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

nursing him back to health ever since. The granary above the old malthouse has now become a mews—I knew I could keep him a secret because you won’t go up there, disliking that treacherous, narrow staircase. Oh, don’t look alarmed. I’ve had the stairs repaired—I just chose not to tell you about it. I didn’t want you to see Charlemagne until I knew he’d make a full recovery. And I’ve worked with him a little, too—when you were away in the village, or at the market in Bulforde.”

Part of her wanted to chide him for his duplicity, but most of her wanted to kiss him until they both struggled for air, then take him to bed so she could show her appreciation in another way.

“Do you think Charlemagne would be too unsettled if I gave you a kiss?”

Allan’s eyes were bright with mischief. “Shall we try it and see?”

She loved the feel of his powerful male body pressed against hers, and the constant hunger of his kisses—as if he could never have enough. They only stepped apart when Charlemagne became restless.

She gazed at the bird. “As he has survived a conflagration and now looks better than ever, I wonder if a new name might be in order.”

“What did you have in mind, my lady?”

“I thought mayhap Phoenix would suit. I’d have to teach him to answer to it, though.”

Allan grinned. “Any creature, be it man or beast, can be made anew. Just as you have done with me. I will never cease to be grateful for it.”

She had given thanks for their marriage, too, every single day. And would continue to do so.

“Phoenix,” she whispered. “A splendid thing arising from the ashes. Akin to our love.”

That was the first of her husband’s great gifts to her.

The second came a month later after her uncles had written to reassure Master and Mistress Smythe that they were safely arrived in France and were settling in well. More correspondence followed, some of it addressed to Allan, and some to her. He didn’t disclose what was written in the letter to him, but she trusted him enough not to pry. It probably dealt with business matters, and mayhap, touched on the imminent execution of Kennett Clark, who had been tried and found guilty of both arson and attempted murder.

It was an unpleasant subject on which to dwell. There had been some hope of mercy for Clark since no one had actually died. Added to the charges against him, however, was one of fraud—which Master Swaffham had discovered when he finally got his hands on the account books. The officiating magistrate had decided that Master Clark was so steeped in wickedness, he deserved no clemency.

Clark had, as anticipated, attempted to save his skin by denouncing the Catholic “traitors” in the village, including Cecily. But the groundswell of support was in Cecily’s and Allan’s favor, not his, and the constable was too concerned about holding on to his position to assist Clark in any way.

The second big surprise came the day after Clark had been executed at Colchester. Allan came into the parlor of the preceptor’s house where Cecily was embroidering a collar for him. He was bearing a document and looking self-important.

“Cecily,” he said, taking her hand and gazing at her solemnly. “Have you ever wondered about who you really are?”

She laid her sewing on the chest beside her. “I know who I am. Cecily Neville that was, and now Mistress Smythe. I have always had a name and a family and been grateful for the love I’ve been shown.”

“It delights me to hear you say that, Wife. But in hopes of pleasing you, I have made inquiries. Pray tell me that I have not done wrong?”

“You did no wrong.” Her curiosity was aroused now—what had he discovered? “And I can’t have you knowing something that I don’t, so, I beg you, impart what you’ve found out.”

“First, I asked the brethren why they had named you Neville, thinking that might contain the clue to your origins. They couldn’t tell me why the name had come to them, but when I looked through some of the older documents relating to the commandery, I discovered a Cecily Neville had donated land to the Hospitaller order. I assume one of the men must have heard the name and liked it, even if he knew not whence it had come. So, your name does, truly, link you to the place that you call home.”

A warm glow stole over her. Her name connected her to the commandery after all, almost as if Fate had ordained it. A delicious discovery.

“Then I asked the brethren about your birth, about the kind of lady your mother was, how she dressed, and what she looked like. I attempted to discover if there’d been any scandals in the area amongst the nobility in the year or two immediately preceding your mother’s confinement.”

Cecily knotted her fingers together. She knew she must surely be the result of a scandalous match—but did she really wish to know the details?

“Shall I go on?”

After a brief pause, she nodded. She couldn’t stand not knowing.

“You have a long, elegant nose and delicate features. Not the flat face of a regular Englishman like myself, and your coloring is very dark, unlike that of the Saxons who once invaded and occupied East Anglia. I have seen a portrait of the man who might be your sire, and there is a likeness, but what I am about to tell you is pure surmise. A likeness may mean nothing at all, and much depends on whether or not the artist painted an accurate portrait.”

He stood, carefully lifted the shirt that she was embroidering, and sat on the chest beside her, taking and stroking her hand.

“The resemblance is to Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, brother-in-law to the late King Henry. At one time, his wife, Henry’s sister Mary, fell ill from the sweating sickness. She recovered, but her health had been dealt a heavy blow.