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

another log on it before dragging an ancient cross-framed chair close to the blaze. Then he sat down, removed his shoes and belt, and gazed at her.

“Do you need assistance with that?” He padded across the room in stockinged feet and applied himself to the problem of her lacing. As he drew the laces through the eyeholes, she felt the brush of his fingers against her breasts and wondered if he’d meant what he said about being honorable. She must make every effort to sober up, just in case he played her false, and she needed to defend herself. Only, being lifted to her feet, then having him peel her kirtle from her shoulders and help her step out of it felt both liberating and sinful—in a hugely enjoyable way.

Which was dangerous. As he spread her dress out at the foot of the bed and returned to his chair, she did battle with the covers until she found the way in, then lay beneath the sheets. The icy cold which met her body was a rude awakening for her dozing senses. She wrapped her arms around herself, but could not stop shuddering. It had been a mistake to remove her kirtle.

For a while, she lay in the vast, strange bed, watching the firelight make flickering shadows on the tapestry-covered wall. This room, Allan’s bedchamber, was the best and most finely furnished in the building. He must have brought the hangings himself, mayhap from his home in Cambridge. The bed was new—she could tell from the scent of the wood and the condition of the drapes. He’d allowed himself a few luxuries then—this was the chamber of a prosperous merchant of woolen cloth, not that of a rural sheep farmer. Although he toiled so hard that he doubtless fell asleep the instant he lay down, and had little time to enjoy it.

She shivered again and wondered if she should warm herself by the fire before trying to sleep—or put her kirtle back on. She could throw her cloak over her and tuck it around her neck.

“I know not how I am to sleep when forced to listen to your teeth a-chattering.”

“I can’t help it. The bed is cold.” She wasn’t going to apologize. If it hadn’t been for his overly-strong mead, she’d be snug and warm in her own cottage now.

Suddenly she sat up. “Charlemagne! I’ve forgotten Charlemagne.”

“Your bird is being taken care of. Benedict promised to attend to him in case you were delayed. Now, stop fretting, come over here, and get warm.”

Still shuddering, she threw back the covers and trotted toward the fire, only to be caught up by Allan and settled in his lap. He threw his cloak over both of them and held her close.

“I shouldn’t—” she began.

“You already are,” he countered. “Now stop complaining and let me warm you. But first, have a drink of water. You’ll need it if you are to find the morrow even remotely bearable.”

She dutifully sipped the cold well water from the cup he handed her. “I’m sorry your wife died,” she said, as she drained the last drops.

He shifted beneath her. “Where did that come from?” He sounded startled.

“I was just thinking that you are a kindly fellow. You deserve better fortune.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” He chuckled and pulled her against his chest. “Though I never expected such a compliment from your lips. However, we must deal with what the good Lord chooses to send us, whether it brings joy or sorrow. I lost not only my Hannah but the babe, too.”

She lifted her head and stared at him. “Nay! I didn’t know that. It must have been hard for you.” She cupped his cheek with one hand and gazed at him.

He turned his head to kiss her palm. “Aye. Too hard. I wallowed in my own tragedy so long I went half-mad, I think. Lunatic enough to believe that her brother, Kennett, had my best interests at heart when he offered to partner me in a business venture. Greatly to my cost, as fortune would have it. But let’s not think of that now. It is Christmas night, and we have feasted well and even frolicked a little. Thank you for dancing with me.”

She snuggled closer into his warm, male body, comforted by the strength of his arms. “I liked it.”

“Another compliment!” She felt his lips brush her hair. “Methinks the elves have taken the true Cecily Neville and put a changeling in her place.”

“Don’t jest. You still have many faults, sir, not least of them being—” that you are a Protestant and a heretic. She stopped herself from voicing her thoughts just in time.

“That I am an overbearing, untrusting, untrustworthy knave? I understand—you will find me more amenable, I assure you, once Kennett is gone from my life. Beware of him, my sweet. He wants you, and he’s a snake. Nay—that is unfair to snakes. But you know this. Are you warmer now?”

She certainly was, but the chill of the bed was unappealing right now. She nestled her head against Allan’s neck. His embrace was novel, thrilling, intoxicating. Headier, even, than the mead she’d consumed. She felt his cheek brush against her hair and realized her coif had come off. Little wonder she’d been feeling the cold.

“You smell wonderful.” His voice was a soft murmur.

“I do?” She toyed with one of the lace ends on his doublet. “After all that cooking, I must smell foul.”

“There’s a hint of hog’s fat, I confess, but overlain with woodsmoke and something else yet more pleasant—lavender, mayhap?”

If he knew that she’d washed her hair with a soap ball containing dried lavender, he’d think she’d done it to please him. Nay, never that. She’d done it to please herself. Hadn’t she?

“You smell of leather, and tallow, and woodsmoke. My feet are cold.”

“Then you’d best return to bed.” He moved beneath her and helped her to stand.

“But the bed is freezing.” As soon as she moved away from the fire, the chill air struck