Her Reaper's Arms (5 page)

quickly for the all-but-forgotten hangover he had. He staggered, his hand to his head,

and his handsome face turned a particularly odd shade of green.

“I think you’d best rest here while I see to your food, milord,” she said with a

giggle. “I’ve no desire to clean up your puke.”

Bevyn sat back down on the edge of the bed, his hand to his forehead. “How much

did I drink?” he asked.

“One and a half bottles, I believe,” she said, drawing on her tattered stockings and

rundown boots.

“Damn,” he said. “No wonder my head hurts like a herd of cows stepped on it.” He

smacked his lips and made a terrible face. “And left behind their droppings.”

“Your saddlebags are outside the door,” she told him with a laugh. “I did not want

to wake you to tell the stable boy to bring them in.”

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Her Reaper’s Arms

He stared at her. No one had ever refrained from waking him while he slept and to

know that he had not awakened once during the night to prowl the streets, to sit in the

saloon and drink himself sick, only added to his sense of wellbeing.

She went to the door, opened it and bent over to retrieve his saddlebags. “Do you

have something in here for a hangover?”

“No, but I’ve something else I’m in bad need of,” he said, eyeing the saddlebags.

“Bring them here, wench.”

She came over to him and handed him the saddlebags. When she went to leave, he

bid her stay.

“I would teach you to do this for me.”

She nodded as he opened the saddlebags and rummaged inside. Her brows drew

together when he pulled out a vac-syringe and an ampoule. “What is that, milord?”

“Tenerse,” he said as he loaded the hypodermic. “A Reaper must have it to

maintain his cycle.” He thumped the air bubble down inside the glass cylinder then

explained to her how she was to administer the drug, drawing up a small bead of his

blood first. He expected her to recoil but she took the implement without comment and

did as he asked, although he could tell it bothered her to do so.

“Was that a test, milord?” she asked as she handed the vac-syringe back to him. She

had not missed his indrawn breath or the slight flinch that accompanied the injection of

the thick purple liquid. Without missing a beat, she put her fingertips to the puncture

wound and massaged his flesh gently.

“Did the sight of my blood disturb you?” he asked, enjoying the feel of her cool

fingers on the burning sting of the wound.

“No, but hurting you did,” she answered truthfully. “I knew your blood would be

black. Everyone knows that.” She met his eye. “Why is that, milord?”

“It is the parasite within me that causes it,” he answered truthfully, and saw a slight

flicker flash through her gaze.

“Can it be passed from you to me?” she asked.

“Not unless you want me to give you one,” he said. “There are advantages to it,

wench.”

She shook her head but didn’t say anything.

“You’d live a long, long time and never look any older than the day you accept it,”

he said. “You’d have strength and…” He stopped for she was shaking her head faster.

A frown had appeared between her lovely gray eyes and then she shuddered. “I

would not want to have such a thing inside me,” she said. She held his gaze. “You

won’t make me take it, will you?”

“Not if you don’t want it,” he said, disappointed.

“I don’t.”

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Then you need not worry on that score, wench.” He pulled his legs up on the bed

and stretched out with his knees crooked, giving the tenerse time to work.

“You rest and I’ll fix your breakfast,” she said.

He nodded although he hated to have her leave him. Once she was gone, she

seemed to take the brightness of the day with her. Her refusal to take a parasite

concerned him but for now he’d let it ride.

Turning his head, Bevyn stared out the window at the sunshine. He could not

remember sleeping so soundly since he had become a Reaper. No nightmares had come

to drag him out of the bed. For the first time in a long, long time, he did not feel the

nearly unbearable loneliness that accompanied his every waking breath.

“Lea,” he said, her name rolling off his tongue like warm honey. Almost instantly

his body swelled, his cock stirring to aching hardness. Her scent was on the pillow

beside him and he reached for it, drawing it to his face. He inhaled, closing his eyes. He

was still clutching the pillow when she came back to the room, his breakfast on a tray.

“I hope I didn’t bring something you hate,” she said as he scooted up in the bed.

“I would have come down, wench,” he said. No one had ever catered to him in

such a way—especially not those who had raised him—and when Lea placed the tray

on his lap, he felt tears gathering in his eyes.

“The sheriff is waiting downstairs for you,” she told him. “I bid him wait until you

had eaten.”

He looked up at her. “What are you going to eat?” he asked.

Lea’s eyebrows shot up. She thought she had brought more than enough food for

the both of them but obviously that was not the case. “I’ll eat while you’re with the

sheriff,” she replied, her lips twitching with amusement.

“Okay,” he said, and delved into the food as though he hadn’t eaten in a week.

“You cooked this?”

“Aye,” she said.

“Good,” he said, mopping a piece of toast through a sunny yellow glob of egg yolk.

“Really good.”

She sat in the chair beside the bed and watched him devour every single morsel of

the food and drink the entire pot of coffee she had brought. When he was finished, she

got up to remove the tray from his legs.

“Thank you, Lea,” he said, gazing up at her with a look that made her womb

clench.

“You are welcome, milord,” she replied. “Are you feeling better now?”

He was still hungover and his growing need for Sustenance was an uncomfortable

itch but that was a condition he was more than accustomed to. He didn’t want to bring

up his need to consume blood at first rising for fear of frightening her. He gingerly

swung his legs from the bed and carefully stood, testing his equilibrium. “Aye, I’m fine

now,” he lied, for his head felt twice its normal size and was aching like the very devil.

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Her Reaper’s Arms

She started out of the room with the tray but stopped when he called her name.

“Tell the sheriff I’ll be right down,” he told her, reaching for his shirt.

“Aye, milord.”

“Bevyn,” he corrected.

She gave him a bright smile. “Aye, Bevyn,” she said.

Unaware he was grinning like an idiot until he caught sight of himself in the mirror,

the Reaper shook his head, forcing his face into its customary scowl, but he couldn’t

seem to keep from smiling as he thought of the pert young woman who had slept

beside him during the night. By the time he started downstairs, he was biting the inside

of his cheek to stop from breaking into a grin. As soon as he saw the sheriff, his need for

Sustenance tripled.

Sheriff Buford Gilchrist was standing by the bar, his hat in hand. He bowed his

head respectfully at the Reaper but said nothing.

“You’ve a problem, Sheriff?” Bevyn asked.

The sheriff nodded. “Aye, milord. If it pleases you, I will speak of it.”

The Reaper glanced at Mable. “Where can we talk privately?” he asked.

“In there,” Mable said, pointing to the small room she used as her office.

“Let’s go,” Bevyn told the sheriff, and as soon as he had the door closed behind

them, gave a silent command for the sheriff to stand still.

It took only a moment to take out his blade, cut a deep nick on the sheriff’s forearm

and take what he needed to start his day. As soon as he had drunk his fill, he flicked his

tongue over the wound, closing it, planting the image of having scratched himself on a

thorn bush in the sheriff’s mind. He waved a hand across the older man’s face and the

sheriff blinked.

“Aye, milord. If it pleases you, I will speak of it,” the man repeated as though there

had been no break in time.

Bevyn nodded, folding his arms over his chest. He was annoyed with himself that

he had come downstairs without his hat or his weapons, something totally unusual for

him. “Tell me,” he said in a tight voice.

“There’s a rogue by the name of Roy English who’s been plaguing us for a few

months now,” the sheriff reported. “He’s killed several ranchers just north of us. Bled

them dry, he did. I’ve led posses after the bastard but we can’t find where he’s gone to

ground.”

“He’s gone rabid,” Bevyn said. “It happens even to rogues. Did you send word to

the Citadel?”

The sheriff nodded. “I did, milord, and received word back that you’d be along this

way shortly. That was about four days ago.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out

a handkerchief, extending it toward the Reaper. “Got this for you.”

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Bevyn took the handkerchief that was peppered with black-colored spots. He

brought it to his nose, the iron scent of spilled blood filling his nostrils.

“One of the ranchers’ sons nicked the bastard before he got away and the lad was

smart enough to mop up the specks with his snot rag,” the sheriff said. “Is there

anything else I can do for you, milord?”

“Nope, this is all I need, Sheriff. I can track him wherever he goes,” Bevyn told the

middle-aged man. He stuffed the handkerchief into a back pocket. “Anything else I

should be aware of?”

“We got a few other problems but nothing I need to bother you with,” the sheriff

reported. “I reckon me and my men can handle them.”

Bevyn nodded then opened the door, walking out ahead of the sheriff. “Then I

would ask a favor of you,” Bevyn said quietly, aware the saloonkeeper was listening.

“Anything, milord!” the sheriff was quick to respond.

“You know the lady who cooks here?” he asked.

“Lea?” the sheriff inquired. At the Reaper’s nod, he frowned. “Aye, milord. I’ve

known her since she was knee-high to a grasshopper. Has she offended you in some

way?”

“Far from it,” Bevyn replied. “She is now under my protection and I would take it

as a boon if you would look after her for me when I am not in residence here.”

Buford Gilchrist’s mouth dropped open. “R-Residence?” he croaked. “H-Here?”

Bevyn glanced at the saloonkeeper whose mouth was gaping open. He looked back

at the sheriff. “Aye,” he replied. “I’ve taken Lea as my
compánach
, my companion.” He

put a firm hand on the sheriff’s shoulder. “Orson is now my seat of operation and as

such will be entitled to my full attention if trouble occurs.”

“Oh milord!” the sheriff said, his shoulders going back. “We are honored!”

“And you will look after my lady as though she were your own?” Bevyn inquired,

locking gazes with the man.

“Aye, milord. Aye!” Sheriff Gilchrist vowed. “I will guard her with my very life!”

“Good man,” Bevyn said, slapping the sheriff on the back. “Now if you’ll send

someone to fetch my steed, I’ll be after ridding the world of this rogue of yours.”

“Aye, milord!” the sheriff agreed, bowing respectfully. “I will see to it myself!”

Bevyn turned away, catching Mable’s gawking stare. He frowned. “You know Lea

won’t be working here anymore, don’t you?” he asked.

Mable nodded, unable to speak.

“Where does she stay?” he asked.

“Out back,” Mable answered. “She has a room by the privy.”

Bevyn’s frown deepened. There was no hotel in town and he doubted there was an

empty house but he asked anyway.

“No, milord,” Mable said. “No empty places that I know of.”

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Her Reaper’s Arms

“Then she’ll stay in the room you gave me until I can have a house built for her,” he

said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills, peeling several off as he

walked to the bar. “This should cover it.” Bevyn laid the money on the bar. “I am

entrusting my lady to your care while I am gone. See she has whatever she needs and

that no harm comes to her.” His amber eyes bore into her. “Is that clear?”

“Aye, milord,” Mable said, realizing he’d laid down more money than she would

see in six months’ time.

“And make gods-be-damned sure every man who lives in this town or visits it

knows she’s under my protection,” he said sternly. “Any swinging dick who dares

insult her or—the gods forbid—lays a hand to her will have me to reckon with. Is that

clear as well?”

“Perfectly, milord,” Mable agreed.

Bevyn turned away from the bar, assured Lea would be well taken care of. He went

back upstairs to get his weapons and saddlebags. He found Lea making the bed when

he walked in.

“You are to stay here, sweeting,” he said, and smiled at her when she looked up

from tucking the coverlet under the pillows. “This will be your room until I can get a

house built for you.”

Lea slowly straightened up. “A house?” she echoed.

“Aye,” he said as he plucked his gun belt from the chair and swung it around his

lean hips. “You didn’t think we’d live here, did you?”

“You were serious about staying here?” she said.

His left eyebrow crooked upward. “Wench, I never say anything I’m not serious

about.” He thought about that for a moment. “Well, almost never.”