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

by Rosamund Winchester

  Again, Minnette tensed. Elric would not really murder his own mother? “You would not!”

  Elric sighed, reaching up to cup her face. “Nay, I would not. I would lock her in a room with you and let you have at her,” he said, teasingly.

  She fought against the smile and lost. “You think me a harpy, shrieking and beating at my enemies.”

  He chuckled, the vibration of it making her nipples harden.

  “Nay, not a harpy, my champion. Going to battle for me because I cannot defeat all my foes without you.”

  Her heart thudded and the world seemed to slow around them.

  “Marry me, Minnette. Let me spend the rest of my life loving you.”

  She gasped, her chest filling with much needed air. “You love me?” she squeaked.

  He chuckled again, pulling her head down to brush a soft and much too quick kiss over her lips.

  “More than anything,” he answered, his deep voice melting every last bit of her resistance.

  She leaned down until her lips were a breath from his. “I love you, Sir Arse, my protector, my lover, my abductor, my savior.”

  He hummed, his eyes flashing with fire that scorched a path through her blood.

  “Is that a yes, milady?” he drawled.

  “Oui.”

  He took her mouth in a kiss, crashing into her with months of unmet desire. He commanded her, taking all she could give and demanding more. He plundered her, licking and nibbling her mouth ravenously. He tilted her head to get better access, then thrust his tongue into her mouth, obliterating all thoughts in her head save one: he loved her.

  They were married two days later in a private ceremony in the Bridgerdon chapel. Minnette was shocked to see Leon standing on the dais, dressed in a black cassock with a large, joyful smile on his dear face. He performed the wedding ceremony using the special license Elric had procured from Bishop Norton during the two months she was at the convent.

  Bron stood up as her lady-in-waiting, Glenn stood on the other side of Elric, his arms crossed. His expression was that of a dog being force fed leeks. Minnette noticed that Glenn spent much of his time glaring at Bron, and Bron spent most of her time acting as though she did not notice Glenn glaring at her. By the end of the ceremony, which was short and sweet, Minnette was aware that something had happened between the two of them that Bron had not told her about.

  But she did not want to think about Bron and Glenn. She wanted to focus on the man standing before her, a wickedly sensual grin on his face.

  “Usually, there is a wedding feast where all our guests toast to our blessed union,” Elric drawled.

  “Usually?” she prodded, knowing Elric was thinking the same thing she was.

  “Tristin has informed me that the feast will not be ready for at least another five hours.” His wicked smile turned predatory.

  “Five hours! What shall we do for five hours?” she asked, her tone as innocent as she could make it when her thoughts were so impure.

  “I suppose, Wife, that we can get to know one another better.”

  She trembled, the word “wife” turning her inside out. “But I already know so much about you, Husband.”

  His face darkened and she could swear he growled.

  “But I want to know how you sound when I kiss you.” He reached down between them and rubbed a finger over the apex of her thighs through her gown. “Here.”

  She was going to Hell for how excited that made her. “Then, by all means, Husband, let us discover that together.”

  When they reached their shared chamber, Minnette was shocked to find her trunk waiting for her.

  “How?” She couldn’t think straight.

  Elric closed the door behind them and came to stand beside her.

  “I had Glenn retrieve it from the convent. Now that we are married, it does not matter if anyone knows how you left without being seen.”

  She arched a brow. “You mean how you stole me?”

  He chuckled then turned her to face him. “You stole something from me the moment I saw you in that stall in Cieldon’s stables, flirting with kittens.”

  She leaned into him, sliding her arms around him, melting into a pool before him.

  “What did I steal from the handsome and charming stable master?”

  He curled a finger under her chin and peered down at her with such love in his eyes that it made all else disappear.

  “You stole my heart.”

  Please enjoy an excerpt from The Blood & the Bloom.

  Prologue

  Cieldon Manse

  Home of His Eminence, Cardinal Cristian Calleaux

  Cumberland, England

  1407

  The thud of the horse’s hooves matched the thud of the heart as he crossed the twenty-foot-long drawbridge and entered the immense castle through the towering gate. The viciously sharp spikes of the portcullis hung over his head, as if ready to descend upon him, piercing his body at a moment’s notice. Not unlike an enemy waiting to strike.

  Like entering the maw of a ravenous dragon…

  “Dragons…” Sir Tristin LaDeux hissed into the air, frustrated at the ridiculousness of his thoughts. He rolled his broad shoulders, hating that he’d allowed himself to drink so much wine the night before. As a man of dedication to his duties, growing responsibilities over his men and his people, and inflexibility, he rarely found time or the desire to drink of the vine or press his flesh into a warm, willing wench. But for the first time in nearly three years, he’d finally joined his men for a night of wine, women, and morning after woes. It was the wine and the women that had led to his woe, when his father had come upon him, lying in a washerwoman’s bed, his head pounding from the ten cups of wine he’d drank. Lord, but he should have been a little more moderate in his intake, because he was, even now, enduring his father’s displeasure. Enduring his own displeasure and shame. Shame at his own weakness, and guilt that his father had seen him so vulnerable.

  “You are my son, my blood, one of the few left to carry the LaDeux name. Have some pride,” his father, Harrington LaDeux, Earl of Kentwithe, had ground out through a jaw clamped tight in frustration. His face was red, redder than Tristin had ever seen, and he seemed all the angrier because of the sweat gleaming on his brow. “Because you are my second son, you have a noble calling your brother cannot carry—you are a knight of the realm, Tristin, and that comes with duties, responsibilities—things that bring honor to your family.”

  Duties, responsibilities…both things he’d taken seriously since he’d taken a knee before the king, swearing his life and fealty to the kingdom. But, as with everything else he’d done in his life, it wasn’t enough to be the perfect knight for nine years. It was the one moment he wasn’t that his father had taken notice of him. Tristin had heard the “have some pride” speech before—mostly when he was a lad, but never before had his father’s voice seemed so resolute. For all the times his father had brought him to task for his behavior, this time, Tristin knew his father meant every word.

  Swearing under his breath, he knew then he would never allow levity and his weak human flesh to dictate his actions. Nothing would keep him from fulfilling his duties to the family. To his father.

  Duties not unlike the very one he was fulfilling now.

  “Deliver this missive to Cardinal Calleaux in Cumberland. He is installed at Cieldon Manse, near Keswick.”

  That seemed easy enough. Bridgerdon Castle, the family estate, was a little over thirty miles from Cieldon Manse, which had been in holding for the Church for decades. Apparently, it had new inhabitants.

  “Do whatever the cardinal directs. Remember, Tristin, you are the voice and hand of the family. Do not give us reason for shame.” His father’s voice still echoed in his head, which was why his skull still ached hours later.

  Shame? Hearing that one word drip from his father’s lips had been like a morning star to his chest. As the youngest of three children, he’d been the coddled one, the one always toddling after
his brother and father, doing whatever he could to earn even the slightest twitch of a smile from the men he admired most. It was rare to even see his father, and it was even rarer for his father to gift his youngest son with a pat on his head, or a “well done, Tristin”. But, by God, he’d tried. And was still trying. His brother, Fredrick, was the heir, the favored son. His sister, Odette, had been groomed since birth to marry his father’s closest friend, Baron Gryffon Cherrot. And he, the youngest, had found enough favor with King Henry to be knighted. It was no surprise, really. For the last eleven years, he’d trained, morning and night, to be the best swordsman his family ever produced. And for the last nine years, he’d done all the king had commanded; putting down uprisings along the border, escorting important noblemen and emissaries through areas rife with bandits and reivers, and training men who were commissioned to protect the king. It was neither prideful nor arrogant for him to say he was the best; it was the truth. Of all the missions he’d been given, he’d triumphed each time—his victories catalogued in archives, his name known throughout England, Scotland, and France. Some feared him, some stood in awe of him, and some wished to fight him, determined to have their names echoing in history as the one who bested “LaDeux the Fierce”.

  Tristin had dedicated his life to the art of battle, to learning sword craft, to training up men who were as deadly as they were loyal. But that wasn’t enough for his father. And so it wasn’t enough for him. He would always seek the next mission, the next challenge, the next challenger. It had become the purpose of his existence—to do as commanded. But that wasn’t what his father saw when he found him drunk and naked that morning. For all Tristin had done to earn his name and reputation, it was that moment his father chose to seek him out.

  Humiliation scorched his face, the sourness of his guilt mixing with the bile of his anger to create a boiling, noxious poison in his gut. He’d found favor with King Henry. Why couldn’t he find favor with his own father, a man he admired more than any other?

  His father’s faithfulness to the king during the tumultuous “turnover” from Richard II was one of the reasons his family still lived on their lands. The name LaDeux, with its Gaul ancestry, wasn’t a favorite among the English, and so his father had an uphill slog to show King Richard II he was trustworthy, and an even more difficult task to show Richard’s successor that the LaDeuxs were worthy of retaining their title.

  Tristin watched for years as his father laid the cares of the kingdom on his shoulders. It weighed on the old man like a wagon of chainmail. While Tristin wasn’t the heir to the earldom, he still understood what his father was working toward—a legacy that would last for centuries. And he was prouder of the man than he could say. So, being a LaDeux knight was an honor, one he didn’t take as lightly as his father assumed. Though he was a knight without lands, he was still a man of high obligation to his family and to the Crown.

  And so, he’d do as was required of him, and he’d do it to the fullest extent of his ability.

  Entering the outer bailey, Tristin was welcomed by a throng of people, busily running here and there, plying their trades or doing as the castellan commanded. Only a handful of the people stopped to look at him, which surprised him. Usually, most were awed by the gleaming metal, the massive warhorse, and the large man upon it. As a knight, he was dressed in full armor, head to toe in polished steel, beaten into shape with the hammer and skill. He knew how truly fearsome he could look in his armor. He relished it, in fact. One didn’t survive as many battles as he had without armor fit for the work.

  But what did it matter that these peasants didn’t stare? What did they matter to him?

  As he rode by, he observed several workshops, a granary, animal stalls, and a bake house. The air beside the bake house smelled of yeast, a strangely appetizing scent.

  Some of the crowd, presumably the castle servants, were dressed in dour gray cassocks. His own castle at Bridgerdon boasted more than fifty household servants; chambermaids, scullery maids, tradesmen, laymen, cooks, washerwomen, and the like. It was fairly bursting with men and woman eager to please the noble family. Their cassocks were dyed a deep red, as befitting a family with a dragon on their coat of arms.

  At Cieldon, where there weren’t stalls or people in the outer bailey, there were piles of what looked like broken bricks, splintered timbers, and tattered fabrics. Tristin could only assume that as the new castle inhabitant, the cardinal had ordered renovations and redecorating. Three of the refuse piles were on fire. The black smoke rose into the air, filling the bailey with an acrid stench. Almost transfixed, Tristin watched as the smoke seemed to slink up the walls, leaving streaks of ash and burning embers in its wake. As it ascended into the sky, it brushed against the coming dusk, framing the world in a haze not unlike what Hell might look like.

  Grunting, annoyed at the train of his thoughts, Tristin directed Chevalier, his large, black horse, under the arch of the inner gate. Made from large blocks of white stones, it was an impressive edifice, bringing to mind what the gates of Heaven might look like. Hell…Heaven…two of the most loved and feared places, found in a manse housing one of God’s chosen? He sneered at that. Heaven wasn’t building gates using stones hewn from English quarries. It was built using the backbones of martyrs, its grand walls held together with mortar wetted with the blood of the pious. His blasphemous thoughts carried with him through the opening into the inner bailey which abutted the courtyard.

  The courtyard of Cieldon Manse was a wide-open space, verdant, manicured, surrounded on all sides by walls crowned with battlements. There were more people here, some still dressed in dour cassocks that were knee-length. The ones not averting their gazes were staring openly, whispering behind their hands to one another as they went about their tasks. The sounds of clattering movements drew his attention to the battlements, where a line of armored men stood watching him from their perches. Their spears were erect, their helmets hiding their faces from his scrutiny.

  The show of force didn’t bother him, he was used to such things. When his father had given him the mysterious missive and directed him the manse, he explained that Tristin was to go alone, leaving behind his trusted and battle-eager men—some of whom begged to come, despite the warning from his father. Undeterred by their pleadings, Tristin had set off alone, determined to complete this mission with the utmost care and efficiency. Get there, deliver the missive, do whatever the cardinal asked of him, get home. He would do nothing for which his father would find fault. He would make sure of it.

  The massive keep towered over him, the heights of the large pentagonal building reached into the sky. It was impressive, to be sure. The ten-foot high, heavy, oak door, reinforced with elaborately forged wrought iron, was set in the forward-facing wall. Twelve long, wide steps rose from the muddy ground to the flagstone landing where the door sat waiting for him, like a great eye, watching him. As he approached, wondering if anyone would deign to see to his arrival, the door swung open nearly soundlessly.

  Coming to a halt just at the bottom of the stone steps, Tristin dismounted, handing his reins to one of the young boys he’d spotted tending to the other horses. Nodding at the wide-eyed lad, he turned to see a lone man emerge from the keep. He was a blonde man of middling height, thin, and his face was set in a bored yet arrogant expression that made his dark eyes all the more penetrating. Unlike the others wearing gray cassocks, this man wore a cassock of black, with black buttons from neck to hem, and a crimson sash pulled tight around his waist, emphasizing the man’s slender frame.

  From what he remembered of the Church hierarchy, this man was the personal attendant to the cardinal, more than likely an acolyte, which meant he was a layman with self-important airs. Tristin met the man’s gaze and pulled his helmet from his head, allowing the man to see the full of his face.

  A man used to navigating the royal court, negotiating the release of prisoners, ending standoffs and sieges, and winning arguments with his mother and sister, Tristin was as skilled at man
ipulating his expressions as he was at pleasuring washerwomen—he was a master at both.

  Hiding his snide and rather wary sneer behind an elaborate bow, Tristin announced, “Sir Tristin LaDeux, son of Harrington LaDeux, third Earl of Kentwithe, knight of His Majesty’s court, here to see His Eminence, Cardinal Calleaux.” His deep voice carried outward, his words dissipating into the now smoky air between him and the acolyte.

  The man did nothing to hide his sneer as he stared down at Tristin. Standing stiffly, his hands clasped in front of him, the man looked about as welcoming as a bloodstained sword—which Tristin would much rather deal with than the man, even now, glaring down his nose at him.

  The man sighed heavily. “What business do you have with His Eminence?” The man’s voice was clear, cultured, and suffused with authority and annoyance, as if Tristin couldn’t have chosen a worse time to appear at his doorstep.

  “I have a missive from my father. I have been ordered to give it to Cardinal Calleaux.” Tristin pulled the blood-red, wax-sealed envelope from behind his breastplate and showed it to the man.

  The man continued to sneer down at him, unmoved by Tristin’s response. Then, the man stuck out his thin-fingered hand limply. “If you please, I will be sure to deliver it to His Eminence.” The corner of the man’s mouth lifted, and Tristin knew what the man truly meant; he’d give it to the cardinal when he damned well felt like it.

  It was not to be borne.

  Tristin planted a hand on his sword pommel, showing the weasel that he wasn’t above beheading a layman for stepping out of line. “I think not. My father ordered I deliver the missive to the cardinal myself, and so I must insist on seeing him.” His voice carried, the timbre was one he’d used during negotiations with bloodthirsty reivers—negotiations which typically ended with the reivers dead and his men celebrating victory.

  Pulling his shoulders back, the man on the landing continued to stare down at Tristin. But there was something in his eyes, something slithering and devious, and Tristin immediately tightened the grip on his sword. He despised men who thought only to scheme and manipulate; he’d dealt with that ilk far too much to find it palatable.