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

by Rosamund Winchester

  “Who—”

  “I could not let them starve now, could I?” that voice rumbled from behind her. Gasping, she spun on her heel—she’d worn slippers this time—and came face to chest with the man who’d trapped her in this same stall earlier.

  “You,” she said, her voice rising.

  Desperately trying to collect her wits, she refused to meet his gaze. Instead, she settled her own gaze on his mouth—which was a mistake. His strangely feminine lips would have looked silly on any other man but, on him, they made him look like a man who could seduce the habit from a nun.

  The man’s smile widened. “Me.”

  That one word served to snap her from her shock-induced haze.

  “Have you set a trap for me, then?” she asked, still refusing to look him in the eyes.

  He crossed his arms, which made his forearm brush against her breasts. She tensed, the sensation wholly unwelcome. Push him away. Slap him. Do not allow him liberties!

  He chuckled, a deep, resonating sound that slammed into her belly.

  Mon Dieu! Is there anything about this man that isn’t attractive?

  “You are clever. I did set a trap for you…with kittens as the bait,” he replied in perfect French, a teasing tone making his words flitter through her blood.

  Damn him!

  “How did you know I would come?” she asked, her indignation in full glory.

  He shrugged, his broad shoulders dragging her attention from his mouth.

  “You seemed enamored with the things. I knew you would return for them. Besides that, you left your basket of tarts. I might not know much about the workings of the kitchens, but I do know Enid is a dragon when it comes to wasted food.”

  True, she had been cross once she’d discovered Minnette had left the basket of tarts behind, but Minnette had promised to make up for it by remaking the tarts herself the very next morning.

  “And the saucer of milk?” she asked, entirely too curious about it. “Was that part of the trap as well?”

  “No. I just could not let the little mites starve. What sort of man denies such helpless creatures a chance at a full life. Also, the stable needs a few more capable mousers,” he said, just as a mouse ran over her foot.

  Screeching, Minnette jumped—right into the man’s arms, which tightened around her like bands of iron.

  Heat. The scent of leather and man. Hard, unyielding flesh. She slowly came to her senses, realizing what she’d done and with whom. Her palms pressed against the man’s chest, she could feel his steady, strong heartbeat. It was accelerating.

  Holding her breath, she finally let her gaze travel up from the man’s mouth to his eyes. Their golden depths were molten, burning, breathtaking.

  “If I had known that was all it took to get you into my arms, I would have spent the day collecting mice to throw at your feet,” he murmured, his deep voice husky, thick.

  Finding her own voice, she replied, “Then you would not need mousers, would you?” She sounded waspish, but she couldn’t help it. The man had stolen her senses, if only for a moment.

  Do not lie to yourself, Minnette, the man still has his arms wrapped around you. And you like it.

  Snapped from her reverie, she tried to pull back, but the man held her in place, his eyes focused on her lips. Unthinkingly, she licked her bottom lip, her mouth suddenly parched. The man groaned, narrowing his eyes.

  “Who are you?” the man whispered, leaning down to almost brush his full lips against hers. And she didn’t pull back, she couldn’t. He was spellbinding. Even if she weren’t wrapped in his arms, he’d still hold her in place with his sensuality. He was drawing her in despite her determination to not be anyone’s conquest. But would it really hurt to allow him to kiss her, just this once? To know what a real man’s kiss felt like? To enjoy a moment of carnal satisfaction?

  A loud whinnying from the horse in the neighboring stall tore her from her stupor, filling her with a new kind of heat, the kind that came with guilt.

  What had she nearly done? No, what had she nearly allowed this man, this stable master to do?

  Pounding her fist against his chest, she succeeded in making him drop his arms. His eyes were still molten gold, but there was something else there that she didn’t recognize.

  “I will ask you to never touch me again,” she said, archly, using the tone she’d often used on naughty little boys.

  The man raised his arm and shoved his fingers through his overlong hair, which only mussed it, which made him all the more devastating.

  Steeling herself, she made to walk around him and escape the stable—and she’d never come back again, even to see the kittens.

  No! Do not allow those kittens to suffer just because some blackguard continues to harass you!

  Of course, she wouldn’t leave the kittens to their fates. Although, since the man had given the kittens some cream, perhaps he wasn’t as callous as she’d assumed.

  But he’s still a wicked rogue.

  The man, again, stepped into her path, just as he had that morning. The urge to kick him in the shins rose but then fell. If slapping his face made her palm still ache hours later, she’d hate to experience what her toes would feel like after kicking something harder than a cheek.

  Angry, at him and at herself for getting herself into that situation, she let out an exasperated hiss. “Will you let me pass?” she snapped, planting her hands on her hips, only slightly conscious of the fact that the movement had made her breasts bounce.

  The man’s eyes, just as expected, caught sight of the movement. His gaze landed on her chest, where her nipples could easily be seen through the thin fabric of her clothes.

  “You still have not told me who you are,” the man said, planting his own hands on his hips, which were encased in leather, once again. His short tunic stopped just below his waist. The ties crisscrossing his chest were loose, allowing for a tantalizing view of a smattering of auburn hair. “You could very well be a horse thief, come to make off with one of the guard’s horses.”

  She snorted, rolling her eyes.

  “I have no interest in horses. I came to see the kittens, and you know that very well.”

  A wicked, lopsided smile lifted the left side of his mouth, revealing a single pointed tooth—like a wolf.

  “I know no such thing. You could be using the excuse to see the kittens as a way to spy on the comings and goings of the stable to know when it would be the best time to strike.”

  How dare he think that about her? Then again, he didn’t know anything about her, not even her name.

  “Your ignorance is showing, stable master,” she said, emphasizing his position. “If I were here spying, I would have set out to seduce one of the stable boys for information rather than playing with a litter of kittens.” She didn’t know why she said that, but this man had the uncanny ability to pull the worst out of her…and she found she didn’t hate it.

  “And before you say it, no, I did not bring them the tarts to bribe them into spying for me. Enid wanted the boys to have something special for all their hard work,” she added, wanting to cut off his absurdity before it grew into something she couldn’t control. And she hated how much she was enjoying the banter with this complete stranger in the shadows of a stable. If Maman could see her now, she’d have an apoplectic fit and never speak to her again.

  Stung by how true that statement was, Minnette wondered, once again, if her mother would even remember her. Or even care.

  Non! Stop with the pitying thoughts. Desperate to rid herself of the bitterness, she lifted her chin and met the stable master’s gaze, waiting for his next words.

  He bowed his head, bringing his face to just inches from hers.

  “And why would you need to seduce or bribe a stable boy when the stable master is more than willing to be seduced by you?” His deep voice licked along her insides until it reached that place between her thighs, the place that had become wetter the longer she was in his presence.

  I mus
t be falling ill.

  “With the kittens watching? I think not,” she said, huffing.

  The man threw back his head and let loose a loud, deep laugh that made her tremble. His Adam’s apple bobbed as his chest emptied of mirth.

  Finally, he dropped his gaze back to her, his eyes dancing with humor, his lips forming a smile no man should ever own.

  “I must know who you are, Fair Lady of the Kittens, if only to speak of you in my evening prayers.”

  She arched an eyebrow, narrowing her eyes at him.

  “If you’re a man of prayer then I am a sack of flour,” she drawled dryly.

  He chuckled, raising his hand to pull at one of her curls. Again, the sensation of headiness pulled at her.

  “Ah, a lovelier sack of flour I have never seen, then. And what is your name?” His smile grew, and she couldn’t make herself look away. “I know I have not seen you around the manse before, so you must be new. Do you have family here?”

  Why was he so curious about her? Did men typically ask so many questions of women they simply wanted to lay with? What could she tell him that would appease him without actually being untruthful? She was many things, but she wasn’t a liar.

  “I moved here to live with my Uncle Remi,” she answered.

  He furrowed his brow, his large hand moving to cup his chin in thought.

  “Hmmm, Remi. I have not heard of him.”

  She shrugged. What did she care if this man knew anything about her? He was the stable master, a man she would strive to forget the moment she stepped from the stable.

  “No matter,” the man said, dropping his hand. “I will still think of you this evening.”

  “In your prayers?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking, her tone sharp.

  He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stared down at her, his eyes flashing from gold to bronze then back to gold. She held her breath.

  “In my dreams, Kitten. In my deepest, darkest, most sensual fantasies,” he said just before capturing her mouth in a kiss that stole every last thought from her mind.

  Elric couldn’t stop himself even if it were possible to do so. This woman, whoever she was, had become an obsession, something he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried. Not that he’d tried all that hard. Because this woman had crawled into his being and taken root, and he couldn’t uproot her. He didn’t want to. He wanted to root himself in her and never leave.

  You are mad? Aye, he probably was, but he daren’t deny himself something that had intrigued him far more than anything ever had. This woman, a flesh and blood goddess, who felt like Heaven pressed against him. Her pebbled nipples rubbing against his belly, her small hands pushing against his chest, where his heart was pounding as if he’d been running for his life.

  His manhood thickened, creating an ache that was far deeper and sharper than he’d ever known before. This was too much. She was too much. But he couldn’t pull away. Her lips were soft, warm, tasted of wine and womanhood. Two of his favorite things.

  A sharp pain in his lip made him recoiling, breaking their kiss. As he pulled back, he caught sight of her raised hand, but he grabbed hold of her wrist before she could land another blow against his cheek.

  She is fiery.

  Elric stared down at her, enchanted and aroused. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen, with a smear of crimson just there on her bottom lip. It took him a moment to realize it was blood and then another moment to realize that the little fairy princess had bit him.

  She’d bitten him—like a sassy kitten with more fight than sense. He dropped her wrist, alert for any other attempts at harming him.

  As if she could.

  A smile tugged at his own lips but, before he could tell her just how much he enjoyed her vicious little kiss, she kicked, aiming for his shin, and when he jumped to the left, she dashed around him to his right.

  On her at once, he growled, “Not this time,” just as he grabbed hold of her elbow. She tugged haphazardly, which only gave him the momentum he needed to pull her back and into his chest. He held her there as she thrashed, banging against his chest with her tiny fists, and all the while he chuckled. Her sapphire eyes darkened and her nostrils flared. She was getting herself wound up, like a slingshot in the hands of an expert hunter. And just as dangerous.

  “Come now, Kitten, surely you know it is pointless to fight against a man of my strength.” Damn, he was being a horse’s arse, but he couldn’t help himself. She was bad for him.

  Since when do you do anything good for you? His smile grew but then disappeared quickly as she began wiggling against him, her breasts, soft, supple, and just the perfect size, were flush against his belly, her lower belly rubbing against his manhood, and her quick, husky breaths blew up and across his neck, like silky fingers of lust. If she didn’t stop he’d ravish her in the nearest pile of hay.

  You’d have to get her to sheath her claws first. Kitten she was not; this woman was a lioness.

  “Unhand me, you brute,” she hissed in French, her accent doing hot, wicked things to his body. “I will tell my uncle about you and he will toss you out.”

  Oh, but she was more than fiery and presumptuous. Who was she or her uncle to think they could toss him out? He was the Commander of the Homme du Sang. No one tossed him anywhere.

  But she didn’t know that. She’d called him the stable master, and he couldn’t blame her. When they’d first met, he’d been fresh from the sparring ring, half-naked, sweaty, and probably smelling of leather and blood. His appearing in the stable in such a state probably would’ve made any newly-arrived servant think him a man of the stable. He wouldn’t dissuade her of the notion, either. It was far too entertaining to see her hackles rise, and as soon as she realized he was high above her station, she wouldn’t even lift her gaze to meet his again.

  No, not his lioness. She’d meet him, fight him, and best him. Or, rather, he’d let her try.

  With that in mind, he loosened his hold. He didn’t want her fighting him so much that she began to hate him. He wanted to use that heat, that passion, and get her to fall into his arms. They would fight later. In his bed. He’d let her win then.

  She pushed away and he dropped his arms completely, letting out a loud, heavy sigh. He crossed his arms and peered down at her, then slowly, carefully, licked his bottom lip where her teeth had wounded him. He tasted the tang of iron, and a little bit of salt. Her eyes followed the movement, growing ever darker, deeper. She wasn’t as unaffected as she let on but, soon, she’d not be able to hide it—from him or herself.

  “Go, then, Kitten. I would hate for you to be ravished by a lowly stable master in a foul-smelling stable,” he intoned, his voice dipping on the word “ravished”. She noticed, too, because her eyes widened and her cheeks turned a lovely red that made him wonder if she turned the same color in the throes of ecstasy.

  Determined to discover that himself, soon, he took a step back, then watched with growing hunger as she ran from him the second time that day.

  “I will let you go this time, Kitten, but I will catch you soon enough,” he murmured into the empty stable as a slow smile formed on his lips.

  Chapter Six

  “Come!” her uncle called from the other side of the door. Depressing the iron latch, Minnette pushed the door open and stepped inside. Her uncle was seated at a small, elegantly embellished desk in the middle of a large room.

  “You called for me, Uncle?” she asked, already certain she knew what he’d called her for. He meant to marry her off as soon as he could sign his name to the marriage license. She’d rather cut out her own heart than marry any man some other man had bought for her.

  Her uncle stood up from behind the escritoire and examined her, from slipper to head, his face pinched. He was her father’s elder brother, but he looked little like her own beloved Papa. Where her father had deep grooves around his mouth from smiling, her uncle had them in his forehead from grimacing. Where her father’s hair had been as black as a rave
n’s wing, her uncle’s hair was merely brown, and it was covered by a red zucchetto. The black crucifix he wore around his neck matched the long, floor-length robes he was wearing, which were adorned at the waist with a scarlet fascia. Certainly, he looked the part of a cardinal, a Prince of the Holy Church, but right now she could only think of him as her captor, her barterer, the man who held her freedom in his hands.

  “I see you are no worse for wear after your travels,” he drawled. His dark brown eyes shifted from her face to where she’d entwined her hands before her. She was nervous—who wouldn’t be when facing down their doom—so she kept her hands together to keep from doing something foolish, like turning and slamming from the room.

  She been running too often lately, and she was loath to do it again. First, she’d run from her uncle into the kitchens, then she’d run from the man in the stable—not once, but twice—but he didn’t deserve a moment’s time in her thoughts. He was a scoundrel, a blackguard, a man of ill-repute who would, no doubt, have ravished her if she had stayed.

  You should have stayed and called his bluff, she thought. But then she quickly dismissed the thought. She could remember the man; tall, handsome, with a wicked smile, hard chest, and something else hard down below the waistband of his leather breeches. In the midst of her struggle with him, she hadn’t allowed herself to think on what that bulge in his breeches meant. But once she was back in her chambers, lying in her bed—naked, as she was wont to do—she couldn’t stop thinking about him, his hands, his words. “I will think of you this evening…in my deepest, darkest, most sensual dreams.” It was almost as if he’d cast a spell over her. She hated that she couldn’t push the man from her mind as she promised herself she would, and now she was standing before her uncle, her thoughts overflowing with a stranger from the stable, when she should be focusing on convincing her uncle she had no need for a husband.

  Oblivious to her inner turmoil, her uncle dipped his head as if to a witless babe, and offered her a brittle smile.