She was glorious.
Rolling off of her, he exhaled and drew her into his chest, unwilling to part with her. With her cheek pressed against him, her panting breaths tickled the black hairs there, and he couldn’t help but smile.
This is what it felt like to be whole, to have something worth making a vow for. The Homme du Sang had been his life, his calling for three years, but not once had he felt as…complete as he did now.
Bell Heather Caire wasn’t a witch. She was a gift. One he intended to keep.
***
Laying with her back against Tristin’s chest, his arms encircling her, Bell Heather stared up at the waning moon through the opening in the roof, trying to count the stars around it, stars that seemed brighter now, somehow. Not long after their lovemaking, Tristin’s breathing had become slow, even, and she knew he must’ve fallen asleep.
If only I could find such peace.
She was doing all she could to rein in her breathing, so slow her galloping heart, and to not give in to the desire to turn her head and look at him… At Tristin. At the man who’d taken her innocence…and her heart.
Realizing the truth of her own thoughts, she closed her eyes, trying to block out the visions of him over her, thrusting into her, his face covered in sweat, his chest heaving with his exertion. It had been the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, and also the most devastating. Her body was throbbing, pulsing, the ache between her legs was sweet and delicious…how could she have known it would be like that? How could she have known that one night of breathtaking passion could seal her true fate. The fate of a woman destined for a short life of hopeless love.
Ye have done it now, Bell Heather Caire! Ye have fallen for a man who means to get rid of ye the moment ye set foot in Cumberland. Of all the men she could have loved, why this one? Why Tristin?
As the thrum of pleasure faded into the numbness of shame, Bell Heather bit back a sob. Nay! She refused to regret being with Tristin. It had been everything she’d dreamed it would be—and far more. In her dream of him, she’d known pleasure, aye, but in reality…the sensation of him filling her, touching her, his lips on her, his seed searing her—it was life-changing. No man would ever make her feel as Tristin had. He’d made her feel alive, cherished, desired. And she was glad to have known such living before her dying.
So…I am resigned to die, am I? She thought as a cloud drifted over the moon, cloaking the world in darkness. Nay! I do not want to die. I want to live, I want to see Maude again, I want to run through Whistler Wood, and bathe naked beneath the waterfall. I want to laugh and dance…and I want to show Tristin that I could be more to him than just the captive with a warm body and fierce temper.
Tristin shifted behind her, and she could feel the hairs of his chest tickling her shoulders. “What is troubling you,” he asked, pulling her back into him so he could nuzzle her just beneath her ear. As a lover would. She shuddered, trying to keep her sensations in check. The last thing she needed in that moment was to lose herself to Tristin again.
“I want to know who accused me,” she said plainly, knowing his answer would fill in many of the holes in her circumstance, and, perhaps, provide her with the strength she needed to endure. Anger was stronger than ignorance, and the angrier she was, the more determined she was to survive.
Tristin sighed, burying his face in her neck. After a few moments, he sighed again, as if resigned. “It was Willem Mason.”
Though she knew it in her heart, hearing his name spoken as her accuser was startling. She tensed then turned to pull away and look Tristin in the eye.
“I knew it! That man would say anything to punish me,” she accused, tugging at the blanket to try and cover herself from Tristin’s gaze. Hearing Willem Mason’s name had made her feel more vulnerable, more exposed. And she hated that he could ruin something as beautiful as their night together without even being there.
Tristin sat up and leaned over her, pinning her with eyes framed in wariness. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that he wants to punish me,” she answered, her words clipped.
Tristin’s black eyes darkened to impossible depths. “What do you mean? What happened?”
Sucking in a breath, Bell Heather recalled her last confrontation with the man; what he’d said to her, promising to have her no matter what. Rage infused her blood, filling her vision with red. “After my mother passed, he came to me, offering a proposal; I become his mistress and he would take care of me.”
Tristin growled, the vibrations moving through Bell Heather, enticing her nipples to harden.
“When I turned him down, he returned—over and over again. Finally, I told him I had married so that he would no longer make such advances…”
Tristin raised his hand, gently taking Bell Heather’s face in his palm. He slid his thumb over her cheek, beneath her eye, and she realized she was crying. And he was wiping away her tears. “What happened then, my Bell?” My Bell… When he called her that, everything within her wanted to burrow into his chest and never leave, but her mind…she knew he meant nothing of it.
“He promised that my lie would not protect me. That he would have me,” she said, shudders rocked her frame. “And so…I think this is his way of making good on that promise.”
“If you are captured and tried, he can feign mercy by begging you serve penance for your heresy as his slave.” Bell Heather watched as understanding snapped into place in Tristin’s eyes. “He means to make you his mistress by forcing you into servitude in his household.”
She nodded, the ache in her chest growing. “Aye.”
Suddenly, Tristin’s expression turned deadly, his lips pinching and his jaw muscles bunching.
“What is it?” she asked, sitting up, still holding the blanket to her chest.
“I have reason to believe Willem Mason is responsible, not only for your abduction, but the attack on me and my men,” Tristin answered, his voice a menacing growl.
“But why?”
His hand still on her face, Tristin traced the curve of her cheek with his fingers.
“I think he meant the attack as a distraction so that Gaubin could make away with you.”
Shocked, Bell Heather blinked at him, trying to understand what he was saying… “Ye mean that…he tried to kill ye...all of ye, just to capture me?” Guilt and horror sunk into her gut like a stone.
“Aye.”
The blood drained from her body and she pulled away, her eyes unfocused. Tristin dropped his hand, and she felt the loss of his warmth like a punch to the chest.
Tristin nearly died…because of me… No matter how hard she tried to make sense of it, it remained a wraith of disbelief, floating just out of reach. “I need…” She didn’t finish speaking. Ignoring the renewed pounding in her head, she struggled to her feet. Uncaring of her nakedness, she hurried to where Tristin had lain her clothes. She threw her dress on over her head, but it snagged in the bandage. She could hear Tristin stirring behind her, but she daren’t look. She couldn’t look upon him without thinking about what Willem Mason had intended to do to him. Because of her.
Strong arms wrapped around her, stilling her frantic movements. She swallowed a sob, her body racked with tremors.
“Bell Heather, it was not your fault. You cannot be blamed for one man’s evil. If that were the case, we would each be responsible for the actions of few. Where would be the righteousness in that? The justice in that? There would be no room for absolution…for mercy.” His words rumbled through her, but she couldn’t listen to them. They were lies. She was the reason Tristin and his men were attacked.
“Are yer men—”
“All of them were well—and angry—when I left to come for you,” Tristin interjected, trying to pull her back into his chest. She stood fast.
“Well, then that is something to be thankful for, aye?” she murmured, gazing out through the wide doorway that was just big enough for a wagon.
“Yes. And they will be here in the mornin
g.”
The heat of Tristin’s body, the scent of him, flowed into her, begging for her to soften against him, to let him comfort her. But she couldn’t. She was a bane to him—as long as Willem Mason was obsessed with possessing her, she was a danger to everyone around her.
“Ye cannot take me to Cieldon,” she blurted, pulling away to spin on her heel and face Tristin. Her body tense, her chest rising and falling on panted breaths, she waited for him to respond. He was standing there, naked, staring at her as if she’d grown a second head.
She forced her eyes to remain on his, to not look at the gorgeous muscled frame before her…or the thick manhood nestled betwixt his thick thighs. He was more stunningly virile that she ever could have imagined, and he knew it.
“I must,” he replied without inflection.
A sinking feeling began in her chest. “I cannot go there. Yer cardinal will rule in Mason’s favor, and I will be at his mercy. He will take me…he will use me!” Her voice became shrill, her heart pounding erratically.
Tristin reached for her, grasping her arms. “Nay. I will not let him.”
She snorted. “And who are ye to stop him?” Bell Heather scoffed. “What is a knight to Sir Willem Mason?”
Tristin recoiled as if she’d slapped him, his eyes narrowing. “I am more than just a knight. I am the son of an earl, a man chosen by the king to serve his interests. A warrior chosen by the Church to enforce its edicts. I am Homme du Sang, a man of honor, and I will stand before Cardinal Calleaux and demand your release. I will tell him of what we have learned. I will tell him about Mason’s underhanded deeds, and Gaubin’s betrayal.” Bell Heather couldn’t fathom the dark passion in his voice.
Did he mean it? Would he really fight for her? Her, the lowly village apothecary? The woman who didn’t own a pair of boots? And him…he was the son of an earl. He was nobility! Any shred of hope she had that Tristin would ever see her as worthy of him was snuffed out.
Straightening her shoulders, she threw her loose hair over her shoulder and pinned him with her most indignant glare—well, as much as she could muster when her bodice and laces askew.
“Nay. I cannot let ye do that. Ye have done much to become the man ye are, I will not let this be what ruins ye.”
Tristin’s eyes glimmered beneath his black lashes. A low, humorless chuckle thundered from his chest. “Ruin me? Nay, lady, I am already ruined.”
Before she knew his mind, Tristin’s hands slid up her arms to cradle her face, and his mouth descended upon hers, his kiss hungry, ravenous. By Dagda, she need him.
Parting her lips, she raised herself to meet his kiss, hunger for hunger. She was shocked by her own eager response, and even more so by how right it felt to be kissed by him.
More. She needed more. Groaning, she looped her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her, silently begging for him to devour her.
And he obliged, deepening the kiss, thrusting his tongue into her mouth to taste her, to tease her. He moaned in response, dropping hands from her face to take hold of her arse. His strong fingers gripped her, hauling her against him. His hardness burned into her belly as he pulled her bodice open to expose her nakedness.
He broke the kiss. “Wrap your legs around me,” he husked, his hot breath blasting her cheeks, sending tiny tremors through her flesh.
She did as he bid, and he walked forward until her back was pressed against the stable wall, just to the side of the door.
Tristin nipped her neck then slathered the sensitive area with his tongue, like he couldn’t get enough of her flavor.
“Tristin” she mewled, throwing her head back as demanding sensations rocked her. She caressed the plains of his back, desperate to touch him, feel the heat of him beneath her palms. She held her breath and he reach between them and took himself in his fist. He pumped it once and moaned, pressing his forehead into hers as if to steady himself. Then, he pressed the head of his shaft to her wet opening and shuddered.
“You have ruined me, my Bell,” he ground out before thrusting into her, filling her with a startling force. She cried out at the pleasure and pain, but he didn’t stop. Tristin was like a man possessed; grasping the curves of her hips in his hands, he used the wall to hold her in place as he pounded into her. The sounds were dizzying, the grunting and slapping, the wet sucking noises—the sounds of two animals giving into their driving need for release.
Bell Heather tightened her legs around him, pushing herself down on him as he thrust up. Where they met, they exploded, the incredible pressure filling her with immense pleasure, and then Tristin would pull back, then thrust in again, and she could only ride the tide of their savage desire. As he filled her, over and over, she watched his face, how glorious it was in his ecstasy, how his black eyes burned with a raging fire, and how the muscles in his neck bunched with the movement. Tristin was giving his all, he was giving her his all…and it stole the breath from her.
Tristin sped up, his thrusts coming faster, pushing deeper, and she screamed, her release shattered her into a thousand sparks of fire. And then he was thrusting into her one last time, grunting, and then bellowing into the broken ceiling as he emptied himself into the depths of her body.
Trembling, he kissed her neck, then her cheek, then each of her eyes, before kissing her lips once more. This kiss was different than the others; it was softer. Gentler. She kissed him back, languishing in her affections for her, pouring every ounce of her love into her kiss.
It wasn’t until he released her and she tried to stand and cover herself with her dress that she finally realized what he’d said just before joining with her.
You have ruined me…
Her heart lurched as it plummeted into emptiness.
Trying to remain standing under the weight of her shame, Bell Heather pulled at her bodice, tightening her laces; she had to cover herself, had to hide away. Hide her shame. An ugly smile pushed at her lips. Her first experience with a man, and she’d succeeded in ruining him… What did that even mean?
Suddenly exhausted, she touched the bandage around her head, rubbing at the space between her eyebrows. Think. Think. What did a man like Tristin mean when he speaks of being “ruined”? She knew he couldn’t have been a virgin…the things he did with his mouth, his hands, his— A blush blasted heat into her neck and face, and she turned away to stare out the door and into the darkness.
A shuffling from behind her made her tense.
“What are you doing over there? Come back, you need to rest…” Tristin beckoned, his voice a deep, rumbling lure she was hard pressed to ignore.
Nay! She couldn’t go back there, couldn’t lay there in his arms and not think about his words. Ruined. Angry at herself for her weakness, she spun on her heel. Tristin was standing there, by the pile of hay where they’d— She stiffened and raised her chin, forcing her gaze to his eyes, where she made it stay.
“What did ye mean when ye said I had ruined ye?” she asked, ashamed at the tremulousness in her voice.
He cocked his head, his gaze flicking from her lips, to her breasts, and then back to her eyes. A lopsided smile graced his lips and her belly leapt at the wickedness of his grin.
By Dagda’s Belt the man was a flesh and blood temptation!
“I cannot stop thinking about you…wanting you,” he drawled, taking a step closer to her. She took a step back, the sodden hay on the ground by the door squishing against the bandages on her feet.
She swallowed, her chest burning from holding her breath. “Why? I am nothing to ye but a duty, a cause for justice ye must accomplish,” she practically spat. Remembering the passion in his eyes when he spoke of standing up for her, she nearly balked, but she couldn’t back down now. Not when she needed the truth so desperately.
He took another step closer, his black eyes boring into her, his lips set in a thin line. Lips she wanted against hers with every beat of her heart.
“Can you not see?” he asked, raising his arms to indicate his still naked form. His
manhood was thick, erect, and the glistening tip was resting against the bottom of his navel. “Do you not know?” His tone was deep, heavy, carrying a disbelief and desperation.
She shuddered, crossing her arms over her chest to hug herself. The night chill bit at her back, but the core of her was blazing hot.
Tristin took another step and she forced herself to remain where she was, standing stiffly though she really wanted to run into the strength, warm, and comfort of his arms. When she’d awoken, nestled in his embrace, she’d felt safer in that moment than she had in her whole life. It was a heady, addicting feeling. But then…he’d made love to her, and what she thought was a feeling of safety had transformed into a need for him, just him.
Suddenly, Tristin was standing before her, towering over her. His black hair framing a face that was far too beautiful to be real; hewn from rock, expertly draped in taut flesh, the man was devastating to her senses.
He reached up and cupped her face with his hands, forcing her to look up into his eyes. She held her breath.
“You have been a burn in my veins since that moment I saw you, standing beneath the waterfall…”
His words slammed into her and she gasped. “Ye remembered?” she choked.
He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers as he’d done the last time they were standing like that.
“How could I forget?” he murmured.
“But,” she began, trying to pull away. He held fast. “Ye acted as though ye had never laid eyes on me before. Ye were hard… Cold.” Mean. Withdrawn. Thoughtless.
He groaned, an apologetic smile lifted his lips. “I am sorry for that, my Bell. Truly.”
She tried to pull away again, and this time he let her go.
“Ye say ye are sorry, but I cannot forget how ye watched me bathe, terrifying me, and then acted as though seeing me…bathing—” At the memory of what she’d done under the waterfall, the touching, the wickedness, heat rushed into her limbs. “—was nothing to ye,” she huffed. “Did ye find me wanting?” That was what she really wanted to know. Was she so easy to forget that he tried to forget her?
The Blood and The Bloom (Men of Blood Book 1) Page 21
