The Blood and The Bloom (Men of Blood Book 1)

by Rosamund Winchester

  The sharp angles of his cheekbones could cut stone, but his lips…they looked soft, sewn from velvet, and plumped with goose down—why did any man need such distracting lips? She felt herself jerk and she looked down to see the man’s hand gripping the arm across her breasts.

  She gasped. “Nay. Ye cannot mean to rid me of my last modesty?” she asked, her voice husky, strange. Despite her words, she couldn’t stop herself from stepping closer to him, or leaning in, or allowing his grip around her arm to tighten.

  What am I doing? What has he done to me, this wicked, devilish man?

  The man loomed over her, his hair falling over his eyes, hiding his burning gaze from her view. She could see naught but his mouth…his lips cocked, revealing a line of teeth, one of which was as sharp as a wolf’s fang.

  And he means to devour me…

  “Please,” she choked out, “my lord, please…” Bell Heather didn’t know what she was pleading for. Her mind was a muddled mess, the man before her scrambled her intentions, and she couldn’t say which she wanted more; for him to ravish her or to release her.

  As if thrust from an enchantment, the man straightened and dropped his hand from her arm. He pressed her clothes into her chest, and she clutched at them, desperate for their warmth.

  “Get dressed. Go. Leave these woods and get to your home.” The man’s voice was thick, heavy. Tantalizing. He was telling her to leave…so why did she want to stay…to see how warm his embrace could be, how soft his mouth… “There are dangers here.”

  He turned then, retreating into the darkness of the forest. And she wondered if there was anything more dangerous than him in those woods.

  She had little time to reflect on the man or his words; she dressed as quickly as she could with numb fingers and shaking arms and legs. Finally clothed again, she turned to race along the river’s edge to where it curved through the meadow. Home wasn’t far passed there…but she stalled, her gaze finding the opening in the underbrush and overhanging branches where the man had disappeared.

  Bell Heather was cold, shaken, her body and mind in tumult, but she couldn’t stop from wondering…who was that man? And why do I feel so drawn to him?

  “Fool, ye will never see him again. Better that than to become a wicked and willing wanton,” she said, hissing through clattering teeth.

  As a cloud moved between the moonshine and the earth, Bell Heather picked up her skirt and planted foot in soil, begging her legs to hold her as she rushed from the waterfall. She made good time to the edge of Clarendon, which was a miracle all its own. Thankful to not see another soul about, she entered her cottage, slamming the door behind her. She leaned back against it, her head hitting the wooden slats with a thud.

  Her breaths were ragged gasps and her trembling and shivering grew stronger by the moment. Pushing away from the door, she ran to her cot, pulling up the counterpane and throwing it around her shoulders. It would do little more than keep out the worst of the chill, but it was better than nothing. Bell Heather tossed two handfuls of peat moss and a stack of kindling into the fire to rouse it from its emberine slumber, then sat on the short stool before it.

  For long moments, she sat, staring into the dancing, flickering flames, entranced by their movement, lulled by their soft yet vibrant song. But then a face appeared in her mind’s eye, a darkly beautiful face. The face of a man who’d easily seduced her, body and mind, weakening her every resolve.

  He was made of the very night, empowered by her own wickedness. Perhaps the old gods had spied her depraved acts beneath the waterfall and wished to amuse themselves with her. Or, it was the Christian God, looking down upon her from His throne, and seeking her punishment at the hands of one of His dark angels.

  It mattered little why he’d come, only that he had. And that she’d nearly fallen victim to her own sins. Bell Heather sighed and closed her eyes, blocking out the reds and oranges of the fire, and the false peace it promised.

  She’d sleep little that night.

  Chapter Six

  Tristin would sleep little that night, and it would have nothing to do with how uncomfortable the ground was beneath his back, and everything to do with the vision of pale skin, lush curves, and flashing green eyes. He told himself he hid in the darkness and watched her leave, not because he wanted to see her just that much longer, but because he wanted to see in which direction she went. Perhaps she lived in the same village as the woman he’d come to capture. If so…would he see her again on the morrow?

  His body tightened at the thought, his manhood growing and thickening in response. That woman…she couldn’t possibly be a flesh and blood woman. There was something ethereal and enchanting about her, as if she were his every fantasy come to life. The thick hair falling over the tantalizing globes of her arse. The striking beauty of her face. The pert yet heavy breasts…he suspected that, if she hadn’t covered herself, he’d have seen dark nipples, erect and eager for the heat of his mouth. The soft looking dark curls between her thighs had drawn his attention, mingling the pang of thirst with the desire to reach out and see if it was as hot and wet as it looked. Would sensuous dew coat his fingers, would she lean into him, shuddering? God, but it took every ounce of strength within him to stop himself from finding out.

  He groaned, palming himself through his tightening cod piece. It was an ache, a terrible ache he hadn’t felt since taking his vow before Cardinal Calleaux. It was an awful hunger he hadn’t thought to ever know again, one he’d relegated to his past. He was a man of God, a human sword, meant for His justice and Holy might. So why couldn’t he put the woman from his mind? Why was he, even now, staring at the place where she’d stood only moments before?

  Mayhaps the woman he’d come to arrest had heard of their coming, snuck into the forest, and ensorcelled him. Thinking to trick him into leaving himself exposed and vulnerable in the inky blackness of the forest.

  His pragmatism saved him from continuing to think along those lines. One of his lesser duties was to arrest and transport women accused of witchcraft. He’d embark on his mission, taking the suspected witch into custody, reading her the charges against her, and watching the play of emotions across her face. It wasn’t the anger or rage that struck him the most, it was the look of abject betrayal on their faces that tore at him. More often than not, the women he’d captured were old, haggard, and feeble. They posed a greater threat to his sensibilities than his soul. But as the Church commanded, the Homme du Sang committed.

  Tristin stepped from the overhanding branches and onto the riverside. The soil gave way beneath his weight, his ironclad feet sinking into the soft ground. He looked down to find to small footprints. Her footprints. A smile tugged at his lips. She had tiny feet, the feet of a child, but she was as far from a child as he was. He walked forward, squatting beside the river. When he’d come this way, it was the sound of the waterfall that called him. The chance to fill his leather bottle with fresh water was one he couldn’t pass up, but the sight of the woman beneath the moonlight had altered his plans.

  He pulled the leather bottle from his waist and bent forward to fill it with rushing, chilly river water, his ears and body alert to the slightest movement. He was honed in battle, razor sharp and ready for any eventuality…save the sight of a naked woman touching herself most sensually, as water cascaded over her body. He hadn’t imagined her, if he had, he would have imagined his own hands sliding over her belly, his own fingers parting her womanhood, his own palm cupping her breasts. What had he witnessed except a sensual woman exploring the pleasures of her own flesh…flesh he couldn’t stop wanting to touch, even though she was long gone from his sight.

  Who was she, that woman with the long hair and loud, throaty moan? He imagined her, then, sighing and moaning beneath him as his mouth and hands explored her, as his hard body pressed into her soft, supple one. She’d be ecstasy, pure carnality, and he’d surely die from the pleasure.

  Again, his body tightened, and a groan rumbled from his chest.


  If I am not careful, a lumbering giant could approach me, and I would not hear it through the roaring in my ears.

  Shaking himself, he took the leather bottle and emptied the contents over his face, praying the cool splash of water would douse the rising heat enveloping his body. The coldness snapped his focus back to the moment, back to him, kneeling beside a river, and his immediate need to return to his duty of patrolling the area around where his men were bedding down for the night. His duty was to them…and he’d be damned if a momentary fleshly desire stirred more in him than his desire to protect his men.

  Brought to heel by his own determination, he refilled the leather bottle and stood, quitting the riverbank and heading back into the dark forest. He completed his rounds, slowly walking a wide perimeter around the encampment, and returned to the camp just in time to see Gaubin finish the last of the wine in his leather bottle.

  The man had always been a drunken lout, and Tristin would have preferred to have left him behind, but when the Cardinal sent the Homme du Sang on a mission, all of the Homme du Sang put on their armor, mounted their horses, and followed the white banner with the crimson sword—which looked strikingly like a slender, tapering cross, dripping blood.

  “Gaubin,” Tristin uttered low, a warning to the even now glaring fool. “Time to turn in. You will need to be ready to depart at first light. You need rest.” His glance landed on the other men who were laying clustered around the flickering fire, their armor glinting in the orange and red light. Despite his word of honor that nothing would slink from the woods to kill them, his men had allowed their superstitious minds to rule them. They slept, but their hands still gripped the pommels of their swords, ready to strike out against any wraith who dare attack them in the night.

  He cut off a frustrated groan and turned his attention back to Gaubin, who was forcing his thick fingers into the mouth of the leather bottle. He retrieved his finger and put it into his mouth for a hearty suck.

  Disgusting wretch.

  “I think you have drunk it dry, Gaubin. Now, you can sleep off the wine.”

  Gaubin pursed his lips, planting another defiant glare on Tristin. “I will turn in when I turn in, no reason to put myself out just to capture some witch. I have seen enough witches to know she will screech and spit but she will not be more than an old, ugly crone.” He chuckled. “I could tie her to my horse with little more than a flick of my wrists.”

  Gaubin’s slurred boasting only served to make him look all the more the fool.

  A low grunt sounded from behind Tristin, and he turned to find Elric coming toward them. His expression was pinched and his eyes flared to dark, fiery life when they landed on Gaubin.

  “Your tongue has become a wayward thing, disrespecting and disobeying the captain… Tis no wonder you are given to dissipation and laziness. The more I see you, the less of man you become,” Elric said coolly, his body tense, his hands in tight fists at his sides.

  Tristin knew his second in command—despite being given to his own flavor of dissipation—was a man of honor and loyalty. He’d die for Tristin—for any of the Homme du Sang, and it’s what made him all the more wrathful when it came to Gaubin’s utter lack of character.

  “I will have you know—” Gaubin began, then stopped as he tried to leverage himself off the ground to standing. It took three attempts to move his bulk, but once he was on his feet, he heaved a breath and continued. “I am more man than you will ever be, Elric.”

  “Aye, you are more than twice the man I am,” Elric replied, his gaze purposefully sliding over Gaubin’s ruddy face and protruding belly, his breastplate barely held in place over the roundness of his middle.

  Tristin held back a snort, coughing to hide his inappropriate mirth.

  Gaubin growled, as a great bear poked by a stick, and made to approach Elric.

  Tristin held up his hands, stalling Gaubin’s movements. Turning to Elric, Tristin saw the play of emotions over his friend’s face…he was having a good time.

  And Tristin couldn’t fault the man for making the most of the situation—Gaubin truly was a poor excuse for a knight. Tis a mistake I will remedy once we return to Carnburg.

  “Men,” he said low as to not waken the others slumbering within earshot, “I think it is best if we rein in our tempers and do what is necessary to prepare for the morrow.” Tristin turned his full attention Gaubin. “You will turn in, and you will do so with expediency, else find yourself minding the camp while we apprehend the…woman.” Though he would do as ordered by the cardinal, he couldn’t make himself call the woman a witch. Without more than a single man’s testimony, Tristin found it difficult to even consider the woman as more than an innocent, besmirched by jealous neighbors.

  And besides, he didn’t believe in witches and magic and enchantments… Or, at least he hadn’t until he’d spied that woman under the waterfall and his body responded as if a spell were cast upon him.

  Shaking off the full body shudder, Tristin turned his attention to Elric, who was eyeing him curiously, a single dark eyebrow raised above piercing burnished eyes. As always, he could see that Elric was thinking on something that was none of his business, but the man could always be counted on to plant is nose squarely in whatever interested him.

  “Iffin it is all right with you, your highness, I need to take a piss,” Gaubin slurred.

  Unaffected by the man’s crudeness, Tristin raised his hand, effectively shooing the drunken man into the woods. “Be quick about it.”

  Grunting, and throwing one last glaring dagger at Elric, Gaubin stumbled off into the dark forest.

  Letting out a sigh, Tristin moved away from the fire and toward the rock where he’d lain his cloak, gauntlets, and helmet. Elric followed, sitting on a log just to the side of where Tristin leaned, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. But a slight tilt of Elric’s head told him the other man wasn’t fooled.

  Tristin prepared himself for the coming inquisition, squaring his shoulders and straightening his back. “What is it?” he asked, knowing full well it was better to toss the first stone than wait to be bludgeoned.

  Elric said nothing at first, instead, he leaned back, placing his hands on his knees. His golden eyes looked like embers in the darkness, and they were burning straight through him.

  Damn the man and his perceptiveness.

  “Your patrol was uneventful?” Elric inquired, his tone more statement than question.

  Lifting his chin, Tristin decided he’d already had enough of his second’s presence.

  “I was not set upon by vengeful spirits or forest gods, so yes, my patrol was uneventful,” Tristin answered, doing his best to keep the wavering of untruth from his voice. Though, he wasn’t being untruthful; he hadn’t seen or been attacked by spirits or pagan gods…the woman at the waterfall had been neither. She’d been flesh, blood, beauty, and mystery. And she’d gotten deeper under his skin than anyone had been in many years. It shook him to the core…but he couldn’t allow that moment under the moon to change his course.

  Elric’s gaze never left Tristin’s face, and a slow smirk formed on his mouth.

  “Why do I get the feeling you are footing around the truth?” Elric was too damn perceptive!

  Tristin shrugged. “Because you are wont to see things that are not there, just to have something to pester me about.”

  Chuckling, Elric leaned forward. “Nay, I think you were telling the truth about the forest gods and such…but I wonder if something happened that made you…apprehensive.”

  Tristin met Elric’s twinkling gaze with a hard glare. What was worse than Elric bothering him was Elric being right about something.

  “I saw something…” Tristin let the words tumble from his lips, not sure he was ready to divulge the most intimate of details about his encounter at the waterfall.

  Share the barest of details...and pray the hound does not sniff out the rest.

  Elric’s eyes snapped with interest, he leaned further forward, almost falling
over his own knees.

  “What did you see?” His voice held the note of a curious boy, eager for scraps of fantastical tales.

  Tristin sighed and moved away from the large bolder to sit on the log beside Elric. He ran his fingers through his hair, no doubt dislodging a few of the locks that had gathered behind his ears. He cared not.

  “I saw a woman…”

  Silence greeted his admission, and Tristin turned to his friend to see why. Elric sat there, mouth agape, and eyes as wide as he’d ever seen them. He could understand Elric’s shock; one didn’t expect to find a woman alone in the woods in the daylight, let alone in the pitch of the night.

  “Was it as the Cardinal feared? Was she dancing naked, casting spells?”

  Naked? Breathtakingly. Casting spells? Only over him and his senses.

  Weighing his words, he said, “She was by the river. I caught her by surprise and she ran.”

  Elric’s face broke out in a grin. “Ah, but that is not what I asked, Tristin. Was she naked?” Tristin nearly grinned at his friend’s wriggling eyebrows, but he held in his mirth, realizing he needed to tread lightly. He didn’t want to share too much lest Elric find new and creative ways to blunder on about the woman in the woods. But he couldn’t tell his closest and most trusted friend an untruth.

  “Aye, she was naked.”

  Tristin nearly toppled from his seat when Elric shot to his feet.

  “And was she dancing and casting spells?” Elric’s expression was one part eager curiosity and one part disgust—he hated the idea of pagan wickedness, just as any member of the Homme du Sang, but he was still a man. A red-blooded male, interested in all manner of naked women.

  Standing to peer down at his only slightly shorter companion, Tristin placed a hand on Elric’s shoulder, desperate to keep him from waking the other men. The fewer who overheard, the better. He’d be damned if any more of his men decided to use his experience in the woods as a means to laugh at him—not that any of them would. Except Gaubin.