Page 50 of Lord of the Manor

“Anselm, Martin—have either of you seen Charlemagne?”

Martin glanced over his shoulder, and his expression chilled her.

“I regret that I have, my dearest Cecily. I saw him flying across the rooftops with smoke coming from his plumage. A stray spark must have landed on him after he attacked Master Clark. I’m so sorry.”

Fortunately, Anselm was standing right beside her, or she would have fallen. Charlemagne gone? The cottage gone, too? The Templar hoard was doubtless reduced to a useless mess, and Allan had burned hands and, quite possibly, damaged lungs from the excessive smoke. The best night of her life, followed by the worst morning conceivable. How would she ever recover from this?

Chapter Twenty-Three

Allan awakened in his own bed, the grey light of early dawn filtering through the shutters. His chest ached, and his throat tickled relentlessly, forcing him instantly upright so he could cough up the dark phlegm that clogged his lungs. Someone held out a bowl for him, which was fortunate, since his hands were both too firmly bandaged to be of any use at all.

“Cecily?” His voice sounded like that of another man’s, and it hurt to speak.

“I’m here. And Martin is below. I urged him to return home, but he refused.”

Allan pondered this for a moment. “They should leave. All of them.”

He paused to cough, and Cecily held a horn beaker to his lips. He swallowed a sweet liquid that numbed his throat a little. It tasted good.

“What’s that?”

“Hoarhound and honey, with a bit of licorice. Martin made it.”

“It’s good. Kennett?”

She smoothed his forehead and stroked a hand down one side of his face. “In prison. To be tried at the next assizes for arson and attempted murder.”

“Arson?” Had Kennett started the fire deliberately? And had he known both Cecily and he were inside?

“Indeed. Master Copeland was out early taking his pig to the common, and saw Clark shoot a fire arrow at the thatch. Later, the area where he’d been standing was searched and the bow, pitch and tinderbox were discovered.”

Ah. Allan remembered that tinderbox—it was inscribed with Kennett’s initials. That would have sealed his fate, no doubt.

“There’s no way on God’s earth that he can fight the charges, no matter how many people he tries to bribe. There were too many witnesses, including the constable himself.”

“It should never have come to this. If only I’d realized sooner how immoral, how deranged—”

“Nay.” She took the empty beaker from him. “You cannot blame yourself. No one could have predicted Kennett would go to such ends to take the commandery from you. Or to have me.”

“To have you?” Allan sank back against his pillows. “But you were in the cottage with me. He could have killed you, too.”

“I don’t think he meant to harm me. He didn’t lock the door until I was safe. How he knew you were in there with me, I’ve no idea.”

“He must have been watching.” How deep did Kennett’s depravity go? How could so sweet a woman as Hannah have had so selfish, manipulative, and unprincipled a brother?

“I had no idea he had become so obsessed with me. I never imagined your friendship with me could put you in such danger.”

Friendship? It was a great deal more than that, especially now. But he mustn’t press her—she was probably still in shock. “It’s all over now. He can’t hurt us anymore.”

“But your poor hands! They could be ruined.”

He could feel the sting of the burns, but though they pained him, he could move all his fingers. “They’ll heal.”

He stilled. Talking was an effort. And with these bandages on, he couldn’t touch Cecily, couldn’t feel the silk of her hair, or enjoy the creamy flesh of her cheek. He opened his arms.

Moving slowly, she nestled into him, evidently on the lookout for any discomfort he might be suffering. This stubborn, determined young woman truly had a heart of gold, more valuable than any Templar treasure.

“Are you hurt?” He kissed the top of her head, then nuzzled against her hair.