Nay! I will never let him touch me again. Her recollection of the night before flooded her mind, and she remembered his bare hand on the arm she’d used to cover her breasts. The skin of his palm had been hot, and the pads of his fingers had been rough, sliding over the chilled flesh of her forearm. Even now, the memory of it burned her skin, just there. Like the ghost of a touch too quickly ended.
Refusing to look at him, she watched as Elric drew to a stop inside a circle of oaks. The trees seemed to reach into the heavens, blocking out wind, prying eyes, and the remaining sunlight. The darkness of the little clearing invited a chill, not unlike the one she’d felt last night, sitting before her hearth, shuddering against the visions of him and their encounter.
“I will dismount, then I will help you down,” Elric informed her before pushing her slightly forward in the saddle. In less than a heartbeat, Elric was on the ground, his arms reaching up for her. She blinked down at him. He’d removed his helmet and was staring up at her with a smirk on his lips and a gentleness in his gaze.
Something within her told her she could trust him, that he was someone who would guard her against men who would seek to harm her.
What foolishness. He follows orders, and his orders are to take ye to Cieldon for trial.
Squaring her shoulders, she held her breath and slid of the saddle, right into Elric’s outstretched arms. Instead of putting her on her feet as she expected, he lifted her into his arms, against his chest. She gasped, her head spinning.
“Your feet need mending. I will carry you.”
In a few strides, Elric had crossed the clearing inside the oaken circle, and bent to settle her on a soft mound of leaves and soil.
She almost groaned from the ache in her bones. Horses were great beasts, capable of jarring the teeth from your skull, and now her body would never forgive her for such an abuse.
“I need to help set up camp. Someone will return with water and food.”
She stared up into Elric’s face, again taken aback by his handsomeness. How did someone as attractive as him become a knight of the Church? Why wasn’t he married, siring sons as handsome and charming as he was?
What a pity. His handsomeness was wasted behind a visor of glimmering metal, and a duty that painted him with blood. The same of his captain…
“Thank you,” she murmured before turning away. Closing her eyes, she could only hear him as he departed. The sounds of men dismounting, the gathering of supplies, and the general sounds of free men completing necessary tasks made everything within Bell Heather tense. How could they act as if everything were ordinary? How dare they laugh and whistle and breathe while she was standing at the edge of a cliff, holding her breath, terrified that a single step would destroy her utterly?
“Gaubin and Aster, find us some meat,” the captain barked, startling her. She opened her eyes, her gaze finding him, standing in the midst of the busyness, his helmet gone, and his face set in a hard expression. Though his expression should have scared her, she couldn’t look away. His black eyebrows were cast downward in a grimace. His lips were pinched in such a way that the lines around his mouth stood out prominently. And his eyes…though they weren’t pinned to her, they missed nothing. “Elric and Robert, see to gathering wood for a fire.”
Bell Heather shuddered; the thought of a warm fire sounded wonderful.
“The rest of you, I want you to see to the horses.” With that, he spun on his heel and disappeared into the darkness on the other side of the clearing.
Where was he going?
Forget about him! Care only for yerself. No one else will!
Chapter Eleven
Tristin watched as Glenn peeled away from the shadows, coming to stand before him as if born from the very night.
“Twould seem ye survived yer first day with the witch…” Glenn murmured, a lopsided grin spreading over his face.
Running his fingers through his hair, Tristin replied. “I will have none of your vexation tonight, Glenn. Report.”
Glenn’s smile grew, his gaze flicking over Tristin’s face. “Barely survived, I would say.”
Tristin growled.
“Och, aye. My report,” Glenn said, raising his hands above his head as if in surrender. But Tristin knew better. That man could pull daggers from the very air around him, as though he conjured them with a thought. “I have sent word, as you asked.”
Tristin nodded. “And supplies?”
“I spoke with the innkeeper. He will give us bread and salted pork on the morrow.”
“Good.” Tristin made to turn to return to his men…and the woman.
“Tristin?” Glenn rarely used Tristin’s name. He was a man of secrets and invisible bulwarks, and he often distanced himself from others by refusing such familiarity. And so, when Glenn spoke his name, Tristin stopped all else to listen.
Waiting for Glenn to speak, Tristin couldn’t help but notice the flickering of something buried deep in Glenn’s blue gaze.
“Have ye thought more on what I said last evenin’? About the woman?”
Oh, he’d been thinking about her, but not how Glenn expected. When she’d collapsed in the glen, he’d taken her into his arms and nearly moaned at the feel of her against him. Even through the thickness of his breastplate, he could feel the heat of her. In that moment, he would have stripped off every piece of his armor, just to feel her flesh against his. And it terrified him. How could one woman have such control over him? His head said she wasn’t a witch, that witchcraft was a false religion, but his body…it was under her spell, and he didn’t know how to break the curse that was burning him alive. He’d quickly handed her limp form over to Elric, and then tried to focus on staying alert for dangers as they continued their journey northwest. But no matter how much he despised his weakness, he kept thinking about her. And about how she was draped across Elric’s lap, close to his body—when she should have been with him.
“I take it ye have nay,” Glenn said, snatching Tristin back to the shadowy oaks.
Sighing, Tristin tugged at the straps holding his breastplate in place over his chest and torso. What he wouldn’t give for a bath. With a village just to the east, there had to be a river or brook nearby, somewhere where he could rid himself of his armor and wash the stink of travel from his skin…and perhaps cool the unrelenting fire in his blood.
“Nay. I have had other things on my mind,” he replied, not entirely untruthful. “But even if I were to think on it, what good would it do? Calleaux wants her, to make an example of her, no doubt. Any opposing opinion we have on the matter will be considered insubordination.”
“And that would be a bad thing?” Glenn asked, one black eyebrow arched upward, before moving back into the shadows, as soundlessly as a night stalker.
Tristin cursed. He hated it when Glenn did that; leaving without Tristin having the final word. It was almost like the man enjoyed riling his commander. He knew Glenn had a black sense of humor, but it was nigh on deadly to be quite so…careless.
Returning to the clearing, Tristin saw that Elric and Robert had made a pile of wood and kindling beside a pit they’d dug. Ioan Bowlin, the youngest son of the Earl of Heathcomb, was bent over the pit, striking a flint over a smaller pile of kindling and dried moss. After a few moments, an orange glow filled the pit, and Ioan grinned. Bear Andrews, a large man—hence the men giving him the name “Bear”—slapped Ioan on the back, nearly sending the smaller man, face first, into the now crackling fire.
Bear roared with laughter, and Ioan eyed him with murder in his gaze, before a grudging smile broke through the anger. Ioan chuckled, and tossed four logs onto the burning kindling. The other men; John, Leon, Pierre, and David, were spreading out the bedrolls around the perimeter of the fire. Tristin prided himself on the efficiency of his men. Each one knew to do their part, even without being commanded.
Unable to keep from looking at her, Tristin’s gaze moved toward where he saw Elric put the woman. She was still there—not that she would hav
e gotten far with her feet as wounded as they were—and she was sitting, arms crossed over her chest, and her face set in a grim expression. He hated that a face as lovely as hers would be marred with the ugliness of fear and worry, but he understood why.
And it wasn’t as though he’d made her journey an easy one. When he’d halted in front of her cottage, he had every intention of treating her with respect and dignity—as all of God’s creatures deserved. But the moment he saw her, and recognized her as the woman from the waterfall, all sense fled, and what remained were the gruntings and hungers of a beast he’d thought to have put down three years before. No matter how many times he reminded himself that she was his prisoner, and no matter how often he chastised himself for thinking such carnal thoughts, his manhood still throbbed, his chest still ached for want of her. His mouth still watered for a taste of her. She was a sickness in his blood, and the sooner he bled her out, the sooner he could become well again.
Determined to rid himself of the guilt of his boorish treatment of her, he made his way to Chevalier. He’d tucked his leather bottle into his saddle bag and meant to retrieve it, to present it to her as some sort of offering. He’d give her water, perhaps apologize for his harsh words back in the glen… When he turned to make his way to the woman, he saw Glenn emerge from the darkness beside her. He was holding a leather bottle out to her, and she was eyeing his offering with narrowed eyes.
Tristin didn’t know whether to growl at Glenn’s audacity or laugh at the woman’s fire. Despite all the trouble he’d heaped on her that day, the woman was still stoking an inner flame Tristin was yearning to experience.
Nay. Leave her be. Let Glenn see to her needs… All of them? His thoughts, unbidden, turned toward the wickedly sensual. Last night, she’d been naked, trembling, gazing up at him with an appreciation and an innocent desire that had stolen the breath from his body. She was a maiden, untouched by any man, the confusion in her gaze told him that much. But hers was a body that hungered for the pleasure a man like Tristin could give her…a pleasure she would give him in return.
Frustrated at the unanswered arousal, Tristin ground out, “David, go find Gaubin and Aster. We will starve to death before those two can kill anything.” David Von Krieger, a foreigner with close ties to Elric’s father, and a deft hand with a bow, snapped a nod and turned to speed off into the woods, his bow and quiver in hand. “Bear,” Tristin called, and the giant of a man turned to look at him over his shoulder. He was squatting beside the fire, his great ham hands stretched out over the flames.
“Aye, Captain?”
“Make sure the men are fed before I return.”
Tristin could tell Bear had questions; where was Tristin going, what had fouled his mood? Thankfully, Bear didn’t ask. Instead, he nodded then turned back to the fire.
With a quick glance across the clearing to where Glenn was sitting beside the woman, Tristin bit back a growl. She looked troubled…but she also looked beautiful, the soft glow of the fire dancing over her face. His body tensed, his blood seeming to thicken, just as his manhood did.
Swallowing back the urge to call to Glenn, to put some distance between the known scoundrel and the woman, Tristin retrieved a small satchel from his saddle bag, and a piece of cloth—and what was hidden within it. And when he stepped into the forest’s embrace, one thought was secure in his mind: Glenn would not dare take what is mine…
***
“Take it, I’ll no bite ye,” the dark-haired man before her said, the smile above his long, black beard, as unsettling as the coolness of his blue eyes.
“I swear ta ye, tis only water. If I wanted ta poison ye, I would have put the poison on my lips, and then given ye a kiss.”
Bell Heather gasped, then gasped again when the blackguard winked at her. He was jesting with her? Anger bubbled within her, and she was grateful to feel something other than fear.
“If I take it, will ye leave me be?” she asked, meeting his gaze with her narrow-eyed glare.
The man chuckled. “I am sorry, love, but that is impossible. Ya see, I have made it my duty to keep ye company. And I take all of my duties seriously.” She might have believed him if he hadn’t winked at her again.
Holding back an incredulous bark of laughter, Bell Heather raised her hand for the leather bottle. The man’s grin grew, and for some reason, it didn’t bother her this time. Perhaps she was weaker than she thought.
Putting the leather bottle to her lips, she tipped it up and groaned as the cool, sweet water, rushed down her parched throat. Once the tip of her thirst was satiated, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “I thought to die of thirst before ever reaching Cieldon,” she said, her voice back to its normal huskiness—without the scratchiness.
The man sat down beside her, agile as a cat, and leaned back, resting against a tree. He crossed his legs at his ankles, looking to anyone watching, as though he were settling in for a comfortable chat with the village gossipmonger.
“So…what sort of name is Bell Heather?” the man asked, his fingers stroking his long beard.
“I was named after a flower. And…Heather was my mother’s name.” She didn’t know why she told him that—or anything at all, for that matter—but there was something about him that drew her in. Like a sweet-smelling cake drew the rats into a trap.
“A flower, eh? There are hills draped in fragrant, purple-blue heather, surrounding many a castle in Scotland,” he replied, his blue gaze suddenly far away…and sad.
Unsure of what to make of the man with the forlorn expression, Bell Heather took another long sip of water. With that, her now watered stomach began mewling for food. The groaning sounds brought the man’s gaze back to her, and another grin replaced the sadness she’d seen just moments before.
“Sounds like perhaps ye need somethin’ ta eat.”
Humiliated, Bell Heather pressed her free hand to her cheek. It was warm, and no doubt as red as a rose. “Aye, I could eat.” In truth, she was starving, the ache in her belly now rivaling the ache in her feet. If only she had some willow tree bark. She could make a tea to help ease some of the pain.
Tis a shame there is no valerian root or chamomile about, I could make a tea that put the whole lot to sleep… And then what? It wasn’t as though she could mount one of their horses and make her escape. The very thought of approaching one made her belly fill with stones. And if she tried to get away on foot… She cast a furtive glance at the forest around them. Unlike the countryside around Clarendon, where the largest animals were the butcher’s burly sons, there was no telling what kind of dangerous animal stalked these woods. She wouldn’t get far with all the night beasties hunting for easy prey. She was easy prey, and she’d be damned if she allowed herself to be wolf shite in the morning.
“Captain sent Gaubin and Aster ta find our meal. While I doubt Gaubin could find a tick on his own—err…” It was the man’s turn to get red about the face, and if she were in good humors, she would have laughed. “Well…I dunna trust that Gaubin can find a warthog, let alone a hare.”
Instead of responding to what was obviously an awkward topic, Bell Heather watched the men around her. They were all very large men; tall, broad shouldered, many with thick necks, and all of them with steely eyes and strong chins. Aye, they were striking, and fearsome to behold…but none of them were as striking as the one she shouldn’t be thinking on at all. And he wasn’t anywhere to be found.
The man beside her cleared his throat.
“What sort of witch doesna fight back when men come ta capture her?” he asked, drawing her attention back to him and his ridiculous and insulting question.
“I am no witch,” she replied, her tone as if chastising a recalcitrant child. The man’s blue eyes seemed to dance, a humor behind them she couldn’t share. “I am an apothecary, an herbalist. I only grow herbs, and then make powders and pastes from them. It is my way of helping the people of my village.” A village she might never see again…people she might never help again.
The man nodded, slowly. “Aye. We had one such in woman in Memsie. She made healing ointments, teas, and poultices.”
“So ye know what I am?” Hope flooded through her.
“Aye.”
“Then ye know I am not a witch.”
“Aye.”
“Why can ye not tell them?” Desperation welling from deep, Bell Heather began trembling. “Can ye not save me this fate?” Her voice rose and then fell, finishing on a harsh whisper as tears burned the back of her eyes. What a fool ye are. He will not help ye. No one will.
When a cloud of pity descended over the man’s face, Bell Heather allowed the fury within her to swallow up the hope. She straightened her back and pushed the full-body aching from her mind.
“Nay, I do not suppose ye can help me,” she answered for him.
The pity in his blue eyes shifted to resignation. “Nay. I am afraid there is nothing we can do for ye, at least no until we reach Cieldon. Then, the captain may speak a word in yer defense.”
The hope began fighting through the fury, but she pulled it back, reining it in.
“And what would it take for the captain to speak in my defense?” She swallowed, suddenly fearful of what the man would say.
He arched an inky eyebrow. “I canna say. I suppose ye will have ta ask him.”
A crushing weight pressed down on her. Of course, she would have to ask the captain, the man who cared so little for her he’d made her march without a sip of water. Bell Heather turned away from the man, silently pleading with him to leave her be…to leave her to wallow in her sorrow.
“I find it curious that ye havna asked for my name,” the man mused, and Bell Heather turned, once again, to stare at him.
“And why would I need to know yer name?” she asked, impertinent.
He chuckled. “What sort of woman doesna want ta know the name of the handsomest man she has ever laid eyes on?”
The Blood and The Bloom (Men of Blood Book 1) Page 12