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

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