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

by Rosamund Winchester

  He chuckled. “You did not think I would just leave you to try and escape, did you? Oh, no. I had to make sure my pretty little doll stayed right where I wanted her.”

  A new wave of dizziness hit her, and she inhaled, dragging in a breath to steady her senses. But it was still blackness, all around. How did Willem see her?

  “And, now that you are here, we can begin.”

  “Nay!” she exclaimed, struggling against her bindings, uncaring if they bit into her wrists. The pain would center her, help her to focus.

  “Oh, we are far beyond your chance to change your mind.” His voice was heavy with anticipation, and she refused to wonder what he was eager for.

  “As if I had a choice. Ye threatened the life of a little girl! What else was I to do but come with ye?” she spat, pulling on her bindings. Even her feet were bound, spread apart, like a suckling pig being readied for the spit.

  “Oh, that? I never would have harmed that girl.”

  Her heart thundered. “What?”

  “I only knew of her because the cardinal is a pompous arrogant fool, always going on about his knights, their bravery, their victories. More than once, he mentioned Angus’s child. Something about her being the perfect candidate for a position in a Scottish cloister.”

  His words rang with truth, and her chest ached from her ragged breathing. “Ye lied?”

  She could feel his shrugging, even in the darkness. “So what? I got what I wanted.”

  If Marian was never in danger, did that mean he had no real hold over her? She could escape without worrying over him going after the girl…

  Willem’s hand gripped her chin, and she tried to turn her face away. He held fast.

  “Do not be angry with me, my dear. Soon, you will appreciate all that I have done to obtain you. You will find pleasure here, with me.”

  She knew his idea of pleasure; pain. It would be nothing like the true, heart pounding pleasure she found in Tristin’s arms. The beauty of his lips over her breasts, suckling her nipples, or the wickedness of his fingers sliding into the wetness between her legs. She would forever remember the power of his thrusts met by the overwhelming sensation of fullness, being filled by him. Him inside her. She would never forget…no matter how long Willem punished her before he tired of her. Killed her.

  “It is not pleasure I will find with ye, ye villain,” she murmured, trying to find some piece of him in the darkness. Then, he moved away, removing his hand. She could hear him striding across the room, then the sound of a flint striking, then the room danced with light from a single tallow candle.

  She could see him then. He was naked. His manhood standing at horrid attention. She bit back a groan of shame, then turned her face away. Her gaze landed on the frame of the bed where she was laying. It was solid wood, and two lengths of chain with irons were locked around her wrists. Unable to stop herself, she sat up to look down at her feet, gazing past her own naked breasts and the bare flesh of her belly and thighs.

  “Nay! What have ye done with my clothes?” Again, she pulled against her restraints, desperate to cover herself, to hide her body from Willem’s ravenous appetite.

  “And why would you need clothes? Everything I have in store for you requires you to be bare before me, naked, ready for my attentions,” he drawled, and she shuddered, from the sudden chill in the room and from the way his gaze swept over her, his black eyes glittering with hunger.

  A sob tore from her throat and tears of humiliation pricked the back of her eyes.

  Nay, this cannot be. I will not be used by a man such as Willem Mason.

  He picked up the candle holder, the flames dancing, and walked toward her lazily, as if he had all the time in the world. And he did. No one who cared about her knew where she was. Tristin and the rest of the Homme du Sang knew, but he’d promised to not follow, to leave her to Willem’s plans. She sobbed again, this time it was the sound of her heart wrenching, betrayal biting through her tender heart like rats through a pig carcass.

  “Oh, no tears…not yet, at least. I will not tolerate tears, especially since I know they are not my doing,” he sneered, glowering down at her. In the shadow of the flame, his eyes were framed in blackness, like two evil orbs, peering up from the pits of hell.

  “These tears are for me…I know I am trapped, and I hate it. I hate ye!” she screamed. Then, he was there, holding her down with one hand while he dangled the candle over her breasts. She bucked, terror pouring through her, but she could do nothing but watch as the hot, melted wax, slid down the candle, onto the holder, and right to the edge. She held her breath…and when the fat drop of scorching wax dropped onto the tip of her breast, she cried out. Again. Another drop on her other breast, and then another. By the time Willem was done with his game, her breasts were burning, her nipples were numb, and a layer of stiff wax covered her chest, two lines of it slithering down to her throat. She sobbed, humiliated, angry. Hopelessness surged within her and she sobbed again, her soul gasping for a single breath of life.

  “Hmmm,” Willem hummed, placing the candle on the floor beside the bed. “I knew it would be amazing, I knew the pain would be delicious.” He closed his eyes and threw his head back. In horror, Bell Heather realized he had taken his manhood into his hand and he was stroking himself.

  She turned away but he flicked her breast. “Do not turn away from me. Watch me, witness what you have done to me,” he ground out, flicking her other breast. She gasped then turned, pinning her gaze to his face. Heat rushed into her neck and face; never in her life had she witnessed such wickedness, such depravity.

  Never in yer life have ye been a part of such depravity…

  The muscles in his neck bulged, and grunts and moans erupted from his chest, and, just as she was sure he would find completion, there was a distant knock on a distant door, the sound echoing into the chamber.

  Cursing, Willem stalled his hand, turning his head to listen. The knock came again. Willem roared into the ceiling, frustration pouring from him in waves. He stood, and Bell Heather shut out the sight. She could hear him as he left the room—how, she didn’t know. She cracked open her eyes, looking for the door that lead to that other chamber.

  Muffled voices, then a shout, and then a door slamming shut. Bell Heather held her breath and waited for the sound of Willem’s returning. When silence met her ears, she let out her breath. Was he gone? Had she been spared further humiliation—if only for a few moments?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The almost choking scent of fresh ground wheat permeated the air, making it difficult to breathe without also wanting to sneeze. After watching Willem Mason ride away with Bell Heather, it took everything within Tristin to not chase the wretch down and remove his head from his neck.

  But for the life of little Marian, he would have. Sending Bear home to protect his daughter left the Homme du Sang down two men, but it couldn’t be helped. Tristin knew what it felt like to fear for someone you loved; even now, he was desperate to reach Bell Heather, to protect her, to soothe her fears…and his own.

  The mill where they were hiding out was little shield against the coming chill, but they couldn’t light a fire for fear that they burn the whole building to the ground. A room full of flour-loaded air was far more flammable than one would think—at least, that’s what the three fires at mills in Westmorland had taught him.

  “Who thought hiding in a mill was a good idea?” Leon asked, crossing his arms to stave off the chill.

  “Where’s your cloak?” Richard asked, clearly annoyed at the other man’s annoyance.

  “I gave it to Aster,” Leon griped, pulling his arms around himself tighter.

  Richard turned to Aster, who was squatting within the folds of Leon’s cloak.

  “And where is your cloak?” Richard asked, incredulously.

  Aster shrugged then pulled Leon’s cloak higher up over his shoulders, nearly obscuring his head.

  “I left mine in Middlemarch. I was in such a rush to return to the
cottage and aide the captain, I left my cloak and my newly purchase bag of cakes,” Aster grumbled.

  Tristin sighed. “All of you are more trouble than you’re worth,” he said, a hint of sarcasm robbing his words of their edge.

  Elric stepped from behind the large mill wheel and grinned, his white teeth nearly blinding, even in the darkness. “Yes, but you love us all the same.”

  Tristin grunted, hiding his own grin behind a feigned sneer. “Oh, aye, about as much as I love a bee in by breeches.”

  Elric’s eyes grew wide, then his smile grew, almost encompassing the whole of his face. A bark of laughter escaped, then another, until Elric was wailing in mirth.

  “My God, man. Did you just make a jest?” Elric rasped, clutching at his belly.

  Tristin turned away from him, equal parts humored and embarrassed.

  “What’s goin’ on here?” Glenn asked, peeling away from the shadows like a demon emerging from the pits.

  Elric whipped tears from his eyes before answering, “Tristin is showing signs of humanity.”

  Tristin snorted. “I have been human for as long as I can remember.” Even more so now that Bell Heather had shown him what true pleasure felt like.

  My Bell…I am coming for you. Please…hold on.

  “Of course, ye have. I have seen ye bleed on more than one occasion, and I ken ye have soft feelin’s for our Bell Heather,” Glenn cooed, batting his black eyelashes like a wench seeking a warm bed.

  Elric barked. “Oh, I think they are more than soft…or rather, hard.”

  As heat billowed through his cheeks, Tristin cursed. “I think you two have had enough fun at my expense. We need to focus on our mission.”

  Elric and Glenn sobered immediately, just as he knew they would. They were men of action, and saving an innocent from possible death was nothing to laugh at.

  Signaling the men to come in closer—except John, who remained at the door keeping watch—then closed his eyes to steady his thundering heart. So much rested on this, too much was at stake. He’d lead these men into countless battles, with men far more dangerous than Willem Mason, but none of those men had possession of something as precious to him as Bell Heather.

  “I think we should plan a full-scale attack, break through the defenses and take her back,” Elric said, his eyes glittering with suppressed anger. He was angry, just as the other men were, that Willem Mason could use an innocent life to capture another. It was disgusting, it was the height of cowardice.

  “Nay,” Glenn interjected. “We take in a three-man team. I have someone on the inside who can open one of the outer doors for us. We can sneak in and take her back without anyone knowin’ we were there.”

  Tristin nodded. “We will do that.” At Elric’s derisive snort, Tristin said, “We cannot just go in swinging a sword. There are innocent people in there. The only person who deserves our wrath is Mason.”

  Elric’s face pinched, and he bit back words Tristin knew he wanted to say. For all his philandering, Elric was a true and honorable man. A man who knew the value of human life, and only took life when absolutely necessary. Tristin knew that Elric’s plan had been born of frustration; he, like the other men, was worried about Bell Heather.

  Tristin understood the depth of his devotion to the woman. She’d only been with them three days, but in that time, she had poured her light and warmth into them, drawing them to her in a way only she could. Nay, she wasn’t a witch, but she’d enchanted them all the same.

  “We go, light and alert. We climb the southern wall. Once inside, we make our way ta the door on the western side. Tis the vendor’s door, where they bring in the food from the markets,” Glenn informed them. “Ye’ll need ta take off yer armor. There’s nothin’ noisier and slower than a man in plate and chainmail.”

  And Glenn would know; he was the only member of the Homme du Sang who didn’t wear full armor. He preferred lightweight black leather, and it served him well.

  Elric nodded and began working at the straps of his chest plate. Tristin went to aide him, and in less than thirty minutes, they had divested themselves of every scrap of protection, save their swords and daggers. It was odd, going into the unknown without that shield against blade and bloodletting, but he knew it was the only way. Glenn was right, they would move faster and make far less noise without the hindrance of armor. He still didn’t like it, though.

  Turning to his other men, who were sour of expression and mood—they too wanted to save Bell Heather—he crossed his right arm over his chest in salute.

  “Here, we must part ways,” he began, stopping when they broke into grumbles of argument and anger. He held up his hand to stay their violence. “Listen…if we are caught, Mason will claim we were trying to kill him. We would be arrested and tried. We cannot all be captured, the Homme du Sang is far more important than the three of us.”

  Glenn snorted his disagreement, the arse, but Tristin continued. “Ride to Balliwich’s Tavern in Keswick. Lie low. If we do not arrive in two days, report everything to Calleaux. Tell him that we acted alone and that you knew nothing of our plans.”

  When Richard stepped forward to argue, again Tristin stayed him with a hand. “I know it goes against everything we stand for to turn against a brother, but this is the only way to ensure that the Homme du Sang is saved.”

  As each man stepped forward, forming a circle around him, Tristin realized a gut-wrenching truth. It could very well be the last time he stood with his brothers, brother’s he’d fought with, lead, bled with, supped with… He stared into the faces of Ioan, Richard, John, Leon, David, Aster, Pierre, then Glenn and Elric, and his heart rose in joy then dipped in sorrow.

  “I love you, all of you. You have been the best of men, the best of brothers,” Tristin murmured, his voice breaking.

  “Stop blubberin’, ya fool. We will see them again in two days… I will have worked up a powerful thirst by then, so tell Balliwich to keep a tab for me,” Glenn said, waving them off to turn and slide into the darkness, once again.

  One day, he’d ask the man how he did that.

  “On with you,” Pierre barked. “Make his death slow and painful.”

  Tristin nodded. He would make Willem Mason’s death a reflection of his life; terrible.

  Elric, Glenn, and Tristin left the mill, which was upstream from the tributary that fed the shallow moat around Hickston Close. It was easy enough to slip through the darkness because the forest surrounding the castle was thick. Hand on his sword hilt, he listened, alert for any wandering patrols.

  “Nay need ta worry, Captain. Willem Mason keeps his guard close. He doesna bother with the outside. He puts his faith in stone and mortar,” Glenn said, a sneer in his voice. Tristin curled his lip in unholy glee. Glenn was a one-of-a-kind man, a rogue, an assassin, a man who could defeat any trap or defense. It really was demonic… Thankfully, he worked for the Church. At least, Tristin hoped his fealty was to the Holy Church. Glenn never spoke of his faith, nor his family, nor his past. If Tristin didn’t trust the man with his life, he would have cut him from the Homme du Sang years ago, just because he was little more than the shadow that trailed behind, doing all the darkest deeds.

  But it was a job someone had to do, and Glenn was willing, and Glenn was good at it.

  Letting his mind wander wasn’t a good idea, so he drew his focus back to following behind the man who was trained to disappear.

  Elric and Tristin followed behind Glenn, stealthily, until a twenty-foot wall loomed over them. Covered in clinging ivy and wet moss, and crumbling in several places, the wall looked like it hadn’t seen attention in years.

  “What a slag. Who leaves their first defense in such disrepair?” Glenn muttered.

  “An arrogant ass, like Willem Mason, that’s who,” Elric interjected, answering for Tristin.

  “But still…who doesna do all they can to make sure the people within the castle are safe from attack?” Glenn said, his tone angry.

  Tristin laid a hand on Glenn�
��s shoulder. “Willem Mason cares only for Willem Mason. That is clear now. If he was willing to hurt a little girl to take Bell Heather, why would he care for anyone who lives or works for him. It is obvious the man only sees to his own needs and wants.”

  The very thought of him satiating his wants and needs with Bell Heather turned Tristin’s stomach, and urgency rushed into his limbs, pushing the blood through his veins at a break neck pace.

  “Glenn, please, the hook,” Tristin demanded, and Glenn pulled a grapnel and rope from the leather satchel slung over his shoulder. With a few practiced swings, the hook sailed up and up and over the wall. Glenn tugged, and Tristin could hear the hook catch on something on the other side.

  Glenn pulled on the rope with his weight, and it held.

  “Well, then, up ye go,” he said to Elric, who took the rope in hand and began scaling the wall. After Elric, Glenn followed, and Tristin followed after Glenn. Once on the other side, while gripping the edge of the wall, Tristin dislodged the hook, letting it fall to where Glenn caught it. With a shove, Tristin pushed away from the wall, falling and landing with a soft oompf beside a pile of discarded masonry.

  “Shite, the man needs ta be put outta my misery,” Glenn grumbled, staring down at the pile. Tristin, like Glenn, couldn’t understand why Mason didn’t put more money into maintaining the castle he’d married into. Hickston Close was more than one hundred years old, a piece of British history, and home where some say bastard kings were born. But now, it was fortified by crumbling walls held together by ivy and moss.