Lord of the Manor (Trysts and Treachery Book 5) by Elizabeth Keysian (robert munsch read aloud .txt) 📗

Anselm indicated that he should enter. “Nay, sir. We were just about to eat. Will you partake of some?”

He’d better not. Lettice was at home attempting to roast a brace of doves. She was so sensitive about her culinary skills, that she’d probably resign her position in a huff if he’d already eaten when he returned home.

“Don’t trouble yourself. I only came to find out when the stools and other items would be ready.”

There was something amiss here. Both the wood-turner and his guest looked self-conscious—anxious, even. And the door had been bolted, even though they were both within. Surely there couldn’t be anything between Cecily and the much older Anselm? Acid rose in Allan’s stomach.

“The stools will be ready in a day or two. I’ll work on them upon the morrow.”

Cecily was still grinning blithely at Allan as if she were delighted to see him. There was definitely something going on here.

Scarcely glancing at Anselm, he said, “Thank you,” then held Cecily’s gaze. “I’ve been looking for you, but you weren’t in church. I trust you are not unwell?”

He saw her cheeks darken, and the next thing he knew, she had a hand around his arm and was escorting him outside.

“How kind of you to ask after me. But I assure you—all is well.”

He blinked. Did he imagine it, or had she just fluttered her eyelashes at him?

“Good,” was all he could think of to say. The feel of her small hand on his arm was distracting, but he let her lead him all the way to her cottage without complaint.

As they paused before her door, he remembered his question. “I looked for you in church.”

“Ah, that was Anselm’s fault. He kept me talking so long, I quite forgot. Won’t you come within?”

He stooped and entered. “You’ll have heard the church bells, surely?”

“Hush.” She stood before him and pressed a finger to his lips. “You need not fear for my soul, sir. It is quite secure. Can I offer you refreshment—a drink, mayhap?”

“Aye, if you would.” A pox on it—he hadn’t meant to say yes. “A drop of cordial would serve—if you have any, that is.”

“I have a redcurrant one. Merciful heaven—someone’s been here!”

Cecily was staring at the sack he’d left on the floor by her pantry shelf. Her rosy flush and smiles were all gone as her eyes darted around the room.

“That’s from me. A peace offering, if you will—we didn’t part as friends last time.”

Suddenly, she was all smiles again—it was as if the sun had come out from behind a cloud.

As she filled a cup with cordial for him, he realized his lips still tingled from her touch. No one had been so bold with his person since Hannah—so it was hardly surprising that Cecily’s touch should excite him. Nay. Not excite—intrigue, rather.

As she sipped her own cordial, she regarded him over the rim of her cup, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners. What had he done to deserve such beneficence? She hadn’t even looked in the sack yet. He ought to make neighborly conversation but couldn’t think of anything to say.

Cecily drained her cup and laid it on the shelf. He did the same and noticed a tremor in his fingers—this woman’s proximity was unsettling him. Her benign mood bothered him even more than her usual antagonism.

“Don’t you want to see what I brought you?” He gestured at the sack.

“A peace offering, you said? I confess that I would rather we were friends than foes.” She delved a hand into the sack.

“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