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

by Rosamund Winchester

  His muscles aching, he climbed from Bellerophon’s back and led him up beside Lady Minnette’s horse. She stared, straight ahead, not bothering to look at him. It rankled. Now that they knew the truth of one another, was he too beneath her to be worthy of a simple glance? No, that wasn’t it. When she thought him a grimy stable master, she still melted into him, pressing her lush breasts into his chest as he devoured her sweet mouth.

  His body aching from its constant state of upheaval, he swore beneath his breath. Taking care to remove his helmet, he ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. Then he cleared his throat and said, “My lady, allow me to aid you from your horse.”

  She looked at him then, her blue eyes snapping fire.

  “I would rather the horse threw me from its back and trampled me beneath its hooves than to let you touch me,” she ground out in a low voice, one that filled him with longing and anger.

  He met her blazing gaze with one of his own, his blood aflame.

  “You did not object to my touch when I found you in the kitchens, dressed as a chambermaid,” he drawled, making sure his men were busy elsewhere.

  She gasped, her body stiffening once more.

  “I did so!” she argued, her tone sharp. “Not once have I invited your—your—filthy advances. And I demand that you never speak to me about those incidences again.” There was the haughtiness he’d been expecting that morning.

  A chuckle vibrated through his chest.

  “Oh, but my lady, it was not your words that did the inviting, but rather your eyes.”

  She narrowed those very eyes at him.

  “Sapphire passion…your eyes begged me to touch you, to kiss you, to taste.” He allowed his gaze to drop from hers and his attentions landed on her mouth. “Your lips have become my favorite flavor.”

  “You there!” She pointed at Bear. “Please assist me.” She was a beautiful bird, her feathers ruffled and her flight instinct taking over.

  Stopping mid-stride, Bear turned, his shaggy red eyebrows shooting up, his eyes wide. His gaze bounced between Minnette and Elric, their dark depths flashing uncertainty.

  Nodding his consent, though grudgingly, Elric gave the woman one last leering smirk before leading Bellerophon away to graze beside Sluagh.

  What has come over you? She is a noblewoman, betrothed to another man. And therein was his problem. His desire for her had grown despite her connection to Glidden. It was as though his body cared not that she would bear another man’s name within the month. But his honor, one of the few good things he had left, was seething at his deplorable lack of respect toward the woman. And the sharp look he received from Leon warned him that his men had noticed.

  Damn.

  Allowing Bellerophon to continue grazing in peace, Elric made his way to where Pierre and Glenn were. Glenn was reclining against a tree, his legs crossed at the ankles, and a leather pouch of, what Elric hoped was water, was pressed to his lips. Elric didn’t miss the way Glenn’s unearthly blue eyes scrutinized him as he approached.

  Pierre stood stiffly, as if the man could ever relax, with his hand around the pommel of his sword and his eyes on the crest of the hill from where they’d come. What was he looking for? The man always appeared to be watching for something in particular to happen, as though an angel of the Lord had come to him in his sleep and offered vague warnings about coming doom.

  The thought was not a pleasant one. Elric grimaced as he eased himself to sitting beside Glenn. In full armor, sitting down and standing up could get tricky, but since Glenn cared not for the protection of steel and iron, he wore his usual black leather tunic, breeches, and boots. He could move as he wished without the weight and noise of armor. It was a blessing and a risk, but Elric couldn’t persuade the man otherwise.

  “I wonder what they’re talkin’ about,” Glenn said, indicating Bear and Minnette across the small clearing. Minnette was resting on a flat-topped boulder, and Bear was standing beside her, smiling down at her. She laughed at something Bear said, and Elric had to cage the urge to do damage.

  Leon, as the most sanctimonious of holy knights, glared at Elric from where he was feeding an apple to his horse, Baldric. It was as if priest-cum-knight could sense the tension shifting the air. Elric could feel Glenn and Pierre’s gazes on him, watching him. With effort akin to battling a hundred men, Elric battled back his more brutal urges and took the water leather from Glenn. As he gulped down tepid water, he, again, castigated himself for his actions, for his thoughts.

  I must not fail these men. I cannot besmirch my duty. I am the Commander of the Homme du Sang. For the first time since the honor of his duty had been given him, it seemed hollow.

  Chapter Eleven

  They will move through Keswick and then east to the Marches. Head them off before they reach Edinburgh. Bring me the head as proof.

  The holy man had a gruesome side that Stringer had to appreciate. Perhaps the cardinal was a mercenary at heart, no stranger to using his power to set right what had been wrong. Aye, they were both men of God’s purpose, ridding the world of the wicked. Except the cardinal used his holy words and Stringer used his blades…and sometimes his bare hands.

  From beside him, where he was hiding in the thicket just outside the north end of Keswick, Digger pawed the ground, agitated, eager to get moving. To get hunting.

  “Aye, my friend. I am thirsty for the bloodletting, too, but we must bide our time, lest we lose our chance.” But how much longer must he wait? It was well past noon, and they were to depart the keep just after sunrise. They should have come through hours ago.

  Something is wrong, he finally admitted.

  He pulled the missive from his pocket and re-read it.

  The cardinal seemed sure they were to travel through Keswick, but what if the Homme du Sang had other plans?

  Realizing he needed to make other plans as well, Stringer spat his distaste into the dirt and mounted Digger, heading into town. He didn’t bother pulling his hood up over his face—not now that he was the herald of God’s judgement, a tool for the very Church they worshipped.

  Let them see. Let them look. And they did. They always did. They couldn’t help it, the staring, the gawping, the gasping and screeching. The sounds of their horror had become like the most beautiful of music, lilting on the breeze to meet his ruined ear.

  Stopping just outside the inn, he dismounted, securing Digger to the post outside the door. He stepped inside the busy tap room and waited for the noise to cease as everyone stopped their conversations to stare at him. And when it happened, he offered them all a grin, knowing full well it would pull the gnarled skin of his face into a hellish snarl.

  Some gasped, some cursed, and one brave soul even called him to leave them in peace. He sighed, walked to the corner table, and took a seat. He would wait, listen, gather information about where the target may have gone. He was good at waiting, listening, especially when it meant he was that much closer to catching his prey.

  After long moments, the conversations began again, and some even mentioned him, his hideous face, his origins as the bastard son of the Devil. He snickered. They were almost right. His father was as close to being a devil as he himself had become. Like father, like son.

  When the barmaid finally gained the courage to come to his table, he ordered a bowl of stew and a tankard of ale. Once the food and drink were delivered, he ate and drank and listened. It took an hour, but he finally heard something that made him take full notice of the men just two tables away.

  “Sir Tristin means to christen his babe,” one man hissed to the other. “Tis heresy for a man who renounced the Church to consecrate a child of his blood in a house of God.” The other man sneered. “Someone ought to burn the chapel at Bridgerdon down to keep it pure and untouched by that man’s wickedness.”

  “Tis talk that the Homme du Sang march there to stop him,” the other man murmured.

  “Aye, I heard that, too. Old Topper saw them riding south. He wondered why they had a lady w
ith them, though.”

  “Perhaps she is a captive.”

  “Perhaps,” the other said, nodding with his glaringly pious arrogance. “God bless them for doing the Lord’s work.”

  Stringer left the inn after that. If the Homme du Sang were truly headed south to stop Tristin from christening his son, he would follow after them.

  Patting Digger’s strong neck, he directed the steed south and east, toward Bridgerdon, toward his work. The Lord be damned.

  Every muscle and bone of her body was screaming in agony. Minnette had never ridden so far for so long. Even her journey from Locronan to the port in Calais had been done in stages, and she’d ridden in the comfort of her beau-pere—stepfather’s—carriage. At Cieldon, she’d been assured that the steed chosen for her would offer a gentle ride.

  That wasn’t the first time her darling uncle had lied to her that day.

  “Minnette, my dear, you will find only blessings and luxury as the wife of a man such as Glidden. He is wealthy, a close ally to King Henry, and a close, personal friend to me. He has assured me that you will be treated with care befitting your position as my only niece—the one thing I have left of my beloved brother.”

  She could still hear her uncle’s hideous words in her mind, could still see the falseness in his smile, and the cold calculations in his eyes. Eyes that were far too similar to that of her much loved and mourned papa.

  Uncle Remi, she refused to call him Cristian, as it was her father’s name, summoned her into his chambers that morning, just before sunrise. He’d insisted it was his desire to say goodbye, to wish her a safe journey and fertile future. “Bear many sons”, he’d said. Minnette had nearly purged her breakfast at that. She would never let Glidden touch her, because she would never give him the chance.

  Though she shuddered at the thought of a man like Glidden touching her, a man of her uncle’s choosing, she felt something wholly different with the thought of Elric touching her. The dratted man had been staring holes into her back all morning, and once they stopped for a rest, he’d had the audacity to mention his touching her and her asking for it.

  The cur!

  But what bothered her the most was that he’d been right, she had wanted it. From her first sight of him, bare-chested and magnificent, she’d yearned for him, despite better reason. Her body didn’t rule her, and it wouldn’t keep her from making her own decisions. And the sooner she escaped Sir Elric, the sooner she could forget about him and how he made her feel.

  The large man, Bear, chuckled to himself. He’d been regaling her with tales of his daughter, Marian. She sounded like a lively, beautiful child, and Minnette appreciated how Bear’s glad chatter was keeping her from turning her attentions to the man across from them, leaning against the tree. He hadn’t stopped staring at her, and it was disconcerting, to say the least. What was he thinking about? Their moments in the stable? The kitchens? Perhaps, he was thinking of how eager he was to wash his hands of her.

  Well, let him wish it. It will be so as soon as I can make it so.

  “Sir Bear,” Minnette interrupted yet another story about his daughter. “I have some private things to which I must attend.”

  Realizing what she meant, his eyes widened and his cheeks flushed, which almost matched the color of his hair. She smiled at him.

  “If you but show me where I can go, I will be but a moment.”

  Bear cleared his throat before helping her to her feet. She appreciated his gallantry and kindness, so unlike his commander. She flicked a gaze toward Elric, who was, as expected, watching her. His eyes were hooded, unreadable.

  “This way, milady,” Bear said, directing her to a separate area of thicket. The trees were dense but not so much that she couldn’t see between the trunks. “You may see to your…err…personal matters there.” He pointed to a stand of tall grass. “I will remain here. Only call if you need aid.” From the look on his face, Minnette knew he’d much rather not have to aid her with her personal matters, but he’d offered anyway. She smiled at him again. He would make a fine husband.

  But not to me.

  Her bladder aching worse than her muscles, she hurried to the grass barrier and squatted behind it. It took her only a short time to complete her business and she was back before Bear, who was looking anywhere but at her, his blush still in place.

  Before she could thank Bear, Elric appeared beside him, his expression hard, his eyes flashing golden fire.

  “If you two are done, we can depart,” he snapped, which made Bear narrow his eyes. The larger man pinched his lips together, stopping himself from saying what should be said.

  She had no such issue. Elric was speaking to them as if they’d committed something improper. They had done nothing wrong.

  Pulling her shoulders back, she met the man’s glare. “I see that you are still the…what do the English say—arse?” she drawled sweetly. Bear choked on a laugh, his blush deepening, and Elric looked fit to tear her apart. “I am ready to depart, Sir Arse.” She didn’t bother looking back as she walked toward her horse. Minnette could hear the heavy sounds of booted feet following her, but she assumed it was Bear.

  She was wrong.

  As she spun to ask Bear to help her onto her horse, she met the blazing gold eyes of none other than Sir Arse. She bit her lip to keep from grinning at her own wit.

  Her urge to smile died at the tension rolling from him, like a flood of barely contained anger buffeting her.

  “You should take care in how you address me, my lady, as I cannot guarantee your safety if you do not,” he ground out, his deep voice seeming to move the earth beneath their feet.

  A trembling began in her hands, but she hid them in her skirts, refusing to show the man that he affected her.

  “Your duty is to protect me until I am in my fiancé’s care,” she drawled, arching an eyebrow imperiously. “Will you forsake your duty over your wounded pride?”

  As if she’d slapped him, he recoiled. He recovered quickly, though. Much too quickly.

  Elric closed the distance between them, until his chest nearly touched hers, then he bent his head until she could feel the heat of his breath on her cheeks. On her lips.

  “It is not my duty I would forsake, Kitten, it is my self-control,” he growled, his gilded gaze dropping to her mouth.

  Her tongue lashed out to wet her arid lips, nervousness driving her. “You would not. You are a man of the Church, a man of piety and honor.” At the glimmer of humor in his gaze, she doubted her own words. She knew they were foolish even as she uttered them.

  One side of his sinful mouth curled up, revealing a sharp, wolf-like tooth.

  “Kitten, we both know I am a man of many things, but piety is not one of them.”

  He was too close, his words too intimate. She huffed, taking a step back so she could breathe without inhaling his scent; leather, sweat, man.

  “As you said, ought we not be on our way?”

  The other side of his mouth curled up, and an arrogant smile turned his face into a study in devilry.

  Let him believe he has won. She’d be the ultimate victor in their battle of wills.

  When Bear arrived to help her into her saddle, she thanked him with a nod, not giving Sir Elric another moment of her time. And once they were on their way, this time with Elric beside her and Bear to the rear, she battled the desire to kick her mount into a gallop, fleeing him and the sensations his presence was creating.

  But she couldn’t flee, not yet. According to Bear, at their current pace, they would be at Bridgerdon just before nightfall. Once there, she’d have to move quickly. Her satchel was secreted in her trunk, and it contained all she dared to take with her. She’d need only don the chambermaid’s costume she’d previously worn, retrieve her satchel, and slip from the castle. No one would notice one maid moving through the corridors.

  A new smile formed on her mouth, and she didn’t miss that Sir Elric had caught sight of it. He narrowed his eyes at her, his jaw clenching. Oh, he s
uspected she was up to something. How could he not? But he had no idea how far she would go to rescue herself from his grasp.

  They rode another hour or so, long enough for her to get comfortable in the silence, but Elric must have sensed her relaxed state. He swooped in for the kill.

  “Why did you not tell me you were the cardinal’s niece?” he asked, his voice soft enough that she had no doubt none of the other men would hear him.

  She shrugged. “Why did you not tell me you were the commander of my uncle’s order of knights?” Tit for tat. It was clear that neither of them had been all that willing to share the truth of their identities. It had been easier to traipse around the manse and keep when she wasn’t Minnette Calleaux, niece to the master of the manse. But him? What was his excuse for letting her believe he was the stable master? “It seems we were both seeking anonymity.”

  He arched a dark eyebrow, his eyes focused on the road ahead, but she could still feel his attention on her. That was an extraordinary skill.

  “I never said I was the stable master, you are the one who assumed I was,” he intoned, making her bristle with his accusation.

  “We were in the stable, and you were wearing naught but leather breeches, filthy boots, and you were sweaty.” Her memory of him—sweaty, his muscles flexing, his eyes hot and hungry—made her belly twist, sending heat through her. “What else was I to think about you?”

  “I had just finished sparring with my men and was seeking a moment of rest in the cool shade of the stable. If I had known there was a proper lady sprawled in the hay, speaking with a litter of kittens, I would have donned my most gilded of tunics and shined my boots until they gleamed.” He was mocking her, she knew, but she also knew it felt good to slake a bit of her tension with him. In a verbal manner, that is. She couldn’t allow herself to think of doing anything else with him. It would be untenable.

  Liar. You think about it more than you should. And that was the truth, as damnable as it was.