Lord of the Manor (Trysts and Treachery Book 5)

by Elizabeth Keysian

  He found and sucked at her other breast and increased the pressure of his knee.

  “How is that, my lady?”

  She wanted more. Something more intimate, more personal. She wanted to feel him deep in the core of her. She raised her hips and pushed against him.

  Suddenly, his knee was replaced by the shaft of his manhood, hard, tempting, terrifying.

  She gasped as he slid slowly up and down, and she wondered whence the moisture had come that allowed him to move so easily. Then he released her hands, rolled to one side, and slipped a finger into her velvet depths.

  She groaned aloud then, not caring what he might think of her. His touch was exquisite, probing and gentle, coaxing fresh waves of pleasure from her body. Reaching up, she stroked and clutched at him wherever she could reach, then clumsily brought his head back to hers and sought his mouth while his knowing hand worked its magic.

  She realized she’d opened her eyes, despite not having been given permission. He kissed her hungrily, breathing hard, and now he had his eyes closed, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then he shifted again and pushed her knees apart, kneeling before her like some pagan suppliant. For the first time, she saw his erect manhood in all its terrifying majesty.

  His blue eyes flashed open, and he replied to her look of alarm with a broad grin. “Have no fear, my love. You feel more than ready for me. I predict we will be the perfect fit, my glorious, beautiful Cecily.”

  He leaned over her then, resting on one arm, while his other hand guided his member to the place where his finger had been. She felt a hot pressure at her entrance, followed by a sharp tear of pain, but he immediately bent his head and kissed her, distracting her.

  And then she felt him slide in—a little at first, then further, and she felt her folds close around him in mute welcome. Each time she flexed her muscles down there, he let out a moan.

  “I’m hurting you!”

  “Nay. Only torturing me. I want to savor the moment. Pray, be still.”

  It was hard to stay still when she wanted to explore the feel of him inside her. But she relished the knowledge that her body also had some power over his—a mere flexing of her muscles could make him a moan, writhe, and shake his head. So, she did it again.

  “Curse you, you wanton! Will you never be ruled by me?” he gasped.

  “Mayhap not,” she breathed in response, smiling and reaching to tangle her hands in his hair.

  He pressed in again, more forcefully this time, and the sensation she was experiencing at the contact increased a hundredfold. Then he withdrew before pushing in again, eliciting a gasp from her. This was more incredible than she could ever have imagined. Lovemaking, when one was actually in love, was the ultimate joy. It was beyond lust, beyond longing. It was beautiful, heavenly—and this union with the man completed her, both body and soul.

  And then she was carried away by the rhythmic rocking and pounding of his body as he surged into her time and time again, driving deep inside her, and finding his own pleasure as he stoked hers. Her hands were claws, digging into his shoulders. Her breath came in great bursts, and she let out soft little cries at the ecstasy toward which he was driving her.

  And then in one great rush, she felt as if she’d left her body, ascending to the highest peak of pleasure, and he lost his rhythm and swayed drunkenly into her, breathing as hard as if he’d been running, as if his first explosion of passion was spent, but his body refused to accept it. Her body didn’t want to accept it either. She squeezed her legs together in mute appeal.

  His eyes flew open, and his heated gaze locked with hers. “That. Was. Wonderful,” he managed. “Thank you, my love.”

  “Thank you, too, my love.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her. “I deserve the elevated title of ‘love’, now, do I? I wonder if that tender word just escaped in the heat of the moment.”

  She couldn’t help but grin at him. With his hair tousled, his eyes brilliant with love, and his magnificent body gilded by the firelight, he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

  “Mayhap, we need to create another such moment, so I can make sure I really do love you, Master Smythe.”

  “Call me Allan,” he growled. “Or better still, ‘Husband’ since you are now mine. I see you intend me to work hard at pleasing you.”

  “I know you’re not afraid of hard work.” She couldn’t keep the laughter from her voice. Never before had she felt so profoundly satiated, so contented. And love was truly a wondrous thing.

  Suddenly, she was scooped up and set on her feet, and her clothes were bundled into her arms.

  “Of to bed with you, Woman. The price for working me hard is to warm the sheets ere I come to join you. Have no fear—I’ll cover the fire and make sure your demonic avian is settled before I come up.”

  She climbed slowly up the ladder, struggling to regain control of her limbs. She felt light, womanly, powerful. Allan had made her feel that way. And she couldn’t wait for him to come up and set the seal on her happiness by making her feel that way again.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Allan surfaced from a delicious dream to the acrid scent of smoke.

  He came instantly awake, untangled himself from the mess of sheets that confined both him and Cecily, and shot from the bed, almost knocking himself out on the low beam above.

  “Get up, Cecily!” He rubbed the back of his head, trying to make sense of what was happening, while his heart thumped madly in his chest.

  “What is it? What’s amiss?”

  Cruelly deprived of the chance to enjoy his rosy, tousled ladylove first thing in the morning, Allan thrust her shift and kirtle at her.

  “Fire! Get dressed—quickly.” He ended this command with a cough. There was too much smoke to be from an ordinary blaze in the hearth—something catastrophic was happening, and they must make all haste to escape.

  “What’s on fire?” Cecily’s eyes were wide as she struggled into her clothes.

  “I’m not sure, but ’tis too close for comfort.” It smelled like hay or straw at stubble burning time. The thatch? Surely not! How could the roof be ablaze when he’d put the cover on the fire last night? There could be no sparks rising from a dead fire. Mayhap, something had blown across from a neighboring chimney, like the one at the bakehouse, and ignited Cecily’s roof. As he hurried after her down the wooden steps into the main room of the cottage, he promised himself that as soon as he could afford it, he’d replace all the thatch in the village with tiles.

  Smoke billowed about them as they reached the floor. “Go straight out the door, Cecily,” he called, reaching for their cloaks. “Shout for help, so the villagers know what’s afoot—aid will come soon enough. We cannot contain this alone.”

  To his horror, she hung back, peering at him through the increasingly dense smoke. “What of Charlemagne? What of the treasure?”

  “Never mind that. Get yourself out. I’ll see to Charlemagne and the money if I can. Now, just get out.”

  His last words were a shout as he pushed her toward the door, then turned back to see what had happened to the peregrine. He heard Cecily unlock the door and felt a waft of heat as the opening drew it downward. If she had any sense, she’d close the door again, lest the cottage become a furnace.

  He pulled his neckcloth over his mouth and nose and fumbled his way to the corner where Charlemagne was flapping and screeching on his perch. He untied the jesses, and the bird instantly flew upward and straight through a glowing hole in the thatch.

  Allan blinked as glowing curls of red floated to the ground, some of them catching in his clothing and hair. Did he really have time to save the Templars’ gold? If he wanted a stable, happy life with his betrothed, they desperately needed that money.

  The heap of fleeces that concealed the cache was already smoking, the wool sizzling with an unpleasant smell of burned sheep’s grease. He plunged his hands into Cecily’s bucket and yanked the smoldering fleeces aside, but he could barely see now for
smoke, and it was increasingly difficult to breathe.

  Curse it. He couldn’t find the handle to lift the hatch. His blood pounded in his ears as the fire roared and crackled above him. Once it ate into the roof timbers, there’d be no safety below. Still cursing colorfully, he abandoned the attempt, and stumbled toward the door. They’d have to put the fire out, then return for the cache when it was safe to do so. The money would do him no good if he was dead. And if he were dead, he wouldn’t be able to protect Cecily.

  The door latch was hot to the touch. He pressed the metal bar up and pulled on the door. Then pulled again.

  The door refused to open.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Cecily stumbled, coughing, onto the cobbles, her bare feet chilled by their touch. But the cold was welcome—the cold brought her to her senses, casting off the last drugging veils of sleep. This was no dream, no nightmare from which she could hope to awaken. Her home was truly aflame, and she needed to get as far away as possible.

  A man grabbed her and hauled her bodily away from the cottage, then ran back to the door, picking up something from the ground. Good—already, other villagers were aware of their plight. They might be able to save the building.

  Now at a safe distance, she spun back to look at the cottage. Where was Allan? Where was Charlemagne?

  Her heart thundered so hard she thought it would explode, and her fingers shook with fear. Her lungs ached, and she felt sick, but that was not important—she was out now and safe. They were not.

  Then, to her enormous relief, she saw Charlemagne swoop down and land on a neighboring roof. He would be too terrified to come to her straightaway, but no matter—she’d recapture him once the flames had died down.

  As her eyes remained pinned to the doorway, she became aware of shouts and noise as more people rushed forth from their cottages, carrying buckets of water which were passed from hand-to-hand before their contents were thrown at her cottage. Someone had fetched the long hook that hung up on the wall of the church and had started dragging the burning roof thatch away from the building in an effort to save the walls.

  But still, Allan hadn’t emerged, and no one seemed to be looking for him. Of course, everyone would expect her to have been alone. How selfish of her to demand he save Charlemagne and the treasure! His life was too valuable to put at risk—she loved him too deeply to cope without him. Foolish girl! She was about to rush back to the cottage when a painful grip held her back.

  “Holy Mary, let go of me. There’s someone in there!” She tugged at the hand that held her, infuriated and horrified.

  “Would that be Master Smythe, by any chance?”

  Ice flooded her veins—Master Kennett Clark!

  “Does it matter who?” she spluttered. “We must save him!” Allan was still not out of the burning building—something must have gone seriously wrong.

  “It is Allan, isn’t it? The lucky cur. I’ll go and get him out for you. But there’s a condition attached.”

  What? Why should there be a condition? Surely, even a coldhearted knave like Kennett Clark would make some attempt to save him?

  “You don’t want everyone to know your shame, do you? I’ll go in and help him out through the back window. No one will see, and under cover of all that smoke, your reputation will be unsullied. Just give me what I want, and all will be well.”

  She struggled in his arms. “Leave me be. I’ll strike no devil’s bargain with you.”

  “Then say farewell to your lover.” Kennett held something in front of her eyes. She blinked, then sucked in a horrified breath. Her key! It must have fallen in her scramble to get out.

  The truth slammed into her with nauseating clarity. As if in a nightmare, she saw the latch of the cottage door move rapidly up and down, saw the door shaking on its hinges as Allan struggled to get out.

  But Master Clark had locked him in.

  She made a grab for the key, but the villain held it out of range and uttered a hollow laugh.

  “Every second you hesitate, the closer to death he comes. Say you will be my whore—at least until I tire of you—and you shall have the key. If you don’t comply, you’ll never see Allan again.”

  She fought, bit and kicked, trying to break the man’s hold on her, not caring how much she might hurt him or herself, but he was the stronger, and the key always remained just out of reach.

  “What the devil is happening here?” A stocky fellow clad in a dark doublet and hose had hurried up, brandishing a baton in one hand.

  “Naught that would interest you, Master Wright—nothing of a criminal nature. A house fire, and a terrified and distraught damsel. I’m stopping her from rushing back into the flames to save her trinkets, as you can see.”

  Master Wright? Was that not the corrupt constable who had once incarcerated Allan? If he was in league with Master Clark again, Allan was doomed.

  “There’s a man trapped inside,” she choked, but her voice was drowned out by a gasp from the villagers. She turned to look as white flame licked along one of the roof timbers before it let out an unearthly groan and subsided into the middle of the cottage in a shower of sparks.

  “Allan!” Her voice was part scream, part sob. Still, the key was held out of reach. The latch rattled ever more frantically.

  She heard a high whistling sound and realized Charlemagne had taken off from his roof and was circling nearby, out of range of the billowing smoke.

  Wrenching one arm free from Clark’s grip, she made a gesture she knew the bird would recognize, then ducked out of harm’s way.

  Like a speeding arrow, Charlemagne dived straight at Master Clark. His talons caught in the man’s hat, but in his vanity, the fellow had pinned it to his head at a jaunty angle, so it failed to come off. There was a brief battle of wings, sharp talons, and flapping hands. When Charlemagne’s claws raked the back of Master Clark’s hand, he yelped in pain and dropped the key. Cecily threw herself down to retrieve it, but the constable was there before her.

  “Keep clear, Mistress,” he ordered, then raced toward the cottage door. Flinging one arm over his face to protect himself, he unlocked it and flung it open.

  Allan, smoke streaming from his clothes, lurched out and collapsed into the constable’s arms.

  Regardless of her own safety, Cecily chased forward and flung herself to her knees, fanning Allan’s face and calling for water to stem his coughing, while struggling to see through her tears. His clothing was hot to the touch, his hair singed in places, and he couldn’t stop coughing—but he was alive, thank the Lord.

  “Here—we’ll take him into my cottage.” She heard Martin’s voice, right by her ear. “Constable—can you help me carry him?”

  “Nay, I’ll help.”

  Cecily breathed a sigh of relief—Anselm was there, too.

  “Master Wright—I believe you have another duty to perform.” Anselm’s expression was grim.

  Cecily was cradling Allan against her chest, supporting him as he gasped and retched, patting his back and covering his face with kisses in between the spasms, but she looked up when Anselm said, “Constable?” She’d never heard him use so harsh a tone before.

  Both men were staring at Master Kennett Clark, who stood observing the still-raging fire with a puzzled frown, licking his wounded hands. When the constable nodded at Anselm and approached Kennett, the man flung up his hands, looking the very picture of outraged innocence.

  “Did you see that? That bird attacked me? It should be killed, and its owner cast into prison.” He pointed a shaking finger at Cecily.

  “My apologies, sir, but I can’t ignore what I witnessed with my own eyes. You deliberately withheld the key.” The constable looked cross and awkward, being the same man who had unjustly incarcerated Allan a few weeks earlier. Some of the villagers who weren’t involved in the bucket chain rushed to surround Master Clark, shaking their fists and shouting angrily.

  Face red with fury, Clark sent Cecily and Allan a look that promised dire retribution
. But the next instant, the constable wrenched his arm up behind his back and forced him into movement. The villagers’ jeers accompanied their progress as the constable marched Clark off to be incarcerated.

  Cecily didn’t think she could ever hate anyone more than she hated Master Clark. He’d risked the life of the man she loved, threatened her, and destroyed her home. If he were to be executed for his crimes, she wouldn’t turn a hair.

  The power of her anger buoyed her up, and she followed Anselm and Martin back to Martin’s cottage, too concerned with Allan’s well-being to even think about the fate of all her possessions. It wasn’t until Allan was settled in a chair, having his hot clothing and skin doused with water and his fingers dabbed with ointment, that she thought to look for her courageous peregrine.

  “Anselm, Martin—have either of you seen Charlemagne?”

  Martin glanced over his shoulder, and his expression chilled her.

  “I regret that I have, my dearest Cecily. I saw him flying across the rooftops with smoke coming from his plumage. A stray spark must have landed on him after he attacked Master Clark. I’m so sorry.”

  Fortunately, Anselm was standing right beside her, or she would have fallen. Charlemagne gone? The cottage gone, too? The Templar hoard was doubtless reduced to a useless mess, and Allan had burned hands and, quite possibly, damaged lungs from the excessive smoke. The best night of her life, followed by the worst morning conceivable. How would she ever recover from this?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Allan awakened in his own bed, the grey light of early dawn filtering through the shutters. His chest ached, and his throat tickled relentlessly, forcing him instantly upright so he could cough up the dark phlegm that clogged his lungs. Someone held out a bowl for him, which was fortunate, since his hands were both too firmly bandaged to be of any use at all.

  “Cecily?” His voice sounded like that of another man’s, and it hurt to speak.