Elric followed behind him. “I can smell that…at least I cannot smell you.”
Tristin grunted, uncaring of how he smelled to Elric. There were plenty of times Elric would come back to Carnburg, reeking of whores and weak wine.
“Anything of import occur while I was gone?” Tristin asked, disliking his friend’s curious expression.
Elric shook his head. “Nothing in camp, no.”
The way Elric said that made Tristin stop. Raising an eyebrow, Tristin asked, “And outside of camp?”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Elric tipped his chin toward Aster, who was staring blankly into the flames as the hares he’d caught roasted.
“Aster…”
Tristin dropped his armor into a neat pile beside Chevalier. Though it was cold this far away from the fire, he would sleep at the edge of camp. As the captain, it was his job to be the bulwark against any enemy that would seek to harm them as they slumbered.
“What of Aster?” Tristin asked, rolling his shoulders to alleviate the tension there.
“It is not Aster, but Gaubin. It is what Aster reported about Gaubin’s activities while on their hunt.”
Tristin grunted, already annoyed at the use of the man’s name. “What has he done?”
“Aster reports that it was simple enough to find the warren, and to scare a few of them out…but it was what happened afterward that took a…disturbing turn.”
“Out with it, man. I have no patience this eve,” Tristin barked, the alarm he felt earlier still swirling through him.
Elric arched his brows, but then leaned in closer to Tristin. “Aster said that Gaubin took the living hares and told Aster to make and then light a torch so he could dress them right there.”
“I see nothing wrong with that.” Dressing a kill was messy business, and best completed in the woods, away from the camp, where predators could have at the entrails without threatening anyone while they slept.
“When Gaubin began skinning the hares, they were still alive…” Elric’s voice died off, but not before a note of disgust surfaced.
Gaubin skinned living rabbits? Stunned by the utter mercilessness of the act, Tristin’s gaze sought out the man, and found him, staring across the camp at Bell Heather. The man’s face was twisted into a grotesque sneer, and his eyes glittered with lust.
A red haze descended over Tristin’s vision, and he growled low, instinct telling him to rip Gaubin’s throat from his neck and stomp on his skull.
Elric’s strong grip jerked him out of his primal thoughts—if only enough for the red to fade. “Nay. You cannot challenge him here. It would only encourage dissention among the men. Wait. You can dismiss him once we reach Cieldon.”
Tristin knew Elric was being the practical one, and he knew he should listen to his second in command. But the mere thought of Gaubin laying eyes on Bell Heather made everything in him revolt. If that man ever touched her, Tristin would remove the offending hand.
“You are right,” Tristin replied, running his fingers through his still wet hair. “Until then, keep watch over him. If he scratches his arse, I want to know about it.”
Elric snickered. “I will be giving hourly reports, then.”
Not in the mood for levity, Tristin dismissed Elric with a nod, then finished preparing his bedroll. He would use his breastplate and helmet as a head rest—one of the most uncomfortable things he’d ever done.
His gaze found Gaubin again. This time, the man was tearing into a piece of meat…the hare he’d tortured before killing. What sort of man tortured small animals, and then made someone watch him do it? Tristin would have to speak with Aster, ask him for more details about the incident. It was troubling, but it was something he’d need an official report on in order to explain Gaubin’s dismissal to the cardinal. Men, chosen to represent the Holy Church as members of the Homme du Sang, had to show remarkable honor and moral standing. Yes, some of his men were lovers of the flesh, but the cardinal allowed for such…moments of weakness. As long as the men remained dedicated to their missions and completed them with the utmost care and ferocity. The Homme du Sang were a complicated mix of brutal and beatific. They took lives and yet they saved them, as well. They were capable of showing mercy, but also being ruthless. As captain, he tread a fine line between cruelty and compassion. And it tore at him daily.
Shuddering at his own thoughts, Tristin mussed his hair with trembling fingers. This wouldn’t do. He’d been tasked with securing her, transporting her, and all the while, he was to keep her safe. No, he couldn’t protect her from all the dangers in the world, but he could and would protect her from himself.
Determining to act more the gentleman than the ravenous predator, Tristin made his way to the fire to slice a bit of the grouse off for himself, and for Bell Heather. It wasn’t much, but it would serve as a sort of peace offering to her. He needed for there to be peace between them…and he couldn’t explain how deep the need.
“Oy, Captain,” Bear called, “Who has first watch?”
Tristin paused in his stride long enough to call over his shoulder, “If you are so eager to know, you can take the first watch. Leon and Erich, I want you at your usual posts until second watch.” The men nodded, their expressions resolute, and he turned back toward the object of his steadfast obsession.
Food in hand, he approached where she sat, knees up, eyes wide, watching him as he stopped just in front of her. Was that fear…or longing in her expression? Biting back the audacious question, he offered her the beginnings of a smile—one he was told was his least lethal—and hoped she’d not run screaming into the darkness.
Chapter Thirteen
Though she’d finally given into the burn of tears, she hadn’t wept as she’d expected she would. Aye, the tears fell, but then…they stopped. It was as though her hopeless thoughts had been snatched away, replaced by a burn of a different kind, the kind that made her want to stand up, scream into the night, and dare any of those men to find a true cause for her captivity.
It was unfair. She’d dedicated her life to helping others, and done nothing but given of her life, her time, her heart, and what good had come of it? Aye, the people of Clarendon had shown their appreciation however they could, but it took one man, Willem Mason, to turn her life of service into a hideous falsehood.
If I ever see him again, I will scratch his eyes out!
Letting the anger fill all the aching, empty spaces in her heart, she nearly stopped breathing when she saw him stride into camp… Covered in armor from head to toe, he’d been darkly handsome, noble in bearing, and fearsome to behold. Without his armor, with nearly every muscle in his frame exposed to her thirsty gaze, he was magnificent. She’d known he was strong—he’d carried her without losing a step—but now she could see his strength as he moved. The muscles in his legs flexed with each step, and when he stopped to talk with Elric, and he’d reached up to muss his hair, the muscles in his arm bulged most deliciously. He was a towering, beast of a man, but he was also glorious. Black hair, square chin, eyes as dark as night…
She trembled at the memory of him standing before her at the river, a smirk lifting one side of his wicked mouth.
When he turned those same black eyes in her direction, she almost jumped from her skin. But then, he strode to the fire, squatting to cut away from the of the roasted meat. Her mouth watered…and it wasn’t because of the grouse, it was because she could see the muscles of his back, bunching, twitching, smoothing out as he moved. And in one single move, he was up again, and stalking toward her, and by Dagda’s Belt, she couldn’t tear her gaze away.
She watched him as he approached, as if an animal stalking toward its prey. He moved with confidence and restrained violence, and her heart thudded wildly at the sight of him.
He stopped in front of her, holding out what looked like a wooden platter with a few scraps of meat atop it.
She blinked up at it, confused. He meant to…feed her? Panic surged into her chest. Nay, she couldn’t take
food from him. Not him. Not the man who’d seen her at her most vulnerable—not once but twice. She’d been naked, then she’d fainted like a babe, and now he would feed her as though she were a helpless cripple. Nay.
She flicked her gaze up to his chin, refusing to look him in the eye. She didn’t know how strong she would be if faced with the intensity of those eyes. “Nay,” she said simply, before turning away. Where was Glenn? She much preferred his company.
“Is it the food you are refusing, or my company?” he asked, his voice a rumble that moved through her relentlessly.
She huffed, trying to shake off the sensations his voice caused. “Both.”
Bell Heather held her breath, waiting for the spilling of anger her impertinence wrought, but when nothing happened, she risked a glance up. Heat flew into her cheeks. He was staring down at her, his dark eyes raking over her from the tips of the toes peeking out from her hem, to the top of her head. As she watched, his gaze landed on her mouth, and a spark of something dangerous flared to life on his face.
Before she could shrink away from the ferocity of it, he spoke. “I am sorry.”
Shocked by those three short words, she could only stare up at him, her hand to her chest. “Sorry?”
He swallowed, then, in one easy, lithe movement, he squatted before her. Again, she couldn’t help but notice the muscles in his legs, and the ease in which he moved. How could someone as large as him move as if he weighed no more than the air?
Bell Heather pinched her lips shut, and when he thrust the food into her chest, she instinctively took hold of it.
“My treatment of you has been abominable. I should have made certain you rode the horse, and then your feet would be unhurt.” His voice was deep, and there was a note of true contrition that Bell Heather couldn’t quite believe. With the food in her grasp, his free hand reached down, and a single finger flicked the tip of her large toe. She pulled the foot back, until it was completely covered by her hems.
“Where are your boots, little one?” he asked, his gaze meeting hers. A covey of doves set flight in her belly. How was it possible for such dark eyes to also be so bright?
“I have none,” she replied, humiliation surging. He would think her a no better than the pigs, because she had nothing to wear on her feet.
He sat back on his heels, eyeing her curiously.
“What?” she snapped, both struck by the delicious smell of the roasted grouse in her hands and the closeness of the man before her. He was much too close, and much more of a temptation than the food—and she was starving.
A flicker of a grin twitched the side of his mouth. “Did you throw them at someone?”
What? Her eyebrows shot up—what a strange question…and then realization dawned. He meant…had she lost her boots because she’d thrown them at someone in anger? Oh, how she wished she had her boots now, she’d show him just how dangerous a boot could be.
She gritted her teeth, her nostrils flaring. “Nay,” she replied, letting in and slowly letting out a calming breath. “I gave them to a young girl who needed them more than I.” Gilly…she’d lost her boots playing in the creek. Her young feet were too easily hurt, working in the fields. And so, Bell Heather had “traded” them to the girl for a basket of freshly picked wild flowers. The girl was more than happy to pick flowers for a new pair of boots.
Her answer seemed to surprise the man, his black brows dipped into a sharp V, pointing downward to two pouting lips.
Do not be taken in by his mouth. Tis a trap. Tis a sinful, wicked, trap!
“Can you bind your feet?”
Eager to show herself capable, she nodded. “Aye. It might take a few days to fully heal, but I can still walk once they are bound.”
The strange humor in his eyes died, replaced by a flash of crimson rage.
“You will ride. Your feet cannot take more of the same punishment,” he ground out. When Bell Heather leaned forward to argue, he took her chin in his hands, and Bell Heather’s whole world shrank to where his fingers were touching her skin.
Heat, sand against satin… His eyes grew wide, just as hers did, and he dropped his hand. What had happened? What was the feeling, that sensation of rushing blood and prickles of fire?
He blinked down at his hand, then cleared his throat, meeting her gaze. His expression was guarded now.
“Once your feet are bound, you will ride. I will not argue with you about it.”
But, skies above, she wanted to argue with him. She wanted to let loose the clamoring emotions, and watch as he crumbled to dust before her. But he wouldn’t…he was a man of fire and strength. If anyone could take the brunt of her displeasure, it was him. And that rankled.
Just then, a thought occurred to her. “I suppose I could ride with Glenn…”
Rather than the immediate approval she expected, the man made a sound remarkably like a growl, and pinned her with black eyes full of smoke. “Oh, I think it best you ride with me.”
Ride with him? Now that she’d seen what his armor had hid from her, she’d never be able to sit within his embrace without picturing him, grabbing hold of her, and doing all the things she’d dreamt of. Nay. She had to stay as far away from him as she could. She’d rather ride with the large, brutish one—Bear, she thought she heard them call him.
She swallowed, frantically thinking of the right words to say to convince him she was better off with one of his men. “Nay, Captain. I would hate to be such a burden to ye. I could ride with Bear, or Pierre—”
“Me,” he barked. “You will ride with me.” Again, his hand shot out and took her face into his grip. “I will have no arguments from those lips, my Bell…” Bell Heather held her breath as his gaze slid from her eyes to her lips. Nervous, she licked them, suddenly thirstier than she had been all day. And he’d called her: my Bell…
He leaned in, and the world stopped. She could only see him, only feel him, only hear the sound of her heart pounding, and the quiet hush of his breath sliding over her face.
“Tristin,” he murmured.
“What?” Her question came out as a squeak. Heat rushed into her face, and she tried to pull away, but he only tugged her face closer.
“My name…is Tristin,” he whispered, huskily—for her ears alone. She shuddered.
“Tristin…” she echoed, all her breath leaving on the single word. Tristin. A good, noble name. The name of a warrior of light, a man of fierceness and passion…
Suddenly, he released her then stood.
“I will leave you to eat. When you are ready, I will carry you somewhere private where you can see to your needs.”
He was the commander again, all orders and tasks. Relief filled her. She preferred him when he was Captain…because Tristin was much too devastating to handle.
“Will ye have one of yer men bring my bag?” she asked, forcing a little of her own “commander” into her tone.
He clipped a nod then walked away. She watched him as he moved to the other side of the camp, stopping before his large, black horse. Strange that his horse would be as huge and dark as its rider. Like man, like beast.
Bell Heather’s belly took that moment to grumble angrily, and she tore her gaze from the man…Tristin…to stare down at the grouse he’d brought her. It did smell delicious, and she was ravenous. It wouldn’t hurt to take sustenance today…because she didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. And that terrified her more than any spirits ever could.
Placing the plank of wood bark on her knees, she used her free hand to pluck at a piece of the meat. It was tender. She lifted it to her mouth, opening it, then sliding the meat in between her lips. Slowly biting down, she groaned when the juices burst into her mouth.
She finished every piece of that grouse, and nearly licked the juices from the bark as well.
That only took the edge of my hunger, she thought, wondering if she could ask Tristin for more. Watching the men around the fire, she knew it was foolish to assume that any of the meat remained. Sighing, she
tossed the empty bark into the forest beside her, and leaned back against the tree. She kicked her legs out in front of her and straightened her under tunic to better cover her legs. Without a blanket, she would catch a chill once the fire died down. Even now, as far away from the fire as she was, she didn’t know how she wasn’t already shivering.
She felt him before she saw him. Tristin had finished eating as was stalking toward her again, his cloak about his broad shoulders.
He stopped in front of her. He was holding her bag in his fist. At least he remembered she’d need her bag to bandage her feet, but she couldn’t imagine trying to clean and bind her feet without the proper medicaments—or the proper light for that matter.
“I take it the grouse was good?” he asked, an eyebrow cocked mockingly. He must have seen her contemplating licking the damn bark; her face scrunched up in thought—as Maude always nattered on to her about.
“Oh, aye. So good I nearly girded my loins to do battle against Bear. He seems the kind to take more than his fair share.”
Expecting more growling, Bell Heather nearly fell sideways when Tristin threw back his head and roared in laughter. His thick neck working with the loud, deep sound. Shocked, she didn’t immediately notice that all the men in the camp stopped whatever they were doing and stared at their captain. Their eyes wide, their jaws dragging along the ground, they looked about as flummoxed as she was. Then, they all turned their eyes on her. She sucked in a breath and held it, terror and shame twisting in her chest. Apparently, their captain had lost his mind, and they were all looking to her as the cause. They called her a witch, would they think she’d enchanted their commander?
Fools! The lot of them!
By the time Tristin was done laughing, Bell Heather was about ready to jump from her skin. She’d never felt so exposed before—and she’d been naked before Tristin not more than a night ago.
Bell Heather blinked up at Tristin, who’s handsome face was split by a wide, staggeringly wicked grin. “Oh, that is something I would like to see,” he said, humor in his words.
The Blood and The Bloom (Men of Blood Book 1) Page 14
