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

Crack. Some of the mortar flew out, allowing her to insert her chisel in the gap between the stone blocks. She heaved until she feared the implement would break, then laid it down on the turf beside her and picked up the mallet again.

She was about to swing it against the wall when a hand caught at her arm, and the next thing she knew, four firm fingers had enclosed her wrist.

“Don’t strike so hard, Woman. No one will buy that stone if it’s in pieces. Here—give me the mallet.”

All the breath whooshed out of her body. Allan! She sat back on her heels while her heart threatened to beat its way right out of her chest. She’d thought she hated him, she’d thought she didn’t care—but his sudden appearance beside her rekindled all those feelings she’d experienced when she’d danced with him, kissed him, and rested in his arms. The effect of his presence, so near, so vital, was overwhelming.

“You’re free,” she managed.

He swung the mallet at the stone, and it shifted easily.

“Aye,” he agreed, seizing the chisel and easing the stone from its setting. He lifted the block clear and set it down next to him, then picked up a maul, re-sited the chisel, and started chipping away at the ashy mortar holding the next block in place.

She watched him—redundant now, all her certainties having deserted her. Did he want her to go away? What was she supposed to do?

He had not yet met her eyes, and she scarcely trusted herself to meet his, worried he’d see all the longing, all the fear that surged through her. She wanted him to like her—she wanted him to need her. But that was impossible now—she’d put the needs of herself and her family before his as if he were of no account.

But now she knew he was worth so much more. She watched the firm, expert movements of his hands as he attacked the stonework, feasted her eyes on the rippling of the muscles across his back, and recalled the strength with which he’d lifted her on that Christmas night. How long ago it seemed now. Did he even remember it?

She waited until he’d dealt with the next ashlar, then asked, “How is it that you’re free? Did Master Swaffham manage it? What of Master Clark?”

“I have bought myself justice, of a sort,” he replied, his eyes still fixed on his task. “Thank you for that basket, by the way. The game pie was particularly flavorsome.”

“Caught with the assistance of Charlemagne.”

She shivered. It was getting cold, just sitting on the ground, no longer venting her wrath on the stones of the chapel. She remembered how Allan had once warmed her, and her cheeks colored.

“Sir—forgive me. I have wronged you, and I know it.”

“It matters not. On balance, I would say you never meant to. Kennett, on the other hand, always intended to best me. And no doubt still does. But he won’t be able to bribe anyone for a while—the constable at Bulforde has denounced and washed his hands of Kennett. He wouldn’t want anyone questioning his suitability for what must be a lucrative position. The magistrate was most amenable, and I’m a completely free man.”

What about Kennett’s discovery that she and the men had been worshipping in secret, and refused to give cognizance to the new prayer book, or accept Edward as Supreme Head of the Church?

“I know not if things can continue as they have been, however.”

Sancta Maria—she was weary of looking at the back of Allan’s head! Why didn’t he put the tools down and talk to her properly, and meet her eyes?

“What do you mean?” She shuffled closer and laid a tentative hand on his shoulder.

Her touch seemed to release something in him. He laid down his tools and swiveled to face her. “Get up, Cecily. You are dirtying your skirts.”

She would have stood sooner, only she wasn’t sure if she could trust her knees to hold her. She made an effort but lurched sideways, her skirt trapped under her heel.

“Fie on you, Woman. Have you no grace?” His mouth twisting, he helped her up, sweeping her free of the ground before setting her on her feet.

“Now go inside and stoke up the kitchen fire. Your uncles and I will be eager for some hot broth come dinnertime.”

He was sending her off into the kitchen, without explaining anything?

She stood her ground. “What do you mean, things cannot continue? Look at me, Allan. What’s going on?”

“I have already spoken with Benedict. We think it best you all leave the village. There is no knowing the depths to which Kennett will stoop to get his vengeance. He doesn’t like being beaten. I fear that, even if I pay him off with interest, he will not be satisfied. We have but stalled him for the moment. But how long will it be until an avaricious magistrate comes along, or some other greedy official, eager to make their name or their living by exposing traitors and closet Catholics? Kett’s Rebellion will not soon be forgotten, nor the uprisings in the west against the new prayer book—people are still uneasy. I would rather you were all safe, and well away from here. Perchance, even in France, where you should be accepted without question.”

“But what of our labors here?” She indicated the heap of stone and mortar dust from the chapel demolition. “Don’t you need us to finish it, so you can sell the stone? So that we can find—”

“Hush.” He raised his hands to her shoulders, his fingers digging in. “Speak not of that. It is a dream, a sprite, a will-o’-the-wisp. The future cannot be founded on fairytales. Anyway, I shall find other laborers to continue the demolition. And the first lambs are coming now, so the farm will soon be generating income. I can, and will, deal with my brother-in-law. I don’t