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

by Rosamund Winchester

  Rage welled, slamming against his ribs with every beat of his heart. But it was quickly replaced by guilt.

  “You could not have saved her any sooner,” Elric spoke softly from beside him. Tristin was sitting with Bell Heather draped over his lap. Upon reaching the mill, he’d refused to relinquish hold of her, which made binding Glenn’s wound awkwardly done. Never again. Never again would he let her go. He almost lost her… The memory of Willem raising the knife over Bell Heather’s prone form, and then again, when Willem threw his dagger at her, no doubt aiming for her chest… She could have died right before his eyes.

  “I should not have let him take her in the first place…” Tristin ground out, his voice shaky with unspent anger.

  “But Marian…he would have hurt Bear’s daughter,” Elric replied.

  “Nay,” a soft voice interjected, and Tristin started, staring down into Bell Heather’s glorious green eyes. “He never intended to hurt the girl. It was a lie.”

  Tristin gathered her closer, pressing her chest against his. He was immediately annoyed at the covering of a simple black tunic he’d taken from his own body and dressed her in once they’d reached safety. He wanted her skin against his, her warmth against the chill in his blood. Would he ever get warm again? Would he never not feel this depth of fear and guilt?

  “You have bled my heart for the last time, my Bell. Never leave my sight again,” Tristin commanded, his imperious tone lost as he smiled down at her, his heart stuck in his throat.

  She didn’t return his smile, though her cheeks did turn a dusky rose. Lovely.

  Bell Heather pushed away, trying to sit up. It loathed him to let her leave his embrace, but he knew she needed to rise, to prepare. It was nearly sun up, and they would need to ride for Cieldon soon.

  “I cannot promise that any more than I can promise not to sneeze,” she replied, staring down at his tunic on her body and the tapestry still wrapped around her legs. “I see ye were not able to retrieve my dress…”

  Glenn chuckled from across the room. “As feisty as ever, I see.”

  Bell Heather turned to him and gasped. “Ye were hurt,” she cried, launching herself to her feet while also trying to keep the tapestry in place over her nakedness.

  “Ho, there, lass,” Glenn said, holding up his left hand to stall her advance. “I think ye should worra more about yer diminished attire than my arm.”

  She glared at Glenn, and Tristin could tell from the narrowing of her eyes and the puckering of her lips that she was both frustrated that he was being so uncaring about his wound and embarrassed that he mentioned her undress at all. She drew the tapestry up over her hips and planted her hands there to keep it in place.

  “I can look at yer wound without losing my breeches, I promise ye that,” she asserted, throwing her shoulders back. Tristin watched Bell Heather inspect Glenn’s wound; even from a distance of a few feet between them, Glenn was wincing. Having done what he could for Glenn’s wound with clean water and scraps of linen Elric had brought back with him from the inn, Tristin knew Glenn’s wound would heal.

  “Nay need ta worra, lass. Captain did a fine job patchin’ up my holes,” Glenn said, wiggling his black eyebrows. Elric barked a laugh, and Tristin smiled, thankful that his two closest friends were able to find levity in the moment. But what of Bell Heather? She’d only just woken up but he could tell there was something…wrong.

  Taking a moment to steady his breathing, he walked to where Elric had deposited the clothes he brought for Bell Heather. Retrieving them, he returned to Bell Heather’s side.

  “Bell Heather, Elric was able to procure you something to wear. You may change in here; we will wait outside.”

  At the look of momentary terror on her face, he took her hand in his—unthinkingly. It was natural to want to touch her, to comfort her. “We will be right outside the mill. If you need anything, hear anything, feel a bug land on your nose, call for me, I will come.” He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice, but he desperately needed to be there for her, to be that man who was worthy of her.

  She gazed up into his eyes, her expression giving away nothing, before she gave a curt nod and took the clothing from his grasp.

  Without a word, Glenn and Elric proceeded him from the building, and he followed them into the waning darkness.

  “We can make Keswick by evening if we make haste,” Elric said, his gaze as far away as their destination. “Bellerophon is a bit travel worn, but he’ll be happy to eat oats from his own bucket.” Elric was speaking about Bellerophon’s stall at Carnburg, which meant Elric intended to return home directly after reaching Cieldon. Tristin had hoped to hand the reins of the Homme du Sang to Elric the moment he renounced his vows, but it didn’t seem as though Elric was all that excited about the prospect of leadership.

  “In a hurry to return to your own bed, I see?” Tristin quipped, leaning against the mill’s outside wall, attempting to look as though his friend’s decisions didn’t affect him.

  Elric crossed his arms. “What of it? You may have decided to give up your life of blood and blades, but I am not ready to take your title and all the responsibility that comes with it.”

  Glenn coughed, obnoxiously, and when Elric and Tristin turned to him, his expression was all innocence. “I did say I was available for such a position. I wouldna mind ye callin’ me ‘captain’…”

  Elric grunted and Tristin rolled his eyes—a purely childish action—and grinned into the morning sky. Heavens, but smiling felt good.

  Too bad you will have little reason to smile on the morrow… His thoughts turned to Bell Heather in the mill—though, they were never far from her—and what tomorrow might bring. He was confident that Calleaux would grant him an audience, but would he be willing to accept Tristin’s word of what happened to Willem Mason?

  Nothing was set in stone. He hated the uncertainly, especially since it meant he could not make plans with Bell Heather.

  Take her…run… Nay! He couldn’t run. He would spend the rest of his life running, and Bell Heather would never be able to set foot in Clarendon again. To make a home with her, he first needed to clear her name of all charges against her. And that meant facing Calleaux, no matter how unsettling it was to think of Bell Heather kneeling before the cardinal’s dais.

  “I will call you captain the day I grow teats and moo,” Elric responded, and Glenn howled in laughter, throwing his head back, and then immediately cringed, folding sideways to cradle his shoulder.

  “Dunna make me laugh, ya fool. I could bleed ta death before I have a chance ta give ye my first order,” Glenn hissed, then chuckled. Then cringed again.

  Tristin was only half listening to the interchange between Glenn and Elric; most of his attention was focused on the woman inside the mill. She was getting dressed…but what was she thinking about? Was she reliving her ordeal in Willem Mason’s hidden chamber? Was she thinking about Cieldon, just as he was?

  Of course, she is. It is her life on the line, her life she is entrusting in you. Because you promised.

  The sounds of shuffling reached his ears and he turned to find Bell Heather standing in the doorway. His breath caught, his heart pounding, at the sight. Though she was dressed in a simple gown in a soft green, the color only brought out the gold in her hair and the green of her eyes…and the supple fabric clung to her curves as he wished his hands could.

  “Bell Heather…” her muttered, unable to gather his thoughts.

  “Ye look lovely, lass,” Glenn finished for him. Bell Heather ducked her head, pink rising into her cheeks.

  “I have never worn anything so fine before,” she said, tucking a few strands of her long, loose hair behind her ear. Was she nervous? He grinned, somewhat chagrined, his chest tightening.

  “I would have you in such fine fabrics for the rest of your days,” he declared, uncaring of Elric and Glenn’s reactions to his words. It was her he wanted, her he desired to please. If she wanted to wear silks every day of the year, he wo
uld give them to her. And he would thoroughly enjoy removing them from her.

  His manhood shot to life and he turned to hide his engorgement from prying male eyes.

  He cleared his throat. “We will be leaving once we’ve broken our fast. There are apples and cheese in my bag.”

  She blushed again, but this time, instead of ducking her head to hide her face, she met his gaze with fiery green eyes. Immediately, he was caught up in the beauty of her, which became all the more obvious when Glenn tossed an acorn at his head and he didn’t notice until it clattered to the ground beside his boot.

  “I must admit, I could eat a bushel of apples and a whole wheel of cheese,” she said, tapping her chin.

  Glenn and Elric bit back chuckles and peered at Tristin and Bell Heather with glimmering gazes. The louts. They were enjoying his discomfort far too much.

  Tristin straightened his back, fixing a commanding glare in place. “Elric, gather the food. We will need to eat quickly in order to leave before the sun rises over the trees.”

  Elric, his smirk gone, disappeared into the mill where their bags were, and Glenn sat, gracefully, on a fallen log just on the other side of the path worn into the hillside. The trail consisted of pale dust and a scattering of rocks—it was a well-used path. Thankfully, it wasn’t milling season, otherwise, they wouldn’t have been able to hide there as long as they had.

  Elric returned with the sack containing the food and they sat, in silence, eating. Tristin watched Bell Heather, and she watched nothing, her gaze cast to the ground. Her brows were drawn together, as if in deep thought, and her lips were pursed. She was certainly thinking on something, and he’d give his left arm to know what.

  Glenn groaned, standing, and Bell Heather stood, too. Without speaking, she walked to a path of green covered in smatterings of what looked like wild flowers. She peered down, investigating each patch for something… She bent and picked three sprigs of what looked like lavender. She spun toward him, her face bright, and held the sprigs high.

  “I have just the thing for that wound, Glenn. Give me but a moment and I will make a poultice for ye,” she said, striding past them and into the mill. She came back outside, water bladder in hand. Coming to a stop before him, Bell Heather peered up into his face, and he held his breath. “Sir Tristin, may I have use of yer knife?”

  Sir Tristin? His knife? The formality in her tone pricked at something in him, and her request for his knife stirred his wariness. “Why?”

  She pulled back her shoulders. “I need something I can use to scrape the herb from the stem. Then, I need to cut and crush the herbs to release the medicine inside.” She held up the water and the sprigs and huffed. “Well, do ye want yer man better or nay?”

  Stunned by the chill in her voice, he allowed the frustration within him to rise, dragging up his anger with it. “Be quick about it,” he ground out, pulling his knife from the sheath at his waist and handing it to her, hilt first.

  She blinked down at it then took it. She made short work of creating a poultice from the herbs, water, and some of the flour left behind in the mill.

  “Tis sticky, but it will help keep the swelling and infection down,” she informed Glenn, who was grimacing in an obviously feigned manner. The rogue was overplaying his hand.

  By the time the sun was just cresting the trees, Bell Heather was seated before him on Chevalier, and their company was headed north, toward Cieldon. And a future that was looking bleaker by the moment.

  ***

  Tucked into Tristin’s embrace, it was easy to think on things best left for people who weren’t going to die within the week. They were headed toward Cieldon, a place she’d never seen, and would never see again. Bell Heather held herself away from Tristin’s chest, stiff, aloof. It took everything within her to not melt into him, to not turn and seek his attention, to not turn and seek his lips with hers.

  If Willem Mason’s evil has taken root, this may very well be my last day…with Tristin. The thought tore her apart, slicing away at her heart and soul.

  Why did I have to fall for the one man determined to fulfil his every duty? Why did she have to fall for the one man who confused and thrilled her, all in the same moment? Though frustrated, she had to admire Tristin’s honor; he was committed to doing as he vowed, at least to the cardinal. A thought simmered in her mind…perhaps, because he’d broken his vow of purity—to never enjoy pleasure of the flesh—he was doubly determined to keep all other vows.

  Tis possible. And admirable. She couldn’t be angry at him for that. She could understand his drive to finish his time with the Homme du Sang with one final victory to lay before the Church’s feet.

  Even if it was her he was giving over.

  “You have bled my heart for the last time, my Bell. Never leave my sight again…” His words echoed through her, clanging against her reason. He couldn’t mean that. She was only a duty to him, a temptation. Someone to deliver and forget…

  So why did he feel like heaven around her? Why did being in his arms feel better than she could have ever imagined? Why did it feel so right?

  Coming to a dead tree, lying across the road, Tristin kicked Chevalier into a jump. Bell Heather fell back against Tristin, and before she could right herself, putting the distance between them back in place, his arm snaked around her like an iron band, holding her in place. Her whole being filled with waiting, wondering. She held her breath then let it out in a rush when he pressed himself against her back. His heat became a living thing, caressing her. Bell Heather clamped her mouth shut to keep from groaning at the pleasure. The hand over her belly flexed, his fingers splaying wide, possessively. A tingling began in her stomach, spreading into the core of her. She pressed her thighs together to kill the sensation, to strangle the desire that was gathering there.

  She tried focusing on the horse—something that usually filled her with terror—to keep her mind off of the man directing it, but that only made her focus on the way Tristin rode so well, his strong hands holding the reins with confidence, his muscled thighs clamped tight to the horse’s sides…and his hard chest behind her, a wall of flesh and heat she wanted to climb.

  When she’d first woken that morning, she’d been laying across his lap. She’d cracked her eyes, fearful that she’d awaken in the pitch black again. But, what met her gaze was Tristin’s naked, honed, muscular chest. It took all she had to not reach out and run her fingers over the shelf of muscle, or to flick his square nipple, or to tease at the dark hair forming a downward trail. Now, after having dressed in a fresh tunic and with his breastplate in place, his chest was covered, and she was disappointed, but she’d be damned if she let him know that. She’d decided, just that morning, to distance herself from him, put up the wall that should have been there since the beginning, the same wall he’d tried to erect before she’d tempted him. He’d been right all along…it was best that they be nothing more than a knight and his charge.

  Let him deliver ye without a care, lest he do something foolish… Like ask for her hand. Tristin was a noble man, and she wouldn’t put him past him to propose marriage simply because he felt he had to.

  She cared for him, unbelievably so, but she refused to live her life with a man who only tied himself to her because he’d buggered her. She wanted a marriage like her parents had; one of love and devotion. She didn’t remember much about her father, but she could remember how big he was, and how easily he picked up Mama when he hugged her, swinging her about and laughing. That’s what she wanted…true love and affection. And if she couldn’t have that with Tristin, she never would.

  “Are you uncomfortable,” he asked, his deep voice a low rumbling at her ear.

  She nearly shuddered. “Nay.” She refused to say more for fear her heart would take over her mouth.

  “Then, is something amiss?” There was a hint of humor in his voice, and it pricked at her indignation. How dare he find humor in that situation? There was nothing humorous about being trapped in the arms of the man she
was trying to forget, to ignore. He was making it more difficult with his determination to speak with her.

  “I would rather ye did not speak to me,” she snapped, turning her face away from his mouth against her ear.

  A chuckled moved through her back. “And why is that, my Bell?”

  She huffed. “It only invites familiarity.”

  The hand over her belly reached up and gripped her chin, slowly pulling her face back to rest against his lips. “I think we have passed familiarity and gone straight to intimacy,” he purred, and she gasped, her body ringing with his words.

  “It is better to forget that ever happened,” she muttered, trying to pull her face away, trying to be aloof and cold—dammit!

  He stopped his horse and Bell Heather’s stomach lurched. What was he doing?

  Elric and Glenn—riding one-handed—stopped beside them.

  “Tristin?” Elric peered at Tristin over her shoulder, then his gaze flicked to her. Understanding dawned in his expression. “Glenn…I think we should ride ahead, scout the road for hidden dangers.”

  Glenn’s face was unreadable, but his blue eyes we dancing.

  Nay, they couldn’t leave her there, alone with Tristin! “I think we should all continue. The sooner we reach Cieldon, the sooner ye can all return home, aye?” Desperate, she infused her voice with as much coaxing as she could. But from the smirk on Elric’s face, she knew she’d failed.

  Glenn and Elric spurred their horses into a canter, leaving Bell Heather and Tristin alone along the side of an otherwise empty road.

  As she watched her only salvation disappear around a bend, she stiffened, holding her breath.

  “I think we could use a rest,” Tristin said, leading Chevalier to the side of the road to where a large tree, thick boughs casting shadows on the ground, stood silently watching them.