WesternWind 4 - Tears of the Reaper (15 page)

She lifted her legs, wrapped them around his waist and arched up, taking him into her as far as he would go. “Like that, Reaper,” she hissed. “Like that!”

Sweat was gleaming on Owen’s face as he began to move inside her sweet body. He had never felt such intense pleasure as that which undulated over his shaft. Her sheath was warm and slick and her inner muscles were gripping him in hard little squeezes that both surprised and shocked him. There was no way he could prolong the roaring desire that was galloping up from the very core of him.

“My Owen!” she cried out, and he felt the quickening within her rippling. He increased his thrusts until they were both grunting with the sensations rocketing through them.

Her fingernails were digging into his back, spurring him on. His hands shot under her to bring her up to him. He lifted her higher. She arched up to meet his thrust and when she did, it triggered another, more prolonged orgasm that had her trilling her release. Her legs tightened painfully around his waist. He felt her teeth grazing his shoulder. Her entire body trembled and he came so hard, so thickly, that he let his head drop back and he roared, spilling into her over and over again until he was spent, drained, milked of every last drop of cum. Gasping for breath, he lowered his body carefully atop hers and turned so she was snuggled in his arms, their flesh melded from forehead to forehead, breastbone to pubic bone, knee to toe.

Rachel clung to him, her body such a blessing to him. They were slick with sweat, scented of sex, and their blood was pumping wildly through their veins as they lay there unable to move.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, my Owen,” she whispered back to him.

The sky around them darkened from steel blue to slate to midnight blue to black and the night breeze wafted warmly over them as they sank down beneath the gently flowing waves along the shoreline of dreamland.

Watching over them, a smile on Her lovely face, Morrigunia nodded Her pleasure. She had given Her beloved Reaper his wedding night though neither he nor his bride would remember it when they woke.

But the deed surely had been done and Rachel Lawrence was now well sown with her husband’s seed.

Chapter Eight

While Rachel was still asleep beneath the influence of whatever drug Glyn had given her, the Reapers sat at a table that had been laden down with more food than any three men should have been able to consume. Now, platters of bacon, ham, fried potatoes, toast, eggs and stewed apples were all empty. What was left of the gargantuan meal was on the plates of the diners and they were on their third pot of coffee. The dining room of the hotel—normally full of patrons for the morning meal—was empty except for the Reapers. Earlier Owen had gone to Glyn and Iden’s room, knowing they’d have the Sustenance the three of them would need to start the day.

“Here’s my question,” Iden said, munching on a strip of crispy bacon. “If there have been other humans infected with this and they are lying in graves somewhere in Manontaque Province, how the hell will we find them all? We can’t dig up every new grave between New Towne and Vardar.”

Glyn dredged his toast through the bright yellow of an over-easy egg yolk. “That’s a gods-be-damned good question. We have no way of knowing how many of those things there are up there, how many settlements and colonies have been tainted.”

Owen was sitting at an angle to the table with his long legs thrust out in front of him. His hands were clasped around a steaming cup of coffee. He had been the first to finish his huge breakfast and his plate was so clean it didn’t look as though it would need washing. “Remember the ghorets out on the prairie?” he asked, looking out the front window at the people standing across the street from the hotel and pointing that way.

“Which time?” Iden asked.

“When the drones were sent to take them out,” Owen replied, before taking a sip of his black coffee.

“Aye, what of it?” Iden inquired.

“He’s thinking about asking the Shadowlords to send the drones up there to incinerate the graves,” Glyn speculated. “Right?”

Owen nodded.

“The Bastion would never agree to that,” Iden said. “Taking out hundreds, maybe even thousands of graves would be…”

“The new graves don’t have the look of old ones,” Owen cut him off. “We would target only those graves that aren’t grown over with grass.”

“Even so, Owen…” Iden said.

“The graves of those up in New Towne all had the same look about them, Iden,” Owen interrupted again. “Not one blade of grass was growing anywhere near those graves and the first victim to die had been in the summer.”

“So you think those affected by the Drochtáirs will have barren land around their resting sites,” Glyn said.

“I don’t think it,” Owen replied. “I know it.”

“Then we first need to contact Lord Kheelan to see if he can send the drones up there,” Iden said. “He’ll have to contact the Bastion and give them a heads-up. What if they don’t agree to allow us to do what you are suggesting?”

“We’ll have to do it anyway and handle the repercussions later,” Owen replied. “We sure as hell don’t want the Drochtáirs crossing the border and infecting our people.”

“I hope to all that is holy the Ceannus don’t know about this new threat to humankind,” Glyn said.

“Who says they don’t?” Owen asked, and when his companions turned a shocked face to him, he shrugged. “They got here somehow. If the Drochtáir is the seed from which Raphian sprang, you’d best believe the Ceannus have something to do with them being on Terra. Hell, they could have arrived with the first ship Morrigunia destroyed for all we know and escaped up into the Provinces.”

“Or they could have been sent up there where we have no jurisdiction,” Glyn suggested.

“Aye, that’s most likely the way of it,” Owen said. “They were sent to infect the Northmen who the Ceannus knew would eventually slip across the border to infect our people.”

“And their Míliste can’t handle something like this,” Iden said.

Owen finished the last of his coffee and put the cup down on the table. “I’m going up to check on my lady,” he said, and stood. He dug into the pockets of his pants before he realized he had no money.

“Go on,” Glyn said. “We’ll take care of it.”

“I’ll pay you back,” Owen promised.

After he was gone, Iden and Glyn sat quietly for a few moments then Glyn exhaled a long, hard sigh.

“This could get ugly,” he said.

Iden scooped up the last of his fried potatoes before shoving the plate away. “You mean with the woman?”

“Aye,” Glyn answered. “You remember what happened to Cynyr when he took Aingeal to mate?”

“Owen already knows he’s going into the con cell when he gets back to the Citadel.”

“Something tells me he’s going to be in there a long, long time if things go the way I suspect they will,” Glyn said. “Abusing the tenerse already has the Shadowlords pissed at him. I suggest we make him ask the High Council’s permission before taking Rachel to mate because you and I both know he’s going to go after her father before this is over and done and he won’t ask permission for that.”

“Don’t you think they know what he’ll do, Kullen?” Iden asked. “I know gods-be-damned well they know every move we make before we even make it.”

“Aye, I know it too. We’ve been given free will to act as we see fit but there are guidelines we were meant to follow. We all know the rules and are expected to uphold those rules, not break them. When we step outside the guidelines and take matters into our own hands as Cynyr did with Aingeal, they won’t stop us. Neither will they turn a blind eye to our sins. They gave us that free will so we can fuck ourselves over and suffer the consequences.”

“Owen’s a big boy,” Iden said. “It’s his life, his mistakes and his consequences to suffer. If you want to remind him to ask permission first, then do it, but what happens if the High Council forbids it? He’ll do it anyway.”

“You’re right, but he’s my best friend, Iden. I have to at least try.”

* * * * *

Rachel was awake and sitting on the edge of the bed when Owen came into their room. Her hands were clutching the mattress in a death grip, a fine sheen of perspiration covering her exquisite features. She looked up at Owen with those lovely violet eyes and his heart did a merciless squeeze in his chest.

“You’re going to have to help me, milord,” she said. “I have to… I need to…” A dark blush appeared on her high cheekbones.

Owen managed to smile as he walked over to the bed and leaned over to put his hands on her upper arms and lift her from the bed. “Do you want me to carry you into the bathing chamber?”

“I can walk,” she said, afraid he’d hurt her more if he lifted her in his arms.

With him bracing her, he walked her slowly into the little room. She’d never seen a toilet before for they only had outhouses at the Colony. When he explained what it was and how it worked, she was so fascinated she didn’t think before hiking up the skirt of her gown and sitting down.

Owen left the room to give her privacy. After leaving Iden and Glyn, he’d stopped in the kitchen to order breakfast brought up to her. He had also spoken with the desk clerk about sending someone to fetch the priest. He had no intention of leaving Rachel in Saint Marie without the protection of his name. When the knock came at the door, he thought it would be her breakfast. Instead, it was the priest, looking nervous.

“Milord,” the priest said, and Owen noticed the man’s hands were shaking as he clutched the Good Book.

“I am Owen Tohre,” Owen said, stepping aside to allow the man in.

“I’m Father O’Connell,” the priest said. They shook hands and the priest glanced around the room. “Where is the lady?” When he heard the toilet flush, his face infused with color. He glanced up at Owen. “You will need witnesses for this to be legal.”

Owen nodded and silently sent a mental call down to his fellow Reapers. “They’ll be here in a minute,” he told the priest.

“Milord?” Rachel called out to him.

“Have a seat, Father,” Owen said. “I’m sure she’ll want to freshen up before we do this.”

Rachel hurt so badly she could not lever herself up from the toilet and was silently crying when Owen came into the bathing chamber. She looked up at him with such misery, he wanted to find her father and tear the bastard’s head off.

“Will you wet a rag so I can wash my face?” she asked.

“I can,” he replied, and did just that, waiting until she was finished then told her the priest had arrived.

Rachel looked down at the coarse black dress she was wearing and sighed. “It is bad luck to marry in black,” she said in a low voice.

He hunkered down before her. “Close your eyes,” he said.

Her forehead crinkled. “Why?”

“Just close your eyes,” he repeated, taking her hands in his. When she had done as he ordered, he told her to picture what she had always wanted her wedding gown to look like.

“I’m not good at pretending,” she said.

“Just try,” he told her, knowing every woman had a good idea of what she wanted to look like on her wedding day. He saw a slight smile flicker over her tearful face.

It took every last ounce of his energy to delve into her mind and pluck out the image, create it upon her sweet body with such care that it would not hurt her injured back. He even thought to provide the white kid slippers and silk stockings for her feet. When her eyes snapped open and she looked down to see the pretty white gown cascading around the stool of the toilet, her mouth sagged open.

“Is that better?” he asked, his head spinning from the exertion.

“Oh Owen,” she said, fresh tears blurring her eyes.

He got to his feet and helped her up, his calloused hands gripping the lacy sleeves covering her upper arms. He crooked his arm. “Milady?” he inquired.

Rachel gave him a look that would have felled a lesser man. It went straight to his very soul and when she tucked her arm through his and leaned against him, his heart soared with an emotion he never thought to ever feel again.

Glyn and Iden were in the other room when Owen escorted his lady from the bathing chamber. He saw their eyes bulge as they took in the beauty on his arm.

“By the gods, Tohre,” was all Iden could say.

Father O’Connell cleared his throat. “I would like to hear from her lips that this is something she wants,” he said, flinching as the two Reapers beside him gave him a stony look.

“It is,” Rachel said quickly. “With all my heart it is.”

“Milady is not feeling well so I would be obliged if you would make this short and sweet,” Owen said. “I need to get her back to bed.”

The priest nodded. “If you will join hands, I will begin.”

The ceremony was indeed short and sweet, and when it came to the speaking of the vows, Glyn had a surprise for his best friend and before Owen could declare himself to Rachel, the Reaper nudged him.

“I must have made at least a dozen before I found one I was satisfied with,” Glyn said and opened his hand.

Owen stared at the wide gold band nestled in his friend’s palm then looked up at Glyn. “It’s a claddagh,” he said with awe.