The Fire and the Sword (Men of Blood Book 2)

by Rosamund Winchester

  She knew Enid would more than likely be abed at this hour, but Minnette had barely eaten anything on the tray Elspeth had brought at supper, and now she was realizing the error of her earlier lack of appetite. If she didn’t eat, she wouldn’t be strong enough to escape when the time came. And she couldn’t be caught unprepared.

  Every moment mattered. Also, if she were judicious about what she took, she could sneak a few items from the larder and hide them in her wardrobe until she could pack them to take with her. It would be much easier to travel if she had food to eat, even if it were just a few hunks of rock hard old bread or rashers of bacon.

  Bacon? Fool! She could hear Elspeth’s high-pitched whine now. “Milady, why does yer wardrobe smell of pig fat?” Groaning but grinning at the image that created, Minnette didn’t immediately notice the shadow following her down the staircase from the second-floor landing and into the kitchens.

  It was dark, with only a sputtering lantern hung by the door and the embers from the cook fire casting light. The kitchens, while warm and welcoming during the day, was cold and eerie at night.

  Hugging herself in the attempt to ward off the feeling of heavy stillness, she let out a slow breath, willing her nerves to rest. She had no one to fear here. This was her uncle’s home, and she couldn’t fathom anyone daring to hurt her. But it wasn’t fear of pain that caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand up.

  Ignore such things, Minnette. You are being a silly girl. Somewhat chastised by her own self, she made to move away from the doorway. Before she could cross the large room to the larder on the other side, a hand shot out from the darkness, covering her mouth and pulling her back into a wall. No! Not a wall, a man’s chest.

  She gathered a breath to scream but a familiar voice brought her up short, making her choke on her own air.

  “Best you be silent, Kitten. We would not want anyone to interrupt us.”

  Him! Minnette stiffened, trying to pull her body away from the pulsing heat of his. But his hand over her face held her head in place, and the arm he snaked around her waist pulled her back until her bottom was firmly pressed against something as equally hard as his chest. And struggling only seemed to make him harder and her more aware of what being this close to him was doing to her body. When had her breasts gotten so achy? And why was the place between her thighs so wet? She should be thrashing all the harder, trying to get away more desperately. But that quiet voice that had murmured to her since their last moment together in the stable was growing louder.

  Swallowing back her yearning for something wanton and dangerous, Minnette stopped fighting against the stable master’s hold. She willed her breathing to even out and her body to stop trembling. She didn’t fear him. No. She feared what just his touch could do to her.

  “Now that you have stopped fighting me, we can speak to one another like civilized people,” he drawled low into her ear, his hot breath making her soft curls brush against her cheek and neck. She shuddered.

  Slowly, the stable master removed his hand from her mouth. She could have screamed then, but there was something she wanted to know. “What are you doing here?” she asked, reverting to her natural language to keep up the appearance of lowly kitchens maid. For all he knew, she was a low born peasant, just as he was. She supposed she could tell him of her accidental farce.

  But if he knew you were a lady, he wouldn’t have touched you like that. Suddenly, the thought of never knowing what his touch felt like pierced her, making her belly clench as if in protest. His touch was strong, heady. She could easily find herself wrapped up in him, letting down her guard and letting up her dress.

  Non! Even now, he would be bowing and scraping and apologizing. The idea of seeing this man on his knees before her was a tantalizing one, but she couldn’t ignore the fact that she hadn’t told him who she really was. Who her uncle was.

  Let it be. You will be gone soon enough, and then it won’t matter if this man knows a thing about you.

  With a twirl, the man brought her around to face him, and she tipped her chin to meet his gaze defiantly. His golden eyes glinted in the orange light of the hearth, but it wasn’t the color that made her heart stop, it was the unfettered desire she saw there.

  “What are you doing in the kitchens at this hour?” she asked again, determined to walk away from this encounter with her pride intact.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he stared down at her, his eyes boring into her. She could see his thoughts racing, and she wondered what he was thinking about that made the muscles in his jaw twitch and his nostrils flare, and his body seem to grow right before her eyes. He was a large man, as hard as a mountain when she was pressed against him but, now, he looked to be impossibly masculine.

  Finally, he spoke. “I had come to the kitchens earlier,” he said, his voice pitched low in an almost intimate timbre. She felt waves of something tight and hot crashed through her, and she bade her flesh to obey. “I thought to find a willing maiden or two on which to feast, to satiate my appetite for one mysterious, dark-haired siren.”

  Stunned by what he was confessing, his lecherous hunt for someone—or two—with which to have a flagrant copulation, she gasped, raising her hand to strike at him. He grabbed hold of her wrist, easily pinning it to her side.

  “How dare you tell me such things? I care not for who you-you feast on! It matters not to me who you dally with, only that you leave me be,” she snapped, raising her other hand to push him away. He caught her hand and pressed it into his chest, holding it there no matter how hard she tugged. His heart raced beneath her palm, a strong yet rapid gallop that told her he wasn’t as composed as he’d like her to think.

  Trapped. She was trapped by her own making. Disgusted with how easily he’d maneuvered her into her captivity, she thought to strike out with a well-placed kick.

  His grip on her arm and hand tightened further.

  “I would forget that notion, if I were you.” She started, shocked that he would guess her intentions. Who was this man the he could read her thoughts?

  “Then you better unhand me and be on your way. Go find a willing maid elsewhere.” She infused her voice with haughtiness that would have made her maman proud.

  Instead of letting her go, he growled then pulled her closer until her breasts rubbed against him. He groaned, the sound rumbling through his chest.

  “There will be time for other maids once you and I have finished what we started in the stable.”

  Blinding rage filled her vision until all she could see was him taking what he wanted from her and then finding release in the arms of another woman soon after. The dog! The callous blackguard! The wretch!

  “If you think I would let you bed me and then watch as you left to find sport in another woman’s bed then you are mad! I would rather bed a mule in a louse-ridden cot than let you lay a finger on me.”

  He chuckled, pulling her closer until her knees hit his shins. She should kick him despite his warning, then she could make her escape while he was howling in pain. She lifted her foot only to find it dangling in midair as the man picked her up, spun her, and pressed her back against the wall.

  His mouth was on hers before she could blink.

  What am I doing? He’d never accosted a woman like this before. He’d never had to. Women flocked to him as if he were water and they were dying for a drop of him on their tongue. And, in some cases, that had been exactly what they wanted. But, with her, this woman, this enigma, he couldn’t act as he usually did; aloof, careful, controlled. With her, he could do naught but touch her, hunger for her taste, and think of nothing but giving her pleasure.

  Devil take him—he didn’t know why!

  She softened against him, her lush breasts pressing against his chest, and she moaned, a deep, sensual sound that made his manhood throb. This! This was why she’d become like a fire in his blood—there was a yearning, a desire for her that he’d never felt for anyone or anything else. And he didn’t even know her name.

 
Groaning, he deepened the kiss, licking across her closed lips to beg entry, and when she groaned in answer, opening her mouth for him, he plunged in.

  She gasped but didn’t pull away. Instead, she reached up and buried her fingers in the hair at his nape, pressing herself all the tighter against him. The feeling of her curves against his hardness was a revelation. She fit him perfectly.

  The need to touch her naked flesh gnawed at him and so he slid his hands up from her waist until the pad of his thumbs brushed the underside of her generous breasts. The erect pebbles of her nipples were obvious even through the fabric of her bodice and the fabric of his tunic. As he skimmed her breast she shuddered, moaning again, and every nerve in his body rioted, desperate to hear those moans as she lay beneath him, his name on her lips.

  But she didn’t know his name and he didn’t know hers. The truth struck him between the eyes, and his mind cleared immediately.

  What am I doing? He didn’t know anything about her save she was French, fiery, adored kittens, and was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She could very well have a husband or a lover. The thought of another man touching and tasting her like this, hearing her moans, roiled in his gut. But if she was another man’s wife, he couldn’t rightfully enjoy her as he truly wanted to. He was many things, but a cuckold he was not.

  Breaking their kiss, he sucked in a breath and peered down at her flushed, lovely face. Her eyes were dark with unfettered desire, her lips were red and kiss-swollen, and her hair was mussed just enough to look as though she’d been thoroughly tumbled.

  Not yet, at least!

  Reining in his lust-hazed mind enough to remember his French, he asked, “Have you a husband, Kitten?” His voice was husky, thick.

  The question seemed to spear her because she flinched, recoiling.

  “Why would you ask that? What do you know?” she demanded, her response both damning and intriguing.

  “Do you?” he asked again, watching her expression.

  “Do you usually seduce married women?” she drawled, frowning.

  Something within him bottomed out, drawing the fire in his blood into the pool of regret in his chest. So, she was married then? Another man’s woman.

  “Nay. Even I have morals,” he replied, slightly annoyed at her appraisal of him.

  She raised an eyebrow haughtily. “Is that so?”

  He gave a curt nod, not trusting himself to keep his frustrations reined.

  She stared, her staggering eyes examining him. Finally, she shrugged. “I am not married, though I do not welcome your attentions.”

  Reluctantly dropping his hands from her lusciousness, he allowed her to pull away. The air around him thrummed with the wrongness of it. She belonged in his embrace.

  “This was a mistake,” she hissed before wrapping her arms around her waist. “I should not have let you kiss me or touch me like that.” Her breath hitched at the mention of his touch. She had enjoyed it, but not as much as he had. She’d been liquid lust, and if she weren’t denying her own longings, he would have lapped up every drop of her.

  Cursing, he replied, “I cannot totally agree with that.”

  Leave before you do something you will regret.

  When she narrowed her brilliant, heated eyes at him, he offered an apologetic smile. It was a smile he rarely gave to anyone.

  “I will leave you to your nighttime wanderings, Kitten.” With a flourish and a bow, he turned on his boot heel and strode from the kitchens. The cool night air on his face did nothing to stem the desire for a woman he could never have.

  Chapter Eight

  Elric shuddered as the nightmare took hold of him…

  The murmur of voices raised in agitation filtered through the numb stillness, oozing into his mind. Suffocating him in his darkness. A darkness that pulled at him, sucking at him.

  Drowning him.

  How many times would he awaken like this, only to fall back into the black and airless void?

  With a start, he gasped, dragging in air—fetid air. The scents of human filth and decay assailing him. Elric groaned, trying to open his eyes, trying to see. Trying to remember. But his eyes wouldn’t open, and when he tried to pry his lids apart, the dull pain in his sockets exploded into shards of glass where his lashes used to be.

  What happened? He opened his mouth to ask aloud, but it was stuck shut; the roof of his mouth sticking to the swollen surface of his tongue. How long had he been unconscious? Hours? Nay, days more like. It felt like he’d been laying there, in one position long enough for his muscles to freeze into mounds of ache within him. In truth, though, he’d stopped wasting his precious strength on movement days ago. Had it been days? He couldn’t know for sure. It was always dark.

  Unbidden, memories cascaded into his mind.

  “You are only just out of leading strings, Pup. What would Father think if I let a toddling babe chase after us men, when he should be napping in his cradle?” The men around them laughed, which only made the bold little shite all the bolder.

  Elton’s face sharpened, his eyes—so much like their beloved mother’s—narrowing at him. Elric didn’t care. He was the eldest, the heir, the protector of the whelp. His father had entrusted Elton’s training to Elric, which was the only reason why the lad was anywhere near the barracks right now, when the men were preparing to act on some information given to them by a spy within Graham Pridie’s household.

  “We cannot afford to let you come along and risk our mission,” Elric drawled, sliding the sword into his sheath to secure it to his waist.

  “Stop being a nagging nursemaid, Elric. I am more than capable of fighting off a few rebels throwing hoes and scowls.” It was determination in Elton’s voice…excited, brash, eager to barrel into the fray and prove himself. For all the voices in his head telling him it was a mistake, he listened to his brother’s voice instead. And what had the lad proven? That he bled red. Just as the rest of the men had. And he’d proven that Elric had made a critical and devastating mistake in trusting anyone. Just as his father had made a mistake in trusting Elric.

  A man in black leather, holding a battle axe aloft, swinging it down over Elton’s terrified face…

  His memory blanked, saving him of the rest of that horrific scene. But that couldn’t have been the end. He could remember hearing Elton’s voice again, screaming, begging someone to help him.

  Sucking in another breath, Elric pushed up from the ground, his hand slipping in something slimy and cold. The whole chamber seemed slick with the very puss of the castle. More than likely Pridie Castle, the seat of the minor baron who sought to wrest the lands from Elric’s father, Elmore Gadot, the Earl of Marchande. His father was arrogant, boasting about his wealth, lands, and sons. Pridie was one of the king’s favorite arse kissers, thinking that the king’s sliver of favor meant he could do as he pleased—the bastard. And it pleased him to lay a trap for his enemy’s lauded sons—nay, son. Only Elric was meant to be taken. But Elton had demanded to come.

  Oh God, what have I done?

  “Oy!” the voice on the other side of the door bellowed. “Ye’re a lucky cur—the lord has finally received word from yer pap. Seems the high n’ mighty Lord God Gadot has paid yer ransom. And good thing, too. ’Nother five days an’ ye’d have been naught but another meal fer the rats.”

  Shock blasted through him, making him wince with the force of his own heart crashing into his ribs. Ransom? Was that what the ambush had been about? Collecting a ransom from the wealthy lord of the land?

  And I delivered my father’s only two sons up to them.

  Anger replaced the shock, allowing the numbness in his limbs to fall away and the throbbing in body to rise to the fore. Pain reminded him he was alive, he was still able to make this right. But how?

  “Where is my brother?” he demanded, his voice a scratchy croak in the echoing chamber.

  The man behind the door cackled, lifting the torch high enough for Elric to see his face. “Didn’t ye know?” He cackled
again, and someone beside him laughed along with him.

  “Know what?” he spat, trying to gain his feet despite his utter lack of strength and the slick floor beneath him.

  “Yer bruver has been wit ye the whole time,” he sneered, thrusting the torch through the window bars to cast bright orange light into the cell.

  Shielding his burning eyes from the glare, he bent his head and immediately caught sight of something—someone—in the corner.

  “Nay!” He bellowed, falling in his urgency to get to him. He crawled, tearing at the stone floor with shaking hands, sliding through the muck. “No!” he screamed as he reached the broken and bloated body of his seventeen-year-old brother. “Elton! God, Elton!”

  His young brother’s empty eye sockets stared back at him, stealing every last ounce of heart from his body.

  Elric awoke with a start, his body trembling and covered in buckets of sweat, his breathing labored, his heart racing.

  Why had that nightmare returned after so long? Why now?

  Glancing at the sky outside the window, he knew he didn’t have time to contemplate it, he had been summoned to the cardinal’s private study that morning, and he couldn’t be late.

  Elric closed the door behind Bear as the man drew up to a stop beside Leon, who was standing beside a glowering Pierre. Glenn, not surprisingly, was absent. He staunchly refused to ever set foot in the cardinal’s presence. Elric followed Bear, striding to the line of men and placing a hand on his sword hilt, where it felt most comfortable. The four men of the Homme du Sang in attendance had been summoned to the cardinal’s study, not an uncommon occurrence but still one he couldn’t like. As the commander, he was honor bound to come when summoned. He just had to remind himself of his duty when the urge to maim and laugh about it surged. They were to present themselves in their finest dress and stand at attention during the discussion. Currently, he was wearing a burnished red tunic over a pair of black leather breeches. He was never one to care for high fashion, but this was the best he had. And he wore it quite well…if the looks he got from the passing maids were any indication.