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

work and ensure the coffer containing the Templars’ treasure didn’t fall into the wrong hands. Into his hands.

“I accept.”

She almost missed a step. That had been too easy.

“Don’t look at me askance. I had already made up my mind to ask you after Lettice hurt her wrist, but I sensed you would refuse me. You seem more… amenable now.”

She tried to look less amenable. This man needed to be kept at arm’s length—she dared not let down her guard when he was around.

She cleared her throat. “Then that’s settled.” Should she shake his hand? Nay, just the thought of his hot, firm grip tangled her insides.

“I wonder if you might consider a similar bargain with my uncles.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like an entirely different matter. But pray, go on.”

“They could work for you, too. Rather than pay rent.”

“Pray allow me to collect some rents in coin, Mistress! Money is necessary to run a manor such as this—I cannot barter for the kind of supplies I need.”

“I know, I know.” She plucked a stem of dead cow parsley from the verge and broke it into small pieces. “But it would serve you well in the end if the men were to take down the buildings for you, so you could sell the stone.”

He slowed, glanced at her, then chuckled. “You’re certainly not lacking in wit or cunning, are you? I have yet to uncover all your secret skills, I am certain.”

She looked away. She had too many secrets and seemed to be adding to them by the minute. But at least he was listening—and smiling, which augured well.

She decided to press the point. “My uncles are fit and well, despite their grey hairs. Entirely trustworthy, loyal, and hard-working. They would appreciate the employment, as winter can be hard for us all.”

“And must my kitchen feed them as well?” His eyes were bright, reflecting the pale blue of the October sky.

“As I said, my bow and bird are yours. We can catch coneys, hares, pigeons, rooks, partridges, and pheasants. I can turn my hand to maintaining the vegetable and herb garden, and you would benefit from having a healer of Uncle Martin’s skill on the manor.”

“You put your case well, Mistress Cecily Neville. I shall think upon all you have said. Now, we have arrived at the village, and there are several people around, so you should be safe should Kennett put in an appearance.”

They’d arrived at the village? She hadn’t noticed. “Aye, indeed. Fare thee well, then, sir. You’ll send word when you’ve decided?”

They had come to a halt before her cottage door.

“Aye—I shall.” He held out his hand.

Hesitantly, she took it. His grip was firm and warm but businesslike—his touch lingered no longer than was proper. His palm was hardened by calluses from his labor, but the touch of his hand had precisely the effect she’d predicted—she felt swamped, and her knees weakened. Curse the man!

“God give you good day, Cecily. When next we break bread together, we will not be dining on burnt offerings. If you are anything like as good a cook as I expect you to be!”

He gave her a smart bow, then swung away and strode off.

She watched him leave, one hand resting on the door latch, inwardly exulting. She had made of Master Allan Smythe a friend, it seemed, despite having convinced herself he could be naught but foe.

Then a shadow clouded her joy. She had also made of Master Kennett Clark an enemy. The consequences of that could be perilous, indeed.

Chapter Eleven

Allan could not recall the last time he’d felt so content. Not happy—nay, never that, as that would be an insult to Hannah’s memory. But having Cecily and her family about the manor had lifted his spirits, made him feel more welcome in the locality, and given him hope in his heart at the dawn of every day.

Cecily had been his cook and general servant for a good two months, and as Christmastide approached, he hoped she would not be shocked or angered if he gave her a gift. It felt wrong, having her labor so hard but not paying her. Ofttimes, he thought what she did for him exceeded the value of her rent, but she’d hear none of it.

She had changed. There was a hungry light in her dark eyes as if she had regained faith in good fortune, and she smiled more often. They seldom fought—though he still teased her, and she teased him back. One might almost say they had become fast friends, despite the chasm between their different stations in life.

He supposed her mood must have improved because he’d acceded to her wishes. Her uncles came regularly to the manor now, wearing stout shoes and leather aprons stitched by Master Benedict, and—at Cecily’s insistence—bindings to protect their hands. Under Benedict’s supervision, they had started with the demolition of the old guesthouse, with Anselm chiseling out each stone, and Martin chipping off all the loose mortar before stacking the cleaned pieces.

Master Benedict showed an artisan’s desire for precision—before the removal of each block of stone, he donned a peculiar-looking set of eyeglasses and stared closely at the wall. Then he tapped the stone with a mallet and listened, then checked the mortar before moving aside for Anselm. He’d even borrowed a set of surveyor’s chains which he proudly wore attached to his belt—apparently this task had given him a new lease on life. It was doubtless a welcome change from sitting hunched up over his cobbler’s clamp, mending rotting, pungent shoes.

Cecily’s was a capable and adaptable family, and Allan had no doubt at all of her cleverness. But despite her continued smiles, conscientious toil, and cheerful exchanges with him, he knew he did not have her full story.

Now that Master Swaffham had taken over the accounts and business affairs, Allan was able to devote himself more to the physical tasks that needed doing on the manor. This had given him plenty of