Lord of the Manor (Trysts and Treachery Book 5) by Elizabeth Keysian (best romantic novels in english txt) 📕

She wasn’t pouting. She never pouted. “I did not assault you.”

Suddenly, images of constables, the stocks, the pillory, prison, limbs hacked off or boiled whirled through her head. This man could do her much harm if he decided to charge her with attacking him—and her trial would endanger the displaced commandery servants who’d become her family. They had survived twelve years since the seizure of the commandery by the Crown without being denounced as traitors and idolaters—she couldn’t risk exposing them now. It was important to be conciliatory, no matter how hard it came to her.

“My apologies, sir. It is my bird—he flew away from me, or I would never have presumed to trespass on your land. Pray, do not hurt him. He brings pigeons for me and my poor family.” She doubled her efforts to look submissive and fluttered her eyelashes at her captor.

His grip gentled, but his expression did not. “Brings you pigeons, indeed? I’ll wager he also brings you my squabs, my doves, and my baby coneys. That is theft, girl, no more and no less.”

A chill skittered up her spine at the word theft, and a fresh pageant of hangings, floggings, and lopping off of hands paraded through her imagination. Which was what he intended, of course—to put the fear of God into her. Detestable knave. She didn’t like being threatened. Nor did she like being called “girl”. Or “wench”.

She sucked in a breath and straightened to her full height so she could look the man square in the eyes, but her words caught in her throat. He was tall, just as she’d suspected. And standing so close, she could count each of his long eyelashes as he lowered his head to glare at her.

“Well? Naught to say for yourself, girl?”

She cringed at his use of the word “girl” again but resisted the urge to push her breasts out and disabuse him of the notion that she was as young as she looked. Instead, she pictured Charlemagne swooping down, tangling his talons in the man’s unruly hair, and pecking at his scalp until it bled. This immediately made her feel better and bolstered her courage.

“I have committed no crime, sir, beyond straying onto your hay meadow in search of my recalcitrant bird.”

“Recalcitrant?” His eyebrows shot up. “An educated ‘poor village girl’, by the rood. Who taught you such words, Maid?”

“Maid” now, was it? A little less insulting. But she couldn’t tell the truth about who had taught her not only her letters but much more besides. It would be most unwise to let this heretic newcomer know that displaced Catholics from the commandery were still living in the community. The three men—Benedict, Martin and Anselm, had been her only family since she was a babe in arms—she would give her life for theirs in an instant if need be.

“I don’t need to answer to you.” She jutted her chin at the stranger.

“I’m afraid you do, as I am, in effect, one of the lords of the manor upon which you dwell.”

She’d already worked that out. But which one was he—Master Smythe or Master Clark? Two men, neither of them local, had recently acquired Temple Roding Commandery and all its appurtenances, making them landlords to everyone in the village of Temple Roding—including herself.

“Forgive my manners, Master,” she mumbled. “I knew not who you were.”

Then, much to her surprise, he released her, threw his head back, and let out a throaty chuckle.

“I amuse you?”

“You do. Your acting does not fool me.”

It didn’t?

“I see I have found a chameleon.” He paused and looked at her intently. “Do I need to explain what one of those is? Or has this girl familiar with the word ‘recalcitrant’ also studied bestiaries? In which case, you will know that a chameleon changes color according to its surroundings, so that predators may not see it. I think you are the same—changing from one guise to another to confuse me. You know not whether ’tis better to delight or damn me—although I suspect you lean toward the latter. Come now, no pretense. Confess that it is your falcon that has been stealing my squabs, and I may be lenient with you.”

“Charlemagne has stolen nothing. He will take wild wood pigeons on occasion, but only when I bid him do so. And I swear to you—we rarely come this way. Besides, how could he get into your dovecote to take your squabs? The holes are far too small for him to swoop in, even where the brick has worn away.”

She clamped her mouth shut. This man must not find out how well she knew the place, or there would be even more awkward questions asked.

“Not prepared to confess your guilt? Then I will have to take the matter further.”

Charlemagne had tilted his head to one side. He had either seen a mouse or was watching the proceedings with interest. Had he had enough of his freedom? Would he come now if she called him?

“I don’t like your threats, sir. You cannot condemn me or my bird without evidence.”

“The evidence is the mutilated carcasses of my animals and birds, and the eggs that have been broken open and sucked dry in the dovecote. Your falcon is the most likely suspect.”

Nay! He must not threaten Charlemagne. The bird was vital to her.

Mayhap she could outwit the man. “So, who will you try, sir. My bird, or me?” It wasn’t unknown for animals to be hauled into court for misdemeanors. Then she realized what he’d just said.

“Wait a moment. You say that eggs have been eaten? It sounds as if you may have a stoat or a weasel at the commandery. My peregrine does not suck eggs.”

The man’s angry stance didn’t relax one bit. “We’ll see about that. Kennett has lived in the countryside longer than I, and he never suggested it was a stoat.”

Ah, so this man must be Allan Smythe, then. Everyone in the village knew his name,