Glenn Fraser was a Scotsman, a deft swordsman, a brilliant master with a dagger, and one of the deadliest assassins in the kingdom. He moved from darkness to darkness, slithering into places no man could breach in order to carry out his captain’s orders. He never failed. He’d never been caught. He never hesitated.
“I see you have made yourself right at home here amongst the other night creatures,” Tristin drawled, his voice a deep rumble that didn’t seem to carry through the heavy, suddenly still air.
Glenn cocked his head and pulled a knife from his belt, setting to cleaning invisible dirt from under his fingernails. If any man could look dangerous while also looking lazy, it was Glenn.
“Ye know I love the secrets my lady sings ta me as we dance her seductive dance,” Glenn murmured, admiration in his heavily accented words.
Tristin knew the man spoke of the night, that cold, deeply mysterious mistress—one of the few things Tristin actually feared. For when darkness fell, the world flooded with hidden dangers. Dangers he could only pray would lie at bay until the sun shone over the horizon once again.
But let them come—dangers, daggers, bandits, and all God’s enemies. He’d be ready for them. He gripped his sword hilt tightly, comforted by the feel of the steel and gold in his palm.
“Go to the village, listen, find whatever information you can on our quarry. The cardinal is determined we find her and make sure she is brought in for trial.” And he didn’t give it a second thought. Whatever the cardinal commanded was commanded by the Holy Church, and as the captain of one of the greatest chivalric orders in the kingdom, he was the very hand of God’s chosen. It was his duty to carry out God’s will.
Their quarry, a village healer, rumored to commit acts of witchcraft, was said to live on the edge of the village of Clarendon. They were there to take her into custody, and escort her back to Cieldon Manse, Cardinal Calleaux’s fortress near Keswick. There, she would undergo a trial to determine if she would repent of her sins or hang—are far more humane way to dispose of the Devil’s wives than by burning. The Homme du Sang weren’t animals, they could be merciful, even to those who would twist God’s Word for evil. Tristin wasn’t a fool, he knew that many times such rumors were unfounded, that rumors of witchcraft were often hissed through the lips of jealous or envious neighbors. But in this case, the one who reported the woman as a witch was a close and honored friend of the Cardinal. A man who the very king had trusted to keep the peace and uphold the law—though he’d heard Willem Mason had designs on ever more power.
Tristin did not care for power plays of greedy, ultimately cowardly men. He only cared for his duty, his men, and his family. A family he hadn’t seen in three years.
Glenn slipped his dagger back into his belt and pushed away from boulder. His gaze glinted with growing interest and the burn of anticipation, his usually blue eyes were black in the darkness. Of all his man, Glenn enjoyed his duties the most. He reveled in the danger, the risk. Tristin admired the stealthy Scot, even more so because the man followed his orders, without question.
Even now, he was slipping away from the camp, the shadows swallowing him.
“Glenn,” Tristin called, listening. The silence was his only answer.
“Captain,” Elric stepped up behind him and Tristin turned to face his second in command. Though an inch shorter than Tristin’s six-foot-three, Elric was as fierce a warrior and as skilled a swordsman. What he lacked in bulk he made up for with speed, deadly accuracy, and viciousness. “The men are complaining. They say the wood is haunted, and they are worried the spirits will come and drain the life from their bodies.” Elric couldn’t wipe the sneer of incredulity from his face.
Tristin shared the man’s opinion.
Sighing, he pulled off his gauntlet then raked his fingers through his damp hair. He ached, which wasn’t unusual, but this time the weariness was bone deep. When he was first called to lead the Homme du Sang, he was eager and honored to do God’s work. His father had told him that his commission as a sword of the Church was one of the greatest honors one could bestow on their family. The day he took the Oath of Holy Blood, he’d walked into the inner bailey of Calleaux’s fortress with his head held high, his sword hand steady, and his heart overflowing with purpose.
But now… It had been three years, three long years, since he’d signed his name in blood. And now, he didn’t know if what he’d been ordered to do was what he’d been called to do.
But who was he to question the Cardinal’s edicts? He was just man, one of many who sought God’s favor through service. So why did this task feel…unworthy?
Pulling off his other gauntlet, he placed them on the boulder beside his helmet and cloak.
“Tell them I have yet to make my rounds; I will vanquish their ghosts and return just as handsome and healthy as when I left.” He allowed a sliver of humor to filter into his words. He wasn’t a cold man, for St. Michael’s sake, but he didn’t allow much triviality in his life. The weight of his responsibilities—to God and to his men—was enough to carry. There wasn’t room for absurdity.
Elric chuckled, slapping Tristin on the arm. “I think I will let them worry a bit.” He winked and walked away, leaving Tristin to fight the smile that wanted to spread across his face.
Damn, but Elric is a fool, he thought. He did smile then, hiding it from his men by turning away from the fire and walking into the trees. The woods were old, trees as tall as the sky and as wide as a man’s shoulders grew so close together in some places, he couldn’t walk between them.
A chill wind blew through the trunks of the moss-covered trees, sliding against his neck and down between his chest and breastplate. He shuddered, swallowing against his sudden unease. He walked a few yards from the camp, stopping every few feet to peer into the darkness. His eyes had adjusted and he could make out the shapes of roots along the forest floor and low hanging branches. He could even see owls and other night prowlers moving about in silence, stalking their prey.
A sound, like a rushing, crashing, filtered through the grouping of trees and thick brush just ahead of him. He turned his ear to listen.
A waterfall.
Heaven be praised. Fresh, clean water. Checking his waist for the leather water pouch he thought to bring along, he continued forward. It occurred to him that he hadn’t bathed in more than a week, and he knew a waterfall provided him the perfect place for a proper washing. But he’d promised his men he’d secure the perimeter, and he always kept his promises—even when his men were fools, wary of supernatural beings lurking amongst the rocks and trees. The wind picked up then, rushing over him, winding through the treetops with a groan. It seemed the forest was just as weary of such foolishness as he was.
He smiled and pushed through the foliage to the edge of a pool. The woods were thin here along the riverbank, opening the sky above him. The full moon shined down onto the water, illuminating the area just below the rushing, pounding waterfall.
It was tall, maybe fifteen feet high, and the water appeared as liquid silver beneath the moon’s glow.
A movement beneath the waterfall caught his attention, his hand flying to his sword hilt, but what he saw there made him wonder if his men were right…
There, standing in a shallow pool, was an ethereal and utterly breathtaking woman—a creature that could only be an otherworldly apparition. Her skin was as pale as pure moonlight and her hair, dark with water, hung to just above her firm, luscious ass.
Blinking to clear what could only be an enchantment, he nearly groaned when the bewitching beauty remained. He didn’t know why he stood there watching her. He was a man of God, a knighted protector of the Church and all her children. But no matter how much he filled his mind with thoughts of duty, his blood sang with something else entirely. Need, desire, the ravenous craving for moonlit enchantresses.
For the first time in three years, Tristin hungered.
Chapter Five
The cool water washed over her, splashing down on her h
ead, through her hair, and running in quick streams over her shoulders and down her back. When she leaned back, raising her face to the water, the clean, crisp water flowed over her breasts. Her nipples were painfully erect, the chill of the water and the air rising goose bumps over her skin. And it felt wonderful. Bending over, Bell Heather grabbed the bar of soap from the rocky outcropping beside the waterfall and worked it into a lather. Rubbing it between her palms, she moaned with the scent of heather drifted up to her nose. It smelled far better than the pig shite she’d been smelling for hours. Throwing her head back, she started at her neck, sliding the soap over her sensitize flesh, down over her breasts, where she made short circles over her nipples—fire crackled through her breasts, shooting out from her erect nipples.
Another groan escaped. A tremor of pleasure rippled through her, and her breath caught. Her hands seemed to move on their own; over her breasts, down her belly, and to the cleft betwixt her legs. As her fingers brushed against the heat there, she moaned, deep in her throat.
‘Tis wrong…so wrong… She could hear her voice, echoing through her ears, but she couldn’t understand what she was saying. How could something so wondrous be wrong?
She raised her other hand and rubbed her right nipple, the zing of sensation sharpening to an edge that slid down her spine then into her belly. The core of her clenched tight, and she shook from the force of it.
What was she doing? She shuddered, her body on fire despite the cascade of icy water. Twas a sin, she knew it, but she couldn’t stop herself from exploring the pleasure—a pleasure she’d never experienced before. She felt possessed, as if something were controlling her, compelling her to wickedness. It was a delirious push and an agonizing pull, and she was helpless against it.
Her fingers slick with soap, she pressed further, slipping her finger tips over the bud of excited flesh, nestled between swollen lips. Bell Heather gasped, her body trembling, as she explored this new sensation, this new tormenting ache.
The hairs along her neck stood on end, and every inch of her skin seemed to tingle with flame kisses that raced out from her chest and into her limbs. She shuddered again, the quaking pulling the strength from her legs. What was this power, this overwhelming awareness, that was drawing her in, burning through her like an unchecked blaze?
A sound behind her made her tense, stilling every movement and holding her breath captive. She didn’t know how she knew, but there was someone there, standing behind her. Watching her. As compelled as she’d felt mere seconds before, the urge to turn and see who it was nearly tore in her twain; her mind telling her to run, but her body telling her to look, to know. Whoever it was, they’d witnessed a most intimate and damning moment. A strangely exhilarating moment, there, under the waterfall.
Slowly, she let out her breath, drawing one arm over her ample breasts and flattening her other hand, and the bar of soap, against the swell of her sex. She didn’t know who was standing there, or what their intentions were, but she’d be damned if she’d give them more to see—twas bad enough that she’d allowed herself such wantonness in the first place. With aching purpose, she turned her head to peer over her shoulder, but the light of the moon overhead obscured her view of the shore, casting everything beyond the rushing water in inky shadow.
Darkness poured from the riverside, filling her with a strange mingling of dread and…excitement.
There! Movement near a copse of trees.
“Who is there?” she called out, her voice only trembling a little. She held her breath, waiting for a response. Seconds ticked by without reply or further movement. It was possible it could have been a deer, coming to the water to drink. So then why did it feel as though ravenous eyes were devouring her?
Willing herself to turn completely, she faced the shore, her arm and heather-scented soap a flimsy shield against any true predator. Her gaze caught on a rock, just up river, where she’d lain her tunic dress. When she’d run from her cottage to the waterfall, her only thought was to escape the oppression of the village and wash the anxiety and pig shite from her body. She hadn’t expected to need a weapon.
And now, she was more anxious than ever, and her clothes were much too close to the cloak of blackness hiding the blackguard who still hadn’t made himself known. She was trapped in the water…
Bugger that! I cannot stay in the river all night. I would freeze to death before first light.
Bell Heather pulled back her shoulders and stuck out her chin, her courage sparking against her frustration. A startling thought occurred…was it Willem Mason?
“Again, I say, who is there?”
Nothing.
She growled, welcoming the anger that rose within her.
“Make yerself known, else I…I…” She looked around, frantically trying to find anything she could use as a weapon. The only thing on her person was the bar of soap. “Else I bludgeon ye with my soap.” By Dagda’s belt, she sounded about as threatening as a babe in a cradle, mewling for her mother’s teat.
A low chuckle rumbled from the dark, and a towering figure stepped out of the shadows and into the cascading moonlight. Tall, broad, and wrapped in gleaming armor, the man before her was a nightmare come to life. His black hair fell to his shoulders, and his eyes, wicked, blazing eyes, pinned her to the spot.
It was as though the man had just emerged from the pits of Hell.
Every though rushed from Bell Heather’s mind, save one: The Devil has found me. And he is more beautiful than I could have imagined.
It was foolishness; the deepest corners of her mind knew that to be true, but the pounding heart in her chest, and the tension rolling through her blood, told her that this man was conjured from her worst fears.
Reivers.
But he was wearing armor, surely reivers didn’t wear armor. And he was alone, reivers tended to attack in groups, safety in numbers…and the greatest amount of destruction.
“Who are ye, and why are ye here, watching me as I bathe?” Bell Heather asked, forcing the words through her tightening throat.
Again, the man said nothing, only standing there, peering at her as if she would disappear if he blinked.
“Well, if ye are not going to answer, ye can do me the kindness of leaving me to my privacy. I want only to don my tunic dress and then I will be on my way.” Then she’d run as if the spirits of the forest were on her heels.
The man looked down at the pile of clothes, just a few feet in front of him, and walked toward it. Bell Heather watched helplessly as the man bent and picked up her clothes, his large hands gripping her belongings with strangely gentle movements.
She shivered. She couldn’t stay in the river much longer, but was the man on the shore waiting for her more frightening than death by freezing? She could walk to the opposite shore and escape, but then she’d have to run through the forest, at night, without a stitch on.
Would be better to have a few scrapes and cuts than to be raped.
With that thought pulsing away in her mind, she took a step backward, the other shore more than five feet away. If his intent was to harm her, could she make it to the other side before he reached her? Would the weight of his armor pull him down, slowing his movements through the water? Did she have a chance of escape?
“It would not be wise to leave without your clothes. The night grows colder, and I hear the forest is haunted with vengeful spirits.” The man’s voice was deep, smooth as the finest satin, and it drew her in. She shuddered, but because of the cold or his voice, she knew not.
“Aye, I have heard the same, but I dare not believe in such tales,” she replied, suddenly struck by the fact that she was standing naked, having a conversation with an armored stranger.
“If you would but leave my clothes there and go, I will dress in haste and return to my home, where it is warm, and the spirits bother not with me.”
The scoundrel cocked an eyebrow, his lovely mouth curving into a wicked smile.
“I thought you did not believe in such tales,
” he mocked her, stretching out his arm as if to dangle her clothes before her.
She shrugged. “I will say whatever it tis ye want me to say, only allow me to leave the river and put on my clothes.”
Her legs and feet were numb, and the wretched cold was beginning to rise into her belly. If she didn’t get to shore and dressed soon, she’d find herself haunting the forest, too.
Bell Heather watched as the man’s jaw muscles twitched, then his throat worked as if he were swallowing words he wanted to say.
The uncontrollable trembling began then, the chill of the water seeping into her bones.
The man’s gaze sharpened, and he stepped forward, presenting her clothes. He lifted his other hand from where it rested on a sword hilt, waiting for her to place her hand within his.
But could she? Lifting her hand from her womanhood would expose much to his eyes, then again, removing her arm from her bosom would expose twice as much. She had no choice; he’d given her none. One numb foot in front of the other, she moved closer to him. She knew full well that she was putting trust in a man who could easily murder her this night, but…well…she couldn’t explain why, but she didn’t truly fear him. Not as she should. Her gaze dropped to the sword at his side, and she took another long, slow breath.
I am a greater fool for this. She took one last step toward shore.
“Come then. I will not harm you.” Bell Heather blinked at his extended hand and, slowly, she lifted her hand and the soap within it, tossing the soap bar ashore. Taking a steadying breath, that did little to steady anything, she slipped her hand into his. It was warm, near scorching, and her trembling ceased immediately. She held back a gasp as his hand wrapped around hers, his grip strong. A slight tug was all the command she needed to step from the water and onto dry land.
Then, there she stood, chilled to the bone, dripping wet, and stark naked before a man too beautiful to be flesh and blood. From afar, the man was a large, imposing creature; up close, beneath his dark gaze, he was a mountain—and he looked just as foreboding and hard as one, too. She could only stare up at him even as he stared down at her, time stood still, the sounds of the waterfall behind her faded to nothing, as the beating of her heart echoed in her ears.
The Blood and The Bloom (Men of Blood Book 1) Page 5
