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

“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