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

Cecily hadn’t enjoyed the leer Clark had sent her before he departed, however. There was too much cunning, too much determination in his expression. She was reminded by that look that he still wanted her and was ready to seize her the moment she let down her guard.

She shuddered at the memory, then glanced again at the locked door and the shuttered windows. Clark would not gain access easily. And she had pots, pans, and knives aplenty with which to protect herself should he decide to attempt an invasion.

It was not just herself she was protecting—it was the knowledge she held. For the Templars’ gold had, indeed, been found. The rotting sacks in the cellar had proved to contain coin and several sacred vessels in silver and gold. Fortunately, everything had been carefully packaged up by the Templars before deposition, which made it easier to retrieve. The men hadn’t attempted this until after dark on the day of the discovery, to conceal the find from greedy, curious eyes—particularly those of the omnipresent Master Clark.

Cecily had had no idea what the cache was worth, nor what was to be done with it, but Allan had immediately insisted that the find belonged to the brethren and not to himself. After considerable argument, it had been decided the hoard should be divided between all five of them and hidden in different locations around the village to make it harder for anyone else to find.

Cecily became aware of a rumbling sound, followed by a soft scratching at the front door. She leaped to her feet, pressing her cheek against the wood.

“Are you come to bid me goodnight?” she whispered into the gap by the door frame.

“Aye. Bene darkmans, Mistress Neville.”

It was the correct response. Besides which, she’d recognize Allan’s voice anywhere. She rapidly unlocked and unbolted the door, and he entered, rolling a small wooden cask along the ground in front of him. As she secured the door in his wake, he maneuvered the cask upright, then straightened and brushed his hands clean on his thighs.

“That is the last of it. Two shares—yours and mine.” He gazed at her a moment, then spread his hands out to warm them at the fire. “I’m glad you’ve kept a goodly blaze going—it is colder than the grave out there.”

“I’ll mull some ale.”

“That would be most welcome. But I’ll not rest until this cask is hidden from view. Into your hole in the floor, as planned?”

She nodded, and he drew the fleeces aside, opened the trapdoor, and descended into the hole.

“Can you tip and roll the thing toward me? I want to lower it down, rather than risk breaking it by dropping it in.”

She did as he asked, enjoying the faint clink emitted by the barrel as she rolled it into his hands. There must surely be enough coin in there to buy her safe passage. Only—it was no longer coin of the realm, so it might have to be melted down into ingots which could be sold. Which would take time, planning, and a considerable degree of cunning if the hoard’s discovery was to remain secret.

She hoped that meant she could remain in Temple Roding a little longer and spend more time in Allan’s company. The idea of joining the men in escaping to France—thus leaving Allan behind—was so painful that she refused to think about it. There was so much she didn’t yet know about him, so much to explore. And she wanted to see him put Master Clark in his place. She yearned to see Allan triumph and turn his farming venture into a success. But most of all, she wanted to see the great house built. He had described his plans to her with such enthusiasm and clarity, she could easily visualize the building. The boyish joy she’d seen on his face quite melted her heart.

The trapdoor snapped shut, and Allan moved the fleeces across, then seated himself atop the pile. Cecily busied herself heating the poker so she could mull the ale—he mustn’t know she’d been watching his every movement, thinking about him, feverishly imagining wicked things to which she couldn’t even give a name.

As he took the cup of ale from her, his fingers brushed hers, and she felt that pounding jolt of awareness that his touch always produced.

“You look cold, Cecily. Come sit by the fire with me for a moment or two. I’ll be gone as soon as I’ve warmed myself.”

She didn’t want him to go. Now that the gold was physically inside the cottage, she felt more vulnerable than before, as if it were a lodestone invisibly attracting the attention of bandits and thieves. And the dangerous Master Kennet Clark.

“I would have you stay awhile.” She couldn’t keep the tremor out of her voice.

He held her gaze. “I understand. Now that the money is here, you feel less safe. I will stay until the fire dies down, and you’re ready to seek your bed.”

She didn’t want the fire to die down. She didn’t want to sleep. She would only feel safe while he remained, his quick wit and his strong arms there to protect her. She might be prepared to let him leave when the dull grey dawn penetrated the gaps in the shutters, and the villagers set about their daily tasks. But mayhap, not even then.

“So—are you happy to go to France with the brethren, now you have the means to pay for your passage?” He raised his cup and saluted her with it before taking a deep draft.

Happy? Nay. Go to a place full of foreign customs, habits, and a language she couldn’t hope to understand—what was appealing about that?

She knotted her fingers together. “I don’t want to leave at all.”

“But you would be safe to worship as you wished.” His voice was soft, his eyes bright in flickering firelight.

That didn’t seem as important as it once had. Mayhap, as the young King Edward