Page 22 of Lord of the Manor

She gazed at him, noting the dark shadows around his eyes. His face looked more angular than she remembered it, and the lines of worry that creased his forehead had deepened. But the muscles that pushed at his shirt sleeves had not diminished—nor had his breadth or height. He’d been laboring hard, and bore the badge of it, but the weeks had taken their toll in another way—something had upset his peace of mind.

“Are you well, sir?” Good, she’d made it sound like a greeting—she didn’t want him to think she was concerned about him.

“Weary. But otherwise, hale—if not hearty. But I find my exertions keep me distracted and offer the benefit of dreamless sleep.”

He’d moved aside and was gesturing for her to enter the kitchen. As she went past him, she felt his presence, even though he hadn’t touched her. Her cheeks heated.

“Pray, be seated, and warm yourself by the fire. I must finish this.” He went back to his whisk and bowl and seemed completely absorbed in his task. Which was just as well, as she was struggling to recall what she’d come for.

“Stones.”

“I crave your pardon?” He stared at her.

“I wanted to talk to you about stones. Nay, not stones. Stone. Building stone.”

This was coming out wrong. He’d suspect her motives if she couldn’t put a coherent sentence together.

“But I have disturbed you mid-task. Can I help?” If she could assist him, it would give her time to scrabble her thoughts back together.

He ran a hand through his hair, then bent his unblinking gaze on her once more. So much for collecting her thoughts.

“Aye, I expect you could. If you would fetch me sage, rosemary, and thyme from the garden—and mint if there is any—I’d be much obliged. I’m making erbolate—if you have nowhere else you must be, you might choose to eat it with me.”

Was he genuinely inviting her to eat with him? An herb omelet he’d baked himself? There must surely be a catch. She swallowed.

He waved the dripping whisk. “Now, don’t be coy. Don’t claim you don’t know where to find those herbs. You must take me for a fool if you think I don’t know that you, and the other villagers, have been helping yourselves all the time the manor lay unoccupied. No need to look afeared—what’s gone is gone. So long as no one plans on continuing the habit now that I’m in residence, we need not speak of it again. Go.”

He reached for the saltbox and sprinkled a little into his mixture. Released from the prison of his penetrating gaze, Cecily scurried out to the walled garden.

The cooler air and the absence of the man gave her time to reorder her thoughts. She’d come to offer assistance with the cooking and cleaning, but did he really need it when he was prepared to cook for himself? This was a blow to her plans. She tore off the herbs, tucked them in a fold of her skirt, and returned to the kitchen.

“Shall I chop them for you?”

“Aye, if you will. I need to fry these worts in butter before they go cold and limp.”

She hurriedly chopped up the herbs, added them to the bowl of eggs, and stirred them in. Then she poured the mixture into a dish he’d set ready on the table and put it into the oven at the side of the fireplace. She tugged her cuff down as she closed the metal door, so she wouldn’t burn her hand.

“Stay!” Smythe commanded. “Don’t use your sleeve—you’ll ruin it. Use the potholder—here.” He untucked a wad of cloth from his belt and handed it to her. “For when you fetch it out again. No need to spoil your bodice on my account.”

Surprisingly thoughtful of him. “Is there aught else I can do?” She needed to make herself as helpful and amenable as possible. And stay long enough to put forth her proposal about her “uncles”.

“Does this mean you’ve accepted my invitation to eat with me?”

It was as good an opportunity to linger as any. She took it. “I’m hungry, sir, so I won’t say no.” She gave him her most dazzling smile. He grinned back, a tantalizing light in his eyes.

Her voice was husky as she added, “Besides which, I have a proposition to put to you.”

“A proposition, i’faith! I thought it was usually the gentleman who propositioned the lady.”

Smythe scowled, and Cecily realized it was not he who had spoken. She spun around, and her good humor leached away at the sight of Master Clark lounging against the doorpost, arms folded, a mocking, mirthless smile on his face.

“What do you want, Kennett?” Smythe’s tone had a hard edge to it.

“I was in the neighborhood and came to see how much longer I’ll be forced to wait for my money. The year is growing old, and the chances of you raising it by Christmas grow increasingly slender.”

“You’ll have your money,” Smythe growled. “I have building materials and land I can sell. But if you could have waited until next summer, you would have made my life far easier.”

“I’m not a patient man, Brother-in-law. I have my outgoings, too, and as you know, I invested most of my capital in this dilapidated batch of heretics’ dwellings. But I might be prepared to wait a little longer if you give me a taste of your honey.”