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

Whether they had intended to or not, Cecily and Master Martin had set him a challenge. He would not be outdone by his predecessors. He was going to make the commandery the most fruitful estate in the county, and everyone in the village would feel the benefit of his success. It would give him great pleasure to make Kennett regret his defection.

His ambition would require excessively hard work. That meant, alas, that he could not allow himself to be distracted by thoughts of Mistress Cecily Neville.

Chapter Ten

Though she had no reason to expect to see Allan Smythe, Cecily was nonetheless surprised that a whole month had passed without his sturdy frame darkening her doorway.

Without wanting to appear too interested, she’d made inquiries around the village and had learned that he’d taken possession of a flock of sheep and had put them out to graze on the Dovecote field. So not only was he running the manor, he was now a farmer of livestock—with so much to do, he was doubtless too exhausted to leave the commandery. Indeed, he hadn’t collected the Michaelmas rents in person—they’d been gathered by a stranger, going by the name of Master Swaffham, Smythe’s newly-appointed bailiff. One of the village boys had gone to look after the sheep, but if Smythe had employed any laborers to till the fields or cut the grass, he’d not taken them from Temple Roding village. Could he really be doing it all himself? Not knowing exactly what was going on at the commandery gnawed at her—and irritated her more than she could fathom.

She’d been in conclave with her “uncles” on several occasions recently. None seemed as concerned as she that Smythe would, while demolishing the derelict buildings, unearth the fabled Templar treasure. They were content with their comfortable, if penurious, lives, but she constantly nursed the fear that, one day, they might need that treasure—or its worth in coin.

What if young King Edward and his advisers became more intolerant toward Catholics? The signs were already there—gradually, celebration of the Mass was being abolished and a new prayer book was being brought in. There was talk of an Act of Uniformity which she feared would force everyone to renounce the pope. Would her mortal soul, and those of the men, be put in jeopardy? And if they refused, would they meet the same fate as the commandery’s preceptor? The treasure, whether it was in plate or coin, could protect them, and act as a shield against the agents of the king. Those agents were no more than men, after all, and officials were easily bribed. Or the money could be used to bear her and the brothers safely away to the Catholic realm of France.

Either way, it would be totally unjust for Smythe to discover it and claim it for himself. After much thought, she had hit upon a plan and had almost convinced her family to agree to it. The greatest obstacle lay ahead—she had to persuade Smythe to consent to it, too.

Thus, on a cloudy morning in late October, she left Charlemagne with Benedict, pinched the roses into her cheeks, combed her hair, and set off to win over Master Smythe.

It was strange, returning to the commandery after a full month. Hedges had turned brown, grass had been cut, trees had been felled, and the garden’s brick wall completely mended. Master Smythe had been busy.

Smoke rose from the kitchen chimney, so knowing that Lettice had not yet returned to her post, Cecily hastened thither, curious to see who had taken the girl’s place. She was not a little surprised to see no one there but Smythe himself, in shirt sleeves and apron, beating eggs in a bowl with a hazel whisk.

This slipped from his hand as he glanced up and saw her—and for a moment, she was tempted to retreat. There was something intense in his blue-eyed gaze that turned her limbs to water.

Nay, she wouldn’t retreat. He had, as far as she knew, no reason to be angry with her. Unless the stoat had been at his doves again.

“Cecily.” He rescued the whisk, wiped his hands on his apron, and strode over to her.

She gazed at him, noting the dark shadows around his eyes. His face looked more angular than she remembered it, and the lines of worry that creased his forehead had deepened. But the muscles that pushed at his shirt sleeves had not diminished—nor had his breadth or height. He’d been laboring hard, and bore the badge of it, but the weeks had taken their toll in another way—something had upset his peace of mind.

“Are you well, sir?” Good, she’d made it sound like a greeting—she didn’t want him to think she was concerned about him.

“Weary. But otherwise, hale—if not hearty. But I find my exertions keep me distracted and offer the benefit of dreamless sleep.”

He’d moved aside and was gesturing for her to enter the kitchen. As she went past him, she felt his presence, even though he hadn’t touched her. Her cheeks heated.

“Pray, be seated, and warm yourself by the fire. I must finish this.” He went back to his whisk and bowl and seemed completely absorbed in his task. Which was just as well, as she was struggling to recall what she’d come for.

“Stones.”

“I crave your pardon?” He stared at her.

“I wanted to talk to you about stones. Nay, not stones. Stone. Building stone.”

This was coming out wrong. He’d suspect her motives if she couldn’t put a coherent sentence together.

“But I have disturbed you mid-task. Can I help?” If she could assist him, it would give her time to scrabble her thoughts back together.

He ran a hand through his hair, then bent his unblinking gaze on her once more. So much for collecting her thoughts.

“Aye, I expect you could. If you would fetch me sage, rosemary, and thyme from the garden—and mint if there is any—I’d be much obliged. I’m making erbolate—if you have nowhere else you must