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

by Rosamund Winchester

  Tristin arched an eyebrow, and the corner of his lips twitched. “Something no woman should go without.”

  Desperately curious, Bell Heather bent and opened the sack. She pulled out one boot and then another.

  Disbelief stole her words. He had ordered Elric to find her boots?

  “Go on then, put them on. See if they fit,” Tristin ordered, a strange clip in his tone.

  Still seated, it was easy enough for Bell Heather to slip the boots on her feet. Even with the bandages, they fit perfectly.

  “They will do,” she said, trying not to let the happiness spill into her voice. She knew it was foolish to think he got her the boots because he cared for her. In truth, he’d only got them so that he wouldn’t have to worry about her again.

  She could march to her own death in boots he’d procured for her.

  How thoughtful.

  As the bitterness robbed the moment of its smidgen of joy, she shot to her feet and announced, “I need to piss.”

  As shock registered on four male faces, Bell Heather nearly crowed in laughter. My, but they certainly weren’t used to such candor from a lady.

  Tristin recovered first. “Robert, take her out back and give her a moment to…piss,” he commanded, his eyes dancing. To her, he said, “Do not think that because you have boots you can escape.”

  Annoyed at his constant slicing away at her character, she huffed, tossing her hands into the air. “If I wanted to escape, I would have turned ye all into newts and left ye to be picked off by owls.”

  She stomped from the cottage, not caring if Robert followed, as two throaty chuckles sounded from inside.

  Enraged beyond reason, she only heard Robert’s approaching just as she past the cottage’s back wall.

  “Good, hurry,” he wheezed, “I have not eaten yet, and I find that my belly is as angry as you are.”

  Oh, aye, she was angry, but she had reason to be. It didn’t matter that she had come of her own accord, or that he had treated her terribly over the last two days, or that he’d kissed the thought from her head last night, or that she had done nothing to earn his ire—the man still insisted on thinking she was somehow his enemy!

  Blast him. Blast his horse. And blast this damn yearning for him!

  Chapter Sixteen

  Angrier at himself than he could ever recall being, Tristin cursed into the sky. After Bell Heather’s outburst—he still couldn’t believe her audacity—he found he needed a moment to collect his thoughts. Once Bell Heather and Robert disappeared behind the cottage, Tristin had taken Chevalier to the other side of the road, allowing the horse to graze on the green grass.

  He refused to admit that he hated Bell Heather’s easy comradery with Bear. Or that he nearly fell on his arse when she smiled after biting into the apple. Or that he wanted to damn all the men to hell and take that woman into his arms and ravish her until they were both nothing more than a heap of satisfied flesh.

  Your vow is no better than a whore’s boast. He’d come so close to taking Bell Heather by the creek, and by the river that night…that felt so long ago. He only meant to carry her to the creek to help her, but when she looked up at him, hunger in her eyes, he couldn’t not kiss her. It had been an ache he needed to soothe, a yearning he needed to feed… In the whole of his life, he’d never known such desperate longing, there in that moment, with her.

  And when he’d taken her mouth with his, he’d lost all sense of time, of place. It was just he and Bell Heather, the heat of their bodies, the taste of her lips, the groans and the panting… God, what would it be like to hear those moans as she lay beneath him, him buried to the hilt in her body? What would be feel like to press his chest against her breasts, crushing her with his weight and his ardor?

  It would be Heaven…just before the flames of Hell burst forth.

  I am damned.

  “Damn!” he cursed, pulling off his gauntlets in agitation. With his free hands, he ran his fingers through his hair, tugging the on the thick strands, welcoming the sharp pain—it helped him clear his mind, to bring things into focus.

  She was his mission; capture her, bring her to Cieldon, and leave her to the Cardinal’s mercy. He should feel nothing more for her than a knight would any prisoner, but that wasn’t the case, and it was eating at him as surely as a maggot ate away at dead flesh.

  He didn’t know how long he stood there, his mind tumbling, his will clashing with his wanting, but when two mounted men galloped around the bend toward the cottage, Tristin stiffened.

  It was instinct honed in the King’s service, and it had saved him from death more times than he could count.

  It was Elric and Ioan, and Glenn wasn’t far behind them.

  As they drew closer, Elric jumped down before Bellerophon could come to a stop. His expression was grim. Ioan continued past, coming to a stop in front of the cottage. He dismounted and rushed inside.

  “What is it?” Tristin asked, his instincts raging to the fore.

  “Where is Gaubin?” Elric asked, his gaze landing on the cottage.

  “He was here…” he replied, ashamed that he couldn’t be sure where the fool had gone. He’d been so lost in his own thoughts, he couldn’t recall anything from the time he left the cottage to when Elric appeared.

  Just then, Ioan strode outside. He shook his head then turned to look toward the rear of the cottage, his green eyes narrowed.

  “Damn,” Elric spat, gripping his sword hilt in a gesture Tristin knew from years of battling beside the man.

  He couldn’t explain the sharp rise in fear, but Tristin could taste the bile on his tongue. “Elric! Explain. What has happened?”

  Glenn’s approach kept Elric from answering, and Tristin’s frustration rose.

  “We’ve a problem,” Glenn exclaimed, his blue eyes glinting with steel.

  Before Glenn could open his mouth again, an inhuman shriek pierced the air, and men, garbed in brown, with slashes of red across their chests, and red hand marks upon their faces, boiled from the forest, claymores and flails raised.

  Reivers.

  A crimson haze descended over Tristin’s vision, and a stirring of rage and blood lust surged. A sneer raised the side of his mouth as he pulled his long sword from his scabbard and yelled, “To arms!”

  ***

  Bell Heather finished pissing and rearranged her tunic, kicking at the hem with the toe of her new boots. She was both pleased and appalled, angry and appreciative. She hated that she liked Tristin’s thoughtfulness, and that she knew it was foolish to think his gesture anything other than his duty. But…she couldn’t ignore how a simple gift made her belly flip and her heart shudder.

  They are just boots, for Dagda’s sake! She grumbled obscenities—one’s she’d learned from Maude—before shooting to her feet to let Robert know she was ready to go back. When she’d stormed from the cottage, she hadn’t cared if Robert kept up, or that he might assume she was trying to escape. All she cared about was getting as far away from Tristin and his chilly disdain as possible.

  From behind the bush where she’d relieved herself, she really couldn’t see Robert. She could only hear the snapping of twigs and the huffing of his panting, so she knew he was there, silently waiting on her to finish so they could go back and he could fill his angry belly.

  She snorted, remembering how the man whined.

  Turning in a slow circle, she looked for her escort. She’d chosen a bush that was part of a wild hedge that grew along a slender stream. There were trees on all sides, any of which he could he standing behind.

  Watching her.

  A trickling of alarm skittering up her back. She shuddered.

  “Robert?” she called out, “I am ready to return now.”

  When only the chirping of birds replied, she tried again. “Robert! I am not in the mood for such play. And I doubt Captain Tristin would find it humorous, either,” she intoned, steel in her voice.

  A thudded sounded, close and loud, and Bell Heather turned toward
it. The double-chinned swine from early emerged from behind a wide oak, a terrible glimmering in his bird-like eyes, and a sneer on his thick lips.

  Bell Heather watched him as he approached, his body was large, sweat poured from his forehead, and his protruding belly made him look like a pregnant sow.

  Though the image was ridiculous, the tension coiling in the air robbed her of her jollity.

  “Where is Robert?” she asked, side stepping him as he tried to stand in front of her.

  The pig’s smile grew. “He was hungry…I relieved him so he could eat,” he answered, his tone laden with untruths.

  Bell Heather took another step backward as fear wound its way through her body.

  “Let us go back, then. I do not wish to keep the captain waiting,” she said, a tremor in her voice betraying her.

  Gaubin took another step closer, and she took another step back.

  This is not right. Run! Find Tristin! Flicking her gaze toward the cover of the trees, Bell Heather’s heart stopped when a blood-curdling yell split the air. She let out a scream of her own, and spun to look at Gaubin.

  “What is that?” she cried. The unmistakable clatter of steel striking steel rang out, and everything within her turned to ice.

  Gaubin’s face seemed to light up from within, a hideous glow that made the blood in her veins slow to a crawl.

  “That, my lady, is the signal,” he replied, his eyes dancing.

  She swallowed, knowing her next question would seal her fate. “Signal for what?”

  In a flash, Gaubin pulled a dagger from his belt and flew at her, grabbing her around the neck, and pushing the tip of his blade into the flesh just under her chin.

  “My signal to take you, lady,” he breathed, his breath sour and hot. Bell Heather cringed. “There’s a rich man out there willing to pay fifty gold shillings to have you.”

  Bell Heather gasped, terror slamming into her chest.

  “Nay!”

  Gaubin’s sneer returned. “Oh, aye. And I will be the one to collect,” he drawled, leaning in to plant his nose just beneath her ear. Sick filled her throat. “He said not to harm you…but he said nothing about having myself a little taste.”

  Bell Heather opened her mouth to scream, but his other hand came up to cover her mouth.

  “Make a sound and I will truss you up like an ewe for the slaughter—got that, lady?”

  With his blade under her chin, she could only blink. Trembling began in her legs, spreading into her other limbs.

  Gaubin slid his lips over her cheek. She fought the urge to gag. “You are as soft as butter…I wonder if you are as sweet.” Before she could think on his words, his tongue shot out, sliding over her cheek, to the edge of her eye, and back down toward her mouth.

  She tried to pull away—his blade be damned—but he held tighter to her face. Though her arms were free, she knew it wouldn’t take more than a blink for him to sink the dagger into her neck.

  Bell Heather was well and truly at the devil’s mercy.

  “My horse is just there,” he said, using his elbow to point to a copse of trees to the north. “Let’s go.” Gaubin started walking, pushing Bell Heather forward. With him at her back, she could feel the bulk of his belly pressing into her, and the heat of his nasty breath puffing into her hair.

  More shouting sounded from the direction of the cottage.

  Gaubin laughed.

  “The bastards. They are getting what they deserve. No one treats Gaubin More like a dog and gets away with it,” he hissed, and a new dread filled Bell Heather.

  Tristin!

  She knew what the sounds of steel against steel meant; the men were battling an enemy. Tristin and the men were fighting, possibly dying. A sick feeling writhed within her, and a tingling hit her mouth.

  Nay! Nay! Nay! But they are the Homme du Sang, fierce warriors, men of blood and victory! They couldn’t be bested in battle. But…how many enemies were there? When she’d left, there were only three at the cottage, the others were in the village. If the others hadn’t returned before the fighting began, Tristin could be outnumbered.

  He could be killed.

  Tears burned behind her eyes, and she forced them back. Now was not the time for sorrow. It was the time for trust. Tristin wasn’t just a knight, he was the captain of a group of highly trained men. If anyone could survive an ambush, it was him.

  Oh, Lord…protect him.

  Wordlessly, Gaubin lead her through the trees to a small clearing where a large horse was waiting. Bell Heather refused to think about the beast of an animal and instead focused on how she could get away. In order to help her mount, he would have to sheath his dagger. It wasn’t much, but if she could break away, she knew she could outrun him, even with her battered feet. The man was all bulk and threats, he couldn’t keep pace with a turtle.

  When he sheaths the dagger, run…

  Gaubin stopped just before his horse, and reached forward, pulling a length of rope from his saddle bag.

  Nay! If he succeeded in tying her up, she’d never be able to get away.

  Desperate, Bell Heather pushed back against him, trying to put distance between the meat of her chin and the point of his blade. Gaubin grunted then immediately slid the blade down to her throat.

  “Stop squirming! I would hate to have to deliver you in less than perfect condition,” he ground out, and she shuddered, images of herself broken and bloody flashing before her eyes.

  “Tie your feet,” he said, putting the coarse rope in her trembling hands. She took it and pinched her eyes closed, praying to whatever god listening that she’d survive.

  Slowly, still with the point of the blade at her throat, she bent down, wrapping the rope around her legs once, and securing them with a knot her mother had taught her—it looked tight but could be loosed with a good tug. Gaubin grunted his approval.

  “Now, I will tie your wrists, and you will be a good girl…” he said, making his threat clear by pushing the blade against her neck.

  “Aye,” she answered, the single word like bitter herbs on her tongue.

  “Good.” He sheathed his dagger but didn’t take his gaze from her face. With more skill than she expected from him, he tied her wrists, the rope biting into her skin. She hissed.

  Another shout sounded, and Bell Heather froze.

  Gaubin chuckled. “Sounds like the famous Homme du Sang are falling…one by one by one. I hope the lot of them know the pain of having their bowels sliced open.”

  Bell Heather watched a madness descend over his face, his dark eyes glittering with sickening rage, and his expression twisting into a horrific grin.

  Flee! Flee! Her mind shrieked, but even though the knot at her feet was loose, Gaubin had tied her wrists too tight for her to use her hands. Secured as she was, she was helpless, and she despised him all the more for it.

  Clang-clang. Clatter. Shout. Scream….

  As Bell Heather listened to the battle waging, Gaubin hauled her onto the back of his horse, draping her over his pack. Bell Heather struggled to get upright, to see anything she could use to save herself. Desperation lit her blood aflame. If she didn’t get away now, she would die. She was sure of it.

  Gaubin smacked her arse and growled. “I said be good! There’s more than one way to make you compliant.”

  She stiffened, refusing to wonder what he meant.

  Once Gaubin was mounted, he reined his horse northward and kicked it into motion.

  Bell Heather screamed, the sudden motion filling her with terror. Tied as she was, she’d fall and be trampled to death!

  “I said shut it!” Gaubin barked, continuing on at his careless pace.

  Closing her eyes, Bell Heather tried to take a deep breath, but her chest banged against the horse’s side every time it took a step. She turned to look back, her heart in her throat…

  As the sounds of the battle faded away, Bell Heather realized no one would know where she’d gone. Would they think she escaped? Would Tristin come looking
for her? Would he survive the attack?

  Please… As she watched the trees disappear from view, her heart thundered, fear pounding through her. Fear for herself…and for the man her heart was desperate to see again.

  ***

  Tristin pulled his sword from the man’s neck and sucked in quick breaths, his chest burning, his body singing, his heart pounding. The thrill of battle never ceased to fill him with a vitality that strengthened him, sharpened him, made him into a man of ice and iron. A man who could kill without hesitation.

  Staring down at the dead man, Tristin heard Elric come alongside him. He looked up to find Elric’s face aglow with the same vitality Tristin felt.

  “Who were they?” Glenn asked, wiping the blood off his daggers with a piece of cloth he, no doubt, ripped from the body of one of the men he killed.

  Tristin peered at the ground around them…bodies of men scattered about. There were twelve of them, some still writhing in pain. He’d put them out of their misery soon enough, after he questioned them.

  “They are dressed like reivers…but they do not fight like any reivers I have come across,” Tristin remarked, watching as Ioan, Leon, Pierre, and David dispatched four other men. Finishing them with practiced skill, the men sheathed their swords and came to join Tristin. Sometime during the battle, the other knights returned. Tristin could imagine they’d heard the commotion and had come, swords drawn.

  “No, definitely not reivers,” Pierre agreed. “They were painted like savages, but they were not organized.”

  Tristin nodded. Reivers were scavengers, they only ever attacked to steal and pillage. They battled against villagers and travelers, and they were quick, fierce, bloodthirsty, but also methodical. They only ever attacked when they knew they could win.

  Whoever these men were, they were not reivers.

  “So, if they are not reivers, who are they?” Elric asked.

  At the sound of heavy breathing, Tristin turned to find Robert standing over a man slumped in the dust.

  “Robert?” Alarm shot through him. Where was Bell Heather? “Where is your charge?” he asked, his voice growing in ferocity.