Page 49 of Lord of the Manor

“You don’t want everyone to know your shame, do you? I’ll go in and help him out through the back window. No one will see, and under cover of all that smoke, your reputation will be unsullied. Just give me what I want, and all will be well.”

She struggled in his arms. “Leave me be. I’ll strike no devil’s bargain with you.”

“Then say farewell to your lover.” Kennett held something in front of her eyes. She blinked, then sucked in a horrified breath. Her key! It must have fallen in her scramble to get out.

The truth slammed into her with nauseating clarity. As if in a nightmare, she saw the latch of the cottage door move rapidly up and down, saw the door shaking on its hinges as Allan struggled to get out.

But Master Clark had locked him in.

She made a grab for the key, but the villain held it out of range and uttered a hollow laugh.

“Every second you hesitate, the closer to death he comes. Say you will be my whore—at least until I tire of you—and you shall have the key. If you don’t comply, you’ll never see Allan again.”

She fought, bit and kicked, trying to break the man’s hold on her, not caring how much she might hurt him or herself, but he was the stronger, and the key always remained just out of reach.

“What the devil is happening here?” A stocky fellow clad in a dark doublet and hose had hurried up, brandishing a baton in one hand.

“Naught that would interest you, Master Wright—nothing of a criminal nature. A house fire, and a terrified and distraught damsel. I’m stopping her from rushing back into the flames to save her trinkets, as you can see.”

Master Wright? Was that not the corrupt constable who had once incarcerated Allan? If he was in league with Master Clark again, Allan was doomed.

“There’s a man trapped inside,” she choked, but her voice was drowned out by a gasp from the villagers. She turned to look as white flame licked along one of the roof timbers before it let out an unearthly groan and subsided into the middle of the cottage in a shower of sparks.

“Allan!” Her voice was part scream, part sob. Still, the key was held out of reach. The latch rattled ever more frantically.

She heard a high whistling sound and realized Charlemagne had taken off from his roof and was circling nearby, out of range of the billowing smoke.

Wrenching one arm free from Clark’s grip, she made a gesture she knew the bird would recognize, then ducked out of harm’s way.

Like a speeding arrow, Charlemagne dived straight at Master Clark. His talons caught in the man’s hat, but in his vanity, the fellow had pinned it to his head at a jaunty angle, so it failed to come off. There was a brief battle of wings, sharp talons, and flapping hands. When Charlemagne’s claws raked the back of Master Clark’s hand, he yelped in pain and dropped the key. Cecily threw herself down to retrieve it, but the constable was there before her.

“Keep clear, Mistress,” he ordered, then raced toward the cottage door. Flinging one arm over his face to protect himself, he unlocked it and flung it open.

Allan, smoke streaming from his clothes, lurched out and collapsed into the constable’s arms.

Regardless of her own safety, Cecily chased forward and flung herself to her knees, fanning Allan’s face and calling for water to stem his coughing, while struggling to see through her tears. His clothing was hot to the touch, his hair singed in places, and he couldn’t stop coughing—but he was alive, thank the Lord.

“Here—we’ll take him into my cottage.” She heard Martin’s voice, right by her ear. “Constable—can you help me carry him?”

“Nay, I’ll help.”

Cecily breathed a sigh of relief—Anselm was there, too.

“Master Wright—I believe you have another duty to perform.” Anselm’s expression was grim.

Cecily was cradling Allan against her chest, supporting him as he gasped and retched, patting his back and covering his face with kisses in between the spasms, but she looked up when Anselm said, “Constable?” She’d never heard him use so harsh a tone before.

Both men were staring at Master Kennett Clark, who stood observing the still-raging fire with a puzzled frown, licking his wounded hands. When the constable nodded at Anselm and approached Kennett, the man flung up his hands, looking the very picture of outraged innocence.

“Did you see that? That bird attacked me? It should be killed, and its owner cast into prison.” He pointed a shaking finger at Cecily.

“My apologies, sir, but I can’t ignore what I witnessed with my own eyes. You deliberately withheld the key.” The constable looked cross and awkward, being the same man who had unjustly incarcerated Allan a few weeks earlier. Some of the villagers who weren’t involved in the bucket chain rushed to surround Master Clark, shaking their fists and shouting angrily.

Face red with fury, Clark sent Cecily and Allan a look that promised dire retribution. But the next instant, the constable wrenched his arm up behind his back and forced him into movement. The villagers’ jeers accompanied their progress as the constable marched Clark off to be incarcerated.

Cecily didn’t think she could ever hate anyone more than she hated Master Clark. He’d risked the life of the man she loved, threatened her, and destroyed her home. If he were to be executed for his crimes, she wouldn’t turn a hair.

The power of her anger buoyed her up, and she followed Anselm and Martin back to Martin’s cottage, too concerned with Allan’s well-being to even think about the fate of all her possessions. It wasn’t until Allan was settled in a chair, having his hot clothing and skin doused with water and his fingers dabbed with ointment, that she thought to look for her courageous peregrine.