Lord of the Manor (Trysts and Treachery Book 5) Elizabeth Keysian (pocket ebook reader txt) 📖

the bone in a moment, sir, once Lettice has had her willow bark tea to ease the pain.”

“What’s in the mortar?” Allan peered at it, all the while aware of Cecily’s eyes on him, even though he had given her no greeting. Mayhap she realized she’d offended him. Good.

“It is comfrey root from the garden,” Martin answered.

It was impressive how swiftly Martin and Cecily had found what they needed in the overgrown walled garden. It added to his suspicion that Cecily had been wont to come here—with or without her falcon—while the place lay untenanted, and doubtless others had done the same.

“What has become of Master Clark?” the healer asked amiably, taking some powder from his scrip and adding it to the mess in the mortar. “No one has seen him for days.”

Cecily’s gaze on Allan was like a physical touch. He continued to ignore her as he went to examine Lettice. The kitchen wench smiled weakly up at him so he patted her consolingly on the shoulder. It gave him a moment to word his answer to Martin’s question.

“He is no longer a partner in this undertaking.”

To his satisfaction, Cecily drew in a sharp breath, and she stopped stirring her brew.

“Oh, that must be a burden to you.” Martin sniffed at his mixture before nodding in satisfaction. “You cannot run a manor of this size without help. Why, even if you acted as steward yourself, you’d still want a bailiff, agricultural laborers, someone to mind the fishponds and tend the garden, not to mention—”

Cecily’s spoon clattered onto the table, and Martin’s speech came to an abrupt end. The man cleared his throat, then announced, “If you’re ready to administer the draft, Niece, I can set the bone and apply the poultice.”

Allan stood back as Cecily handed Lettice the tisane. Martin had spoken authoritatively about the running of the estate—he was a clever fellow, and there was no reason he shouldn’t know about such things. So, why had she felt the need to silence him?

“I’ve seasoned the drink with a little honey. Drink it down as fast as you can, though, as it will still be bitter.”

Allan watched the movement of Cecily’s slender hand as she tipped the cup to Lettice’s lips. Her fingers were gentle, her voice soothing. It seemed this wildcat could purr as well as hiss.

He suddenly became aware that Martin was speaking to him.

“I crave your pardon—I heard you not.”

“I said that I would be much obliged if you and Cecily would hold the girl steady while I work. People are apt to hit out when hurt. Be of good cheer, Lettice! I swear that the pain will ebb away soon enough. Cecily, if you would stay there and lift the injured arm a little?”

Allan found himself facing Cecily across Lettice’s lap, holding his servant’s good arm against the chair so she couldn’t lash out. He knew his attention should be on the invalid, who writhed and gasped as Martin prodded at her arm, then applied the force required to snap the bone back into place. But he had finally made eye contact with Cecily and was unable to look away. Her gaze was locked with his, her eyes round, her pert mouth pinched, her determined little chin set. If only he could guess at her thoughts.

Then Lettice moaned in agony, and tears sprang to Cecily’s eyes. But she wasn’t going to let go of Lettice’s arm, despite the horror of the girl’s suffering. Tender, immovable, harsh, caring—Cecily was a contradiction in every way. But when she held his gaze and gave him a watery smile, he suddenly felt more alive, more vital—as if he’d been walking in the shadows and had just emerged into the sunlight.

Martin applied his poultice. “We must wait until the comfrey root sets hard. Then I’ll add a splint to keep the wrist still.”

Allan barely heard him—he was still puzzling over his response to Cecily. She wasn’t trying to flatter or manipulate him, and she wasn’t giving him coy smiles or fluttering her eyelashes. She was letting him see the real Cecily Neville—the true depth of feeling and passion that lay within.

“I’m sorry, sir. It was so foolish of me. I should have tried to hook the herbs down, not climb up for them. Your dinner will be ruined.”

Allan shook his head, shattering the bubble that had enclosed him and Cecily.

“No matter. You may be relieved of your duties, Lettice. I can cook well enough and clean when needed. When Master Martin pronounces you fit to move, I’ll set you on my horse and take you home. Fear not—I’ll walk at his head to make sure he doesn’t jostle you.”

He caught sight of Cecily’s raised brows and cocked an eyebrow back at her. Didn’t know he could cook, did she? Nor had she imagined him capable of performing domestic tasks. There was much she had yet to learn about him—he’d had to fend for himself immediately after Hannah’s death and could do so again. The heavy work around the commandery would be delayed if he had domestic chores to do, however, which was a problem. He needed to ensure everything was in order by the time the sheep arrived.

While Martin packed his things away and Cecily comforted Lettice, Allan took a potholder and removed the cooking pot from the fire. Its contents were dry and blackened, and he knew from bitter experience that burned pottage was not worth eating. He’d scrape it into an old crock and give it to Cecily for her pig—if she wanted it. Ham and cheese would have to suffice for his meal.

His skin tingled as Cecily appeared beside him. What was it about the woman that affected him so? He gazed at her, waiting expectantly.

“What will you do now?”

“I suppose I should employ someone else until Lettice is better. It seems only fair to have her back thereafter.”

She looked up at him, almost shyly. “Did you have anyone in mind?”

“Nay.” He couldn’t possibly ask her. That