Her Reaper's Arms (4 page)

“You don’t have to undress,” she heard him saying, his words slurred. “I just want

to hold you.”

He was drunk and more than likely unaware of what he was saying. She could tell

by the way he mumbled his words the liquor was rapidly claiming him, but she did not

doubt he would keep his word. A Reaper’s word was law, drunk or not.

There was sweat glistening on his chest and she remembered someone once

remarking that Reapers’ body temperatures were higher than normal.

“You are hot, aren’t you?” she asked, and at his nod, she rose to her feet and

reached out to push the shirt from his body, helping him draw his heavily muscled

arms from the sleeves. The moment she saw the stylized grim reaper tattoo on his left

pectoral, she tensed.

“Was that burned into your flesh, milord?” she asked.

“Aye,” he whispered, still surprised, and a bit confused that she would dare

question him.

She met his gaze. “It must have hurt.”

“Not so much,” he lied.

Her gaze roamed over his flesh and it was all she could do not to flinch as she took

in the myriad scars that lined his broad chest. There were unmistakable burn marks,

long cuts, places where it looked as though the flesh had been torn away.

“A pretty sight, huh?” he asked.

“You are a warrior, milord,” she said. “Such a sight is to be expected.”

She was holding his silk shirt in her hands and began to fold it carefully, trying not

to look at the scars. She laid it aside as he swung his legs up on the bed and stretched

out, one knee cocked. Since he was close to the edge of the bed and she would have had

to crawl over him to lie down, she skirted the bed and went to the other side. Sitting

down, she lifted her legs, removed her worn boots and stockings and then drew her feet

onto the mattress. Then she lay there as still as a corpse, her hands crossed over her

stomach, not knowing what he desired her to do.

Bevyn rolled over to his side, facing her—not touching her though he longed to. She

turned her face toward him, her gray eyes a bit wary. He liked the way the sunlight

coming in through the window shone on her bright blonde hair. It was piled up in a

haphazard way upon her head with little tendrils falling down and he desperately

wanted to take the pins from it, to see it hanging free. He shook himself to get rid of that

tempting notion.

“How did you come to work here, wench?” he asked, memorizing every freckle,

mole and tiny imperfection on her lovely face. His fingers itched to trace a small scar on

the underside of her chin, wondering how she’d come by it.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“My mother was the town’s seamstress,” she said, shifting so she was lying on her

side too. One small hand lay pressed against the mattress, the other she tucked beneath

her head. “When she died, I had no way to fend for myself but to work. The house we

lived in was a rental and not even the furniture was ours. The only things Mama owned

outright were her sewing machine, the tools of her trade and a dress form. When she

died, those things were auctioned off to pay for her funeral. Mable was kind enough to

offer me the job as her cook and maid. I had no other options and no money to journey

elsewhere for work.”

“There were no men courting you, wench?” he inquired. As pretty as she was, he

found it hard to believe the men of Orson had not been camped on her doorstep.

“There are few single men in town, milord, but those who would have me would

do so without benefit of Joining.”

Bevyn’s head was swimming. No food, too much booze too quickly, the nearness of

the lovely woman lying willingly beside him—all combined to put a pleasant fuzziness

to his world. He found himself relaxing, something he rarely did in the company of

others.

“You should have a husband, wench,” he said. He slid his hand to hers, entwining

their fingers, liking the contact.

“One day,” she said. She arched her hand, pulling his fingers beneath her own as

though it were the most natural thing in the world to do.

His eyelids were growing heavy. Normally, he would have sent the girl from his

room before he even thought of sleeping, locked the door behind her, keeping his gun

close at hand in case some hard case decided to get up the courage to challenge him.

“Were you born here in Orson?” he asked, trying to hide his yawn.

“In Prescott, just west of here,” she replied. She was studying his face so close to her

own, mentally tracing the tribal tattoo, her gaze dipping to the crimson Reaper insignia

on his chest.

“I spent a month there one night,” he joked. “Shitty little town.” He yawned again

and the flash of his very white teeth against the dark tan drew her attention.

“You don’t have fangs?” she asked.

Bevyn’s eyes had nearly closed but he snapped them open, frowning. “Why would

you think I had fangs?”

She shrugged. “I thought all Reapers did.”

The frown smoothed out from between his brows. “Only when we Transition,” he

said, “and I’m not near to my cycle.” He could not seem to keep his eyes open.

“So I don’t have to worry about you biting my neck?”

Once more he forced his eyelids open and the smile he gave her was purely evil.

“Not unless you ask me nicely, wench,” he said, and winked.

She smiled, and that smile—combined with a very feminine giggle—transformed

her face from merely lovely to breathtakingly beautiful and it chased away his

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Her Reaper’s Arms

drowsiness in a heartbeat. He stared at her, transfixed. No woman had ever looked at

him in that way, but then again, no woman had ever met his gaze before.

“Where are you from, milord?” she asked.

“A long way from here,” he mumbled, not wanting to think or talk about his past.

Lea felt his hand tense on hers and knew she had asked something she shouldn’t

have so she said nothing more. When he suddenly tugged on her hand, pulling her

toward him, she moved over, laying her head on his shoulder as naturally as though

she had done it a hundred times before. She snuggled against him as he enclosed her in

the perimeter of that strong arm, his fingers curling around to cup her shoulder. Unsure

of what to do with her hand, she laid it gently in the center of his chest, liking the feel of

those crisp hairs beneath her palm, her other arm trapped between their bodies, her

fingers touching the leather of his pants along his hip.

For a long time they just lay there with his arm cradling her, their breaths mingling,

their heartbeats seemingly synchronized with one another. He covered the hand she

had placed on his chest with his, caressing her fingers gently. When he at last broke the

silence, it was with a question that stunned her.

“Would you consider being my
compánach
, Lea?” he asked. “My companion?”

She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked up at him with shock clouding her

gray gaze, her full lips parted. “Milord, I…”

“I don’t mean as my mate,” he was quick to tell her. “I would not ask that of you or

any woman—I can not ask it—but just to be here when I pass through, to lie beside me,

to keep me company.” He squeezed her hand. “You would not have to service me. I

would not ask that either.”

She heard such longing in his voice and a touch—of what? Self-pity?—that broke

her heart. He looked like a little boy asking his mother for a toy, the light in his eyes

expectant, enthusiastic.

“I would buy you a house,” he said. “Furnish it. Give you a comfortable allowance.

I would take care of you.”

“In exchange for just being held, milord?” she asked softly. “Just talking to you?”

He smiled hopefully. “Aye, wench,” he said eagerly. “Nothing more. I swear it.”

“You would not expect me to…to…” Her face flamed.

“Service me?” he asked. “Not unless you willingly offered.”

She eased her hand from beneath his, trying not to react to the keen disappointment

that flitted through his hopeful eyes. She laid her palm on his cheek. “You sell yourself

too cheaply, milord,” she said. “You ask little of me but are willing to give so much.”

She caressed his face. “Too much. Surely you know any woman would jump at the

chance of having you as her protector. I am not much to look at and—”

“You are beautiful!” he interrupted her. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve

ever seen.”

“Milord…” she said in a chiding tone.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“You are.”

She nearly laughed, thinking he was joking, but the earnest look on his face stilled

her twitching lips. “You are serious,” she said.

“Reapers do not lie,” he said, and sat up, twisting to look down at her. She watched

his pectorals jump as though he were offended she would consider that he could tell a

falsehood.

She realized he was holding her hand to his thigh and stroking the back of it with

his other hand. Looking up at him, her gaze wandering over his tousled hair—one dark

curl hanging over his eye—she wanted to thread her fingers through that dark mass to

discover if it was as soft as it looked.

“I could give you everything you have ever dreamt of, Lea,” he told her. “You

would want for nothing.”

Lea searched his gaze and realized he was offering her something far beyond her

ability to understand. Reapers were feared, avoided until needed, and once their job

was finished, the townspeople wanted them gone. What would it be like to be his

woman? How would the good folk of Orson treat her?

“I could take you wherever you wish to go,” he said, reading her mind. “It does not

have to be here.”

Self-conscious to be lying there with him huddled over her, she sat up, feeling the

tremendous strength in his hand as he helped her. “This is my home,” she said. “I am

content here.”

“You would be more content if you did not have to toil like a commoner,” he said.

“What pleases you, milady? Gardening? Reading? Painting?” He hitched a shoulder.

“Sewing?”

She smiled. “I never could sew a decent stitch and I seem to kill whatever I plant.

The only painting I have ever done was a bedroom.” She tucked her lower lip between

her teeth before telling him that she loved to read but books were scarce in Orson.

“Then I’ll ship you a library!” he said. “I spend a lot of time reading myself.”

Lea thought on that for a moment. “Do you mean it, milord? Would you send

books for me to start a library for the town?”

Bevyn blinked. “A library?” he repeated. He was unaccustomed to women thinking

of anyone other than themselves. “You would do that?”

“There used to be one here before the War but it was destroyed in the fighting. I

know there are those who would gladly welcome having a place where they could

come and read, take home a book or two.”

“Then I will see to it,” he declared, his word law. “Orson will become my primary

residence.”

Before she could say anything else, he stretched out beside her, drew her into his

arms and rested his chin atop her head.

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Her Reaper’s Arms

“I can sleep now,” he said as though the entire matter were settled, and within a

matter of moments he was snoring lightly.

Lea marveled at the ease with which he could simply close his eyes and shut down

the world. She had a terrible time falling asleep each night—no matter how tired she

was. Lying in his arms, hearing his steady, even breathing, feeling the overwhelming

strength of him protecting her, she closed her eyes and finally drifted off to sleep, the

strange quiet of the saloon helping to ease her.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Chapter Two

Bevyn was disoriented when he woke the next morning and more than a little hung

over. His belly was cramping and he lay there realizing he hadn’t eaten at all the day

before. He was famished and started to turn over only to find his arm held fast. For just

a brief moment panic seized him and he snapped his head toward whatever was

fettering him to the bed. When he saw the sweet, smiling face of the most beautiful girl

he’d ever encountered looking back at him, his body relaxed, the previous day’s

memories coming back to him like a soft, gentle breeze.

“Good morn, milord,” she said.

“Good morn,” he said, struck anew by her beauty and realized it was indeed a very

good morning. He didn’t feel the overpowering sense of dread that always

accompanied him upon opening his eyes.

“Do you want me to go downstairs and have water drawn for your bath?” she

asked.

He shook his head. “That can wait. I’m hungry,” he said. “Starving actually.”

“That would be my job,” she said, and started to get up only to find his hand lightly

gripping her wrist, restraining her.

“Let someone else do it. You are a servant no longer, wench,” he said. When she

laughed—an easy, unforced sound that pleased him greatly—he found himself wanting

to kiss her, couldn’t take his eyes from her lovely lips.

“If we had to wait for someone else to fix your meal, milord, we would be waiting

until one of the housewives got up the courage to volunteer. The women here at the

White Horse do good just to boil water.”

“Then I’ll help you,” he said, and let go of her wrist, bounding out of the bed too