Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WesternWind 01 - Wynd River (10 page)

for he could feel the tremors building inside Aingeal’s cunt. Fluid was soaking his fingers and he could

taste it as it leaked out her opening. It was a heady nectar that flowed from her and it was spurring his

cock to hardness.

With his lips firmly circling her clit, his tongue flashing light touches against the swollen tip, he began

easing his fingers in and out of his lady until she was thrusting her hips up to him in total abandon. His

movements grew quicker, thrusting deeper, until the first spasm rocketed through her velvety channel and

he marveled at the firm grip her inner muscles plied on his fingers.

Aingeal opened her mouth and squealed as the climax shook her so forcibly. She held her hips up

against the invasion of his fingers until every last pulse rippled from her and left her depleted, exhausted,

as she crashed limply back to the mattress.

Cynyr lapped at the moisture that came from between her thighs and thought it was a delight only the

gods could know. Between her scent and taste, he was as hard as Ionarian steel.

“I want you inside me.”

It was an invitation he neither questioned nor prolonged. He slid his arms under her legs, hefted them

over his shoulders and rammed himself into her to the hilt.

Aingeal’s hands were still in his hair. She brought his mouth to hers and took him in a kiss that spurred

his thrusts to mindless frenzy. He was pummeling her, the slap of their bodies together a heady sound that

filled the room. His tongue dueled with hers—ravishing her mouth and taking what was rightfully his—and

his teeth grazed her lower lip. His hips were like pistons as he arched into her sweetness and, when his

climax came, he tore his mouth free of hers to howl his possession to the stars.

Her face as red as the crimson glowing in his eyes, Aingeal slapped her hand across his mouth. She

knew everyone in the hotel had heard that fierce growl.

He shook his mouth free. “I don’t care,” he said. “Let them hear how much this man loves his woman!”

Aingeal’s heart did a funny little jump in her chest. She knew he meant exactly what he said. He had not

only claimed her—twice now with his seed—he had said words she had never heard any man say, and

her soul melted.

Throwing her arms around him, she brought him down to her chest, his head pillowed on her sweaty

breast, and held him as tightly as she could. All her life she had searched for happiness and here it was.

Never would she allow it to escape her.

“I’m not going anywhere, wench,” he said, panting against her. He released her legs and grunted when

she immediately locked them around his hips. He was still buried within her and she began bucking

against him until he realized she was about to explode around him.

And explode she did! Aingeal was stunned at the ripples of pleasure that squeezed through her lower

belly. It was a deep, abiding release that drained her completely so that when the last spasm echoed

softly away, she was as spent as she could ever remember being. Lowering her legs, she was not

surprised to find them quivering.

“You know how to milk a man, don’t you, wench?” he whispered to her.

“My man,” she said, and he realized she was about to fall asleep.

Very gently, he eased himself from atop her, pulled her into the safety of his arms and even before he

smoothed away a lock of her damp hair, knew she was sound asleep.

A smile on his face, Cynyr Cree followed her down into the arms of Morpheus. For the first time in his

life he was at peace.

She woke him sneezing violently and when he turned to look at her, he saw her nose red and her eyes

swollen. Her body temperature concerned him and he put a hand to her forehead.

“You’re burning up, wench,” he said.

“Jus’ a cold,” she said, and he could hear the scratchiness of her throat.

“Aye, well, you aren’t getting out of this bed until I’m satisfied you’re able.”

“Jus’ a cold,” she repeated, and started to fling the covers back.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” he said, shoving the covers back over her.

“Gotta get up,” she mumbled, and tried to, but he reached out to pin her down.

“You aren’t going anywhere, Aingeal,” he said, menace in his voice.

She looked him in the eye. “Gotta pee,” she stated.

“Oh,” was all he said, and allowed her to get up. He looked away as she bent down to drag the

chamber pot from beneath the bed. His cheeks burned as he heard the tinkle hitting the porcelain.

“Better get used to it, Reaper,” she said with a loud sniff. “This is all part of living with a woman.”

It was the
living with a woman
that prodded Cynyr’s sense of honor. He had made this woman a part

of his life and he knew he would never allow her to leave him. He would die for her if such was required

of him. She was his and he was responsible for her.

He turned to watch her as she squatted over the pot, reaching out to snag her nightgown and dragging it

over her nakedness as she hunkered there.

“An bposfaidh tu me?”he suddenly asked.

Aingeal was climbing back in the bed, shivering. She thrust her feet under the cover. “What?”

“An bposfaidh tu me?”he repeated, and at her confused look translated his words into her language.

“Will you marry me?”

Aingeal blinked. She had not expected such a commitment from the Reaper. She could only stare at him,

her lips parted.

“I mean it, wench,” he said. “I want to make this official.”

She closed her mouth then storm clouds began gathering across her lovely face. “Official?” she echoed.

“Tá grá agam duit,”he said, his heart in his eyes.

“Stop that!” she snapped. “I don’t understand Gaelach. Talk Terran to me, Reaper!”

“I love you.”

Aingeal opened her mouth to speak but she began sneezing. Her nose was running and her head was

throbbing. Her throat hurt and she knew she looked like something the cat had dragged in. Could the

man possibly be asking her to marry him with him lying there as naked as the day he was born and her

looking as she did? She felt like crying.

Dredging the thoughts from her mind, he slid beneath the turmoil and the sickness of her cold and

wandered amid old memories, old wishes and needs and found what he knew would please her. He

threw aside the covers, reached for his britches and dragged them on as she continued to cough and

sneeze. Plucking a handkerchief from out of thin air, he skirted the bed and knelt down beside her,

holding out the snowy linen as though it was a precious offering.

Aingeal watched him out of the corner of her eye as she blew her nose. He was kneeling on one knee,

his hands on the edge of the bed.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He reached out for her hand and took it between his own. “Aingeal Portman,” he said, using her maiden

name, “will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Aingeal gaped at him. There he was kneeling beside her—his naked chest an invitation that beckoned

her hands and lips to explore it—and he was staring into her eyes with a look that made her toes curl.

“Are you serious?” she asked.

“As serious as I’ve ever been, wench,” he whispered. “I want to live my life with you at my side as my

lawful bride.”

Tears filled Aingeal’s eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Aye,
mo shearc.”
He corrected himself. “My love.”

As bad as she felt, Aingeal’s smile was as bright as a summer’s day. Outside, it was raining again and

somewhere in the hotel a clock was chiming the ninth hour. They had slept the afternoon away after

making love.

“Will you?” he prompted. “Will you accept me as your husband?”

“Aye,” she said, tears falling down her flushed cheeks. “With the greatest honor, Cynyr Cree!”

Never one to rest when there was work to be done, the Reaper kissed her quickly then stood up,

snatching his shirt from the chair.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“After a
sagart
,” he replied. “A priest.”

“You think they have one?”

“Every town has a holy man,” he said, buttoning his shirt. “All I need is one to say the rightful words over

us, no matter his religion.”

“This is important to you,” she said, a bit surprised that a Reaper would feel he needed such a thing.

“Very important to both of us,” he said, for he had taken as much from her thoughts. Her first marriage

had been a sham, a simple going-through-the-motions affair. This one—the real thing and her last

one—would be everything she desired it to be.

He marched to the door, buckling on his gun belt as he did. A Reaper was never without his weapons.

Flinging open the door, he stopped, turned and pointed a finger at her. “You stay put until I get back. Do

you hear me?”

She nodded, unable to do anything else. Long after the door closed behind him, she stared at it,

completely amazed at the turn of events in her life.

* * * * *

People were lying scattered about the hotel lobby floor as Cynyr came down the stairs. A few were still

awake and those turned uneasy eyes to him, looking away quickly when he glanced at them.

“I need a priest,” he told the hotelman whose back was to him.

“What the hell for?” the man snapped, and turned around only to stagger back when he saw who was

speaking. He held up a hand as though the Reaper was about to cut him down. “Please, sir, I didn’t

realize it was you who was—”

“A priest,” Cynyr repeated, his eyes narrowed.

“I could fetch Father O’Malley for you,” a youthful voice suggested followed by loud shushing.

The Reaper turned and his hawk-like gaze zeroed in on the one who had spoken. A young lad of about

fifteen was sitting up on a pallet, his mother and father flanking him, their nervous eyes locked on Cynyr.

“I’d consider that a favor, young sir,” Cynyr said. “Would you be seeing to it as quickly as you can?”

“Yes, sir!” Despite the tremor of his mother’s hand reaching out to stay him, the boy jumped up and

headed for the door.

“I’m in your debt,” Cynyr said, but his gaze was on the boy’s family. By then every person littering the

floor was awake and trying not to stare at the Reaper.

“Your lady hasn’t taken a turn for the worse, I’m hoping,” the hotelman said, trying to get back into the

good graces of the bounty hunter. He bestowed a wavering smile on Cynyr as he turned around to glare

at him.

“I am hoping you didn’t charge these good folks to allow them to sleep on your hard, cold floor,” Cynyr

said, locking his eyes on the hotelman and refusing to let the other look away.

“Well, sir, I—”

“There is an old Gaelach saying that goes
Mídhílis an té a fhágann slán agus an bóthar ag dul i

ndorcha.”
Cynyr narrowed his eyes. “Do you know what that means?”

The hotelman shook his head. “No, sir, I—”

“Faithless is he who says farewell when the road darkens,” came the translation. “Do you know what

that
means?”

“That I ought not to have charged them for sleeping on my floor?”

“And?”

The hotelman winced. “That I ought to give them back their money?”

“And?”

A pained look spread over the hotelman’s florid face. “I should give them a hot meal in the morning?” he

asked, wondering where such an idea came from.

“That would be most neighborly of you,” the Reaper proclaimed. He looked away from the hotelman

and caught a few people smiling at him.

The door opened and a grumpy old man wearing a wrinkled cassock came in shaking his umbrella.

“Who’s dying?” he demanded, and when he saw the Reaper, came to a stop, his jowls wobbling. “Who

the devil did you lash, boy?”

“No one’s dying that I know of, priest,” Cynyr said. “You’re here to perform a Joining.”

“The devil you say!” Father O’Malley exclaimed. “I’ll not be sanctioning any such thing without the

proper—”

“The lady is upstairs and waiting for you to say the words. If you’re not up to the task, I’ll find a man

who is,” Cynyr cut him off.

O’Malley drew himself up, his rheumy eyes narrowing to thin slits. “You watch yourself, boy. I may not

be able to take you in a fight, but I can curse your evil soul to hell and back!”

“You can do that later,” Cynyr said, and reached out to grip the old man’s arm. “All I need you to do is

say the proper, legal words over my marriage and—”

“Your marriage?” O’Malley shrieked, and jerked his arm out of Cynyr’s grip. His face turned white and

he looked around at the nervous people scattered around the room. “You aren’t going to allow this

travesty, are you?” When no one spoke, he turned around in a circle, spearing his parishioners with a

sharp look. “You aren’t going to let him get away with forcing a decent woman into Joining with him, are

you?”

“Even when she wants to do it?”

Every eye there jerked to the top of the stairs where Aingeal was standing in her flannel gown. She was

looking at Cynyr and her face was glowing with a love everyone there could not miss.

“He’s bewitched you!” O’Malley snarled. “Mesmerized you!”

“No, Your Grace,” Aingeal said. “He’s merely loved me and loved me well.”

Sputtering, O’Malley turned his outraged glare to Cynyr. “It is unheard of!” he grumbled. “Reapers do

not marry!”

“This one does,” Cynyr said. “Are you up to it or not, old man?”

O’Malley’s eyes flared. “Old man?” he repeated, his jowls quivering. “The devil take you, boy!”

“He got me a long time ago,” Cynyr said with a shrug.