“What is he, Elder Carlton?” one of the boys asked. “What manner of man is he?”
Elder Carlton stared down at the man and swallowed hard. “He’s a killer.”
* * * * *
The buckboard pulled into the compound’s main courtyard and stopped before the infirmary. Two men hopped up into the buckboard’s bed. They were strong, burly men and they needed to be for the man they carried into the infirmary was struggling violently to get free of them.
His eyes wild, teeth gnashing at those who carried him, his attention fell on a young woman and held as firm but confident hands assessed what was wrong with him. With every step the woman took in the infirmary, his fevered gaze followed her until a tall man with a forbidding frown leaned in to his line of vision.
“What’s your name?”
He lashed out at the man for he wanted to see the woman. He wanted to face the threat she posed to him head on.
“Can you tell us your name?”
He bellowed his rage and fought the hands holding him down.
“He’s going to hurt himself like this,” he heard the tall man say.
The brew they forced down his throat choked him and he bucked beneath the hard hand that held his jaw clamped shut until he swallowed the vile brew. In a matter of moments, his eyes rolled back in his head and his body relaxed, pulling him down into a pleasant darkness where soft hands caressed his cheek and a beautiful face journeyed along beside him.
* * * * *
He came to the crest of the hill and stopped to admire the spectacular beauty that stretched out below him. Miles and miles of verdant green grass swayed in the cool spring breeze upon the rolling hills. To the south, sparkles of light glittered on the water of the bay like gemstones on a bed of blue velvet. The scent of saltwater and clover mingled together and the sun reached down with warm fingers to caress his face. When he spied what he had come there to find, he started down the hill, heading for the lone figure who sat with legs tucked to one side on a pale green blanket spread upon the crimson clover.
Her eyes were the color of lilacs in the spring and her pale hair draped in long, lush waves to her tiny waist. The smile that hovered on her full lips made his heart beat faster when she gazed up at him through her thick blonde lashes. She was so incredibly beautiful it took his breath away to gaze at her.
“For you, my Owen,” she said in a voice that sent ripples of desire undulating through him. She held up a long stalk of lemongrass to him and he hunkered down beside her and plucked it from her slender fingers, bringing its fragrant bulb portion of the stem to his nose. “It will help reduce your fever.”
“Nothing will reduce this fever, milady,” he said, sitting down on the blanket with her and stretching out his long legs. He turned so he lay on his back, his head in her lap. “It is one born of raging desire. It is a blaze only you can quench.”
“For shame, Reaper,” she chastised him. “You should not say such things.”
“It’s true,” he said, reaching up to tug at a lock of her soft blonde hair. He wound the thick strand around and around his finger. “My body aches for need of you.”
She threaded her fingers through his dark hair, sweeping it back from his forehead for a single wavy lock was forever striving to hang over his left eye. Her violet eyes stared into his with such love, with such trust, he found it hard to draw breath.
“When will you be leaving?” she asked.
“Not for a while yet,” he said, and let go of her hair to snake his palm behind her neck and bring her lips to his.
She tasted of the lemongrass and of sweet, sun-warmed honey. Her lips were as soft as the petals of a rose and the heat of her mouth sent tremors of passion trickling through his system.
It had been many months since last he’d had a woman’s hands on his willing body. Her soft hand pressed over his heart as he plied her lips made him long for her touch to go lower—lower still—until she could touch that part of him that needed her so desperately. He released her, trying to quell the tremors that went through his body at breaking the contact.
He knew she was untouched by life. No man had ever lain beside her as he was doing at that moment. Her flesh was virginal, her body never having known the things he yearned to do to it. She was naïve, pure, and she belonged to him. It was his right, his privilege, to initiate her into the mysteries of womanhood but he wasn’t sure the time was right.
“Tell me of our wedding night,” she said shyly as he returned his head to her lap. “I want to hear of it again.”
He smiled. “There will be musicians to play,” he said. “Chalean jigs that bring the dancers to their feet, for who can sit still when the fiddles and bodhrán are going strong?”
“No one,” she said, and began plaiting the hair at his temple into a thin braid.
“And the food!” he said, putting a hand to his belly. “The food will be fit for the goddess Herself! Roast beef, chicken smothered in gravy, pork swimming in a tangy sauce, crisply fried catfish and venison sausage. We’ll have all the vegetables we each like and rice and buttered noodles. Breads and muffins and biscuits. Fruits of every kind and cakes and pastries loading down the table ’til it is nigh to bursting.” He grinned. “And plenty of Moira’s blueberry pies.”
“Are they really that good?” she countered, plaiting a similar braid down his left temple.
“They are heaven,” he told her. “Nothing like them in all the world.”
“Do you really think your friends from Haines City will come?”
“We’ll send the train! I know they’ll come because there will be ale and whiskey for the men and hard cider for you women,” he said. “Lemonade for the young ones and tall, cold glasses of sweet milk.”
“What about afterward?” she asked shyly. “Before the shivaree begins?”
He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. “When I pick you up and carry you to our cottage?”
She nodded shyly, her face tinting a pretty pink.
“I will kick open the door to our cottage and carry you inside…”
“To protect me from the evil spirits lying in wait under the threshold,” she said.
“Aye,” he agreed. “Nothing will ever harm my lady.”
“Then what?” she asked, caressing the material of his black silk shirt.
“Then I’ll carry you into our bedroom and set your feet to the floor,” he said, his voice turning husky. “I’ll take the veil from your hair and lay it aside.”
“And I’ll turn so you can unhook the buttons of my gown.”
“Not until I’ve held you in my arms and kissed you as I have wanted to kiss you since the first moment I laid eyes on you,” he insisted.
“Then I’ll turn and you will undo the back of my dress,” she said, her chin raised.
“Aye, that I will, milady,” he agreed, and he sat up, coming to his knees beside her. He pulled her to a sitting position. “Shall I show you how that will feel?”
She put a gentle hand to his cheek. “Aye, my Owen,” she said. “Show me.”
His legs felt weak as he got to his feet and held out a hand to her, pulling her to stand beside him. His arms went around her and he held her with her cheek pressed against the thundering beat of his heart.
“Are you sure?” he asked, his breathing coming in short pants of need.
She pulled back and looked up at him. “Aye, I am sure. I would have you truly make me your woman before you leave this time.”
He cupped her chin and held her face for another kiss that was as heady as a fine, expensive wine. For the first time he nibbled on her lower lip until she opened her mouth to him and he slipped his tongue inside, thrilling to the little groan that escaped her sweet throat. He bracketed her face with his palms and held her as he deepened the kiss, swirled his tongue inside her honeyed mouth. His cock leapt against her belly and she pressed closer to him.
“Ah, milady,” he groaned, tearing his mouth from hers.
Easing out of his arms, she turned her back to him, gazing over her shoulder with eyes so trusting, so innocent.
Her gown was of the softest gingham and it fit her back as though it had been molded upon her. The gentle ridge of her shoulder blades tempted him, the precious nape of her neck called to him to place a gentle kiss there. Sweeping aside her long hair, he put his lips to that delicate flesh.
“I love you,” he whispered, his breath stirring the small hairs at her nape.
“As I love you,” she replied.
With hands that shook, he trailed his fingers from button to button, unhooking them, his blood pounding fiercely as more and more of her unblemished, satiny flesh was revealed to him. By the time he had undone the last button in the long row that ended at her waist, he was nigh to bursting with a need that had grown hard and engorged.
She pivoted around to face him again, standing there waiting for him to push the bodice from her shoulders. Her gaze was tender as she smiled at him.
“Are you sure?” he asked again.
“Aye,” she whispered.
“If I do this, there will be no turning back. I’ll not be able to keep from claiming you.”
She took his hand and laid it on her breast and Owen thought he would go up in flames. His palm itched to feel her bare flesh, his palm to graze the peak of her breast. He squeezed her lightly then began to tug the bodice down her slender arms.
The sight of the pristine white lace of her camisole made him swallow hard. It was all he could do to keep pushing the gown down over the flare of her hips and let it drop to a blue-and-white-check pool at her feet.
“Now my petticoat,” she said, and held her arms out from her sides to give him access to the elastic waist of her garment.
Owen Tohre—warrior and killer, drinker of blood and slayer of rogues—sank to his knees on the blanket like a crusader before the Holy Chalice. In silent supplication, he eased the petticoat over her hips and down her stocking-clad legs. He could only stare at the dark triangle framed within the straps of her garter belt.
“Milady,” he said. “I hurt for want of you.”
She stepped out of the circle of gown and petticoat and kicked them aside. All the while his gaze was locked on the wiry curls at the apex of her thighs though he made no move to touch her there. And yet the heat of his gaze sent waves of warmth flooding her nether regions and a light ooze of juices flooded her sex.
“My slippers,” she said. She put a hand to his shoulder and lifted one foot.
With infinite care he took the heel of her slipper in his palm and removed the satin footwear. He laid the slipper aside and gently massaged her toes before she pulled her foot out of his reach and lifted the other for him to bear.
A sensual scent was wafting to him from between her legs and he was on fire with a lust so great it was all he could do not to fall upon her and ravish her like the berserkers of his race from so long before. His entire body clenched with wanting to taste her, to thrust his tongue, his fingers and his cock inside her heated moistness. The pounding of his heart now rushed blood through his ears and he was finding it harder and harder to draw a decent breath.
“My stockings?” she suggested.
If he thought his hands shook before, he had been completely mistaken. They shook so badly as he reached for the clips that held the silk stocking to her garter belt—that wispy piece of sleek white lace that set his imagination on fire—he had to bite his lower lip to keep from moaning aloud. The first clip came undone and he slid his hands behind her thigh to unhook the other one. The backs of his fingers touching her sleek flesh, his wrists coming into contact with the soft hairs on her thighs made his cock as rigid as petrified wood. It stabbed at his leather pants in an effort to break free.
He gently rolled the stocking down her leg and when she lifted her foot, he peeled it off, laying it aside. Swallowing like a green youth, he moved to the other garter, dragging breath into his lungs in ragged gasps. By the time he had that stocking off and had lifted it to his face to inhale the scent of her body he was in acute pain between his legs. When he felt her fingers raking through his hair, he could not stop the whimper from escaping his throat.
“I have dreamed of this day for so long,” she said.
“Milady,” was all he could reply. He dared say no more for fear he would begin to jabber like a fool and start reciting sonnets to her toes or something equally as embarrassing.
It took very little effort to peel the garter belt from her body and she was bare from the waist down, the sleek pale hair at her thighs beckoning him to touch it. He would have if she had not tightened her grip in his hair and pulled his head back tenderly.
“My camisole?” she reminded him.
“Aye,” he said, and shot to his feet so quickly he startled a laugh from her. She was looking at him as an overly fond mother would her recalcitrant child and it rocked him to his very core. It had been so long since anyone had looked at him in that way that it tore through him like molten lava.
“I love you, my Owen,” she said on a breath of sound.
He slipped his fingers under the lacy straps of her camisole and slipped them over her shoulders. The lace-edged silk slid from her body like perfumed oil and fell to her feet, laying her bare for his hot gaze.
“Touch me,” she said in a throaty voice.
With reverent care he laid his hands to her lush breasts and closed his eyes to the feel of them nestled in his palms. Her nipples were swollen and poked eagerly against his fervent clasp. He kneaded those sweet globes oh-so tenderly, pressed ever so gently against their engorged peaks, pulled his fingers down the circumference until he could pluck at those sweet nubs, could twist them lovingly as her head fell back, her long blonde hair swinging down below the cusp of her ass.
He wanted to taste that sun-kissed flesh, draw her nipples deep into his mouth and suckle like a babe would its mother. He wanted to drag his tongue across those turgid peaks, lap at her, lick her and fondle her until he was as satiated as any man could be, but there was a scent calling to him that was so much more potent than the allure of her beautiful breasts. He could not ignore that siren’s call and he sank to his knees once more and buried his face against the crisp hairs between her legs.
“Owen!” she cried out, and clutched his head with both her hands as he pressed hard kisses to her curls.
He was lost in that tangy scent, his mind reeling with the heat that pulsed from her silken folds. Unable to resist, he pulled back and put his fingers to her nether lips, spreading her apart so he could gaze upon the promise that awaited him. He looked his fill then moved his fingers up to softly push aside the hood that covered her clitoris. With even more infinite care, he placed his lips to that swollen protrusion and suckled.
Her hands tensed in his hair and he could hear her gasping for breath. His worship of her was instilling the same lustful needs within her that were blazing through his taut body. His cock was so hard he could barely stand the burning pain of it but he had no intention of ending his self-imposed torture so soon. He had yet to taste the essence of her, to bring her to climax, to make her come for him and that was a goal he would defy the very gods to see done.
Flicking his tongue all around her clit then stabbing it down one silky fold and up the other, he smiled as she ground her hips against him. She wanted what he would give but she had no idea what that was yet. She knew he was playing her like a fine instrument but she wanted the music to burst forth, needed to hear those sweet sounds roaring in her ears. She was pressing her sex to him in such need he could not keep on tormenting her.
He slipped one finger slowly inside her wet sheath and she drew in a harsh, ragged breath.
He slipped another finger into that sweet moistness and began to move his fingers in and out of her, going deeper, staying in longer with each slow thrust.
“Owen!” she protested, and writhed against his invasion. Her hips lurched against his face.
He knew the itch was sta
rting high up inside her. He could feel the pulsing of her tender flesh around his invading fingers. He knew she was so close—so close—to ecstasy and he reveled in the knowledge that it would be he who took her to that wondrous place for the first time.
With his tongue making little spirals on her clit, he increased the rhythm of his plunges into her silken channel. He pushed harder insider her.
She was panting now and the very first tremor rippled through her cunt.
“Owen!” she screamed.
He pulled his lips from her clit. “Come for me, baby,” he said. “Come for your Reaper.”
Before she could make another sound, he latched his lips onto her clit and suckled hard.
Her climax was so intense, so powerful, he had to wrap his free arm around her hips and brace her plump little ass to keep her knees from buckling beneath her. With strength only one of his kind possessed, he lifted her—her legs splayed to either side of his neck, and lay her down, pushing his fingers deep inside her as the last of the little squeezes milked his flesh. Even as the last wave rippled away, he continued to suckle her, to lick and lap at her so-sensitive flesh until she begged him to stop, dragging on his hair in an effort to pull his mouth from her sex.
“No more,” she pleaded. “No more.”
His cock so hard he could barely kneel on the ground, he straightened up and began ripping away his clothing. The silk shirt tore easily. He shredded it and shrugged it from his shoulders. Fumbling at the buttons of his leather pants, he finally grabbed both sides of the opened waistband and ripped the gods-be-damned thing open to free his burning, throbbing shaft.
He braced himself on his knees between her legs, one hand planted by her shoulder as he bent forward to finally taste those wondrous globes that beckoned him to ply his tongue and teeth and lips across them. He greedily suckled her, licked her, swirled his tongue over her nipples, drew them between his teeth and then, when he could stand no more of the temptation, slid his hand to the base of his cock to position himself at her entrance.
Tears of the Reaper Page 2