Lord of the Manor (Trysts and Treachery Book 5)

by Elizabeth Keysian

  “Was that a rat, Benedict? It moved too fast for me to tell.”

  “A stoat, I think, Master. There are often stoats at the commandery. I mean—I have seen them here before, attracted by the baby coneys.”

  Allan groaned and gazed skyward. It looked as if Cecily—and Kennett—had been right all along. It had been a stoat savaging the dovecote, not a bird of prey. Charlemagne was exonerated.

  Which meant that he owed Cecily an apology. His self-deprecating grin broadened. He’d clean himself up, then head over to the malthouse to both assist her and to offer his apology for suspecting her peregrine of foul play.

  And if he was very lucky, she would have already hung some mistletoe over the malthouse door, and he could avail himself of a kiss.

  Chapter Twelve

  Cecily stepped back and surveyed her handiwork. The old malthouse had been transformed by swathes of ivy interspersed with sprays of holly and bay. She had made an illuminated kissing ring and suspended it in the center of the room, so the circle of candles would exile the wintry shadows into all the corners.

  Simpkin had got a goodly blaze going in the central hearth, and the smoke was, fortunately, finding its way out through the wind-eyes high up in the walls. Luckily, there was no wind to make it eddy around and make the revelers cough—it was a bright, crisp winter’s day, magically peaceful and still.

  She had secretly celebrated the Catholic Mass with her “uncles” earlier, before attending the church in the village. They had to make a good show of it, despite the fear that they were endangering their souls by doing so. Now, the unpleasant conflict of beliefs could be forgotten. Everyone could join together to enjoy the feast she and Lettice had prepared, with the assistance of Simpkin—he was playing the part of both scullion and serving boy, roles which had him puffed up with self-importance.

  “Close your eyes.”

  Cecily started. Master Smythe had crept up on her, like a cat on its prey. She tried to turn and remonstrate with him, but he clasped one hand across her eyes and pulled her firmly against him.

  The softness of his voice, and the heat and power of his presence, took the strength from her legs. With her eyes closed and her breathing coming in shallow bursts, she let him support her weight, enjoying the feel of his chest muscles against her back. It was a delight to bask in his heat and savor the fresh, spicy scent of him.

  “Keep your eyes closed and hold out a hand. Do you trust me, Cecily?”

  She had no reason not to. And even if she didn’t trust him, he’d deprived her of all will by touching her.

  “Do I have a choice?” She held out her right hand and felt him slip something over it, pushing it over her fingers and up her wrist, almost to the elbow.

  She gasped and shook his hand away so she could look. “A new gauntlet!”

  “Aye.” She could hear the self-satisfaction in his voice. “Your old one was tattered and torn—I feared that one day, Charlemagne would land on you and his talons would go right through to the flesh. See—I had it monogrammed.”

  “A gift? For me?” She pulled the glove off and ran admiring fingers over it. The letters C and N entwined had been embossed into the leather on the back. The hide was thick but supple, which must have taken a great deal of work.

  “You had this made specially?” She couldn’t turn to face him, dared not let him see the yearning in her eyes. She turned the gauntlet over and over, admiring the stitching and the quality.

  “I commissioned Benedict to make it. But that’s not all. Turn around.”

  She did, but was too shy to raise her eyes. She fixed her gaze on the chased bronze clasp of his cloak and waited.

  “Hold out your other hand.”

  She did as bidden, and something small, made from the finest kid leather, was settled into her palm. As she turned it over, it gave out a silvery tinkle.

  “A new hood for Charlemagne!” With tiny bells and even a feather in the top.

  “The hood is monogrammed, too.” Smythe’s voice washed over her like soft silk.

  “I didn’t… I couldn’t… I never expected—”

  “Gift-giving is even more enjoyable when it comes unannounced. Do you see now what a fair man I am? Having once detested your feathery friend, I now see his value and welcome him on my land. These gifts are as much for him as for you, I suppose, as I sometimes think of you and he as part of the same being. You have him trained so well.”

  He’d been watching her fly Charlemagne? She’d no idea. Her heart picked up speed.

  “I did not think to give you a gift.” She had made new hose for her “uncles”, but that just seemed too… personal a thing to do for her employer.

  “That would have been highly improper. But you are going to give me something all the same, whether it be proper or no.”

  She was still too shy to meet his eyes. Had she looked up, however, she would at least have had some warning—he’d maneuvered her directly beneath the kissing ring.

  He didn’t pause, didn’t ask permission. He nudged her chin up with one hand and brushed his lips over hers. The sensation was so new, so strange, she felt as if she’d been struck by lightning. Her lips parted, but no sound came out beyond a soft sigh.

  “Not enough.” His voice was a purr as he lowered his head and tasted her again.

  Oh, but this was wicked! And delightful. And sinful. Nay—it was no sin to be kissed, was it? It was a Yuletide tradition—and a tradition at other times of year, as well. May Day, Midsummer. But no one had yet been bold enough to steal a kiss from Cecily Neville. She was just a little too different, a little too aloof, to be attractive to the young men of the village. She had only discovered her power as a woman since the arrival of Master Smythe and Master Clark.

  Smythe’s lips were hot and heady, and she was fascinated by his kiss. How easy it would be to fall under this man’s thrall, to let him weave his masculine magic with his firm fingers and determined lips!

  As the pressure of his mouth increased, she pushed up on tiptoe to match the pressure of his lips with her own. Her hands caressed the back of his neck and tangled in his hair. How had that happened?

  A long, slow whistle made her stumble back as Smythe released her and stepped away. Simpkin was standing in the malthouse doorway, a pile of logs in his arms. His eyes were popping.

  “Simpkin, drop that wood and be off with you. There’s a spit to turn and a boar’s head to baste—you’ve no time to linger.”

  Smythe’s peremptory bark wiped the smirk off the boy’s face and sent him scurrying off, red to the tips of his ears.

  Smythe turned to Cecily. “A thousand curses on his head. There is no privacy to be had around here.”

  She dipped her head, hoping he wouldn’t see her flaming cheeks. What folly, allowing herself to fall under her employer’s spell! It was even worse to have been caught positively encouraging him—thank the saints that it hadn’t been one of the men who had burst upon them at that moment.

  She realized that Allan was standing still, just gazing at her, smiling his lopsided, boyish grin.

  “My apologies, Mistress Neville. I fear I have overstepped the mark.”

  Well, if he found the incident amusing, she didn’t want to betray how much more it had meant to her.

  “Nonsense. It’s what these are for.” She indicated the sprigs of mistletoe hanging from the kissing ring. “Although the usual tradition is for a kiss on the cheek.”

  How she managed to keep her voice so steady, she had no idea. If only she could control the blush more easily.

  “I was aiming for your cheek,” he said equably. “But my body betrayed me.”

  “Fie, Master Smythe! Here you are, managing an entire manorial estate, and a bevy of servants, yet you cannot control yourself? What kind of man does that make you?”

  “A lonely one, methinks.”

  His tone had changed, and his grin was gone. She felt something pass between them, something intangible that fastened itself beneath her ribs
and refused to let go. Flustered, confused, she looked away and saw, to her relief, the men rolling a large item along the track toward the malthouse. Thanks be to Mary! She was saved.

  “I do believe that is something that concerns you, Master Smythe.”

  She felt his presence close behind her and the brush of his lips against her ear. “I would prefer it if you were to call me Allan. When there is no one else to hear.”

  His hot breath sent a delicious shiver down her spine. “I’ll consider it,” was all she could think of to say.

  The next moment, the men puffed up with an enormous straw archery butt they’d been making secretly as a gift for their new master, and the invisible cord linking her to Allan Smythe was severed.

  Nay—not severed. Stretched. As she trotted away, leaving him laughing and complimenting the men on their skill, she clutched the new gauntlet and falcon’s hood to her breast. By giving her this gift, he had made a pledge to her. By accepting it, she had made a pledge to him. But where that would lead them, she had, as yet, no idea.

  Allan Smythe was strong, lusty, often misguided, and generous of heart. She ought to hate him, as he had, indirectly, stolen so much from her, the former Hospitallers, and the villagers. But now, he was giving something back to them all, and she couldn’t help but love him for it. And that kiss had been a revelation—her treacherous body was eager for more.

  He clearly liked her. Mayhap more than liked her. She felt she owed him something more significant than a kiss beneath the mistletoe.

  She owed him the truth.

  But how could she trust him to keep her secrets when the lives of everyone she cared about were at stake?

  Chapter Thirteen

  An archery butt of his very own was a great gift—he could use the part of the field where the sheep had chewed the grass short and set up the butt on a stand to practice with his longbow. Cecily had a bow, too—she could join him. What a pleasure that would be!

  Only, he would have preferred it if the gift-bringers had arrived a few moments later. It was rare enough to have a moment alone with Cecily, particularly one where she wasn’t involved in some task that absorbed all her attention. They’d been held transfixed at the edge of something to which he couldn’t put a name, but he was eager to take that extra step and find out where it would lead.

  He shouldn’t have taken advantage of her by kissing her like that. But she’d been deeply moved by his gift—though she’d been too proud to show it—and her reaction had loosened the chains holding his heart in check. Kissing her had made him feel whole again, had made him feel more of a man after the trials of Hannah’s death and Kennett’s betrayal. Anything seemed possible, and contentment—if not bliss—was once more within his grasp.

  His pleasant musings were rudely interrupted by the sight of a familiar figure cantering into the courtyard. Kennett! Surely, the man wasn’t expecting a welcome here? But mayhap he was, as it was the season of goodwill.

  Allan directed the men to put the butt in one of the barns, where the target would be protected from the worst of the weather, then strode to meet his nemesis.

  “God give you good day, Brother-in-law,” Kennett greeted him cheerily as he leaped down from his steed. “Still no stable lad to look after my horse? You do not prosper, then. I’m glad I decided to withdraw from this venture—I must have been in my cups when I agreed to it.”

  Kennett had come to gloat, had he? Well, he’d soon see about that. “Simpkin!”

  Allan’s roar brought the boy at a run out of the kitchen. He’d trained the lad to care for Baldur—and Master Swaffham’s mount when the accountant made his regular visits. He could look after Kennett’s horse well enough.

  “Ah, I see that you are not without help. Good, good.” Kennett drew off his riding gloves and stared around him at the piles of stonework, tiles, and broken timbers which had not yet been moved under cover. “This place is a mess. It must be a burden to you. Why not sell it all, and pay me what you owe me? It would save a good deal of strife.”

  “If you’ve come to gloat, Kennett, then you have come too soon. The venture is not failing. I now have a flock of fat, healthy sheep and more than a score of gravid ewes who will give birth in the spring. The demolition continues apace, and I have buyers already arranged for the stone and tile. The old timbers will keep us in firewood throughout the winter, and the vegetable garden is much improved.”

  Kennett raised an eyebrow. “Us?”

  Allan refused to be drawn. He placed his fists on his hips and waited.

  “So, you prosper, do you? Then you can give me part payment of what you owe me right now, I imagine.”

  Allan clenched his jaw. He wasn’t yet ready to give up his coin—he still needed to buy root vegetables for the sheep when the fields were frosted or under snow.

  “You say that I owe you money. For your two-thirds of the manor, aye, agreed—since you so churlishly chose to abandon me. But by my reckoning—or should I say—that of my bailiff, the sum I owe may be less than you claim. We lived here together for months before you deserted me—where are the account books that cover that period? You were in charge of funds at that time—you oversaw all the purchases, including an unhealthy flock of sheep, many of which I had to doctor myself in order to get them fit again. Without those accounts, I cannot know how much was spent. You have proved yourself to be untrustworthy, Brother.”

  Allan forced his fists to unclench and drew in a breath, then added, “How do I know that you didn’t pay far less for the flock than you claimed, then pocketed the residue?”

  Kennett’s knuckles were white as he gripped his gloves more tightly. For a moment, Allan expected to be slapped with them and challenged to a duel.

  “Your accusation wounds me, sir. I have done naught wrong, but since, regrettably, I didn’t trouble to keep those accounts, I cannot prove my innocence. You’ve seen the rent books, though, so you know there was naught amiss with those. Why should the accounts be any different?”

  Allan said nothing, just glared at Kennett, subtly pushing his shoulders back and flexing the muscles in his chest. Despite pretending not to have noticed this, Kennett took a step backward.

  “I shall overlook your unjust insinuations, sir, as ’tis the season for goodwill and forgiveness. But I do not relieve you of your debt. I have a legal letter stating I must be paid by Christmas, but I see you have no intention of doing so. In the spirit of the season, I will give you a further two sennights in which to finish your demolition and raise the coin. If you cannot make good the payment, I’ll throw you out and seize your goods and chattels until you can.”

  Anger boiled in Allan’s gut. The man was surely run mad—did he really expect the demolition to be completed in the next two weeks? It was the coldest time of the year, when ponds froze, stone cracked and spalled in the frost, and men’s hands were too numb for toil.

  It cost him an enormous effort, but he managed to keep his voice level as he replied, “Had you listened to reason, and been prepared to wait until the spring, as I advised, you could have saved yourself the effort of a lawyer’s fee. You could also have avoided the inconvenience of having to throw me out and impound my goods. Yet—there is still time to grant me that stay of execution, and save yourself a good deal of trouble.”

  “Trouble, eh?” Kennett raised an eyebrow. “I consider that a threat. You have two weeks—no more. I’ve waited long enough. Now, what has that accursed boy done with my horse?”

  Allan had plenty more to say but, at that moment, Lettice emerged from the kitchen bearing a salver of forcemeat decorated with slices of orange and spoonfuls of redcurrant preserve. The feasting was about to begin.

  As Kennett mounted up and glared down at him, Allan indicated the girl.

  “My Christmas Day festivities are starting. You had best make haste, so you don’t miss your own.”

  “I shall be partaking of better fare than minced liver and berries. Fare thee well. I will see you anon.”


  Allan made no attempt to correct his former business partner. He knew from the smells in the kitchen—which he’d been forbidden to enter—that there was much more provender to come. But there was no point boasting about it. Kennett had set him a challenge, and his survival depended on him rising to meet it.

  But he had, as yet, no idea of how it was to be done.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cecily was proud of the feast that she and Lettice had prepared. The boar’s head had been particularly fine, the cheek meat being reserved for Allan. She’d made a rice mountain, flavored with a pinch of precious nutmeg and colored with rose petal conserve—and it hadn’t fallen apart. There were two braces of pheasant, served with roasted crab apples, and a raised game pie she’d made with Lettice’s help.

  Lettice’s wrist was much better, though it ached, apparently, and she could only carry one dish at a time. Cecily was secretly glad because it meant that the girl could not yet return to her duties, so Allan still needed Cecily at the commandery. She should have been burdened with guilt for having such an unchristian thought, but she decided to exonerate herself—at least for the festive season.

  Only, Allan—though he had dined well, and his face was ruddy from good cheer and the warmth of the fire—had failed, as yet, to smile. Had her efforts to please him been wasted?

  Exhausted, full, and emboldened by mead, she boldly waved Benedict off the bench beside him and sat herself down. She immediately felt the pull of Allan’s body and leaned close, brushing his elbow with her own.

  “Is aught amiss? Have our labors not met your expectations, Master?”

  He clasped his hands around the stem of his pewter goblet but didn’t meet her eyes. “Nay, it is not that—of course not. You’ve outdone yourselves, and I’m right grateful. It is nothing about which you need concern yourself.”

  Cecily stared glumly at her feet. She had so hoped to delight him with the feast, especially after he’d made her the gift of the gauntlet. What was it that taxed his mind and stole his enjoyment?