your company? You must have drunk too much strong liquor, sir, for only an addlepated fool would think that.”
She grabbed her basket, drained her cup, and turned to go, but a firm grip on her wrist prevented her.
“Come, Maid. Do you not know me? I am your new landlord, Cecily Neville, and it would be most unwise to displease me.”
She looked more closely, taking in the dark eyes, chestnut hair and beard, and the leering grin of the man.
“Master Clark.”
The grin widened, revealing his teeth. “The very same. That, if nothing else, should make up your mind for you. I only asked to share a pitcher of ale with you.
This tavern is no bawdy house, so why are you so unwilling?”
Fear trickled down her spine. There was something she didn’t like about this man, something more than the fact that he was taking liberties.
She endeavored to be polite. “I thank you for your kind offer, sir, but my time at the market is done, and I must be getting home.”
“To whom do you hurry home?” Clark chuckled. “From what I hear, there’s naught to greet you there save a group of middle-aged uncles. I can’t believe there is anyone back in the village of greater interest or importance than me.” His grip tightened. “Unless it is that peregrine you want to go back to. Why should a peasant wench own a noble bird such as that?”
She tugged at his hand, but his grasp tightened still further. The bones of her wrist had started to creak. She glanced around to see if anyone had noticed their tussle, but no one appeared to be looking their way. Would assistance arrive if she screamed? Would anyone champion her against so important-looking a fellow?
“I found him, sir, unkempt and thin. I fed him up and taught him to hunt again. I did not steal him—if that’s what you’re implying.”
He cocked an arrogant eyebrow at her. “How interesting. Now come within, so we may discuss terms. I can offer you a fair price for your bird. And for your company.”
“Nay!” She wrenched at her wrist, but he didn’t release her. The pain brought tears to her eyes.
“If you would let the lady go, Kennett, I would be much obliged.”
Cecily gasped as she recognized the tall frame of Allan Smythe, standing right beside her attacker. His voice was hard and a muscle twitched in his jaw.
“Hah! I knew there was something between the pair of you. Only you are too holier-than-thou to admit it, Allan. You can’t blame a fellow for trying after you said you weren’t interested.”
He’d said that? When had these two knaves been having a conversation about her? She didn’t know if she should be offended or furious.
“I said, let her go.” Smythe was a head taller than his business partner, and even without the puffed sleeves and padded doublet of Master Clark, he was much broader in the chest and shoulders. She didn’t fancy Clark’s chances if it came to blows.
Her captor’s mocking grin had faded. “Since when do you command me, Brother-in-law? We are equals, you and I, and partners. Don’t tell me we’re going to fall out over a worthless peasant?”
Smythe’s fist moved so fast that all she saw was a blur. But the next instant, Clark was lying on the cobbles with a bloodied nose, and Smythe was licking his knuckles.
The blow had had the desired effect. She was now free, and hitching her basket over her arm, she rubbed at her sore wrist and stared at her unlikely rescuer.
“Did he hurt you?” Smythe took her gently by the shoulders and leaned in close.
“A little.”
“Never mind her. What about me, you villain?” Clark had scrambled to his feet and now faced Smythe, his knees bent, his hands curled into fists. “You may have broken my nose!”
“Forgive me. I struck harder than I meant to.” Smythe’s white-hot fury had dissolved, to be replaced by a look of contrition. He released Cecily and held a hand out to Clark, but it was slapped irritably away.
She was aware that several of the market-goers had noticed the altercation and were gathering around to watch the proceedings. She was also aware that Smythe had put a protective arm around her waist. Her breath started coming quick and shallow.
“You think an apology is enough?”
Master Clark was not, fortunately, wearing a sword. If he had been, he looked angry enough to run Smythe through. She had never seen a man so furious that spittle wet the corners of his mouth. Smythe remained still, keeping his body between Cecily and the man who’d accosted her.
He sucked in a breath. “Do you wish to dispute with me in front of the entire population of Bulforde? Let us walk home, Brother, so your temper can cool, and we can mend matters between us.”
“Nay.” Clark spat at the hand that was extended to him again. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to get out of our foolish bargain and free myself from the shackles of a failing enterprise. Your assault on me has proved what your opinion is of me. I have no intention of putting any more of my coin into that accursed commandery. Indeed, I have every intention of going to the law and seeking the return of my investment.”
“Kennett, you’re not yourself. I must have sent your wits begging with that blow. As I said, it came much harder than I meant it to. I don’t know my own strength.”
There was a murmur of approval from the onlookers. Cecily pulled her straw hat down to hide her face and wished she could just melt into the cobbles. She had never expected her rejection of Master Clark’s advances to turn into a public spectacle.
“There are many witnesses to the power of that blow. Yet, I had not laid a finger on you, Allan. If you want to jeopardize all we have worked for, for the sake of a skinny peasant girl, then more fool you. I’ll have none of it. And don’t expect to see me at the commandery. I won’t set foot there until our dispute is resolved.”
With that parting blow, Master Clark stomped back into the inn. Cecily heard one of the onlookers whistle between his teeth. Smythe’s head snapped up, and he glared at the crowd. Gradually, one by one, the people nodded and went about their affairs.
He reached for her empty basket. The comforting, unsettling arm around her waist was gone. With the removal of that contact, her common sense returned. “Best not, sir, or there will be talk. Give me my basket, and I’ll continue going around the market.”
He held it out of her reach. “I’ve just risked both my reputation and my livelihood in your defense, Cecily Neville. The least you can do is walk home with me. Besides which, you seem apt to attract the wrong kind of attention—would it not be best to have a protector?”
She bowed her head. He had just floored his business partner in her defense—it wasn’t every day that one’s enemy became one’s champion.
“I have never felt the need of a protector before this moment.” Not until the newcomers had thrown everything into turmoil. “But I thank you for coming to my aid, Master Smythe. Remind me to never overstep the mark with you.”
She knew there was a twinkle in her eyes, despite her best intentions. He responded with a disarming grin.
“I assure you that I would never harm a woman, no matter how much she goaded me—you are perfectly safe with me.”
That, of course, depended upon what he meant by “safe”. Nonetheless, he was a better man than that despicable Clark, so she gave him the victory, and let him carry the basket while she trotted along beside him, struggling to match his longer stride.
“Where is your bird this day?” he inquired.
“My Uncle Benedict is looking after it. He would have come to the market with me, were he not unable—temporarily—to walk.” He would be annoyed that she had no tidings to bring back. And she’d prefer not to share the latest gossip since it would now undoubtedly concern her.
“Yet another uncle? You seem to have many.”
“As I said, everyone in the village is closely related.”
He accepted this with a slight nod of his head. “And this particular uncle is able to control the bird? It won’t be destroying any more of my doves in your absence?”
“I have kept my word.” She couldn’t find it within her to rail at him for his unjustified accusations of Charlemagne, not when he had just acted as her champion. He was walking quickly, his body stiff, his expression grim—he must be deeply disturbed, despite his attempts at polite conversation.
“I am glad to hear it.”
The rest of the journey was made in silence. She knew he was thinking about the consequences of his actions outside the Boar’s Head Tavern. If he couldn’t soothe his brother-in-law’s ruffled feathers, those consequences would be dire, indeed.
When they reached her cottage door, she invited Smythe inside for refres
hment. He shook his head as if to cast off melancholy thoughts and gave her an apologetic smile. “Alas, I cannot. Lettice will have left something for me. It’ll be vile, no doubt, as she is an adventurous cook, but she gets upset if I don’t eat what she’s made.”
He bowed briefly and handed her the basket. “I regret that your trip to the market was so cruelly spoiled,” he said, then turned away and walked back toward the commandery.
She gazed at his retreating back, admiring his powerful, purposeful stride, and was shocked by a startling revelation.
She no longer hated Master Allan Smythe.
Chapter Nine
Despite the dire situation in which he found himself, Allan couldn’t regret having rescued Cecily Neville. Certainly, she was a firebrand—though she tried hard not to be—and her presence excited him.
Was it wrong to be attracted to another woman after the death of one’s wife? He pulled the jeweled miniature from beneath his shirt, enjoying the way the sunlight sparkled on the gems. He gazed at the portrait. Hannah was pale, ethereal, an angel, and his heart was sore as he looked upon her delicate features. How delightful their son would have been, had he lived—a golden-headed Cupid. He would have loved running around the commandery, clambering over the crumbling old walls, hiding in haystacks, feeding the doves with a chubby hand and a grin, and riding around the manor on his father’s back, pretending he was on a horse.
Allan sucked in a deep breath and tucked the locket away. There was work to do, and he had no time for melancholy. It was mid-September, the time to harvest Nature’s bounty, and preserve it, dry it, or store it up against the depredations of winter.
Hands on his hips, he stared at the earthen bed where he’d been doing battle with the artichokes, and his thoughts strayed back to Cecily. She seemed to know her way around the manor and understood how it worked. How had she known about the clay that was needed to line the moat? That was not the kind of knowledge he’d expect a young peasant woman to have unless she had an intimate connection with the place. Had Cecily’s parents worked here, mayhap, before the old king dismantled all the monasteries? As he had long since suspected, there remained much to be discovered about Mistress Cecily Neville.
Lord of the Manor (Trysts and Treachery Book 5) Page 6
