The Fire and the Sword (Men of Blood Book 2)

by Rosamund Winchester

  The man raised his hand, reaching for her, his finger nearly brushing the tip of one breast. He slid his finger under a single curled lock of her hair, lifting it and letting it fall. He did it again, and she could only stand and stare at his hand, as if caught in a fog.

  He took another step closer, until she was craning her neck to see up into his face. His eyes were nearly too dark to believe and his very presence gave off a wave of immense pressure. She fought the shudder threatening to shake her limbs.

  He is just a man, like any other man. But that wasn’t entirely the truth. Forcing her chin even higher, she swatted at his hand.

  “Please, step aside,” she demanded, an imperious tone escaping around the stranglehold in her throat.

  A mirthful glimmer shined in his gaze and he crossed his arms over his chest. Apparently not one to listen when commanded, the man had the audacity to allow his gaze to slide down her body, lingering on her breasts, and then visually molesting the rest of her. She felt bare, vulnerable and unbelievably thrilled.

  Mon Dieu! What is wrong with me? A new heat filled her, this one made up of her shame. She was the daughter of a duc, a lady. She could not allow a commoner to paw at her as though she were a strumpet.

  “Are you quite finished?” she snapped in French.

  In a flash, his lips were a hairsbreadth from hers, the heat of him slamming into her. She gasped, moved to take a step back, and was stopped by his iron-hard arm snaking around her waist. She was well and truly trapped. So why didn’t she feel trapped? Again, the shame burned her cheeks.

  “I have only just begun, Beauty,” he said, his voice deeper than before. The words fluttered over her skin, raising bumps along her arms. Her nipples—the traitors!—peaked against the rough fabric of the tunic.

  Fearing what other humiliating, impermissible things her body would do, she did what she should have done the moment he came too close. She lifted her hand and slapped him. Her palm connected with the hardness of his cheek, stinging her flesh and making her wince.

  The man stiffened, his face having barely moved despite the strength and vehemence in her strike. He stared down at her, his molten eyes wide with shock and yet glowing with heightening interest. A red mark appeared where she’d hit him, and she fought back the grin of satisfaction at seeing it.

  “Elric! Where are you, you blackguard?” someone called into the stable, making Minnette stiffen in both fear and humiliation. If someone were to catch her in such a position, her uncle would toss her into the nearest convent and wash his hands of her. And what would become of her then? And all because she allowed a filthy man to touch her.

  Raising her hands, she pushed against the man’s naked, sweaty chest. The warmth beneath her palms flowed into her, making the hollow in her belly clench.

  Sighing, the man, Elric, dropped his arm and turned.

  Minnette took that chance to slip around him, flying out of the stall and into the open space of the stable.

  “Wait!” the man called, but she dared not turn and give him the chance to take hold of her again. Near the entrance to the stable, she nearly collided with a giant of a man; red beard, red hair, and a frame a bear would envy. Skirting around him, she continued out of the stable yard, through the gate to the upper bailey, right to the kitchens’ door where she’d first left on her ill-conceived jaunt. She didn’t stop running until the door slammed shut behind her. It wasn’t until she saw Enid’s assistant, Twila, that Minnette realized she’d left the basket of tarts behind.

  “Damn.” But there was little she could do save return and risk meeting that man again. Through the kitchens and into the service corridor, she stopped a passing chambermaid and asked her to send wash water up to her bedchamber. With that detail sorted, she headed up the winding back stairs to the landing that led to the corridor that led to her chambers.

  Minnette knew that if she were caught by one of her uncle’s men, she’d have much to explain. She couldn’t be seen in her maid’s clothes. Holding her breath, she cracked the door and peered down one side of the corridor, then the other.

  Clear.

  Letting out her breath, she left the landing and hurried down the corridor to her chamber door. Thankful that Elspeth had left a change of clean clothes on the bed, Minnette rang for the maid to help her change back into clothing her uncle wouldn’t turn his pompous nose up at.

  The maid summoned, she sat on the bed and lifted her right foot. The stench of manure and old hay struck her nose. She gagged and lowered her foot, knowing full well her other foot was just as coated with muck. And she only had herself to blame for leaving her chambers without her slippers.

  No! It was that man’s fault for interrupting her moment with the kittens to drown her in his unwanted attentions. If he hadn’t literally pushed her into the back of the stall, she never would have stepped in what she could only guess had left a trail of shite through the castle.

  Disgusted with herself, and her mistake, she pressed her palms into her cheeks, willing the chill from her hands to cool the heat in her face.

  “If Uncle Remi did not know of my foolishness, he will now.” Perhaps, if she washed and changed quickly enough, no one would ever know it was her fault the corridors smelled of stable.

  A knock on the door brought Minnette to her feet, and she immediately regretted the action. The muck on her soles moved up to squish between her toes. Alarm rang through her, making her stiffen. If it was one of her uncle’s men, she’d be done in for sure. If it was her uncle, he’d more than likely toss her right back into the stable muck to rot.

  Stop woolgathering in the brambles and just get it over with!

  Biting back an unholy word, she called, “Enter.”

  Thankfully, it was Elspeth and not her uncle who entered, though why she believed her uncle would deign to come to see her, she couldn’t imagine. The maid closed the door behind her and stopped dead, her small eyes wide.

  “My lady,” Elspeth choked out, her hand flying to her face to cover her mouth a nose. “Gor! What ’appen?” The maid’s gaze roved over the tunic and finally landed at Minnette’s feet. “Where did ya go? Never say ya went to the stables! Dorla will ’ave my ’ead, she will!” Dorla, her uncle’s chatelaine, was a warhorse in a kirtle. She ran the castle with a fierce eye, a fiercer hand, and a sharp and bloodied tongue. She’d bring the room down on Minnette’s head if she ever learned Minnette had caused such a mess.

  “Non! You cannot tell her, Elspeth,” Minnette rasped, desperately trying to reel in the maid’s growing horror. “If you help me dress and wash the mess from my feet, we can never speak of this again.” It sounded easy enough; just remove all evidence of her flight into foolishness, and she could face her uncle without worrying over anything.

  If I were home, I would not have such worries. But she wasn’t at home. She was in a stranger’s home, surrounded by strangers, and becoming a stranger even to herself.

  Another knock sounded on the door, and Elspeth shrieked, which made Minnette’s head ache terribly.

  “Merde! Do stop that noise, Elspeth. Tis only the water I ordered for my wash. Please answer the door.” Her tone was imperious, but it needed to be to shake the woman from her stupor. The last thing Minnette needed was a maid who couldn’t hold her tongue or her wits.

  Elspeth, noticeably shaking—the poor, ridiculous dear—turned and walked to the door. Minnette held her breath, praying to the Lord that she was right about who was standing on the other side. She held her breath and let it explode in an exhalation of relief. At the door were two young boys. One was holding a bronze basin and the other was grasping two heavy-looking pails of steaming water.

  “Good,” she said, regaining her resolve to wash up, re-dress, and meet her uncle as she should have an hour ago. “Place it just there.” She directed the boys toward the hearth and refused to meet their curious gazes. Let them wonder why there was a trail of questionable mud that carried right into her chambers. “Leave the water and the linens. We
have things well in hand.” Oh, you are lying to yourself, Minnette. You are desperately trying to tread water, but the water is thick and dark and smelly!

  Elspeth muttered to herself, her hands clasping nervously at her tunic. Guilt palmed Minnette’s heart, squeezing it. The faithful and diligent Elspeth deserved more than Minnette’s derision. Sighing, Minnette waited until the boys had placed the items on the floor and left before walking to Elspeth’s side and placing a hand on her shoulder. The panicked maid turned her wide eyes to Minnette, who smiled warmly.

  “I know you are frightened, mon amie, but I assure you, I will not let blame for my actions fall on you.” And she meant it. Elspeth seemed to relax, slowly, then offered Minnette an answering smile. “Bon! Now, let us get me out of this tunic so we can wash this stench from my body.” She stared down at her filthy, muck-covered feet, and a thought occurred to her. “My uncle is still waiting for me.”

  Chapter Four

  Elric watched the woman flee through the stable doors, her blue-black hair flying out behind her like a banner of silk ribbons. He swore under his breath, suddenly angry at the large, bearded man who ruined a perfectly delightful moment.

  “Never say I interrupted a tryst,” Bear said, his open face bright with mirth.

  Ignoring Bear’s snickering, Elric scrubbed his hand over his face. “What did you want, Bear?”

  After another laugh, Bear tossed a water bladder to Elric. “I have word from Calleaux, we are to dine with him tomorrow evening.”

  Elric snorted, not at all surprised that the cardinal was already governing their movements, only a few hours after their return from a month-long mission into the lowlands. Taking a long pull of the cold, sweet water, Elric poured the rest of it over his head and chest, nearly groaning as the water bathed his sore muscles. Though they’d only returned that morning, he couldn’t afford to lose time training, so, he’d spent an hour in the training ring with Pierre and James, one of the newer members of the order, and the only other man who came close to besting Elric with a sword.

  “How generous of him,” Elric said, barely holding back the sneer that pulled at his lip. “I will be sure to thank him, if I can choke down any of the food.”

  “I have no problem eating the man’s food, tis his countenance I cannot stomach,” Bear intoned, and Elric nodded in agreement. “Besides, I have not had a proper meal since the last time we were invited to dine with Calleaux. Lord knows the villages in Nottinghamshire did not know a pig’s belly from its arse. At least, that’s what the food tasted like.”

  Elric grimaced at the picture that conjured. “Maybe if you went home, you would find Miranda has learned to cook since you last visited.” Miranda, Bear’s sister and guardian of his daughter, Marian, was about as adept at cooking as she was at keeping Marian in line. She was terrible at it, and it vexed Bear to no end, though, he could not complain. With his oath to the Homme du Sang, he could not raise his daughter as a man should, and so, with Marian’s fair mother in Heaven, God rest her soul, Miranda was the only one who could care for the girl.

  Bear snorted, a look of disgust souring his expression. “It would take a right miracle for that one to make anything edible. The last time she made roast, it tasted of ashes, with just a hint of thyme.”

  Elric chuckled, rolling his shoulders to force out the muscle aches beginning to twist his neck and back.

  “At least you have someone to go home to,” Elric surprised himself by saying. It apparently surprised Bear, too, because he stopped smiling and peered down at Elric with a curious and somewhat pitying look in his eye.

  “What I meant was that at least you are welcome someplace other than the Balliwich,” Elric continued haltingly, trying his damnedest to rid his tongue of the taste of regret. He didn’t regret his past, or what that past had fashioned him into. He couldn’t regret the life he’d lived up to now. He’d done all he’d ever wanted, buggered whatever woman struck his fancy, drank whatever wine would satiate his thirst, he’d even earned enough coin to buy any plot of land he could ever want to own. But was something missing? The bile on his tongue slid back down his throat and seemed to stick in his chest, surrounding his heart with its acid. Rubbing just there, he turned away from Bear, refusing to meet the man’s gaze—the one that said he’d heard more than Elric had actually said. That perceptive ass.

  “Do not think I forgot about what I found when I came in here,” Bear said archly, though Elric was grateful he hadn’t continued their previous, awkward conversation.

  Grunting, and trying not to grin, Elric turned to leave the barn, not having remembered why he’d gone in there in the first place. He’d walked into the dusty, malodorous building to do make use of the fresh water in the trough, and then he heard that husky, lilting voice, murmuring something sultry and decidedly seductive in French. His ear and his manhood focused on the sound. He’d slowly made his way to the last stall, listening to the woman behind the stall door speak in hushed tones about “dashing, handsome sword…” In the state he’d been in, fresh from a fight and indescribably aroused by her voice alone, he could only assume she’d been whispering to her lover about his sword.

  “What you found was none of your concern,” Elric replied, continuing his clipped pace toward the barracks Calleaux had built for the order when he’d ordered them from their headquarters nine years ago. It was nowhere near as comfortable as what they’d been forced to leave behind, but it was a place to rest his head in between missions. The barracks and dining hall was a gathering place for all manner of manse servant. When the men were home, they found relief from their arduous life in drinking, tupping, and some found solace in prayer. From the grooms to the scullery maids, the people knew that to spend time with the Homme du Sang was a guaranteed time of merriment. Not that Elric felt particularly merry at the moment.

  Eager to end their conversation and find a moment alone, Elric stopped in his tracks and turned to face Bear, who stood a head taller than him.

  “Find Pierre, tell him of our dining plans for tomorrow evening,” he ordered, his commanding tone firmly in place. “And do not expect me back in the barracks this evening.”

  Bear pursed his lips, his dark brown eyes dancing. “May I ask why?” he asked, his voice high-pitched and gratingly cheery.

  Elric narrowed his eyes at the man who knew better than to ask anything about him. “No.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and headed back to the training ring where he’d left his tunic. As he treaded the path worn into the grass, his thoughts moved back to the barn and that woman. He’d followed her voice, wondering, his heart hammering, his mind whirling. Who was she? Who was she with? Would they mind adding another to their sword play? The moment the thought had come to mind, he dismissed it. A man deserved privacy when plucking the forbidden fruit. Too bad her voice and the desire to see her with his own eyes weren’t as easily dismissed.

  When he opened the stall door, he hadn’t known what to expect, but he certainly hadn’t expected to find a woman—a breathtakingly lovely woman—lying on her back in the hay, with a mewling pack of furry creatures kneading her breasts.

  At the sight of her, curly black locks and piercing sky blue eyes, he’d been felled like an oak tree in an ancient forest. She was stunning, and it wasn’t just her face and delectable form that had ignited a fire within him. It was also the fire within her that had stirred him. When she’d stood, her back straight, her chin high, and dismissed him like a lady of the manor would a lowly serf, he nearly begged her name.

  Though, he really should have asked her name, how else would he know where to look for her, the beauty of the stable? But even as the question flitted from his mind, the answer came to him. He was Homme du Sang, a master of ambushes and strategic traps. He could find and capture one woman, capture her lips with his, capture her lush breasts in his hands, capture her moans of pleasure with his ears as they found their mutual pleasure.

  Chuckling to himself, he retrieved his tunic and
began making his way to the kitchens. Enid was a love, always giving him trenchers of food she’d put aside for him when she knew he’d be home.

  First, food. He’d fill his belly with whatever the angel, Enid, had created. Then, he’d take up a post within the stable. The woman, the one he couldn’t get out of his mind, had seemed particularly taken with those kittens. He’d wager his helmet that she would return that evening to see them. And when she did…

  He pulled his knife from the deer carcass and wiped the gore on the grass—not that he cared much about the blood. Blood was life. His life was blood.

  Closing his eyes, he let the breeze kiss his face, sliding over the scars that formed dips and ridges over his face and scalp, like a tapestry of tortured flesh. Some would think he was hideous, ugly, a monster. And he was a monster. Just not in the way they assumed. They took one look at his disgusting form and turned away, hiding their faces from his gaze, hoping that whatever melted his face wasn’t contagious. Little did they know that he hadn’t been born a beast. He’d been made into one.

  And they would know the wrath of the beast they created…to the very last child.

  Squatting as he was amongst the brush, anyone coming along would not know of his presence. At least on sight. But they would smell him, the cloying scent of cloves and mint, the necklace of death and life he’d wrapped around his neck.

  That is, if he got close enough to them. More often than not, he’d strike from a distance, his aim with the bow and arrow true and devastating. It was how he’d bagged the deer. But sometimes, the desire to feel the flesh give way beneath his blade, to feel the hot, sticky rush of blood, to see the anguish and panic in their eyes was too much a temptation to ignore. He would deny himself nothing. He’d been denied too much already. It would take a lifetime to gain back all he should have had if he weren’t cast aside like so much rubbish, left to molder in ruin and rage.