Page 20 of Lord of the Manor

“I crave your pardon—I heard you not.”

“I said that I would be much obliged if you and Cecily would hold the girl steady while I work. People are apt to hit out when hurt. Be of good cheer, Lettice! I swear that the pain will ebb away soon enough. Cecily, if you would stay there and lift the injured arm a little?”

Allan found himself facing Cecily across Lettice’s lap, holding his servant’s good arm against the chair so she couldn’t lash out. He knew his attention should be on the invalid, who writhed and gasped as Martin prodded at her arm, then applied the force required to snap the bone back into place. But he had finally made eye contact with Cecily and was unable to look away. Her gaze was locked with his, her eyes round, her pert mouth pinched, her determined little chin set. If only he could guess at her thoughts.

Then Lettice moaned in agony, and tears sprang to Cecily’s eyes. But she wasn’t going to let go of Lettice’s arm, despite the horror of the girl’s suffering. Tender, immovable, harsh, caring—Cecily was a contradiction in every way. But when she held his gaze and gave him a watery smile, he suddenly felt more alive, more vital—as if he’d been walking in the shadows and had just emerged into the sunlight.

Martin applied his poultice. “We must wait until the comfrey root sets hard. Then I’ll add a splint to keep the wrist still.”

Allan barely heard him—he was still puzzling over his response to Cecily. She wasn’t trying to flatter or manipulate him, and she wasn’t giving him coy smiles or fluttering her eyelashes. She was letting him see the real Cecily Neville—the true depth of feeling and passion that lay within.

“I’m sorry, sir. It was so foolish of me. I should have tried to hook the herbs down, not climb up for them. Your dinner will be ruined.”

Allan shook his head, shattering the bubble that had enclosed him and Cecily.

“No matter. You may be relieved of your duties, Lettice. I can cook well enough and clean when needed. When Master Martin pronounces you fit to move, I’ll set you on my horse and take you home. Fear not—I’ll walk at his head to make sure he doesn’t jostle you.”

He caught sight of Cecily’s raised brows and cocked an eyebrow back at her. Didn’t know he could cook, did she? Nor had she imagined him capable of performing domestic tasks. There was much she had yet to learn about him—he’d had to fend for himself immediately after Hannah’s death and could do so again. The heavy work around the commandery would be delayed if he had domestic chores to do, however, which was a problem. He needed to ensure everything was in order by the time the sheep arrived.

While Martin packed his things away and Cecily comforted Lettice, Allan took a potholder and removed the cooking pot from the fire. Its contents were dry and blackened, and he knew from bitter experience that burned pottage was not worth eating. He’d scrape it into an old crock and give it to Cecily for her pig—if she wanted it. Ham and cheese would have to suffice for his meal.

His skin tingled as Cecily appeared beside him. What was it about the woman that affected him so? He gazed at her, waiting expectantly.

“What will you do now?”

“I suppose I should employ someone else until Lettice is better. It seems only fair to have her back thereafter.”

She looked up at him, almost shyly. “Did you have anyone in mind?”

“Nay.” He couldn’t possibly ask her. That would be like walking around on red-hot nails—he would never be comfortable with her in the house.

She laid a hand lightly on his arm and eased him farther away from the others. “What has happened to Master Clark? Why did he abandon you?”

“Not because of anything I’ve done.” He lifted his chin—why did he feel the need to defend himself to her? Anyway, the trouble had all begun because of Cecily. If he had doubts that Kennett had been totally honest about the accounts, he had no intention of letting the wench spread that juicy piece of gossip around the village.

She nodded, her dark gaze serious. “I think you are well rid of him. He seemed not a man to be trusted.”

He was so astonished that Cecily seemed to have read his mind that he couldn’t think of what to say.

“I suppose he’ll be wanting his capital back,” she commented, running her fingers idly along the edge of the kitchen table. It came up dusty, and he cringed inwardly.

“I daresay he will.” It was unnerving, having this woman talk to him as if to an equal. Not that it was the only reason she unsettled him.

He cleared his throat. “Which means I cannot afford to keep the entire manor. And I don’t need so many buildings in order to run a sheep farm.”

She inhaled sharply. “Sell some of the property? Break up the commandery, you mean?”

“Aye.” Why should that concern her so? “It is only land, after all. I’m sure one of the local yeoman farmers would be happy to have it. If I keep Dovecote field, New Farm field, and Ten Acre, that should be enough for my needs. The rest can be sold. But I was thinking of selling the stonework, too.”

“The stonework? What stonework?” Cecily’s face had turned as pale as the Caen limestone in the kitchen walls.

He eyed her closely. “Some of the buildings can be demolished. Obviously, I’ll keep the preceptor’s house until I have the resources to build my own—in brick, if I can ever afford it—but the rest can be broken apart. Stone is a rare commodity in East Anglia and will fetch a pretty price.”

“Forgive me, Master Smythe. I have just remembered that I need to hurry home. Fare thee well.”

“Wait—I was going to offer you my burned dinner for your pig.” Curse it. He really needed to come up with some more tempting lines of conversation.

“Very kind of you. Another time, mayhap.”