Shaking his head, Tristin said, “We can be thankful, at least, for Mason’s greediness. If he’d spent more money on guards, we would have a more difficult time getting in.”
Elric swore. “That is what makes me uneasy. Who is to say he is not waiting for us inside, a legion of soldiers standing between Bell Heather and us?”
“If he had the men, he would have sent them ta attack us, and nay those floppy-sword rod gobblers,” Glenn said, his black eyebrows arch high over his piercing eyes.
Tristin bit back a snort of laughter. “You are correct. I do not think he has any worry over us. He has bigger bullocks than a bull. I doubt his pride would ever allow him to think someone would dare cross him. And, I did promise not to follow.”
“And you are a man of your word…at least, you used to be,” Elric intoned, making Tristin turn toward his friend expectantly.
“I still am. I promised Bell Heather we would keep her safe, and I mean to do exactly that. My word to her is far more important than any promise I made to a worm like Mason.” Tristin hated how his friend would question his honor, but he wasn’t so sure that’s what it was.
“What bothers you about this the most, Elric?” Tristin asked, pinning his second in command with a glare.
Elric stiffened, his chest expanding and contracting with heavy breaths. “What bothers me…is that you mean to renounce your vow to the Homme du Sang. I know what will happen once Bell Heather is back in your keeping. You will take her to Cieldon, you will offer your word of honor that she is not a witch, and that Mason had ulterior motives with his accusation. Then, you will hand over your sword and follow that piece of warm slattern back to the arse end of York.”
Tristin recoiled as if slapped, anger filtering through his shock to cover his vision in red.
“How dare you speak of her like that? You know as well as I that she is an innocent in all this. She is a victim of Willem Mason and his need to destroy. You are a man of morals—right and wrong. What happened to you that has soured you against your own soul?” Tristin rasped, his body trembling with rage.
The rage was soon doused when Elric sighed, his shoulders dropping. He ran his fingers through his shoulder length auburn hair and finally met Tristin’s gaze.
“I apologize. I let my selfishness cloud my judgement. You know I never wanted to command, but, with you gone, it will fall to me,” Elric confessed.
“Maybe it will be I who takes command… I think I would make a keen commander,” Glenn interjected, his voice sharp and annoyed.
Tristin ignored Glenn and slapped Elric on the shoulder, relief and a twinge of guilt filling him. “You will do far better than you think. Now, can we please rescue my woman before she has to endure any more of Willem Mason’s perversions?”
Snapping a salute, Elric turned and followed a wickedly grinning Glenn across a narrow clearing between the wall and a storage house. It smelled of mildew. Backs to the outer wall of the storage house, they could see anyone coming around the corner, but Tristin doubted anyone would be out and about now. It was nearing midnight, and unlike that last three nights, the moon was hiding behind low hanging clouds. It was as it the moon itself was aiding in Bell Heather’s rescue. No moon meant people were less likely to be wandering around.
Good.
Waiting, and listening for the sounds from the small hovels clustered toward the northern wall, Tristin held his breath. His heart was pounding erratically. He was so close and yet, still so far. What had she endured? Still burning from the memory of her betrayed look, Tristin grunted, shaking his head, trying to rid himself of the image.
It remained.
“This way,” Glenn said, sliding along the wall until he disappeared around the back of the storage house. Elric and Tristin followed. The slunk through the dark, hiding behind wagons laden with hay, hay bales, and finally, they crossed an open patch where laden wagons would unload their wares for the castle.
The back door was made of solid wood and held together with three iron bands. The handle was little more than a loop secured to the wood. It locked from the inside.
At the backdoor, Elric and Tristin pressed their backs against the wall, watching for enemies, while Glenn rapped against the door with his knuckles. One, two, three quick raps, and then a pause. Then three more raps. It was some sort of code he’d worked out with the man on the inside.
Perhaps twenty seconds later, the door lurched open, and a small, thin figure poked his head out. Man on the inside, indeed. The lad was no more than ten years old.
Glenn bent to whisper to the boy who nodded then swung the door wide to allow them access. The interior of the chamber was pitch save for the single snub of a candle burning on the table. It was the inner kitchen.
“Maisey and Mizz Arrons are abed. Ye’ll have no one ta bother ye ‘cept maybe Butler. He sticks to the master like shite ta a dog’s arse,” the boy said, and Tristin couldn’t help but smile. The lad had fight and fire, he liked that.
“Good then,” Glenn whispered, handing the boy a small bag. “That’s what I promised ye, plus a little extra fer yer da.”
His father? How did Glenn know this boy let alone his father? Tristin knew better than to ask Glenn about his sources. The man was an all-around mystery wrapped in handsome face and deadly precision.
The boy took the bag and hurried off, Tristin didn’t bother wondering where he went; he was in the castle, where Willem had taken Bell Heather, and it was time to get her back.
“Willem’s chamber is at the top,” Glenn said. “We will take the back stairs to the second floor, then we have to cross there to another set of stairs at the end of the corridor.”
Elric nodded; Tristin was too tense to move any unnecessary muscles.
“Lead on,” Elric said, flashing Tristin with a wary gaze. He, too, was on the edge, alert for traps and ambushes. They knew not to trust anything about Willem Mason or his household—despite his flagging hope that rescuing Bell Heather would be uneventful.
One of the kitchen doors lead to a walkthrough larder, which was stocked with dried meats, sacks of grains and flour, and jars of dried herbs. He immediately thought of Bell Heather, and her little cottage. Pierre had reported that the interior of her cottage was simple yet homey—which was a strange word, coming from Pierre—and that dried herbs hung from the eaves, making the air fragrant. Tristin could understand why she could want to return there. His own home at Bridgerdon held few good memories. His father was demanding, his mother was attentive but often cold, and his sister and brother were too busy living their own lives to deal with the likes of an annoying little brother. There had been little in the way of hominess at Bridgerdon. Which made his decision even easier.
Once he left the Homme du Sang, he would follow Bell Heather. If she would have him, they would make a home in her little cottage. They would make love all night, and kiss passionately all day—and, of course, make love when the desire arose—and they would live happily, raising their green-eyed, black-haired children. She would help the villagers as the apothecary, and he would… Well, he knew little else besides battle, but…perhaps…
A sound just up the corridor from the larder brought him up short. Glenn held up his hand in the universal sign of “all halt”. Though the corridor was lined with lit sconces, flickering with tallow candles, Tristin couldn’t make out Glenn’s expression. But, from the tension in the man’s shoulders, he knew that Glenn’s alertness had risen. Prickles rose along Tristin’s neck, and he held his breath, waiting for the inevitable yell of coming battle. But…when none came, and Glenn signaled a silent “clear”, he still put his hand on his sword hilt, his muscles taut, ready to spring into action.
They swung left, taking a shorter corridor to the bottom of a spiral stairway leading up into the darkness. Stopping to listen, Tristin knew it was time to take back the lead from Glenn, who hadn’t asked to be dragged into this, and didn’t have a stake in the outcome. Bell Heather was his—his to worry about, his to care
for—his. Planting a booted foot on the first stair, he snuck upward, Glenn and Elric following, like wraiths, and round the first full spiral. A landing appeared that opened into a dark corridor. Not that way. He continued up to the second landing. The corridor here was like the bottom floor, lit with tallow candles in ornate wall sconces.
“Here. We make our way ta the next staircase, then up ta Willem’s chamber,” Glenn whispered, his voice barely echoing in the near silence of the staircase.
“Keep alert for enemies,” Tristin whispered back, his heart pounding so hard, he was sure both men could hear it.
Tristin pressed his back against the wall and slowly leaned out, twisting his head right then left, finding only empty hallways and closed doors. He moved into the corridor and swept along, his sword hand primed and his blood pumping.
I am coming, Bell Heather. Please, hold on for me.
Just to his right, a door opened, swinging wide, to reveal a man, dressed simply in a brown tunic. He glared at them as if he knew them, and a sneer soured his lips.
“Gentlemen, please, come in,” he said, as if he’d invited them for a banquet in their honor.
Elric stepped up beside Tristin, and Tristin tensed. “Nay,” Tristin replied, all his senses clanging in alarm. Something wasn’t right. “We will continue on our business.”
The man tsked, shaking his finger at them like a tutor would recalcitrant students.
“I am afraid I cannot let the two of you continue any farther. You see, my master has a new guest, and he does not wish to be disturbed.”
Tristin growled, rage exploding—Elric grabbed him just in time before Tristin could draw his sword and cut the man down. “That guest is no more a guest than we are,” he spat.
The man chuckled, his brown eyes wild. “But you are my guests, and I would love to show you how much I appreciate the chance to demonstrate to my master just how good a valet I can be.” Before Tristin could fully register that the man had said, “the two of you,” the man drew a dagger from behind his back, brandishing it with a maleficent glimmering in his gaze.
Tristin unsheathed his sword, holding it across his body by instinct born of experience.
“Are you mad?” Elric asked, drawing his own sword. “There are two of us,” he said, emphasizing the “two” to reiterate that the man, apparently, hadn’t seen Glenn. Which meant Glenn had done as only Glenn could do…he hid in the shadows, waiting for his chance to strike. “What can you do with two of us here?” Elric continued, mocking the man with the wide hate-filled eyes.
The man scoffed. “I would not face down two of the most revered members of the Homme du Sang alone,” he almost purred, his face growing ever brighter as his madness spilled out.
“So, you knew we were coming?” Tristin asked, curious yet still very much alert for that others the madman mentioned.
“I knew! When he returned with the fair-haired doll, I told him it was a mistake to bring her here. I told him that I would dispose of her for him, so he would not have to bother with the likes of her.” Tristin stiffened, letting his boiling rage simmer, giving power to his muscles for when it came time to move.
“Master mocked me, telling me that no one would dare breach his sanctuary. That the Homme du Sang were spineless and weak, willing to let their emotions cloud their judgement. He laughed in my face! He laughed at me, like I have not been his faithful valet for more than ten years. Like I have not given my life to his service—to whatever he required. I will show him! I will prove to him that I was right, that I am worthy of his trust…his devotion!” This man, apparently Willem’s valet, had begun to tremble with his anger, and Tristin knew Elric saw that, as well. They were trained to see the changes in a man’s demeanor; how he held his sword, his breathing, the tension in his legs. Right now, the man before them was falling to pieces, which didn’t make killing him very sporting.
He works for Willem Mason, do not underestimate him…or his willingness to kill you.
“You were wise to assume we would come, but unwise to assume that any number of men would keep me from my Bell Heather,” Tristin challenged, hoping his badgering would make the man slip, just a little more, just enough to disarm him. He didn’t want to kill unless he had to—
The man’s face went white, his eyes flying wide, his mouth opened in a soundless scream. A sickening, wet noise, one he recognized, filled the silence. As the man dropped to his knees, Tristin found Glenn standing there, bloody dagger in his fist.
“I thought he would talk until my ears bled, damn fool,” Glenn said, nonchalantly, as he bent to wipe the man’s own blood on his tunic.
Surprised but not shocked, Tristin cursed. “I did not mean for him to die, Glenn.”
Glenn shrugged. “Then ye shoulda said so.”
Elric bit back a laugh and Tristin turned to spear him with his annoyance. “The man did say he had another with him; was he bluffing?” Elric remarked, trying to wipe the mirth from his face.
Shaking his head, Glenn threw a thumb over his shoulder, to a door practically hidden beside a tall wardrobe. “Nay. There was a man, hidin’ in there. I dispatched him like I did this one,” he said, sheathing his dagger with practiced dexterity.
Elric swore, shaking his own head, disbelief clear in his expression. “Will I ever know how you do it?”
Glenn looked at Elric with confusion. “Do what?”
Tristin, watching the interplay, nearly chuckled at the feigned innocence in Glenn’s eyes.
“Enough of that, you two. We need to get going.” With that, he spun on his heel and turned down the corridor toward where the boy had said the second staircase was.
I am coming, Bell…
Chapter Twenty-Three
Her sobs had died off with the last of the candle light, leaving her in the echoing, tomb-silent blackness. It was moments like that she missed her root cellar, the smell of earth, the dampness, the strange renewing vitality she felt, moving through her feet. And she missed Maude, and Gilly, and Riora, and Waldo, and all the other villagers who were, even now, probably wondering what had become of their apothecary.
Do not think on that now. Ye must persist. Ye must escape and get back to them.
Drawing in a slow breath, she counted to thirty, each number a second. Then, she counted to sixty. Then to ninety. When another light didn’t appear from the corridor where Willem had disappeared, she let the breath out. Her head swam, stars flickering in the darkness. She pulled at the restraints around her wrists, and, of course, they held. They were fashioned to the wall. Willem meant to keep her there, in the bed, for as long as he liked. Pouring hot candle wax over her naked, helpless body.
She shuddered, her breasts still sore yet numb from their mistreatment. She had only been there a short time, at least she thought so. He’d drugged her, so there was no telling how long she’d been sleeping, while he waited in the shadows for her to stir. Already, he’d succeeded in making her sob in pain…what would another hour do? Another day…another week? How long did he intend to keep her there, chained to a bed? And what did he have in mind to do to her beside the wax on her breasts? He’d touched himself, stroking his manhood…would he expect that of her? Nay! There was no manhood she wanted to stroke other than Tristin’s…and he would rather a proper lady give him pleasure. He’d rid himself of her as soon as he divested her of her innocence. What a fool she’d been to practically beg for his love, for he was probably on his way back to Cieldon, where, no doubt, a bevy of proper beauties were awaiting their dashing knight’s return. He spoken of a vow to withstand carnal lusts, but how could she believe that of him now?
She groaned, frustrated at her turn of thoughts.
Forget him, even as he has forgotten you. Just like at the waterfall. But…he’d said he remembered her from that night, that he only held her at arm’s length because of his vow, a vow he’d broken when he’d given in to his desire for her.
But what did that mean? She grit her teeth, tension making her muscles ach
e. Confusion warred with the bitterness within her, and she blinked away the fresh wash of tears. Damn him!
Just then, the sound of the door in the other chamber opening made everything inside her stop. She listened, waiting for the flicker of another candle, and when it finally came, she began to struggle anew, the desperation she’d tried holding at bay surging like a thunderhead.
The shuffling of quickly moving feet was different from the confident, arrogant strides that left the room.
“Ho there,” a soft voice whispered harshly. “Do not fear…” As the person came into the room, they held the candle aloft, and Bell Heather was stunned at who the flickering light revealed. Lady Jillian Mason stood there, her face streaked with lines of fear, and her chest rising and falling with erratic breaths. She was terrified, but she was determined.
“My lady, what are ye doing here?” Bell Heather squeaked, suddenly ashamed of her nakedness. Shuffling forward, Lady Jillian knelt and began working on the ropes binding Bell Heather’s feet.
“There’s no time. I must get you out of here before he returns.” Bell Heather held he breath, not sure if she heard the woman correctly. She was helping her escape? From her own husband? It couldn’t be, what was she playing at?
Lady Jillian succeeded in untying one ankle and began working on the next. Bell Heather flexed her foot, both relieved and agonized as the blood rushed back into her toes.
Sucking in a breath to steady her nerves, she asked, “Why are you helping me?”
The lady didn’t stop pulling at the knot, but she answered, “I am done watching him hurt innocent women, women who do not know the danger they face when they give him what he wants…” She finished untying Bell Heather’s other ankle then gathered the ropes and tossed them across the room. “Those girls—you—do not deserve his sorts of affections. But me…I was fool enough to marry him, and now…I have no choice. But you, you should have a choice.” As she spoke, her voice grew stronger, and Bell Heather’s admiration grew with it. What she must have endured at her own husband’s hand… Bell Heather would rather boil in oil than spend a lifetime chained to a man like Willem Mason. Her heart ached for the woman, who must have seen so much. “And what about ye, Lady Lillian? Will ye not escape with me?”
The Blood and The Bloom (Men of Blood Book 1) Page 26