Bell Heather couldn’t help the snort of incredulity that escaped. “Handsome? Aye. Handsomest? Nay.” Though the man beside her had a dark, wicked beauty about him, it didn’t pull at her. Didn’t steal her breath. Didn’t make her long for dreams of heated caresses and lips sliding over her…
A new sort of ache began in her belly, spreading out into her limbs.
The man beside her laughed, and she started. “What? Tis only the truth.”
“How ye wound me, beautiful lady. What shall I do now that ye have unmanned me?”
This time, her snort was one of surprise and humor.
“Unmanned ye, have I? Well, it cannot be helped if yer heart cannot take an honest word.”
He laughed again. “It wasna my heart ye wounded, love.”
As understanding dawned, her eyes grew wide.
The man’s smile brightened, and he began stroking the length of his long, black beard. Bell Heather had seen beards on most of the men in Clarendon. But none of them were braided into several small strips, and then bedecked with deep blue beads.
“Glenn,” he said, simply, and she blinked at him in confusion. “My name. Glenn.”
It was her turn to arch an eyebrow and offer a lopsided smile. “What sort of name is Glenn?” she asked, finding that plying him with the same vexing questions was a challenge she couldn’t ignore.
Glenn stuck out his chest. “Tis the name of a warrior, a man of bravery on the battlefield…and pleasure in the bedchamber,” he said, winking.
She chuckled. “I have no doubt ye think so.”
He pulled back, pressing his fingertips into his chest, clearly feigning affront. “Why, I have never been so insulted. I should punish ye by forcin’ my unmanned, cowardly presence upon ye…for at least another few moments.”
Struck by the easiness in which she and Glenn were conversing, Bell Heather smiled at him.
“Tis a terrible punishment, indeed. What shall I do, how shall I survive?” she asked, raising the back of her hand to her forehead as if in faint.
Glenn chuckled, his gaze sliding over her face. Suddenly, the laughter stopped, and he crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I will do what I can to help ye, Bell Heather Caire. I swear it.”
Immediately humbled by the conviction in his voice and the determination burning in his sapphire eyes, she could only nod. Her breath lodged in her chest, and she swallowed, forcing another smile to her lips.
“Thank ye…Glenn,” she offered, her words clearer than she expected.
In one lithe movement, Glenn stood. “I will leave ye to rest. Once the men return with the meat, ye will eat. Then, ye will sleep.” Was he ordering her to fall asleep, surrounded by dark forest, strange men, and The Captain? Not likely.
Glenn gave a sharp nod then seemed to step into the shadows behind the oak tree and disappear. Shocked at how easily he vanished, Bell Heather turned to watch for any sign of him. He was nowhere…but she felt him there. He was watching…unseen. Like the spirits of the forest Maude had always warned her about.
Worries for Maude resurfaced, stealing the scrap of levity Glenn had given her. Taking a deep breath, she allowed those worries to flow in, but she forced them into a queue. She would think through things with practicality and logic. Tis what her mother would have done.
Aye, she was marching toward an uncertain outcome, and she only had the army of the cardinal to rely on. So far, Glenn had shown himself a friend to her, if only for now, but she couldn’t trust even him. He was, like the rest of the Homme du Sang, the cardinal’s man. That meant he would do what he was commanded to do. But Bell Heather couldn’t understand why the cardinal had ordered it all.
As far as she knew, the Church considered witchcraft a lie, a false religion created to turn the weak in faith toward Satan. They didn’t believe magic was real or that people who practiced the religion of the Devil to actually have any real power. So why the accusations against her? Why send holy knights to capture her? If magic wasn’t real, why bother with her at all?
Her body throbbing, her heart aching, her belly growling, Bell Heather laid her head back against the bark of the oak tree. She was alone, at the mercy of the captain, and her strange yearning for him. She couldn’t understand why the one man who could set her free made her want to cling to him instead. He was just a man. And while he was the first man to ever stir her, he was also the first man to ever make her feel like an utter worm. Not even Willem Mason could do that. At the memory of Willem Mason and his hideous words, she shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself. Though the night was growing cold, it wasn’t what sucked the warmth from her body.
Willem Mason had sworn to have her, had intimated he would do anything to violate her. Did Willem Mason have a hand in her troubles? Was he the faceless man who’d thrown such terrible lies at the cardinal’s feet? But why? What good would it do to have her captured and tried as a heretic? Again, fear and uncertainty danced around each other, stamping their feet on the meat of her heart.
Ignoring the pain, she pulled her knees up to her chest, pressing the soles of her battered feet into the ground. She wrapped her arms around her knees and hid her face in the fortress she’d made.
And this time, when the tears welled up, she let them fall.
Chapter Twelve
George Timmons sauntered into Willem’s study, eyeing anything of value with a scheming, hungry gaze. Gold statuettes, bejeweled goblets, and a snuff box made of pure silver, were set about his study, purposefully placed to give the impression of importance, wealth, and decadence. He loved his decadence. Refusing to lock away the items he’d sacrificed his soul to attain, Willem waited, silently, for Timmons to reach him. Standing by the large fireplace in his private study, Willem watched as Timmons lowered his oafish frame into one of Willem’s handcrafted, ornate leather chairs. He curled his nose at the man, who smelled of sweat and horse piss, and looked to be covered in both, as well.
“Timmons…so glad you could make it on such short notice,” he said, his tone purposefully flat.
Timmons planted his beady, brown-eyed gaze on Willem, then proceeded to pick his teeth with his tongue. The disgusting dog. “I weren’t doin’ nothin’ important, ‘cept, the weaver’s daughter. And she was ‘bout as tasty as a rotten cabbage,” the man said, grinning. His black gums on gross display, Timmons appeared the heartless lout he was purported to be. And Willem knew Timmons was never one to turn away a well-paying job…especially when creating havoc was involved. The man loved his havoc.
“I see…” Willem began, uncaring of the man’s predilections for sour pussy. “I have need of your services, Timmons.”
The man stopped picking at his filthy fingernails and sat forward in the leather chair, the rather delicate piece of furniture creaking beneath the man’s bulk.
“And wot’s that?” Timmons asked, his shite brown eyes twinkling with undisguised interest.
“I need you to start a raid, during which I will steal something I have been coveting for quite some time.” Coveting? More like slavering after like a wolf after a fat ewe. And Bell Heather would be the perfect buffet on which he would feast. Gorging himself, until he was finally satiated.
“And wot’s this treasure ye’ve got yer eye on?” Timmon’s asked, the greed in his eyes nearly as black as his gums.
Willem sneered, “You need not worry about that. I have someone who will take care of that part of the plan. I need you to hire a few dozen men, the more savage the better. And once you have those men, bring them here to me.”
Timmons’s face lit up with an unholy glee, and Willem couldn’t help but share in the man’s elation. What he wouldn’t give to see the look on Captain Tristin LaDeux’s face when the captive he’d been charged with transporting was stolen right out from under him.
“You have one day—”
“One day? How’s I ‘spose to find two dozen men in one day?” Timmons bleated, rising from the chair to stare at Willem challengingly.
Already tired of the man’s presence, Willem pulled a dagger from the sheath on his desk and balanced the point of the blade on the tip of his finger. Timmons’s eyes grew wide. One thing few knew about him was his affinity for sharp edged weapons. He liked them sharp, perfectly weighted, and encrusted with rubies—the color easily matching the blood the blade was meant to spill.
“If you cannot do the work, I will find someone else to do it for you,” Willem murmured, easily tossing the blade, end over end, into the chair Timmons had just vacated—right where his heart would have been.
Timmons stared at the hilt of the blade then back at Willem. “I can find ‘em. Ye don’ have ta worry none,” he finished then turned on his boot heel to leave—but not before Willem saw the man’s face turn red, and a shadow of hatred cloak his expression.
Good…let him hate me. I care not. Only that he provide me the men I need.
Once Timmons was gone, Willem quit his study and climbed the spiraling staircase to the master chamber. Closing the great, thick oak door behind him, and moved to the hidden release on his bureau. Pressing it, he listened for the sound of the hidden door clicking open. Willem hurried through the hidden passageway and into the hidden room. It was dark, the opening in the ceiling would provide no light now, and so, using the flint on the small table beside the door, he lit a single tallow candle, and then proceeded to light twelve more, until the room was bathed in a flickering orange and yellow glow.
Closing his eyes, he slowly, deliberately, undressed, removing every barrier between him and the sensations of the room as he basked in its purpose. A slight wind slunk through the cracks in the stone wall and slid over the skin on his chest, kissing his flesh, rising gooseflesh over his arms, and making his manhood twitch betwixt his legs. He opened his eyes and stared down at himself, marveling in the perfection of his frame; the flat plains of his belly, the thickness of his thighs, the length and girth of his rod. He smiled appreciatively.
Barefoot, he walked toward the bed on which Bell Heather would soon lie, bound to the wall, and helpless against him.
Willem stood there, picturing her, silken hair fanned out over the pillow, her eyes bright with fear and excitement, her lush body bare and quivering.
Sucking in a deep breath, Willem climbed on the bed, lying flat on his back. He inhaled the scents of wood polish, linen, and the tang of metal, and he groaned. Soon…the bed would smell of her. He moaned, his mouth watering for the taste of her on his tongue.
Gripping the fabric of the thin coverlet beneath him, he flexed ever muscle in his body, hoping to dispel some of the tension his anticipation was building within him.
“Soon, my dearest Bell…” he growled into the silence of the chamber, as the flames on the candles danced, and the shadows on the walls watched in envy.
He didn’t know how long he laid there, body thrumming, heart pounding, but by the time he’d dredged up enough energy to move, the tallow candles had all burned to half. Sitting up, he swung his feet off the bed, then slowly rose to standing.
He didn’t want to dress, he didn’t want to feel the coarseness of any fabric against his skin, only the anticipation of warm, supple flesh against his. He hated that he had to wait—was never considered a patient person, but he would wait. Because once Bell Heather was in his keeping, all the things he would do to her, all the pleasure he’d wring from her, would make the wait as a second in his mind. She was worth waiting for… But, the longer the wait, the greater his hunger for her. And God help any man who stood in his way.
Willem blew out all the candles save one, and made his way back through the passage and into his bedchamber. He closed the hidden door and step out from behind the tapestry. His chamber was dark, and the single candle in his grip did little to dispel it. Moving to the bell pull, he summoned Butler.
It took ten minutes for the knock to sound on his door, and it vexed him to have to sit in the dark for so long.
“Enter!” Willem yelled, and Butler entered, his shape a blob in the near blackness. “Take this and light the other candles.” Butler took the almost extinguished candle and set about lighting the other twenty candles in the room. Willem enjoyed giving Butler such menial tasks…the man himself was just as pointless as most of the tasks he’d been given.
“Will that be all, my lord,” Butler asked, placing the numb of the first candle in his fist.
“Yes.” You may retire for the evening, Butler,” he said, magnanimously.
Butler dipped a bow, then left.
And Willem settled in for a night of waiting.
***
Having found a wide creek with a deep pool, Tristin groaned as he removed the last of his armor and stretched. While the armor was necessary for protection against enemies, it was a detriment to personal hygiene and comfort. Five long days in the saddle, and he was ready to be home, clothed only in his tunic and braes, and sleeping in a bed.
Tristin knew Elric would loathe helping him don his armor again, and he smiled. As second in command, Elric had done many things he was loathe to do, like remain celibate while on missions. Even now, he could hear Elric’s voice in his head, bemoaning the lack of willing wenches in the villages and towns they’d passed on their way to Clarendon. Tristin stopped the man’s wailing by reminding him that he couldn’t lie with them even if he’d found them. It was an unspoken rule amongst the men. While on a mission, they were to focus only on the mission.
Except…Tristin had broken that rule, repeatedly, since the night before.
Unbidden, the image of the woman, Bell Heather, formed in his mind, and he closed his eyes against it. Forcing himself to move, he stepped into the chilly water, not stopping until he was up to his belly. The cold was welcome, if only to cool the heat building in his blood, and the ardor building in his chest. Tristin held his breath and dunked himself under the water. He came up, sputtering. Shuddering, he flung the mess of wet hair over his head and wiped at the water in his eyes. Now, fully chilled, he set about washing away the scent of sweat, horse, and smoke. What must have Bell Heather thought about his scent, curled up against his chest as he carried her from the brook to the glen? Did her nose wrinkle in distaste as his did?
Picturing her adorable little nose wrinkled sent a tremor of laughter into his chest. Lord, but she’d be lovely, even in her disgust. Striding to the creek side where he’d left his belongings, he retrieved the cloth that held the bar of soap Bell Heather had dropped in her haste to dress and return to her cottage. Unwrapping it, he held it to his nose, inhaling.
It still held a faint aroma of woman…his woman. Stricken by the possessiveness of his thoughts, he replaced the soap in the cloth and put it beside his sword—which was just within reach. He never went anywhere without his sword, and it was always where he could get it to quickly, if the need arose.
Finishing his ministrations, he stepped from the water, biting back a gasp at the slap of cold air against his skin. Is that how Bell Heather felt, standing before him, naked and wet? It was no wonder she shivered. Cursing, he hated himself for not seeing it before now. She wasn’t trembling in fear or appreciation of him, she’d been trembling with the cold.
But that didn’t explain the curious hunger in her eyes, or the way she looked at his lips. She’d wanted him to kiss her, to ravish her mouth with his. And he would have too…if he were a weaker man. A man given to his base self, his carnal self. He was a stronger man than that, a man who could put aside his desires for the desires of God.
Pulling open the bag containing a change of clothes, Tristin dressed in silence. Leaving his armor off to give his body a rest from the weight and the chafing.
A rock beside the creek was the perfect place to sit, and so he did, resting his arms on his knees and pushing his head down to pull the muscles in his back and neck. Groaning at the release of the ache, Tristin closed his eyes and just breathed, allowing the sound of the creek, the hoots of owls, and the rustling of the wind through the trees to lull him—though, he would never b
e completely lulled, not when he was out in the open.
His sword at his side, lest any danger came upon him, he let his mind drift back to the camp, where his men were no doubt grumbling about the lack of meat, and Elric was playfully badgering Bear and Ioan. A slow smile stretched across his face as he pictured Elric saying something particularly vexing to Bear, and Bear rising to his full height, teeth barred, roar booming from his chest.
What a sight that would be. He chuckled despite himself, and lifted his head. The slight breeze caught at his wet hair and he shivered. It was better to let the cold drain all urges from his body than to return to the camp, still burdened with his yearning for the woman.
As if a great, black bird swooped into his soul, alarm clutched at his heart with razor-sharp talons.
Something was wrong.
Bell Heather!
Shooting to his feet, Tristin gathered his armor, his sword, and his bag of soiled clothes, and raced back along the path he’d cut through the forest.
Nearly stumbling in his rush to get back, he skidded to halt just outside the perimeter of the camp, his throat burning from his flight.
Unsure of what he expected to find, he was surprised to see…nothing. At least nothing amiss. His men were all there; Gaubin and Aster had returned, and from the looks of it, they’d found three hares and a grouse. Elric was leaning, arms crossed, against a tree at the head of the camp, his gaze landing on Tristin as he stepped from the dark of the forest and into the firelight.
Alarm still thinning his blood, Tristin’s gaze slid to where Bell Heather had been sitting when he left. She was still there, her head propped up on her knees, her shoulders sagging as if bearing an incredible weight.
The need to go to her stole his breath, but Elric came alongside him, stopping any foolhardy actions with a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Where did you go?” he asked, his gaze scouring Tristin’s face.
“To bathe,” Tristin replied simply, turning away to find Chevalier.
The Blood and The Bloom (Men of Blood Book 1) Page 13