Page 16 of Lord of the Manor

She was standing close to him again, bristling and angry. It didn’t, alas, make him any less eager to kiss her. A plague upon it! He’d been celibate too long.

“And does Master Clark not care about our interests?”

He ignored the question. “The agreements that have been made between me and Master Clark are none of your concern.”

Her fists clenched, and he readied himself for her to fly at him. But she gained control of herself and said icily, “Take your artichokes with you, sir. I can, indeed, cook them to perfection, but I hate the things.”

As much as I hate you. Though she never uttered the words, he could read them in her eyes. So, it had all been a ploy then, that moment of tenderness when she’d touched his lips. Hurt stabbed at him, and he turned away.

“Have no fear that I shall darken your door again, to bring you unwanted gifts. And I’ll certainly not enter your cottage while that bird is loose.” He gestured at the artichokes. “Find someone else who will appreciate those.”

Without bidding her farewell—because at that precise moment, he couldn’t care less if she fared well or not—he strode off. He was half-expecting to feel the thud of an artichoke against his head as he went, but nothing happened.

He didn’t look back to see if she was watching him, nor did he look to either side to find out if any of the villagers had overheard their disagreement. Doubtless, someone had, and word would reach Kennett, who would then mock him for his weakness in not putting the girl firmly in her place.

It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but if he needed to gain the obedience of the occupants of Temple Roding village, he might need to make an example of her. And, because he knew deep down he couldn’t bear to see the proud young woman hurt or publicly humiliated, he would have to do something about that accursed peregrine instead. And the sooner he had evidence of its murderous rampages, the better.

Chapter Eight

Mercifully, Cecily had seen naught of Master Smythe for the past two sennights. There had been no news about the rents, and she was hoping her show of coy interest had endeared her to him and that he’d agreed to her earlier request for a delay.

At the same time, however, she was heartily ashamed of having tried to tempt him. She was no better than Eve in the Garden, tempting Adam, and ought to do penance for it. Only—there was so much at stake.

Such thoughts kept her from enjoying the warm sunlight of the mid-September day and destroyed her usual pleasure in the scenery as she walked along the highway. She was making her regular trip to sell her eggs at the market in Bulforde and would usually have the distraction of good company. Benedict enjoyed escorting her into town, keen to hear the latest news, and always living in the hope of some change of heart from King Edward, and a return to the Church of Rome. But, alas, Benedict had a poisoned toe and was being attended to at home by Martin.

The bustling market put an end to her dismal musings, as she conversed with people she knew and succeeded in selling all her eggs. It wasn’t until she was taking her ease in front of the Boar’s Head Tavern, enjoying a cup of small beer, that disaster struck.

“What have we here? A beautiful maiden quaffing ale outside? Why don’t you come indoors with me and protect your unblemished skin from the sun?”

She shaded her eyes. The man before her was dressed as a gentleman, all silks and velvets—which must be hot on a day like today. He smelled of cheese and ale, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“Not thinking of refusing, are you? Don’t say you think yourself too fine to keep me company, for I can tell you that you are not.”

She squared her shoulders. “Do you think that insulting me will make me more eager for your company? You must have drunk too much strong liquor, sir, for only an addlepated fool would think that.”

She grabbed her basket, drained her cup, and turned to go, but a firm grip on her wrist prevented her.

“Come, Maid. Do you not know me? I am your new landlord, Cecily Neville, and it would be most unwise to displease me.”

She looked more closely, taking in the dark eyes, chestnut hair and beard, and the leering grin of the man.

“Master Clark.”

The grin widened, revealing his teeth. “The very same. That, if nothing else, should make up your mind for you. I only asked to share a pitcher of ale with you. This tavern is no bawdy house, so why are you so unwilling?”

Fear trickled down her spine. There was something she didn’t like about this man, something more than the fact that he was taking liberties.

She endeavored to be polite. “I thank you for your kind offer, sir, but my time at the market is done, and I must be getting home.”

“To whom do you hurry home?” Clark chuckled. “From what I hear, there’s naught to greet you there save a group of middle-aged uncles. I can’t believe there is anyone back in the village of greater interest or importance than me.” His grip tightened. “Unless it is that peregrine you want to go back to. Why should a peasant wench own a noble bird such as that?”

She tugged at his hand, but his grasp tightened still further. The bones of her wrist had started to creak. She glanced around to see if anyone had noticed their tussle, but no one appeared to be looking their way. Would assistance arrive if she screamed? Would anyone champion her against so important-looking a fellow?

“I found him, sir, unkempt and thin. I fed him up and taught him to hunt again. I did not steal him—if that’s what you’re implying.”

He cocked an arrogant eyebrow at her. “How interesting. Now come within, so we may discuss terms. I can offer you a fair price for your bird. And for your company.”

“Nay!” She wrenched at her wrist, but he didn’t release her. The pain brought tears to her eyes.