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

by Rosamund Winchester

  His plan to have Bell Heather Caire charged as a witch was practically foolproof, for who would argue with the magistrate, and a pier of the realm, no less? No one—at least until Calleaux had tainted the beauty of his plan by daring to involve the Homme du Sang, men who would deliver his bounty to Cieldon, where she’d be tortured, her beautiful body broken…

  Rage burst into a white-hot blaze inside him. No one would break her but him! He would kill each and every one of the Homme du Sang if he had to.

  “Butler,” Willem ground out, turning to find the man standing, silently, beside the door, his dull brown eyes watching Willem dispassionately. With only his dressing gown on, his nakedness was on display, and it vexed him that Butler wasn’t impressed by what he saw. Willem was fit, well-endowed…any woman or man would be slavering over his physical attributes. As would Bell Heather, once he had her chained, willing, and sopping wet for him.

  His manhood sprang up again, filling with blood and his gagging need for one fiery peasant woman. Butler simply glanced away, his expression hollow.

  Disgusted with his valet, Willem barked, “Be gone. I will summon you again when I am in need of you.”

  With a sharp bow, Butler departed, the click of the door latch signaling his retreat.

  Sighing heavily, Willem gripped his fleshy rod, squeezing it gently, groaning at the heat and pressure from his hand. But it wasn’t what he really wanted, it was a poor substitute for the hot, moist channel he truly wanted to feel around him.

  Cursing, he walked to his bureau—one he’d had especially made for his chamber—and fingered the top right where a small indentation was hidden from view by a statuette of a satyr, his horns just as prominent as his manhood. Pushing the phallic satyr aside, Willem depressed the indentation, and a soft click whispered through the room. Walking to the floor to ceiling burgundy and gold tapestry just to the side of the bureau, Willem moved the thick fabric aside to reveal a narrow door, slightly ajar, fashioned to look like part of the solid stone wall.

  It was part of the genius of his proclivities…one didn’t indulge in his brand of pleasure without first creating a secret place to play out every facet of his darkest fantasies.

  He knew every meter of the passageway as he did the back of his hand, so navigating from his bedchamber to the hidden chamber through the wall was simple. He’d done it hundreds of times before. And just like every time before, he knew what awaited him at the end of the passage, a room unlike any other.

  Stepping into the pitch blackness, he felt along the wall until his hand brushed over the metal plate fastened into the wall. Attached to the plate was an iron hook, attached to the hook was a heavy chain. When he pulled the heavy chain, a series of pulleys lifted another iron plate set high into the 20-foot-tall ceiling. The plate, secured with hinges at the top, would open to allow in sunlight. From the outside of the castle, that small opening in the ceiling was the only clue that something was hidden there.

  With the light streaming in, he could see enough to find pleasure in his surroundings. A narrow bed—not like any other bed—was bolted to the wall. On either side of the bed, set into the wall, were two manacles attached to four foot chains. The chains allowed for movement, but not enough to give the woman free reign to move about the room. Once she was secured to the bed, that was where she stayed, until she succumbed to her wounds or he tired of her. Usually, it was the latter, but occasionally, a weaker plaything would fall ill, or his ministrations would cause infection or trauma. It was those women he hated the most, the women who failed him to the very end.

  Sucking in a deep breath, Willem moved to the corner of the middling sized chamber. Beside the bed was a table, and upon the table were his…instruments. A riding strop, leather straps, wooden wedges and cones in different sizes, a jar of scented oil, and a jar of healing balm—a balm he’d purchased from his Bell Heather. He cocked his lips in a lopsided smile. His need of the balm was what brought him to Clarendon in the first place. He’d been travelling to York, county business, when he stopped at the Horse & Hag Inn. The innkeeper graciously offered the use of his most comely daughter for the evening, and Willem accepted. Once his hungers had been satiated—she was a delightfully sweet tasting morsel—the girl’s mother brought her a jar of the same balm. Deciding such a miracle cure would be useful for his own personal use, he inquired where the woman had procured it. After helping her mewling daughter from his room, the woman pointed him to Clarendon…

  The moment he spotted Bell Heather laughing in the sunlight, beside three squealing sows, he knew his life would never be the same again. He vowed then and there that she would be his. And he’d be damned if he denied himself the one thing he desired above all others—save power.

  He leaned against the table, closing his eyes, relishing in the delicious memories… Bell Heather was dressed simply for drudgery. Her thick dark blonde hair fell just to her ass, and it shimmered with glints of gold and red. Her face, upturned to the sunshine, was a masterpiece of wide eyes, pert nose, lush billowy lips, and delicate cheekbones. Her breasts… God, his rod throbbed at the memory of them. They were twin globes of pale perfection, almost large enough to overflow his hands…he knew they would bounce tantalizingly. But he wanted to know how red they’d get while strangled with tight leather bindings, how much they’d swell. Lord, how he wanted to lick them, taste the sweat, flick her nipples with his tongue…bite her.

  Groaning, he sat in the low-backed chair just before the table. He leaned back and spread his legs wide. Taking himself with a firm grasp, he envisioned Bell Heather, just there, just as she’d been that first day. Then, he envisioned her there, chained to the bed, gagged, naked, her body perfectly ripe for his taking.

  Gritting his teeth, he moaned, “Bell, my Bell…” His culmination exploded from within him, sending him plummeting over the precipice and into sweet, agonizing oblivion. His body shook, the blood in his veins pulsing with renewed stamina.

  Catching his breath, he closed his eyes, relishing in the feeling of completion—something he hadn’t felt in so long…

  Not much longer now, my lovely…

  Willem quit the secret room, closing the door behind him, and covering all evidence of its presence. He strode to the bell pull, ringing for Butler. When the man knocked and then entered on Willem’s command, Willem smiled.

  “You may help me dress now, Butler. Then I want you to send for Timmons.”

  At the look of terror on Butler’s face, Willem’s smile grew.

  “Tell him I have need of his…skills. I shall not be denied my rightful prize.”

  Timmons will bring me my Bell Heather…and Bell Heather will bring me release.

  ***

  Tristin raised his hand, halting his men beside a swiftly flowing brook beneath an overhanging of ancient oak branches. The midday sun beat down on his armor, wicking away his fortitude, and souring his mood. Not that he needed the heat to do that. With every mile covered, the greater he desired to stop the procession and go to the woman. He wanted to pull off his helmet, meet her gaze, and see the shock on her face when she recognized him. He didn’t understand the need for her to know him, to see him, he only knew that it ate at him as much as his concern for her well-being. He knew from the pace he’d set that her keeping up was probably difficult for her, especially sense the fool refused to don anything on her small, child-like feet.

  He remembered seeing the imprint of those feet in the mud beside the river. Tristin hated that his mind had held on to such unimportant details. What did it matter that her feet were small, or that he wanted to feel those feet pound against his back as he thrust into her?

  You are no better than an animal…driven by lust and hunger. The accusation slammed into him, making him flinch behind his visor.

  He swore, again reminded that he was no longer a man of carnal desires. He was a man of God’s divine will, a man who swore to never touch another drop of wine, or indulge in sexual pleasure, as long as he was Homme du Sang. And h
e’d keep his vow, no matter how tempting the woman or how great the thirst. And what kind of man thought such wicked things about a woman in their charge? Twas an even greater sin to ponder taking advantage of someone who was in their care, under their protection—but how long before you can no longer protect her? Only three days before you must relinquish her to her fate…

  Dismounting, Tristin turned to his men, who followed suit. Unable to keep his eyes from her, Tristin’s gaze flicked to the woman still tied to Elric’s horse. He grit his teeth, angry at her and at Elric. The woman was covered in a layer of dust and sweat, her once lovely hair hung in messy links about her flushed face. She looked exhausted. Catching him looking in her direction, the spitfire pulled her shoulders up, straightened her back, and gazed at him with a burning in her eyes he could only admire.

  Damn her for making it impossible to show her mercy.

  “We will rest here.” Tristin didn’t need to tell his men to be alert and watchful for enemies. They always were. Leading Chevalier to the brook for a drink, he motioned for Elric who lead Bellerophon up beside him, the woman trailing behind, her body stiff, her arms held away from her body, and her eyes pinned to him. They were wide with uncertainty, and dark with wariness. He was still wearing his helmet; it was natural for her to fear a man she hadn’t laid eyes on…today.

  Would she remember him? Why did he care?

  “Elric, I will see to maiden Caire’s needs. You see to yours.” Tristin didn’t miss Elric’s smirk as he snapped a mocking salute and moved to untie the rope. Once the rope was free of the saddle, Tristin stepped forward, taking the rope from Elric’s hands. Why did it feel as though something more…important was occurring? Elric smirked again before turning to lead his steed for his own drink. All around them, his men looked on with curious gazes, some shielding their obvious curiosity with surreptitious glances, some, like Gaubin, Elric, and Pierre, were staring openly.

  He nearly growled at their impertinence.

  A slight tug on the rope reminded him of what he was holding…and who.

  “Come,” he said, giving the rope an unnecessarily hard jerk. The woman stumbled forward, her breath catching, before she pierced him with a barbed glare. Her green eyes were stunning when they were glimmering with golden fire.

  Without another word, Tristin lead the woman further down the brook and around a large rocky outcropping. Here, she could administer to her private needs without prying eyes.

  “You have a few moments to see to your relief.” Still holding the end of the rope, me moved to the other side of the outcropping, giving her the privacy befitting any woman, accused witch or no.

  Other than the babbling of the brook and muffled sounds of his men several yards away, silence reigned around him. He told himself he wasn’t listening so deeply just to hear her breathing or a chance word, he was listening to make certain she wasn’t trying to escape. Thrice the rope in his hand was pulled taut, signaling her movements, but nothing alerted him to any attempts to undo the binding—which would be difficult enough, since Elric was the one who’d tied her. Elric, other than being an excellent swordsman, was also a deft hand at securing prisoners. Once bound in one of Elric’s knots, you did not escape.

  Sighing, Tristin removed his helmet, placing it on the rock beside him. The fool he was, he should have removed it much sooner, at least lifting the visor would have allowed him to expel some of the heat trapped around his head. But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d kept his face hidden, as if wanting to hold off on showing his hand—but why? What did it matter if she knew his face?

  Your helmet is the last shield against her, his thoughts chided him with utter ridiculousness. He wasn’t afraid of her.

  Pulling his attention back from bothersome thoughts, he stared out over the area. Large oaks clustered together, giving the impression of living walls. The brook ran between these clusters, like a shimmering ribbon. It would have been a quiet and peaceful place to truly rest, an oasis where he could remove his armor and just breathe. But he couldn’t think of allowing such vulnerability when someone so dangerous was so near. Another tug at the ropes told him she was still on the other side of the outcropping. Perhaps she was done with her toilet and was moving toward the edge of the water for a drink.

  But what he wouldn’t give for a dunk in the cold water of the creek. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping into his collar, and ran in rivers down his back. Thankful for the slight breeze, Tristin closed his eyes at the kiss of cool against his hot cheeks. Wearing armor was a necessity in battle and on missions where danger hid behind every tree and hedge, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed wearing it. It was heavy, awkward, and one could boil to death inside it on a hot day like this one. Annoyed at his building frustrations, his heart nearly jumped into his throat when a loud gasp sounded from the other side of the outcropping.

  Springing into action, hand on his sword, Tristin rushed around to give aide…and found the woman sitting on the bank of the brook, her feet in the water. Halting midstride, he was dealt another shock when the woman’s gaze landed on him, her green eyes widening, and her lovely mouth falling open on another gasp. Dropping his hand from his sword, he straightened, realizing he’d left his helmet on the rock in his hurry to save the woman from assumed dangers.

  And now…she was looking at him with the most earthshattering expression of admiration and terror…and he didn’t know whether to smile at her obvious appreciation or scowl at her fear of him. Now that she’d seen him, would she shriek? Would she attempt to seduce him as she could have at the waterfall? Would she try to escape, taking the risk that he wouldn’t just pull tighter on the rope, then tie her to his horse for the remainder of the journey?

  In the end, she did none of those things.

  “Do ye mind giving me privacy, I have need of a moment to collect my thoughts,” the woman said sharply before turning her face away.

  For the third time in mere moments, Tristin was shocked to the soles of his feet.

  He was stunned, but he wasn’t without reply. “Yes, I do mind. If you have forgotten, let me remind you that you are a prisoner of the Homme du Sang.” He sounded like a pompous whelp, trying to inflate his own importance.

  She didn’t bother turning to look at him before saying, “Nay, I have not forgotten.” He couldn’t tell if it was anger or fatigue he heard in her voice.

  Still holding the rope, he watched as the woman bent forward, over her knees, and picked up her left foot.

  He almost growled at what he saw. Her foot was battered, blistered, and there were streams of blood mixed with brook water sliding over her soles. He could guess that her other foot looked no better.

  The woman was mad! How could she have endured miles of rough ground without succumbing and begging to ride with Pierre, as she should have from the beginning? Was she so stubborn that she couldn’t ask for aide? That she couldn’t tell him she was in pain, hurt, bleeding?

  Wrath poured through him—but not at her, at himself. He should have stopped. He should have checked on her as he’d wanted to. And now…his own stubbornness had led to this.

  Almost a feral impulse, he moved toward the woman. Without thought, he knelt beside her, taking her foot into his own hands. The gauntlets were cumbersome, but they provided a type of barrier between her flesh and his. He ignored her gasp, and held fast when she tried to pull her foot from his grasp.

  “Let go,” she ground out. He looked into her face and his breath caught. A spitfire, indeed. Eyes glowing, cheeks a burning red, nearly obscuring a swathe of freckles that covered the top of each check and over the bridge of her nose. Never in his life would he have thought freckles becoming…but now…he wanted to count each one.

  “Nay,” he said, his voice thick. “You have need of mending.”

  A hoarse laugh escaped her pursed lips. “I would have need of nothing if I had been allowed to bring my satchel.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “What satchel?”

  Doing her best to cross
her bound arms over her chest, she glared at him with narrowed eyes. “The satchel of herbs from my cottage. The large scarred one would not allow me to bring it with me.”

  Pierre. Understanding dawned. He’d commanded Pierre to make sure she brought only necessities. He must have thought a satchel of herbs an unnecessary burden.

  “What do you need?”

  Her golden-brown eyebrows shot up. “For this?” she asked, pointing to her foot, still grasped in his hand.

  “Yes. What would you need to dress the wounds on your feet?”

  She eyed him warily. “Would ye allow me to find what I need on my own?”

  He nearly grinned at her audacity. “Nay,” he said, shaking his head. “I will accompany you. Or, I can send Elric to find whatever you need.”

  She snorted. “The pretty one? He could not tell St. John’s Wort from a bush of stinging nettles. Nay. I will find what I need on my own.”

  Doing his damnedest to ignore what she’d said about Elric’s attractiveness, Tristin slowly released her foot. Why did it feel as though he were relinquishing a hard-earned treasure? Because, in the midst of her fear and uncertainty, she shown a sliver of trust. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  “Could ye untie me?” she asked, raising her bound wrists to be level with his gaze.

  He stared at her, taking in her face, the tension in her shoulders, and the stark guilessness in her emerald eyes.

  “Where am I to go? It would be no hardship to follow my trail of blood, if I tried to run,” she admitted with a shrug.

  And she was correct, not that he’d need a trail of blood to find her. He’d find Bell Heather Caire wherever she went.

  Reaching for the dagger sheathed at his side, he watched, intrigued, as she remained still, her gaze trained on the glittering blade. She was alert and fearful, but she wasn’t foolish enough to try and take the blade from him. He knew next to nothing about this woman, but he knew that she was a woman of her word. She’d sworn to go with him, and so she would.