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

The chamber fell silent, but for the spitting of the log on the fire and the thud of her heartbeat in her ears. And the echo of her own voice, and the invitation she’d unwittingly made.

“Do you want me to warm you for a little while? Just until you slumber? Then I’ll return to my chair.”

“That sounds good.” Curse it. She hadn’t meant to voice that thought. She was sober enough to know that if she let him join her in the bed, she was playing with fire.

“I’m bone-weary, and all I’m thinking of now is rest. And I’ve given you my word not to touch you, have I not? My sword hangs on the bedpost yonder. You have my permission to use it against me should I transgress.”

She glanced blearily at the weapon. If she lay on that side of the bed, nearest to the blade, it would serve, would it not? And all she wanted now was warmth and rest.

“Very well.” She clambered back into the high, cold bed and shifted across so she was within arm’s reach of the dangling scabbard. She had no intention of harming Allan with it—unless he threatened her. Even then, she’d rather use it as a deterrent than shed his blood.

The pallet crackled as he lay down behind her. The glow on the wall had taken on a deeper hue as the log in the fireplace burned down. She could hear the settling of ash in the grate and the steady rhythm of the man’s breathing as his heat gradually filled the space between them. Her pillow was soft, filled with feathers that rustled companionably when she moved her head, and it smelled faintly of rosemary.

Smiling dreamily, she closed her eyes. She had never felt so comfortable—nor so safe—before.

But when she awakened at cockcrow to discover Allan curled up tightly against her back, with one hand cupping her breast, she realized she hadn’t been safe at all.

Chapter Fifteen

Allan was jolted awake by a sharp pain jabbing into his ribs. He gasped, discovered another body wriggling away from him, and sat up alarmed, automatically reaching for his sword.

It wasn’t there.

What in heaven’s name? He blinked rapidly and flung himself out of bed, staring aghast at the scantily-clad maiden brandishing his weapon in front of her.

“You said you wouldn’t touch me. You swore it!”

He ran a hand through his hair and stared at Cecily. He hadn’t touched her. Had he? Surely, he would have remembered? His heart was pumping hard from the shock of so unpleasant an awakening, and he couldn’t pull his thoughts into any kind of order.

“I seem to remember promising something of the kind, and I meant it.” He picked up Cecily’s kirtle and threw it onto the bed between them. “If we are about to have a battle, you had better dress first. This room is as cold as the grave.”

Keeping half an eye on her, he knelt to see if there was any life left in the fire and, finding none, set about kindling a fresh blaze. He had woken in shock, and his body was shaking—he would need a tisane, or something mulled when he broke his fast later. As, no doubt, would she.

To his relief, she lowered the sword, then dropped it onto the bed. She stepped into her dress and laced it up, then threw her cloak around her. She found and fastened on her shoes and then—presumably feeling safe from molestation—stood near the door, glaring at him.

He took his time doing up the points of his doublet, still gathering his scattered thoughts, then donned his own cloak and indicated the door.

“You are free to leave, Cecily. The kitchen fire will need to be built up so we may break our fast. I would welcome something warm in my belly—mayhap some frumenty would serve. Shall you make some?”

He realized he was making a half-hearted attempt to return to their respective roles of master and servant. Which he could not now, in the name of chivalry, do. Cecily had spent the night in his bed—she was now as much his as Hannah had been, whether or not he had laid a finger on her. And if he had, he damned well wished he could remember what it had felt like.

As he gazed at her, at the dark cloud of hair spilling over her shoulders, at her pert mouth and stubborn, elfin chin, he knew everything had changed. That change had been coming for a while, so slowly he’d barely been aware of it. But this woman had captured his heart and now held it prisoner. That was why it had felt so right to cradle her in his lap, why their kiss had been perfect, and why he’d felt no sense of sin when he’d shared his bed with her.

“Forgive me. That’s not what I meant to say at all. If I touched you, I was still half-asleep—I didn’t know what I was doing. But let me make amends.”

She glanced at the sword, frowning. He feared he’d lost her trust, and that hurt more than he cared to admit.

“How can you make amends?”

He cleared his throat, then stepped away from the hearth and indicated the chair. “Pray, sit. I have something to say to you.”

Still wary, she came back into the room and settled into the chair, drawing her cloak around her like armor. “Go on. I’m willing to listen to your apology.”

“Nay.” He softened his voice. “I have more to offer than that. This place, the old commandery, is close to your heart, is it not?”

The guarded look was back. “Why do you say that?”

“Don’t toy with me, Cecily. I know it means more to you than an easy source of small game and vegetables.”

She let out a sigh. “If you must know—it is because I was born here.”

He did a rapid calculation. “But that would surely have been—”

“When the place was still run by the Knight’s Hospitaller. I know.