Page 28 of Lord of the Manor

“I commissioned Benedict to make it. But that’s not all. Turn around.”

She did, but was too shy to raise her eyes. She fixed her gaze on the chased bronze clasp of his cloak and waited.

“Hold out your other hand.”

She did as bidden, and something small, made from the finest kid leather, was settled into her palm. As she turned it over, it gave out a silvery tinkle.

“A new hood for Charlemagne!” With tiny bells and even a feather in the top.

“The hood is monogrammed, too.” Smythe’s voice washed over her like soft silk.

“I didn’t… I couldn’t… I never expected—”

“Gift-giving is even more enjoyable when it comes unannounced. Do you see now what a fair man I am? Having once detested your feathery friend, I now see his value and welcome him on my land. These gifts are as much for him as for you, I suppose, as I sometimes think of you and he as part of the same being. You have him trained so well.”

He’d been watching her fly Charlemagne? She’d no idea. Her heart picked up speed.

“I did not think to give you a gift.” She had made new hose for her “uncles”, but that just seemed too… personal a thing to do for her employer.

“That would have been highly improper. But you are going to give me something all the same, whether it be proper or no.”

She was still too shy to meet his eyes. Had she looked up, however, she would at least have had some warning—he’d maneuvered her directly beneath the kissing ring.

He didn’t pause, didn’t ask permission. He nudged her chin up with one hand and brushed his lips over hers. The sensation was so new, so strange, she felt as if she’d been struck by lightning. Her lips parted, but no sound came out beyond a soft sigh.

“Not enough.” His voice was a purr as he lowered his head and tasted her again.

Oh, but this was wicked! And delightful. And sinful. Nay—it was no sin to be kissed, was it? It was a Yuletide tradition—and a tradition at other times of year, as well. May Day, Midsummer. But no one had yet been bold enough to steal a kiss from Cecily Neville. She was just a little too different, a little too aloof, to be attractive to the young men of the village. She had only discovered her power as a woman since the arrival of Master Smythe and Master Clark.

Smythe’s lips were hot and heady, and she was fascinated by his kiss. How easy it would be to fall under this man’s thrall, to let him weave his masculine magic with his firm fingers and determined lips!

As the pressure of his mouth increased, she pushed up on tiptoe to match the pressure of his lips with her own. Her hands caressed the back of his neck and tangled in his hair. How had that happened?

A long, slow whistle made her stumble back as Smythe released her and stepped away. Simpkin was standing in the malthouse doorway, a pile of logs in his arms. His eyes were popping.

“Simpkin, drop that wood and be off with you. There’s a spit to turn and a boar’s head to baste—you’ve no time to linger.”

Smythe’s peremptory bark wiped the smirk off the boy’s face and sent him scurrying off, red to the tips of his ears.

Smythe turned to Cecily. “A thousand curses on his head. There is no privacy to be had around here.”

She dipped her head, hoping he wouldn’t see her flaming cheeks. What folly, allowing herself to fall under her employer’s spell! It was even worse to have been caught positively encouraging him—thank the saints that it hadn’t been one of the men who had burst upon them at that moment.

She realized that Allan was standing still, just gazing at her, smiling his lopsided, boyish grin.

“My apologies, Mistress Neville. I fear I have overstepped the mark.”

Well, if he found the incident amusing, she didn’t want to betray how much more it had meant to her.

“Nonsense. It’s what these are for.” She indicated the sprigs of mistletoe hanging from the kissing ring. “Although the usual tradition is for a kiss on the cheek.”

How she managed to keep her voice so steady, she had no idea. If only she could control the blush more easily.

“I was aiming for your cheek,” he said equably. “But my body betrayed me.”

“Fie, Master Smythe! Here you are, managing an entire manorial estate, and a bevy of servants, yet you cannot control yourself? What kind of man does that make you?”

“A lonely one, methinks.”