Page 32 of Lord of the Manor

“Nay. It’s mine. In you go.”

“But—”

He pressed a finger to her lips. “If you think I mean to carry you all the way to your cottage, you are much mistaken, Woman. We’d both break our necks, stumbling around in the dark, and being in our cups as we are. Here—take this candle. It is best you go up the steps before me, so I can catch you if you stumble. Keep tight hold of the rope rail with your other hand. I regret that I cannot safely carry you up a spiral staircase.”

After a brief struggle to regain control of her wits, she asked, “Are you going to do something wicked?”

His hands found her hips, supporting her as she made her way gingerly up the narrow stone steps.

“I’m already doing it. If I were not more inclined to the Protestant church, there’d be a dozen ‘Hail Marys’ in my future.”

“Oh.” She was disappointed. It was wrong for such a splendid, generous man to be a Protestant. “That’s a shame. Your soul deserves saving.”

There was a snort from behind her. “Don’t worry about me. Just get to the top of those steps without falling, and neither of us will have to fear for our mortal souls.”

When the staircase ended, he steered her into a room dominated by a canopied bed. A bed big enough to accommodate two. Alarms started sounding in Cecily’s befuddled brain.

“Are you going to seduce me?” she demanded.

“Certainly not. I’m an honorable man. You shall have the bed, and I’ll take the chair. We’ll get you home ere anyone else is awake. Sit.”

She didn’t know why she should trust him, but he had more control over her dizzy, fumbling body than she did. He helped her to sit on the bed and knelt to remove her shoes.

“Shall you sleep in your kirtle?”

“I should be warm enough in my shift and stockings if I have these sheepskins over me.”

“I apologize for my unrefined bed coverings. But stone dwellings seem to trap the cold, so I thought I might as well use skins as woven wool. My dream is to one day cover my bed with blankets woven from my own wool. One of my dreams, that is.”

Cecily was barely listening. She was struggling to undo the lacing at the top of her kirtle and had devoted all her concentration—what little of it that remained—to that process.

Allan stoked the fire in the hearth back to roaring life and placed another log on it before dragging an ancient cross-framed chair close to the blaze. Then he sat down, removed his shoes and belt, and gazed at her.

“Do you need assistance with that?” He padded across the room in stockinged feet and applied himself to the problem of her lacing. As he drew the laces through the eyeholes, she felt the brush of his fingers against her breasts and wondered if he’d meant what he said about being honorable. She must make every effort to sober up, just in case he played her false, and she needed to defend herself. Only, being lifted to her feet, then having him peel her kirtle from her shoulders and help her step out of it felt both liberating and sinful—in a hugely enjoyable way.

Which was dangerous. As he spread her dress out at the foot of the bed and returned to his chair, she did battle with the covers until she found the way in, then lay beneath the sheets. The icy cold which met her body was a rude awakening for her dozing senses. She wrapped her arms around herself, but could not stop shuddering. It had been a mistake to remove her kirtle.

For a while, she lay in the vast, strange bed, watching the firelight make flickering shadows on the tapestry-covered wall. This room, Allan’s bedchamber, was the best and most finely furnished in the building. He must have brought the hangings himself, mayhap from his home in Cambridge. The bed was new—she could tell from the scent of the wood and the condition of the drapes. He’d allowed himself a few luxuries then—this was the chamber of a prosperous merchant of woolen cloth, not that of a rural sheep farmer. Although he toiled so hard that he doubtless fell asleep the instant he lay down, and had little time to enjoy it.

She shivered again and wondered if she should warm herself by the fire before trying to sleep—or put her kirtle back on. She could throw her cloak over her and tuck it around her neck.

“I know not how I am to sleep when forced to listen to your teeth a-chattering.”

“I can’t help it. The bed is cold.” She wasn’t going to apologize. If it hadn’t been for his overly-strong mead, she’d be snug and warm in her own cottage now.

Suddenly she sat up. “Charlemagne! I’ve forgotten Charlemagne.”

“Your bird is being taken care of. Benedict promised to attend to him in case you were delayed. Now, stop fretting, come over here, and get warm.”

Still shuddering, she threw back the covers and trotted toward the fire, only to be caught up by Allan and settled in his lap. He threw his cloak over both of them and held her close.

“I shouldn’t—” she began.

“You already are,” he countered. “Now stop complaining and let me warm you. But first, have a drink of water. You’ll need it if you are to find the morrow even remotely bearable.”

She dutifully sipped the cold well water from the cup he handed her. “I’m sorry your wife died,” she said, as she drained the last drops.

He shifted beneath her. “Where did that come from?” He sounded startled.