Page 41 of Lord of the Manor

“Vile ingrate! If I hadn’t fetched Master Swaffham, what could you have done from inside a cell? I have incurred the wrath of my uncles by coming here to tell you about the treasure, yet all you do is chide me. It is I who am a blind, lovelorn fool, Master Smythe. I have now put all our lives completely in your power. I fear I have made a terrible mistake.” She stepped away from the door and hurried out of view.

He stood on tiptoe, grasping the bars. “Nay, Cecily—wait! I only wished to keep you safe. Cecily? Can you hear me? I was thinking only of you.”

There was no reply. He eased back from the bars, and when the blood finally ceased thundering in his ears, he was aware of the sound of footsteps receding rapidly into the distance.

There. He’d made a tanner’s midden of it. Again. He rested his forehead on the cold, sobering steel of the window bars, pushing against them and relishing the pain. He felt like a player, caught up in some high-stakes game of knucklebones. He’d thrown his pieces into the air, had hazarded everything, and had no idea how they were going to fall.

If Master Swaffham failed to bribe or convince the constable and the magistrate, he would have plenty of time in which to regret the consequences of his ill-judged actions.

If Cecily and the men found the so-called treasure, they would flee the country. He would be unable to pay Kennett, and the manor would be sold. He might be able to recover some of his capital, hopefully enough to put a roof over his head.

But what was the point of a home and a hearth if he had no family? Could he really start his life over again—reinvent himself a third time?

And if he had no one with whom to share his life, then did he really want to?

Chapter Nineteen

Cecily swung her mallet at another section of stone.

That pig-headed, pigeon-brained oaf would see in the end—aye, that he would! He’d see that she was only trying to help him, risking all she held dear to do so.

Crack. Some of the mortar flew out, allowing her to insert her chisel in the gap between the stone blocks. She heaved until she feared the implement would break, then laid it down on the turf beside her and picked up the mallet again.

She was about to swing it against the wall when a hand caught at her arm, and the next thing she knew, four firm fingers had enclosed her wrist.

“Don’t strike so hard, Woman. No one will buy that stone if it’s in pieces. Here—give me the mallet.”

All the breath whooshed out of her body. Allan! She sat back on her heels while her heart threatened to beat its way right out of her chest. She’d thought she hated him, she’d thought she didn’t care—but his sudden appearance beside her rekindled all those feelings she’d experienced when she’d danced with him, kissed him, and rested in his arms. The effect of his presence, so near, so vital, was overwhelming.

“You’re free,” she managed.

He swung the mallet at the stone, and it shifted easily.

“Aye,” he agreed, seizing the chisel and easing the stone from its setting. He lifted the block clear and set it down next to him, then picked up a maul, re-sited the chisel, and started chipping away at the ashy mortar holding the next block in place.

She watched him—redundant now, all her certainties having deserted her. Did he want her to go away? What was she supposed to do?

He had not yet met her eyes, and she scarcely trusted herself to meet his, worried he’d see all the longing, all the fear that surged through her. She wanted him to like her—she wanted him to need her. But that was impossible now—she’d put the needs of herself and her family before his as if he were of no account.

But now she knew he was worth so much more. She watched the firm, expert movements of his hands as he attacked the stonework, feasted her eyes on the rippling of the muscles across his back, and recalled the strength with which he’d lifted her on that Christmas night. How long ago it seemed now. Did he even remember it?

She waited until he’d dealt with the next ashlar, then asked, “How is it that you’re free? Did Master Swaffham manage it? What of Master Clark?”

“I have bought myself justice, of a sort,” he replied, his eyes still fixed on his task. “Thank you for that basket, by the way. The game pie was particularly flavorsome.”

“Caught with the assistance of Charlemagne.”

She shivered. It was getting cold, just sitting on the ground, no longer venting her wrath on the stones of the chapel. She remembered how Allan had once warmed her, and her cheeks colored.

“Sir—forgive me. I have wronged you, and I know it.”

“It matters not. On balance, I would say you never meant to. Kennett, on the other hand, always intended to best me. And no doubt still does. But he won’t be able to bribe anyone for a while—the constable at Bulforde has denounced and washed his hands of Kennett. He wouldn’t want anyone questioning his suitability for what must be a lucrative position. The magistrate was most amenable, and I’m a completely free man.”

What about Kennett’s discovery that she and the men had been worshipping in secret, and refused to give cognizance to the new prayer book, or accept Edward as Supreme Head of the Church?

“I know not if things can continue as they have been, however.”

Sancta Maria—she was weary of looking at the back of Allan’s head! Why didn’t he put the tools down and talk to her properly, and meet her eyes?