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

pleasure as he stoked hers. Her hands were claws, digging into his shoulders. Her breath came in great bursts, and she let out soft little cries at the ecstasy toward which he was driving her.

And then in one great rush, she felt as if she’d left her body, ascending to the highest peak of pleasure, and he lost his rhythm and swayed drunkenly into her, breathing as hard as if he’d been running, as if his first explosion of passion was spent, but his body refused to accept it. Her body didn’t want to accept it either. She squeezed her legs together in mute appeal.

His eyes flew open, and his heated gaze locked with hers. “That. Was. Wonderful,” he managed. “Thank you, my love.”

“Thank you, too, my love.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “I deserve the elevated title of ‘love’, now, do I? I wonder if that tender word just escaped in the heat of the moment.”

She couldn’t help but grin at him. With his hair tousled, his eyes brilliant with love, and his magnificent body gilded by the firelight, he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

“Mayhap, we need to create another such moment, so I can make sure I really do love you, Master Smythe.”

“Call me Allan,” he growled. “Or better still, ‘Husband’ since you are now mine. I see you intend me to work hard at pleasing you.”

“I know you’re not afraid of hard work.” She couldn’t keep the laughter from her voice. Never before had she felt so profoundly satiated, so contented. And love was truly a wondrous thing.

Suddenly, she was scooped up and set on her feet, and her clothes were bundled into her arms.

“Of to bed with you, Woman. The price for working me hard is to warm the sheets ere I come to join you. Have no fear—I’ll cover the fire and make sure your demonic avian is settled before I come up.”

She climbed slowly up the ladder, struggling to regain control of her limbs. She felt light, womanly, powerful. Allan had made her feel that way. And she couldn’t wait for him to come up and set the seal on her happiness by making her feel that way again.

Chapter Twenty-One

Allan surfaced from a delicious dream to the acrid scent of smoke.

He came instantly awake, untangled himself from the mess of sheets that confined both him and Cecily, and shot from the bed, almost knocking himself out on the low beam above.

“Get up, Cecily!” He rubbed the back of his head, trying to make sense of what was happening, while his heart thumped madly in his chest.

“What is it? What’s amiss?”

Cruelly deprived of the chance to enjoy his rosy, tousled ladylove first thing in the morning, Allan thrust her shift and kirtle at her.

“Fire! Get dressed—quickly.” He ended this command with a cough. There was too much smoke to be from an ordinary blaze in the hearth—something catastrophic was happening, and they must make all haste to escape.

“What’s on fire?” Cecily’s eyes were wide as she struggled into her clothes.

“I’m not sure, but ’tis too close for comfort.” It smelled like hay or straw at stubble burning time. The thatch? Surely not! How could the roof be ablaze when he’d put the cover on the fire last night? There could be no sparks rising from a dead fire. Mayhap, something had blown across from a neighboring chimney, like the one at the bakehouse, and ignited Cecily’s roof. As he hurried after her down the wooden steps into the main room of the cottage, he promised himself that as soon as he could afford it, he’d replace all the thatch in the village with tiles.

Smoke billowed about them as they reached the floor. “Go straight out the door, Cecily,” he called, reaching for their cloaks. “Shout for help, so the villagers know what’s afoot—aid will come soon enough. We cannot contain this alone.”

To his horror, she hung back, peering at him through the increasingly dense smoke. “What of Charlemagne? What of the treasure?”

“Never mind that. Get yourself out. I’ll see to Charlemagne and the money if I can. Now, just get out.”

His last words were a shout as he pushed her toward the door, then turned back to see what had happened to the peregrine. He heard Cecily unlock the door and felt a waft of heat as the opening drew it downward. If she had any sense, she’d close the door again, lest the cottage become a furnace.

He pulled his neckcloth over his mouth and nose and fumbled his way to the corner where Charlemagne was flapping and screeching on his perch. He untied the jesses, and the bird instantly flew upward and straight through a glowing hole in the thatch.

Allan blinked as glowing curls of red floated to the ground, some of them catching in his clothing and hair. Did he really have time to save the Templars’ gold? If he wanted a stable, happy life with his betrothed, they desperately needed that money.

The heap of fleeces that concealed the cache was already smoking, the wool sizzling with an unpleasant smell of burned sheep’s grease. He plunged his hands into Cecily’s bucket and yanked the smoldering fleeces aside, but he could barely see now for smoke, and it was increasingly difficult to breathe.

Curse it. He couldn’t find the handle to lift the hatch. His blood pounded in his ears as the fire roared and crackled above him. Once it ate into the roof timbers, there’d be no safety below. Still cursing colorfully, he abandoned the attempt, and stumbled toward the door. They’d have to put the fire out, then return for the cache when it was safe to do so. The money would do him no good if he was dead. And if he were dead, he wouldn’t be able to protect Cecily.

The door latch was hot to the touch. He pressed the metal bar up and pulled on the door. Then pulled again.

The door