Lord of the Manor (Trysts and Treachery Book 5)

by Elizabeth Keysian

  Simpkin, who appeared to have fallen asleep in his corner, suddenly dipped a hand inside his jacket and produced a crudely carved pipe.

  “May I, sir?” The boy looked to Allan for approval.

  “Only if you can play it. I won’t have my Christmas spoiled by the sound of souls being tormented in hell.”

  “It might sound less like tormented souls if I accompany Simpkin on my viol,” Martin suggested. “If we can’t find a tune to please you, Master, you may add our instruments to the log pile.”

  “I will do so, and gladly, if neither of you can play.”

  A dimple appeared in Allan’s cheek—the first sign of good humor Cecily had seen in him since their kiss. Since their kiss—she’d not allowed herself to think about it while she concentrated on the cooking, but now the memory swamped her, heating her cheeks and filling her with nameless yearnings.

  Benedict compounded her discomfort by whispering in her ear, “Why not persuade Master Smythe to dance? He’s far too gloomy for this celebration of our Lord’s birth.”

  “I can’t dance,” she hissed back, as Martin unwrapped the cloth from his viol and started tuning the strings. “As well you know. ’Tis not the kind of thing they teach in a commandery.”

  “Shush, Child—he’ll hear you.”

  Benedict’s warning brought her back to herself. She mustn’t let the liquor she’d consumed make her foolish. There was a lot they had to hide from Master Allan Smythe, and she couldn’t afford to forget that fact.

  Contrary to expectations, Simpkin could play his pipe. He performed a jolly tune that had Cecily tapping her feet and the others clapping in time. Martin played a few drones on his viol, then picked up the shepherd boy’s tune and embellished it.

  Cecily lost herself, staring into the embers in the hearth, letting the music percolate into her soul, freeing her from earthly constraints.

  “That’s a dreamy smile you have on your face, Mistress Neville. If those are perchance happy thoughts, shall you share them with me?”

  Allan’s voice shook her out of her reverie. “Oh, I was… thinking of nothing, really.”

  “Then let me give you something to think about. Dance with me.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She was melting with embarrassment. “I couldn’t. I know not how to dance.”

  “Don’t you have dances in the village? I’m certain you can manage a measure or two. I’d ask Lettice, but I don’t want to sprain her wrist.”

  Seriously—she couldn’t dance with him. Everyone would see. Everyone would know. What if he tried to throw her about, like in one of those galliard things she’d heard of? His hands would be on her waist, and hers on his shoulders. It would be like that kiss—she wouldn’t be able to control her body’s reaction to him.

  “Come, now, Cecily. I didn’t have you down for a coward.” He stood and held out a hand to her.

  “I couldn’t,” she whispered, her gaze darting anxiously about. “Not in front of all these people. I’d be shamed.”

  “And I shall feel shamed if you don’t. Will you make a fool of me in front of them all?” His smile mocked her.

  “Oh, very well. But don’t say you weren’t warned. I shall tread all over you.”

  “Master Martin—what dances can you play? Could you manage something slow and dignified mayhap, like a pavane?”

  Simpkin and Martin stared at each other, frowning.

  “Never mind. Play some tune that you know—but more slowly. Mistress.” Allan bowed in front of her and—cheeks burning—she took his hand.

  “Now, stand beside me and rest your hand gently in my palm—no need to hold it. Now, slide one foot forward, then the next, and when they are together, rise elegantly to your toes. Then descend to your heels again. One… two… that’s it. Nay, do not stagger as you descend. No matter. You’ll soon work it out.”

  A few chuckles greeted Cecily’s first stumbling attempts at the stately pavane, but then she noticed Benedict offer Lettice a flourishing bow, take her by the good hand, and try to copy Allan’s example. This made it all so much more acceptable that she gave herself up to the dance, and to Allan’s lead. She enjoyed the gentle touch of his fingers, laughed at his lightness of foot—so unexpected in such a tall man—and chuckled at her own mistakes. These often had her turning the wrong way and colliding with him.

  More ambitious dances were attempted thereafter—nothing too lively though, lest Lettice’s delicate wrist be harmed. Eventually, Cecily collapsed exhausted on the bench, claiming she could dance no more.

  She must have dozed after that, for the next time she became aware of her surroundings, the malthouse was empty of people, the candles had been snuffed, and the fire was out. Darkness pressed at the windows, and she heard the distinctive kee-wik of a tawny owl. She gave an involuntary shiver.

  “Ah, awake at last, are we?” Allan’s voice penetrated the fog of her mind.

  She tried to stand, but the room spun, and the ground swayed. When she reached out a hand to steady herself, he was there, his hand at her elbow, steady as a rock.

  “I take it you’re not used to mead, even though you make your own.” There was a smile in his voice.

  She could barely see him in the gloom, except where the moonlight made a halo of his golden hair.

  “You look like… a saint.” She hiccoughed.

  “God forbid!” He laughed, and suddenly she was no longer weaving back and forth on her feet but cradled securely in his arms with his cloak wrapped around her.

  “I ought to go home.”

  “You certainly ought. I’ll carry you. I don’t want you slipping on the frozen ground and breaking anything. Lettice is not yet ready to resume her tasks, and I still need you. In more ways than you can imagine.”

  What did he mean by that? She could imagine a good deal. But it was an effort to speak. Far better to just enjoy the sensation of his body moving against hers as he strode off, carrying her as if she weighed nothing at all.

  Her head sank against his chest, and she must have dozed off again, for almost immediately, it seemed, he stopped and set her down.

  “Here we are.”

  She stared about her and saw moonlight reflecting off pale stonework.

  “This isn’t my home.”

  “Nay. It’s mine. In you go.”

  “But—”

  He pressed a finger to her lips. “If you think I mean to carry you all the way to your cottage, you are much mistaken, Woman. We’d both break our necks, stumbling around in the dark, and being in our cups as we are. Here—take this candle. It is best you go up the steps before me, so I can catch you if you stumble. Keep tight hold of the rope rail with your other hand. I regret that I cannot safely carry you up a spiral staircase.”

  After a brief struggle to regain control of her wits, she asked, “Are you going to do something wicked?”

  His hands found her hips, supporting her as she made her way gingerly up the narrow stone steps.

  “I’m already doing it. If I were not more inclined to the Protestant church, there’d be a dozen ‘Hail Marys’ in my future.”

  “Oh.” She was disappointed. It was wrong for such a splendid, generous man to be a Protestant. “That’s a shame. Your soul deserves saving.”

  There was a snort from behind her. “Don’t worry about me. Just get to the top of those steps without falling, and neither of us will have to fear for our mortal souls.”

  When the staircase ended, he steered her into a room dominated by a canopied bed. A bed big enough to accommodate two. Alarms started sounding in Cecily’s befuddled brain.

  “Are you going to seduce me?” she demanded.

  “Certainly not. I’m an honorable man. You shall have the bed, and I’ll take the chair. We’ll get you home ere anyone else is awake. Sit.”

  She didn’t know why she should trust him, but he had more control over her dizzy, fumbling body than she did. He helped her to sit on the bed and knelt to remove her shoes.

 
“Shall you sleep in your kirtle?”

  “I should be warm enough in my shift and stockings if I have these sheepskins over me.”

  “I apologize for my unrefined bed coverings. But stone dwellings seem to trap the cold, so I thought I might as well use skins as woven wool. My dream is to one day cover my bed with blankets woven from my own wool. One of my dreams, that is.”

  Cecily was barely listening. She was struggling to undo the lacing at the top of her kirtle and had devoted all her concentration—what little of it that remained—to that process.

  Allan stoked the fire in the hearth back to roaring life and placed another log on it before dragging an ancient cross-framed chair close to the blaze. Then he sat down, removed his shoes and belt, and gazed at her.

  “Do you need assistance with that?” He padded across the room in stockinged feet and applied himself to the problem of her lacing. As he drew the laces through the eyeholes, she felt the brush of his fingers against her breasts and wondered if he’d meant what he said about being honorable. She must make every effort to sober up, just in case he played her false, and she needed to defend herself. Only, being lifted to her feet, then having him peel her kirtle from her shoulders and help her step out of it felt both liberating and sinful—in a hugely enjoyable way.

  Which was dangerous. As he spread her dress out at the foot of the bed and returned to his chair, she did battle with the covers until she found the way in, then lay beneath the sheets. The icy cold which met her body was a rude awakening for her dozing senses. She wrapped her arms around herself, but could not stop shuddering. It had been a mistake to remove her kirtle.

  For a while, she lay in the vast, strange bed, watching the firelight make flickering shadows on the tapestry-covered wall. This room, Allan’s bedchamber, was the best and most finely furnished in the building. He must have brought the hangings himself, mayhap from his home in Cambridge. The bed was new—she could tell from the scent of the wood and the condition of the drapes. He’d allowed himself a few luxuries then—this was the chamber of a prosperous merchant of woolen cloth, not that of a rural sheep farmer. Although he toiled so hard that he doubtless fell asleep the instant he lay down, and had little time to enjoy it.

  She shivered again and wondered if she should warm herself by the fire before trying to sleep—or put her kirtle back on. She could throw her cloak over her and tuck it around her neck.

  “I know not how I am to sleep when forced to listen to your teeth a-chattering.”

  “I can’t help it. The bed is cold.” She wasn’t going to apologize. If it hadn’t been for his overly-strong mead, she’d be snug and warm in her own cottage now.

  Suddenly she sat up. “Charlemagne! I’ve forgotten Charlemagne.”

  “Your bird is being taken care of. Benedict promised to attend to him in case you were delayed. Now, stop fretting, come over here, and get warm.”

  Still shuddering, she threw back the covers and trotted toward the fire, only to be caught up by Allan and settled in his lap. He threw his cloak over both of them and held her close.

  “I shouldn’t—” she began.

  “You already are,” he countered. “Now stop complaining and let me warm you. But first, have a drink of water. You’ll need it if you are to find the morrow even remotely bearable.”

  She dutifully sipped the cold well water from the cup he handed her. “I’m sorry your wife died,” she said, as she drained the last drops.

  He shifted beneath her. “Where did that come from?” He sounded startled.

  “I was just thinking that you are a kindly fellow. You deserve better fortune.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” He chuckled and pulled her against his chest. “Though I never expected such a compliment from your lips. However, we must deal with what the good Lord chooses to send us, whether it brings joy or sorrow. I lost not only my Hannah but the babe, too.”

  She lifted her head and stared at him. “Nay! I didn’t know that. It must have been hard for you.” She cupped his cheek with one hand and gazed at him.

  He turned his head to kiss her palm. “Aye. Too hard. I wallowed in my own tragedy so long I went half-mad, I think. Lunatic enough to believe that her brother, Kennett, had my best interests at heart when he offered to partner me in a business venture. Greatly to my cost, as fortune would have it. But let’s not think of that now. It is Christmas night, and we have feasted well and even frolicked a little. Thank you for dancing with me.”

  She snuggled closer into his warm, male body, comforted by the strength of his arms. “I liked it.”

  “Another compliment!” She felt his lips brush her hair. “Methinks the elves have taken the true Cecily Neville and put a changeling in her place.”

  “Don’t jest. You still have many faults, sir, not least of them being—” that you are a Protestant and a heretic. She stopped herself from voicing her thoughts just in time.

  “That I am an overbearing, untrusting, untrustworthy knave? I understand—you will find me more amenable, I assure you, once Kennett is gone from my life. Beware of him, my sweet. He wants you, and he’s a snake. Nay—that is unfair to snakes. But you know this. Are you warmer now?”

  She certainly was, but the chill of the bed was unappealing right now. She nestled her head against Allan’s neck. His embrace was novel, thrilling, intoxicating. Headier, even, than the mead she’d consumed. She felt his cheek brush against her hair and realized her coif had come off. Little wonder she’d been feeling the cold.

  “You smell wonderful.” His voice was a soft murmur.

  “I do?” She toyed with one of the lace ends on his doublet. “After all that cooking, I must smell foul.”

  “There’s a hint of hog’s fat, I confess, but overlain with woodsmoke and something else yet more pleasant—lavender, mayhap?”

  If he knew that she’d washed her hair with a soap ball containing dried lavender, he’d think she’d done it to please him. Nay, never that. She’d done it to please herself. Hadn’t she?

  “You smell of leather, and tallow, and woodsmoke. My feet are cold.”

  “Then you’d best return to bed.” He moved beneath her and helped her to stand.

  “But the bed is freezing.” As soon as she moved away from the fire, the chill air struck her skin.

  The chamber fell silent, but for the spitting of the log on the fire and the thud of her heartbeat in her ears. And the echo of her own voice, and the invitation she’d unwittingly made.

  “Do you want me to warm you for a little while? Just until you slumber? Then I’ll return to my chair.”

  “That sounds good.” Curse it. She hadn’t meant to voice that thought. She was sober enough to know that if she let him join her in the bed, she was playing with fire.

  “I’m bone-weary, and all I’m thinking of now is rest. And I’ve given you my word not to touch you, have I not? My sword hangs on the bedpost yonder. You have my permission to use it against me should I transgress.”

  She glanced blearily at the weapon. If she lay on that side of the bed, nearest to the blade, it would serve, would it not? And all she wanted now was warmth and rest.

  “Very well.” She clambered back into the high, cold bed and shifted across so she was within arm’s reach of the dangling scabbard. She had no intention of harming Allan with it—unless he threatened her. Even then, she’d rather use it as a deterrent than shed his blood.

  The pallet crackled as he lay down behind her. The glow on the wall had taken on a deeper hue as the log in the fireplace burned down. She could hear the settling of ash in the grate and the steady rhythm of the man’s breathing as his heat gradually filled the space between them. Her pillow was soft, filled with feathers that rustled companionably when she moved her head, and it smelled faintly of rosemary.

  Smiling dreamily, she closed her eyes. She had never felt so comfortable—nor so safe—before.

  But when she awakened at cockcrow to discover Allan curled up tightly against her back, w
ith one hand cupping her breast, she realized she hadn’t been safe at all.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Allan was jolted awake by a sharp pain jabbing into his ribs. He gasped, discovered another body wriggling away from him, and sat up alarmed, automatically reaching for his sword.

  It wasn’t there.

  What in heaven’s name? He blinked rapidly and flung himself out of bed, staring aghast at the scantily-clad maiden brandishing his weapon in front of her.

  “You said you wouldn’t touch me. You swore it!”

  He ran a hand through his hair and stared at Cecily. He hadn’t touched her. Had he? Surely, he would have remembered? His heart was pumping hard from the shock of so unpleasant an awakening, and he couldn’t pull his thoughts into any kind of order.

  “I seem to remember promising something of the kind, and I meant it.” He picked up Cecily’s kirtle and threw it onto the bed between them. “If we are about to have a battle, you had better dress first. This room is as cold as the grave.”

  Keeping half an eye on her, he knelt to see if there was any life left in the fire and, finding none, set about kindling a fresh blaze. He had woken in shock, and his body was shaking—he would need a tisane, or something mulled when he broke his fast later. As, no doubt, would she.

  To his relief, she lowered the sword, then dropped it onto the bed. She stepped into her dress and laced it up, then threw her cloak around her. She found and fastened on her shoes and then—presumably feeling safe from molestation—stood near the door, glaring at him.

  He took his time doing up the points of his doublet, still gathering his scattered thoughts, then donned his own cloak and indicated the door.

  “You are free to leave, Cecily. The kitchen fire will need to be built up so we may break our fast. I would welcome something warm in my belly—mayhap some frumenty would serve. Shall you make some?”

  He realized he was making a half-hearted attempt to return to their respective roles of master and servant. Which he could not now, in the name of chivalry, do. Cecily had spent the night in his bed—she was now as much his as Hannah had been, whether or not he had laid a finger on her. And if he had, he damned well wished he could remember what it had felt like.