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

by Rosamund Winchester

  Bemoaning the loss of her satchel, she finished scrubbing her other foot and turned to rest the heels of her feet on the soft ground. With the first bandage, she easily wrapped her left foot, taking care to not get any dirt in the wounds. She bandaged her other foot just as quickly.

  With her treatments complete, she put her soap back in her bag—she’d lost the other one, and she couldn’t afford to lose this one—and forced her heart to slow down its sudden reckless pace. She knew he would have to carry her back to camp, and the thought of being in his arms again after what had occurred between them turned her belly into a hive of buzzing bees.

  Would he kiss her again?

  Swallowing the rise of fear and sizzling anticipation, she looked over her shoulder. He was standing behind her, silent, arms crossed, staring at her with a look she’d never seen before. An amalgam of disgust and anger…doused in pity and disappointment. She sucked in a breath, shame and guilt surging to replace all else.

  The truth of his feelings was on display in the blackness of his eyes and the pinch in his lips. She’d been no better than a whore in his arms, and now, after the haze of desire had worn off, all that was left was the embarrassment of kissing a crippled witch.

  Drawing in all the emotion she had remaining, she met his gaze with the only expression she could muster: indifference. If he could forget about her after the waterfall, and if he could find only repugnance in their kiss, then she would damn well do the same.

  Even if it killed her.

  “I am done. Ye may carry me back to camp,” she commanded in her most imperious tone.

  He said nothing, only arching an eyebrow. He strode toward her, uncrossing his arms, and he lifted her easily. She forced herself to remain as stiff as a board. She refused to let the heat of him, the hardness of him, soften her resolve.

  Without a sound, Tristin moved through the forest, back toward the soft orange glow she could just see through the trees. While it felt like lifetimes, in reality they made it back to camp in ten minutes. As Tristin stepped into the clearing, five pairs of eyes turned to them. Some of the men had gone to sleep, and some were gone—probably on patrols—but the ones who were staring were the ones Bell Heather hadn’t met yet.

  And one of them was staring a little more deeply than the rest, his beady eyes taking in the sight of her in Tristin’s arms with a little more interest than the situation called for.

  Let him stare. He will think no good of ye anyway.

  As if uncaring of his men’s reactions, Tristin carried her past the tree where she’d been sitting, and toward where he’d set up his bedroll. Surprised, Bell Heather didn’t say anything when he sat her down on a cleared patch of earth. He squatted, then pressed her back until she was reclining on his breastplate. Still unable to speak for the ball of wariness in her throat, she only watched as he took her bag and then turned to her. “Lift your feet,” he commanded, and Bell Heather immediately obeyed. Tristin shoved her bag under her feet. “Drop them.” And she did. Tristin had created a sort of foot support which would keep her bandaged feet off the ground as she slept.

  Slept! He meant for her to sleep here? With him? “Ye cannot mean for me to sleep here with ye.”

  He stood, the muscles in his legs flexing beautifully, and as she tore her gaze away from his thighs, her eyes caught a smirk on his lips.

  “You will sleep here. I will sit there,” he said, pointing to the tree beside his horse.

  Struck dumb by her own insinuation, she only nodded.

  Tristin took hold of a large cloak and gently laid it over her. The thick, soft fabric was the most luxurious blanket she’d ever use. It was warm, heavy, and it smelled of Tristin. But…

  “What about ye? What will ye use to keep off the chill?” She didn’t know why she cared at all, she only knew that she did.

  He tipped his head, eying her curiously. “I am used to sleeping with far less. Worry not for me, Bell.”

  Again, he called her “Bell.” It wasn’t her name, not really, and she knew it should bother her for him to abuse it so. But she found she liked it. She only wondered why he would call her thus. Before Bell Heather could ask him about his use of her name, Elric appeared across from them, calling for Tristin with a simple look.

  Tristin let out a heavy sigh. “Rest,” he commanded, before leaving her to meet Elric. They two disappeared from sight around a wide tree trunk.

  Whatever it was that Elric needed to say to Tristin, she couldn’t help but feel that she was the center of it. But she couldn’t conjure enough strength to care. Despite being surrounded by dangerous men, outside, without a single friend, Bell Heather couldn’t stop the exhaustion from claiming her.

  ***

  “What are you thinking, getting involved with our prisoner?” Elric spat, his usual carefree expression twisted into an angry mask.

  All roiling emotion; frustration, desire, anger, and uncertainty came to a head, and he struck out, grabbing Elric by the neck of his breastplate.

  “You will remember your place, Sir Elric, or I will remind you, most severely,” Tristin snarled, his face only inches from Elric’s.

  Elric, seemingly unaffected by Tristin’s outburst, simply removed Tristin’s hand from his person and crossed his arms.

  “I know my place, Tristin, and it is at your side, no matter what foolish decisions you make that may spell disaster for you or your men,” Elric countered, and all the fight left Tristin in a rush.

  Tristin gripped the bridge of his nose between his fingers and squeezed, a headache was forming behind his eyes, and he hated how vulnerable it could make him. He had already given his focus to Bell Heather, and though he hadn’t meant to, he’d kissed her. And by God, it was the most incredible kiss he’d ever experienced.

  So why did it leave him feeling…bereft?

  “I know you mean well, Elric, and I am sorry for my outburst,” Tristin began, dropping his hand and pinning Elric with his most apologetic gaze. “What you witnessed by the creek—”

  Elric raised a hand to cut him off. “Is usually not my business, Tristin. But when it comes to her, you are treading on the edge of a perilous cliff.”

  Yes, with her he was treading a dagger blade, one side was pleasure, the other side damnation, and he didn’t know which side would kill him first. Squaring his shoulders, he met Elric’s gaze again, this time he was the commander, a man who brooked no arguments.

  “She is nothing, Elric. What you saw by the creek was a mistake. I have been long without a woman, and she seemed a pliable bit of sweet cake, nothing more. I had my taste, and now am satisfied.”

  The lie stuck in his throat, just as memories of the heat and pleasure of that kiss kicked him in the gut.

  Elric’s golden gaze swept over Tristin’s face, and Tristin knew his closest friend and most trusted soldier could see right through his indifferent façade.

  “What will you do when she is prostrate before Calleaux, and he is reading the accusations against her? What then? What will happen to you when she is sentenced to burning or hanging, or imprisonment? Will you kiss her through the bars of her cell? Will you stand by and watch her swing? Watch her burn?”

  The more Elric said, the more Tristin’s heart slowed, and now it fairly crawled.

  Swallowing the thickness of his fear, he refused to ponder Elric’s words any further.

  “Tis nothing but conjecture. You have no way of knowing what Calleaux’s judgement will be. He could very well release her, sending her on her way—”

  “And if you believe that, you are an even greater fool than she is,” Elric interjected, his tone stark.

  Taken aback by the vehemence in his friend’s voice, Tristin let the words slip over him like a slow dripping realization.

  “I will vouch for her.” Tristin knew the weight of his words, but he spoke them anyway. He’d given his life, his very blood and soul, to lead the Homme du Sang. He’d captured and transported dozens of the Church’s enemies…but Bell Heather was
not one of them. Willem Mason had called her witch, and Calleaux had called for her capture, but Tristin knew the accusations were false. Bell Heather wasn’t a witch any more than Tristin was a wizard. And that rose the question of Willem Mason’s motives. Why would he accuse Bell Heather if it wasn’t true?

  Elric bit off a curse and turned, pacing toward a line of trees a yard away, only to turn and pace back, his movements agitated.

  “You will vouch for her? The woman a royally appointed magistrate has accused of witchcraft?”

  “Yes.” Tristin nodded, his neck stiff. “Someone must champion her, and if not the captain of the Homme du Sang than who? You know she is no witch, Elric. I cannot just leave her there to endure the consequences of someone else’s falsehoods.” He would rather have his bowels cut from his belly then let an innocent be punished. And so would Elric. Tristin had hand-picked every member of his order, save Gaubin. Each man was chosen for his strength, his skill, his valor, and his dedication to honor. Tristin knew that, to a man, they would die for their captain…and so would they die protecting anyone in their charge, guilty or not.

  Elric eyed him, his expression unreadable. “Is it the maiden’s plight that has earned your regard or her beauty?”

  Again, a bitter frustration swirled within him, and he grumbled a curse. Elric couldn’t know the depths of his confusion, his uncertainty, his guilt. He’d sworn to set aside all fleshly lust to keep his oath to the Homme du Sang, and to show his father that he was worthy of his regard.

  Was it all for naught?

  He hadn’t spoken to his father in three years. Was his desire to please the man as foolish as his desire for Bell Heather? Would he truly risk his reputation, his standing among the Church and realm to keep one woman from a fate not of her making?

  By God’s hand, yes!

  “Bell Heather Caire is surely a test of my faithfulness to my vow. But she is a test I will not fail. It is her honor I will uphold…and it is her life I will protect. As will you, Elric,” Tristin said simply. Despite Elric’s love of women and wine, he was a man dedicated to honoring his vow to the Homme du Sang.

  By the Blood of the Cross, by the hand of God’s chosen, I will defend the Holy Church… It was an oath they’d all taken, and it was an oath that had been tested over and over throughout their three years. But never, not once, had they failed to uphold what they’d sworn to do.

  But was assuring Calleaux of Bell Heather’s innocence a corruption of his vow? He swore to upload the edicts of the Church, and to obey the cardinal’s commands…but what about protecting the innocent? What about doing what he knew to be right? What if his orders contradicted his oath?

  A swirling mass of confusion and anxiety filled him, and he bit back the bile that rushed into his throat.

  “I will speak of this no more this night,” Tristin forced out. “Rest. I will keep watch over our prisoner.”

  Elric pinched his lips together, and Tristin knew the man meant to say more. Thankfully, Elric kept whatever he meant to say to himself, and spun on his heel and reentered the camp, a storm cloud of anger and disquiet churning over his head.

  Taking the moment alone to settle his erratic heart, he pushed his own disquiet to the back of his mind. For now, he would focus on keeping Bell Heather safe and fed…and untouched. He would worry for tomorrow when tomorrow came.

  Sucking in a fortifying breath, he strode back into camp and cast a look about the group. Most of the men were sleeping, some were sitting against the outlying trees, peering into the darkness of the forest. They were keeping watch, just as he would be once he settled down for the night. Elric was nowhere in sight, which meant he’d taken his turn at patrol and wouldn’t return for another hour.

  Turning toward where he’d left Bell Heather, Tristin stopped dead. Sometime during his interlude with Elric, she’d fallen asleep. Tucked under his cloak, her glimmering, dark gold hair loose over his breastplate, her lush lips parted with soft breaths…she was utterly breathtaking. When awake, she was fire and lightning, but asleep, she was warmth and light.

  And which do you yearn for the most? A voice whispered through his mind.

  All of her… Something else answered, the familiar voice ringing out with conviction.

  Tristin closed the distance. He knew he shouldn’t let her beauty sway him, that it was dangerous to allow his desire for her to lead him about by his manhood. But right now, as he stared down at her deeply sleeping form, he knew it wasn’t his manhood that had been enchanted.

  Through his three and thirty years, he had never faced such turmoil…and all because of one woman. What could he do about her save push her away and steel himself against her?

  He would have to. If not for his own good then for hers. His fate lay with his men, and hers… Again, uncertainty skittered over him. Never once in his years had he ever felt such a tumult in his faith, in his belief that what he was going was the right thing. And it tore at him viciously.

  Sighing, he sat down against the tree just above where Bell Heather lay. Though the ground was as hard as a rock and the tree bark snagged at his hair, from here, he could see the whole of camp, the long line of trees on the other side, and the woman who had upended his thoughts. He crossed his legs at the ankles and his arms over his chest, and he began to settle in for a long night of slow crawling chill and a sore arse.

  Before he could lay his head back against the tree for a moment of rest, movement from the other side of camp caught his eye. Over the fire, through the shadows cast by the moon overhead, Tristin could see Gaubin, trying to hide his bulk behind a tree.

  He was staring at Bell Heather with a hideous sneer on his face.

  Foreboding snaked its way through Tristin’s blood, and he knew he would get no rest that night.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bell Heather snuggled deeper into the warmth and heaviness of the cloak, inhaling deeply of the scents of wood fire, Tristin, and…heather? Struck by the oddity of the scent, she opened her eyes, blinking slowly to try and dispel the morning sun striking her face. She shifted, and an ache pinched her back, then her hips, and finally the throbbing in her feet began. Though, today, they didn’t hurt as terribly as they had yesterday.

  All around her, the camp was busy; the men were packing up, saddling their horses, and some were eating what looked like bread and dried meat. Where had they gotten that?

  Just then, her stomach gave a loud bellow, and she sat up to muffle it with her arms.

  “Sounds like you should break your fast quickly, before that beast in your belly escapes,” the large one named Bear said from beside the fire, his dark eyes twinkling with mirth.

  Oh, that great brute! If she had a broom she’d beat him over the head with it.

  He must have read her thoughts—or the murderous intent on her face—because he roared with laughter, the sound booming through the camp. The three other men around the fire laughed with him, and her anger turned to indignant rage in a flash.

  “Do not let my bound feet fool ye, giant. I can take ye with nary a hair out of place,” she said, emphasizing her boast by tossing her hair over her shoulder.

  More laughter erupted, and Bear grinned at her. “Oh, aye, I just bet you could, lass.”

  “What is all this?” a deep, familiar voice spoke from behind her. Startled, she glanced over her shoulder. Tristin.

  He was standing there, hand on the hilt of his sword, resplendent in his armor once again.

  She bit back her disappointment; she much preferred him without the armor.

  Memories of the plays of his hard muscles as he moved sent heat into her face. She turned back to the camp, if not to avoid Tristin’s darkly handsome face then to avoid him seeing her blushing one.

  “Tis only light banter, Captain,” Bear said.

  She could feel Tristin’s eyes on her for only a moment before he returned his attention to Bear. “Since you and the maiden are so inclined to one another, you can carry the lady into the woods and allow
her to tend to her morning needs.”

  Horrified that he would speak so plainly about her needs with so many men about, she threw her chin up and scowled at Tristin. The dog!

  He didn’t spare her another glance, as if after their kiss the night before, he saw nothing of worth in her. Though she was four and twenty, she had very little experience with kissing and such. She much rather spend her time tending her garden than tending to a man. She knew little about men, their ways, their means…perhaps she was found wanting? Had her first kiss been, to him, a sloppy mess of panting and dispassion? Mayhap she should have held back, or bit his lip… The memory of his teeth pressing down on her bottom lip sent a wave of heat and trembling through her limbs.

  Tristin continued as if he hadn’t just robbed her of her dignity.

  “Once you return, you can make sure she eats something. We depart once Aster returns from escorting the innkeeper back into Wharram Percy.”

  Wharram Percy? Was that the name of the village they’d skirted the night before? She’d never heard of it, then again, she hadn’t heard of much in her own little village. Life was simple in Clarendon. News rarely made it to those who didn’t attend mass, where the priest would gab on about the nobility like a proper gossipmonger in a cassock.

  Bear stood and came to tower over Bell Heather and she tore her gaze from the man who was patently ignoring her to stare up at the man who was focusing on her with a curiosity in his eyes and a lopsided smile on his square, hairy face. Lifting her as if she weighed no more than a pea stalk, Bell Heather grunted as she hit the man’s immense chest. Were all of the Homme du Sang thus proportioned? Underneath all that armor, were there plates of steel made of flesh and blood?

  She knew that beneath Tristin’s armor was a strong, hard chest, sheltering a powerful beating heart.

  Too bad his heart is black!

  “I would give a pound of gold to know what you are screaming in that head of yours,” Bear rumbled as he strode past the same trees Tristin had carried her past the night before.