Page 31 of Lord of the Manor

“That’s a dreamy smile you have on your face, Mistress Neville. If those are perchance happy thoughts, shall you share them with me?”

Allan’s voice shook her out of her reverie. “Oh, I was… thinking of nothing, really.”

“Then let me give you something to think about. Dance with me.”

“I beg your pardon?” She was melting with embarrassment. “I couldn’t. I know not how to dance.”

“Don’t you have dances in the village? I’m certain you can manage a measure or two. I’d ask Lettice, but I don’t want to sprain her wrist.”

Seriously—she couldn’t dance with him. Everyone would see. Everyone would know. What if he tried to throw her about, like in one of those galliard things she’d heard of? His hands would be on her waist, and hers on his shoulders. It would be like that kiss—she wouldn’t be able to control her body’s reaction to him.

“Come, now, Cecily. I didn’t have you down for a coward.” He stood and held out a hand to her.

“I couldn’t,” she whispered, her gaze darting anxiously about. “Not in front of all these people. I’d be shamed.”

“And I shall feel shamed if you don’t. Will you make a fool of me in front of them all?” His smile mocked her.

“Oh, very well. But don’t say you weren’t warned. I shall tread all over you.”

“Master Martin—what dances can you play? Could you manage something slow and dignified mayhap, like a pavane?”

Simpkin and Martin stared at each other, frowning.

“Never mind. Play some tune that you know—but more slowly. Mistress.” Allan bowed in front of her and—cheeks burning—she took his hand.

“Now, stand beside me and rest your hand gently in my palm—no need to hold it. Now, slide one foot forward, then the next, and when they are together, rise elegantly to your toes. Then descend to your heels again. One… two… that’s it. Nay, do not stagger as you descend. No matter. You’ll soon work it out.”

A few chuckles greeted Cecily’s first stumbling attempts at the stately pavane, but then she noticed Benedict offer Lettice a flourishing bow, take her by the good hand, and try to copy Allan’s example. This made it all so much more acceptable that she gave herself up to the dance, and to Allan’s lead. She enjoyed the gentle touch of his fingers, laughed at his lightness of foot—so unexpected in such a tall man—and chuckled at her own mistakes. These often had her turning the wrong way and colliding with him.

More ambitious dances were attempted thereafter—nothing too lively though, lest Lettice’s delicate wrist be harmed. Eventually, Cecily collapsed exhausted on the bench, claiming she could dance no more.

She must have dozed after that, for the next time she became aware of her surroundings, the malthouse was empty of people, the candles had been snuffed, and the fire was out. Darkness pressed at the windows, and she heard the distinctive kee-wik of a tawny owl. She gave an involuntary shiver.

“Ah, awake at last, are we?” Allan’s voice penetrated the fog of her mind.

She tried to stand, but the room spun, and the ground swayed. When she reached out a hand to steady herself, he was there, his hand at her elbow, steady as a rock.

“I take it you’re not used to mead, even though you make your own.” There was a smile in his voice.

She could barely see him in the gloom, except where the moonlight made a halo of his golden hair.

“You look like… a saint.” She hiccoughed.

“God forbid!” He laughed, and suddenly she was no longer weaving back and forth on her feet but cradled securely in his arms with his cloak wrapped around her.

“I ought to go home.”

“You certainly ought. I’ll carry you. I don’t want you slipping on the frozen ground and breaking anything. Lettice is not yet ready to resume her tasks, and I still need you. In more ways than you can imagine.”

What did he mean by that? She could imagine a good deal. But it was an effort to speak. Far better to just enjoy the sensation of his body moving against hers as he strode off, carrying her as if she weighed nothing at all.

Her head sank against his chest, and she must have dozed off again, for almost immediately, it seemed, he stopped and set her down.

“Here we are.”

She stared about her and saw moonlight reflecting off pale stonework.

“This isn’t my home.”