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

by Rosamund Winchester

  She hated how nervous she was. She also hated how excited she was. What did he mean to do with her now that they were without Glenn and Elric?

  Tristin dismounted, securing the horse’s reins to a branch, then turned to look up at her. He peered at her intently, as if figuring out how to handle her best.

  If that was the case, it was better for him to get back on the horse and keep going! As he came up beside her, he placed his hand on her thigh, and she let out the breath she’d been holding, only to blurt, “We can rest with Glenn and Elric. There is no need to stop here on my account.”

  Before she could argue further, he reached up and plucked her from the saddle. He held her to him, her feet dangling above the ground. She was utterly in his control. And she enjoyed it far too much.

  “I did not stop for you, Bell Heather. I found that it was becoming more and more difficult to think clearly with your lush arse pressed against my swollen shaft,” he drawled, arching an eyebrow at her when her mouth dropped open in shock. His gaze dropped from hers to land on her mouth. “You must know what you do to me, Bell Heather. You must know that I desire you…”

  She shook her head, not trusting her voice.

  A wicked, wolfish grin spread across his face, and her belly flipped over.

  His left hand dropped to her backside, pushing her harder against him. Against the thickness of his arousal. She gasped again, startled by his size and the hardness of him. She’d had him inside her, filling her, and still…he amazed her with his manhood.

  “Do you know now?” he asked, grin gone, replaced by a ravenous curling of his lips.

  She swallowed, taking a moment to try and align her thoughts. But they were in too much disarray, too jumbled, too woven around Tristin. “I…I think it best that we continue on,” she finally spoke.

  He leaned down, his lips close enough to hers that she felt the brush over them against hers.

  “Are you in that much a hurry to get to Cieldon…to become mine?” he drawled.

  She started. “Yours?” she imitated his use of the word. “I belong to no one, not now, not ever. I did not belong to Willem Mason, and I do not belong to ye.” Anger boiling through her, she pushed against his chest, straining against his hold. He allowed her to drop to her feet, but his arms around her only tightened. She was trapped.

  She met his gaze; it sparked with black lightning.

  “Nay, you do not belong to me, Bell Heather, but I cannot help but wonder what it would be like to belong to you,” he intoned. Stunned by his admission, Bell Heather stopped struggling.

  “Belong to me? Why would ye wish to be tied to me? Aye, we were…intimate,” she flushed at the word, “but tis only natural. I do not expect for ye to chain yerself to my side for that. Not for that.” Her voice didn’t sound her own. It sounded…forlorn.

  He took hold of her chin, lifting it until she was held transfixed by the glimmering of something deep and abiding in his eyes. “What if I want to be tied to you?”

  Her breath caught. It was impossible. He didn’t mean it, he couldn’t. He was an earl’s son, a knight of the realm, and man who could marry a woman with noble blood.

  “Why?” was all she could force out through her constricted throat.

  With agonizing slowness, Tristin dipped his head and brushed his lips over hers. “Is it not obvious?” He asked, then took her lips in a gentle, teasing kiss. He dropped his hand to her hip and pulled her into him, and she could feel the strength of his arousal against the quivering flesh of her belly.

  Heaven…

  She leaned into him, becoming like warm honey in his arms. This…she wished this could last forever, that tomorrow wouldn’t come. She yearned for more, for all of him…for he would so easily have all of her. She was a fool to think she didn’t belong to him—the word belong was just that, a word. What she felt for Tristin went beyond belonging and possessing; it was blood and breath. She needed him more than she could ever understand. And that was terrifying.

  The kiss was over too quickly, and he was pulling away, but only so he could look down into her face. He gaze was as gentle as his kiss, and it slid over her features as if trying to memorize her every expression.

  Bell Heather allowed the hint of a smile to grace her mouth, and his eyes darted to it.

  “As much as I would love to stay here and kiss you until we both stop breathing, I think we have left Glenn and Elric alone too long. Those two would get into trouble with all their limbs tied.”

  A giggle bubbled up at the image, and Bell Heather watched as Tristin retrieved Chevalier’s reins and turned to help her into the saddle. Once they were mounted, Bell Heather snuggled back into Tristin’s chest, where she belonged, and closed her eyes.

  She bathed in his warmth, his scent, the memories of his mouth, his body, his touch, and she took heart in that, if she were to die tomorrow, she would do so not knowing a single moment of regret.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Cardinal Cristian Calleaux read the letter for the third time, slowly digesting the words. Slowly growing more and more incensed.

  “Willem, that bastard,” he growled, tossing the letter onto the escritoire in front of him.

  “Your Eminence,” Martin said, his face impassive, but his eyes burning with poorly disguised hatred. Cristian didn’t care if his acolyte preferred he burn in hell, he only cared that the man did as he was told. “What should I send in reply?”

  Cristian stood, kicking the hem of his cassock with unspent rage. “Who delivered the letter?”

  Martin tipped up his chin and did all he could to not blush; holding his breath, for a moment, and then swallowing.

  “Sir Leon Callet, Eminence,” he answered, practically choking on the name.

  Leon? Ah, yes, the knight of the Homme du Sang his acolyte was buggering in secret—which they would have to do in order for Cristian to not bring up charges of sodomy and sexual perversions. He did not care what his acolyte did with his asshole as long as he kept it behind closed doors.

  Which was the same rule Cristian had given to Willem. He knew of Willem’s predilections for inflicting pain on nubile women—mostly female children—but it did not matter to him if Willem preferred little boys, only that he did not air his sexual inclinations where anyone could smell the stench of them.

  “I see,” he replied, coming around the escritoire to pick up the fire poker from its holder beside the hearth. He gripped it tight, letting the pain in his knuckles wash away the urge to do violence. How dare Willem Mason flaunt his sickness before the people of Westmorland and Cumberland? How dare the ingrate try and kill the knights of his order? He had worked—bribing, kissing Rome’s arse, and sucking the bishop’s prick—to get his position as one of the few cardinals who hadn’t first been ordained. He had clawed his way up from the noble cesspools of France to rule over his corner of England, and he would kill anyone who dared to besmirch his reputation.

  The letter, which he had memorized, sat, staring at him, burning him with its words.

  “…Mason abducted our charge… Mercenaries attacked…lead by known Mason connection, Timmons… Suspect Gaubin More was hired by Sir Willem Mason for the first foiled abduction… Request directions.” The letter held very little detail, but what it did say was enough for Cristian to hunger for Willem Mason’s blood.

  “Send word to Keswick, I want the Homme du Sang in Cieldon by morning. I will have Willem Mason’s head for this!” he yelled, then checked his demeanor. Such outbursts were unbecoming a Prince of the Church, and while Willem scoffed at Cristian’s power, Cristian would show him just what it meant to cross Cardinal Cristian Calleaux.

  He swung the poker, hitting the marble of the hearth with a vicious thud and resounding clank. The vibrations shot up his arm and he gasped at the eruption of pain in his wrist and shoulder. He dropped the poker and cradled his hand, turning a glare on Martin.

  “Go!” he bellowed then watched as Martin returned his glare then hurried from the room.r />
  So, Willem risked much for the very woman he’d accused of witchcraft… The idea of witchcraft was laughable. Magic wasn’t real, and those who practiced it were no better than the animals they sacrificed. He’d agreed to capture and try the woman because he was interested in why Willem Mason was interested in her, why he bothered to come to Cristian with the charges at all.

  And now he knew; Mason had wanted the opportunity to take the woman for himself. Which meant she was valuable to him, which meant she could be useful.

  Sitting back down at his escritoire, Cristian tore the damnable letter to shreds then removed a piece of parchment from a drawer. Dipping the pen in the ink well, he began writing his own letter, this one bound for the archbishop in Canterbury. As he blotted and sanded the letter, he smiled. What Willem Mason had meant for his gain would now work for Cristian’s.

  ***

  The night had fully descended by the time they reached the village of Keswick. The Balliwich, a moderately sized two story inn just inside the village limits, was as noisy inside as it was outside. Tristin lead Bell Heather through the milling drunks and cackling whores to the back room where he expected to see the others waiting for them. Glenn, using his good shoulder, pushed open the door. Seven pairs of eyes turned to them and shouts erupted.

  “Welcome, Captain,” Aster said coming to slap Tristin on the shoulder. “We are glad to see you arrive no worse for the journey.”

  Tristin greeted him in kind. Then Ioan, then David, then John, then Robert, then Pierre, then Leon. Lord, but it was good to be back amongst his men again, if only for one final night.

  “Leon,” Tristin called. Leon turned, pinning Tristin with eerie gray eyes.

  “Aye, Captain?” he replied, drawing up to his full height of no more than five-foot-nine.

  “Did the cardinal receive your letter?”

  Leon snapped a nod. “Aye. I delivered it myself.”

  “And did he send a reply?”

  “Aye. He wants us in Cieldon in the morning, though, I do not think he knew you were not with us when he wrote that,” Leon explained.

  “Well then, it is good we arrived when we did. There is much to discuss,” he said, pulling Bell Heather into his side. She was hesitant, tense, her eyes wide and alarm filling the green with flecks of gold.

  “We will eat, then we will rest,” he whispered into her ear so that she could hear him over the din in the room. Glenn and Elric greeted their brothers at arms with enthusiasm, and Tristin turned from the room, Bell Heather still tucked against him.

  He flagged down a barmaid. “We will have two suppers sent to your first available room.”

  Bell Heather started but said nothing.

  The woman, a dour matron with wide hips and sharp brown eyes pursed her lips. “Ye two can have whichever room those louts—” She pointed to the room they’d just left, “haven’t destroyed.”

  Not surprised but still annoyed, Tristin looked over his shoulder. “Wait here,” he instructed Bell Heather before hurrying back to inquire which room was the most habitable. Aster, Lord Bless him, had a corner room with a table and double bed—the man did love his comforts. Aster gave him the key then winked.

  Tristin ignored the man’s obvious mirth and returned to Bell Heather who was staring across the large public room at a couple in the corner. The man was embracing the woman, raining kisses over her neck, and the woman, who was great with child, was smiling and laughing.

  It was the picture of happiness, of joy… So why was Bell Heather frowning? He couldn’t ask her then, not with so many ears and eyes about; he’d have to wait until they were alone. Drawing her along with him, Tristin stopped at the bad where a round man with a bald pate and jovial smile stood.

  “Balliwich,” Tristin greeted, reaching over the bar to grasp the man’s hand.

  “Captain Tristin,” Balliwich called back. “Good to see ye’ve arrived to take yer men in hand,” he said, laughing heartily.

  “Oh, aye, I have arrived, but I am not here only on business. Have you an ink well and some parchment?”

  Balliwich held up and hand for Tristin to wait then disappeared through a swinging door into the kitchens. He appeared a minute later with what Tristin required.

  “Bell Heather, take this key, go up to the room. I will be up shortly with your bag and food,” he said, leaning close. Her eyes were wide, taking in his expression, watching his lips move as if she couldn’t understand the words.

  “Will I be staying in the room…alone?” she inquired, a soft flush coloring her cheeks. She looked like a delicate dessert cake, filled with sweet cream. Desire soared, his body tightening at the lovely, delicious image.

  “Not if you do not want to, my Bell,” he answered, his voice heavy with intent.

  Her gaze flicked to his and he held her there with only the force of his want of her, displayed in his expression.

  Balliwich cleared his throat loudly, and Bell Heather’s flushed deepened. Tristin handed her the key and she hurried to the stairs leading to the rooms on the second floor. Tristin watched her and she disappeared from sight, then turned to see Balliwich grinning like a fool.

  “Tis good to see ye with a woman—how long as it been?” the impertinent man asked.

  Tristin waved him away, cringing at the man’s bellow of laughter, then bent to write the missive. Once he was finished, he called Balliwich back.

  “Give this to your hardiest lad and have him ride your fastest horse. This letter needs to be in Kentwithe by the morning.”

  Balliwich looked at the letter then took it in hand, knowing full well the importance with which Tristin was entrusting him. “It will be done,” he said, and Tristin nodded. Suddenly free of his momentary obligation, he was quickly reminded that there was someone waiting for him in a room upstairs. Someone he very much wanted to spend time with.

  Precious time. Time he may never get again.

  Nay! Have hope. If the cardinal refuses to see the truth, you can rest assured your letter will save your hide…

  If only hoping were that easy. After retrieving Bell Heather’s bag from Elric, he climbed the stairs, two-at-a-time, and tread the hallway toward the room Aster had rented. Just outside the door, he stopped, hand hovering over the latch. What was he thinking to assume that Bell Heather would want to spend the night with him? After their time together in the abandoned stable, she’d acted cold, distant, just as he had when they’d first met—officially. Was he a fool to think that she would be willing to repeat their night of breathtaking passion? Nay, she’d all but asked him to spend the night with her, but that didn’t mean she was certain. She was a puzzle, his Bell, and while he wanted to spend the rest of his life discovering all the pieces that made her who she was, he didn’t have the patience for such things tonight. Tonight, he wanted to show her just what she meant to him.

  You cannot do that from this side of the door!

  Finally depressing the latch, he slowly pushed the door open and peered inside. Bell Heather shot to her feet from where she was sitting, perched at the very edge of a chair.

  “Tristin…I-I did not know if ye would come…” her flush returned, and the hesitation in her voice made him smile. She was nervous, but she wasn’t running away. It was a good sign.

  “Of course, I came,” he replied, seeing the tray of food sitting on the table beside where Bell Heather was standing. “I had my food sent here, where else would I eat?” he asked, teasing.

  The flash of ire in her eyes told him she didn’t get the jest, so he entered the room and shut the door behind him. He made a show of locking it, then turned back to her, dropping her bag on the floor. “Besides…there is nowhere else I would rather be right now…than with you.”

  She raised a golden eyebrow. “Because the food is here?” she asked, her tone dripping with mockery.

  “Yes,” he answered and grinned when her face pinched in anger, her nose scrunching into the most adorable grimace.

  “Well,” she huffed,
“I hope tis delicious. I would hate to force ye into my company and make ye eat pig swill.” She threw back her shoulders and sat down, again, at the very edge of the chair. Her back straight, she peered at him imperiously, as if waiting for him to dance.

  He chuckled. “I have no doubt that the food and the company will be delectable,” he drawled, and her flush turned a crimson red. Lord, but he enjoyed making her blush. He strode to the chair across the small table from her and sat, crossing his legs at his ankles and leaning back into the chair. To anyone looking, he would appear relaxed, but he was anything but. The woman across from him pulled him taut, stringing a lute with guts.

  “I do not know why ye say such things,” she scoffed, her chin high, but he wasn’t fooled. She was strung as tight as he was, and all it would take was a single plucking to get her to play a beautiful note.

  He crossed his arms, shielding his tender heart from the invisible daggers she was hurling. “I say them because I mean them. I do not say such things lightly.”

  She huffed, reaching out to pick up a piece of bread. She tore off a piece and put it in her mouth, chewing it slowly, almost thoughtfully. He watched her throat work as she swallowed; her neck was long, graceful, the color of Devonshire cream… “And did ye mean what ye said, back at the waterfall…” she asked, her gaze pinned to the bread in her hands.

  “What did I say?” he asked, leaning forward.

  She shrugged. “Ye said there were dangerous things in the woods.”

  He had said that, and he had meant it. But he hadn’t been talking about animals.

  “I did.”

  “Did ye mean what ye said at the mill…” She tore off another piece of bread and slowly lifted it to her mouth. He watched, holding his breath, as she popped the morsel between her lips. God, he’d never been envious of baked goods before. “…about dressing me in silks every day?”

  He nodded, not taking his eyes off her mouth. A sensual smile played at her lips, and he could feel his manhood thicken in response.