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

by Rosamund Winchester

  She pinched her lips shut against the need to hiss at him and still refused to meet his gaze. Let him glare a hole in her face, she would not give in.

  Silence reigned between them, the only sounds were the murmurings of the family in the cottage. Minnette wondered what they thought of the scene playing out in their shed. Had Elric told them she was a captive, a fugitive in need of justice? He wouldn’t have told them that she was an innocent woman fleeing her arranged marriage. Why would he? It would only serve to make the man and his wife worry for her, maybe even seek to help her.

  Apparently not pleased with being ignored, Elric took hold of her chin, forcing her to face him directly. He leaned forward, putting his mouth within a breath of hers. She tensed, her gaze flying to his. A wicked grin slowly formed on his mouth. Like a lightning strike on a calm pond, shock shot through her, shaking her to her core. Her breath hitched, caught in her throat behind the ball of desire choking her.

  “There you are, Kitten,” he drawled. She fought the shudder that moved through her limbs. “Claws and teeth…but I know you can purr, Kitten. You have before…” He leaned in, his lips close enough that she could feel the heat of them on hers. Holding her breath, she closed her eyes. If he meant to kiss her he would be met with a cold disinterest—no matter what her traitorous body demanded.

  Though she couldn’t see him, she could feel him, the strength of him, the sensual masculinity of him reaching out to pour into her, fill her with a need to open her eyes and surrender.

  “Come now, Kitten…” he continued, his words brushing against her mouth. She shuddered but said nothing, only waited.

  As if sensing her determination, he grunted, rising to his feet. “You do not want to eat? Then do not eat. But do not think you will find sympathy with me, Lady Minnette. I have none to give.”

  She opened her eyes, blinking back the moisture that had gathered there. Yes, she would be hungry, but she would rather that than give in to him—no matter how foolish it seemed now. Her stomach, not as willful as her mind, protested the lack of food. It grumbled its displeasure.

  Elric, hearing her stomach’s protest, loosed a deep, humorless chuckle. The sound of his laugh, genuine or not, spread heat through her blood.

  You are stronger than this. No man is worth your freedom…even if he is the most handsome man you have ever seen, or will ever see. If Elric succeeded in delivering her to Glidden, she was sure she would spend the rest of her life with a man so hideous he sought a wife through favors and machinations.

  That wife will not be me!

  Elric pulled her up and, with little effort, threw her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Or a dead body. Her belly hit his shoulder hard, making her expel the breath she had been holding. But, she remained silent, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out at the pain shattering her.

  Walking a short distance to his grazing horse, Elric lifted her up and seated her sideways on the saddle. He held the horse’s reins, looking up at her through narrowed eyes.

  “Do not think of using my horse to escape,” he warned, his tone seeming to taunt her to do the opposite. “Bellerophon is loyal to me. He will come to me when I call.”

  She pulled her shoulders back, which was decidedly difficult sitting sideways on a moving seat, and lifted her chin, still refusing to speak to him. He could speak all he wanted, she would not feed his ego or his contempt.

  With agility that should be impossible while wearing armor, Elric pulled himself up onto the horse, just behind her, wrapping his arms around her middle to grasp the reins in both hands.

  Elric kicked Bellerophon into a canter, turning northward. He was headed back to Bridgerdon.

  Struck by how trapped she was, Minnette forced her spinning mind to slow down and focus on one thing at a time. First, she had to get the ropes off her hands, then she could worry about her wobbly, aching legs. She much preferred stealing Elric’s horse, just to rub his nose in her victory, but he was right. His horse was a well-trained warhorse. It would follow only its master’s command.

  As much as her body vibrated with strain, she sat as straight as she could. The feeling of Elric’s breastplate at her back was a hard reminder of his position—behind her on the horse and as the commander of the Homme du Sang: her uncle’s puppet.

  They rode for several minutes before Elric swore into the back of her head.

  “If you sit like that the whole way, you will not be able to move let alone attempt another escape,” he murmured into her ear.

  His breath against her face sent tingles along her flesh, but she resisted the urge to snap at him with every ounce of her power. The coppery taste of her blood coated her tongue, her cheek a victim of her jaw grinding.

  “You refuse to speak to me as if that matters to me,” he said thickly.

  She remained silent, swallowing all retorts with the blood.

  A cold wind collided with her face, she gasped before a shudder shook her.

  From behind her, Elric groaned, the sound discordant. “A storm is coming…” And just as the last word passed his lips, a rumble of thunder vibrated the air around them. “And fast.”

  He kicked Bellerophon into a gallop, holding Minnette tighter—so tight she could swear she felt the impression of his gauntlet in her backbone.

  As the fat raindrops began to slam into them, Elric cursed.

  “We need to find shelter or we will be soaked to the bone.”

  Her only response was a whimper as the chill hit her. The throbbing ache in her muscles lessened, thanks to the cold, but that didn’t stop her body from revolting. Shuddering violently, she couldn’t stop herself from leaning back into the heat of Elric. Even through his metal breastplate, she sank into his strength, his heat. And she hated herself for it.

  “There,” he shouted over the now howling wind. “A cottage…or what is left of it.”

  Dragging her attention from the sensations Elric’s nearness was conjuring in her, she looked toward the horizon where what looked like a half-erect stable sat at the bottom of a hill. No smoke rose from the broken chimney, no lights shone from the shattered windows, no one moved around it or inside it. It was truly and utterly abandoned, and probably for a good reason.

  Bellerophon pounded on, every fall of his hooves rattling Minnette, her teeth clacking against one another from the cold and the rough ride. Finally, Elric pulled his horse to a halt outside the building.

  “We will shelter here until the storm passes,” Elric informed her, and she tensed. She would be alone with him. In a small space. For as long as it took for the storm to pass. Minutes. Hours. Her shudders now weren’t about the cold.

  Elric dismounted easily then turned to grab her around the waist. As if she weighed nothing, he lifted her from the horse and hauled her against him. She tried to ignore the feeling of his hands on her body, but it was nigh impossible. Her body knew what his hands felt like, and it enjoyed it.

  Flipping her so that he could hook his arm under her legs, Elric carried her toward the abandoned dwelling. The door was solid but was swinging loosely in the wind as the breeze hammered it. He strode through the opening, stepping into the low-ceilinged cottage.

  Elric let out a slow breath, lowering her to the ground onto her blistered feet. She let out a hiss as the weight of her body put pressure on her soles and on the muscles in her legs.

  Will I survive?

  She could only hope.

  Close enough to see the water on the horse’s flanks, Stringer watched as the knight carried his damsel into the abandoned cottage. The building was nothing more than four walls and a roof of rotten thatch, the thatch totally missing in several places. It would work as shelter from the rain but not from him.

  He spurred Digger on, taking care to keep far enough away that his approach wasn’t detected even over the roar of the storm. The knight would be on guard, alert—as a holy knight would be—which meant Stringer couldn’t just walk up to the cottage, open the door, and take what
was his by right…the life of his target.

  The rain poured down upon him, soaking him to the skin, the hood of his cloak doing nothing to keep away the water or the chill. A branch of lightning lit the sky, followed by a crack of thunder. Digger hesitated, his movements jerky. He never did like storms.

  Reining Digger to a halt beneath an oak, Stringer bent over Digger’s neck, murmuring comforting words into his old friend’s ear. He reached out, patting and soothing the great beast who shuddered beneath him. It didn’t escape his notice that he, a man of death and pain, was providing comfort to another living thing.

  “Calm, old friend,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the raging storm. The wind whipped at them, pushing the rain sideways. It slammed into them, pelting them like stones of water.

  He needed to get Digger out of the storm, but there was no place for them other than the cottage where his target awaited him. But he couldn’t breach their shelter without risking his own life. The knight would cut him down in a full-frontal assault. Nay, he needed to take them by surprise, using every trick he’d learned over the years to gain the upper hand. His skills were best in the dark, in the shadows, when his victims were unsuspecting, at their most vulnerable.

  He could scent weakness, knowing when to strike. Stringer just needed the opportunity. And he could wait all night.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Elric bit back a curse. He was soaked, the leather beneath his armor sliding against his skin. It was uncomfortable. Each movement felt like someone had poured sand into his armor. And if things were that unpleasant for him, he knew Minnette was no better.

  His gaze caught on her, where she was curled into a ball against the farthest wall, underneath the part of the roof that wasn’t open to the sky.

  What a poor shelter for a lady and her knight. Her knight. Nay. No one could claim him as their own, not even his own father.

  Gritting his teeth, he moved to sit down beside her, planning to share his heat with her. She was trembling, her sodden clothes pressed against her pale skin. Once on the ground, he kicked his feet out to remove the sabatons around his boots, which were as wet as the rest of him. Typically, he would seek aid in removing his breastplate, but he could do it on his own when necessary. He wouldn’t dare asking Minnette to help him, and so he reached up to pull at the leather thongs over his shoulders. It took several minutes but, finally, the breastplate came free. He set it beside his helmet which he’d taken off when he’d placed Minnette on the ground. Dozens of pounds lighter, he took a deep breath, leaning his head back against the wall to peer up into the ceiling. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Minnette had tucked her face into the cradle of her arms which were draped over her drawn up knees. She looked exhausted, cold…vulnerable.

  She has done this to herself. If she hadn’t escaped him at Bridgerdon, they would be bedded down for the night at an inn. They would be warm, dry, fed. Instead, he had to chase her across the countryside where the sky seemed willing to upend a lake over their heads.

  Beside him, Minnette shook violently, her breath catching on a shiver.

  Hell, if he didn’t get her dry and warm soon, there would be nothing left to deliver to Glidden.

  Ignoring the flare of anger at the thought of Glidden, Elric focused his attentions on surviving the night.

  He needed to get a fire started to rid them of the worst of the chill, but the cottage was empty save dust, puddles of water, and an overturned, two-legged table. The hearth was coated in soot, and, at first glance, it appeared that a bird had nested in the chimney, the leavings of shite and feathers in the fire box told the tale.

  “I need to start a fire, but I was not prepared for a night out in a storm,” he intoned, mostly to himself.

  His mind turning over, he barely heard her speak. She was muttering in French.

  “Kitten, you need to speak louder. I cannot hear you,” he murmured, leaning in closer. She stiffened, but didn’t move away as he expected.

  “I have a fire striker in my satchel,” she whispered, her voice breaking with every shudder.

  Surprised at her forethought, he leaned back, taking in the woman before him. Wet, her thin dress clinging to her, her body racked with shudders—she looked like a drowned cat.

  A begrudging smile curled his lips.

  “Where is your satchel?”

  Still shuddering violently, Minnette reached under her skirts, under the arch of her raised knees, and pulled out a leather satchel.

  “Here,” she ground out through chattering teeth.

  Watching her closely, his gaze lingering on her thin-fingered hands, which were trembling, pale. Suddenly struck with the urgency of the situation, he took the satchel from her hands, opening it and moving the semi-dry clothing aside to find the fire strikers.

  “I will start the fire. That table looks dry enough to burn,” he said, rising to his feet.

  She didn’t acknowledge that he’d spoken.

  So, we are back to the silence, then?

  He steeled himself. He didn’t need her to speak to him in order to protect her and complete his mission.

  “While I start the fire, I suggest you change into the clothes in your satchel. They got a little wet, but they are much drier than what you are currently wearing.”

  A gasp followed by a moan of misery met his words.

  “You expect me to disrobe in front of you? You are a fool,” she ground out, her voice stronger than it was before. Still, she would not look at him.

  The fire was lit in her belly…keep it burning.

  “You think you have anything I have not seen before? That you are somehow a jewel of your sex?” The words were sour in his mouth, but he didn’t stop there. “I have seen enough bare breasts and eager quims to judge yours would be inferior.”

  Her head flew up, her gaze landing on his, her eyes wide. There was hurt there…and hatred. She narrowed her eyes.

  “Think what you will, Sir Arse, I still will not remove my wet clothes with you standing there.” She looked away. “Judging me unworthy.”

  It was as though Bellerophon had kicked him in the chest. Minnette’s words, the look of utter desolation on her face…he had done that to her. He had brought her that low.

  You are not fit to stand before her.

  “As you wish, milady.” He stomped the table, breaking off both remaining legs in a single blow. His show of aggression was not enough to rid his body of the tension. He flexed his arm muscles, his hands fisting at his sides. “Do not think of trying to escape again. I will follow you to the ends of the earth.”

  Still shivering, Minnette slowly rose to her feet, stumbling back as if her legs could no longer hold her.

  “I would not think of escape now.” He heard her, recognizing that she emphasized the word “now”. He bit back a laugh. She was feisty, his little kitten.

  Without another word, he turned and strode from the ruined cottage, pulling what was left of the door shut beside him.

  Before he could drag in another breath, that tingling sensation along his spine returned.

  He tensed. Whoever had been following them earlier had caught up to them, and was even now watching him.

  His sword still sheathed at his side, Elric gripped the pommel, instinct driving him. The rain was falling so hard, so fast, that he couldn’t see any further than a few feet in front of his face.

  Alert for danger, his ears picked up the sounds of Minnette moving around in the cottage. A few muffled curses and a choked off cry told him that she wasn’t having an easy time of removing her sodden dress.

  You could offer to aid her. Visions of her, curled into him, her body shuddering for wholly different reasons, sent tongues of fire through his blood. He shook his head, forcing his thoughts back to the downpour, a silent prayer that it would cool his poorly-timed ardor. No time would be a good time with Minnette. She belongs to another.

  Before he knew it, a growl rumbled from his chest. Obviously, despite what his he
ad knew, his body, the beast beneath the surface, refused to believe it.

  Mine, it bit out. He shook himself from head to foot, as though he could shake off the sense of possession. But it would be easier to remove his own soul with a billows.

  Long minutes passed with silence in the cottage. Tremors of alarm moved through him. He spun on his heel, pushing the door inward.

  Minnette was there, her hand against her chest, holding the fabric of her dress in place over her nakedness.

  “I did not tell you that you could return!” she cried, her eyes spitting daggers.

  His chest filled with relief and then tightened with need.

  She was standing there, the flesh of her arms and shoulders and belly visible to his hungry gaze.

  “Turn around!” she commanded, and he did as ordered, pinching his eyes closed as a sense of shame heated his cheeks.

  More sounds of her moving, scraping, and finally, “You may turn back, now,” she remarked imperiously.

  He fought the urge to grin, knowing she wouldn’t appreciate his levity in a time such as this.

  Now, fully dressed, she was still far more beautiful than she had the right to be while her hair was still wet, her skin much too pale, and her once lush lips drawn into a thin line.

  He cleared his throat.

  “And now that you are somewhat dry, I will start the fire,” he informed her, moving to gather the fire strikers off the floor where he had dropped him on his way out the door.

  He tossed the two table legs into the hearth and ducked under the mantel to look into the chimney. A bird’s nest blocking the flow of air and the escape route of the smoke would be hazardous. Reaching up, he removed the abandoned bird’s nest.

  “This will make excellent kindling.” He placed it on the floor where he was kneeling and struck one striker against the other. Sparks flew from between his hands. It didn’t catch the kindling the first strike, but it did the second. He blew on the infant ember, nursing it into a flame. Quickly, he placed the flaming nest under the two-timber structure he’d built with the table legs. Because they were dry, the legs caught quickly, lighting the area around the hearth with an orange glow.