slowly driving him insane. The devastation he had perpetrated against the balgair had
been excessive and he knew it but it had felt good—at least at the time—to vent.
For the last five years he had carried out the assignments the High Council had
handed to him, never once questioning what was expected of him, never balking at the
deeds done that were necessary to do what was required. He had killed in the name of
justice without a shred of conscience staying his lethal hands. His anger over his own
death was still a raw wound in his mind and a dark blot on his soul and nothing
seemed to be able to calm the fury riding him with bloodied spurs.
The sun was low on the horizon and spearing into his eyes. Ahead of him was the
town of Orson and a saloon where there was a bottle with his name on it. He licked his
lips at the thought of the liquor burning its way down his throat, the promise of
oblivion, the siren call to forgetfulness. The town wasn’t much, the people dispensable
in the grand scheme of things. He hadn’t been there in quite a while, and the last time
he’d passed through, he had spent two days in a drunken stupor he wished to
experience again. Perhaps while he slept, a balgair would sneak in and take his head and
the pain would finally stop.
Riding into the rundown town with its beaten-down citizens, Bevyn smiled grimly
as those civilians scattered, rushing to hide behind locked doors and pulling draperies
rather than garner the notice of a Reaper. Dismounting in front of the saloon, he glanced
around, not surprised to find himself alone on the dirt street, to hear the eerie silence as
breaths were held and lips mumbled in silent prayer that he would not stay long in
their town.
Hitching up his gun belt, adjusting the dragon claw handle of his laser whip in its
thin leather sheath, he tied Préachán to the hitching post and stepped up on the
boardwalk, his spurs jangling against the weathered gray boards. Putting his hands on
the batwing doors leading into the saloon, he was keenly aware that all noise inside the
establishment had ceased and knew those inside had either scrambled out the back
door or were waiting for him with trembling knees. Out of habit, he swept the interior
of the building with his psychic powers and detected no threat to him. He pushed the
doors open and went inside the smoke-filled, stale-smelling, darkened interior.
Lea Walsh stood beside a sticky table she’d been cleaning when Luke Desmond had
come rushing in to tell them a Reaper was headed their way. She’d glanced at Mable,
the saloon owner, who had hastened to tell the working girls to stop what they were
doing and stay put. She winced at the noise of chairs scraping across the floor as the
patrons of the saloon had run for the back entrance, not wanting to be there when the
Reaper came in.
10
Her Reaper’s Arms
Mable was behind the bar and Lea could see her trembling, her red lips quivering.
She had snatched up an unopened whiskey bottle and a shot glass and put them on the
bar. The white feathers adorning her silk gown were fluttering at the neckline as the
older woman swallowed convulsively.
The other saloon girls—Merrilee, Keesha and Su Lin—stood flanking the roulette
wheel, their faces drawn, their bosoms rising and falling rapidly. Their eyes were
locked on the saloon entrance.
“He ain’t a bad sort if you leave him to what he wants,” Mable said quietly. “Most
likely he won’t ask for one of you but if he does, don’t look him in the eye, don’t speak
to him lest he asks you a question and do whatever he tells you. Do it quickly and you’ll
be all right. I ain’t never heard tell of him hurting a woman but with his kind, you never
know what might set him off.”
Lea had not been at the White Horse Saloon the last time the Reaper assigned to the
Armistenky Territory had come through town. In her twenty-three years, she’d never
seen one of the infamous lawmen, and she had hoped she never would. When she
heard the clink of his spurs on the boardwalk, she began twisting the bar rag between
her hands, her heart pounding fiercely in her chest.
The saloon doors opened and the black-clad warrior came striding in as though he
owned the place. His six-shooter was strapped low on his right hip and the handle of
the fabled lightning whip lay strapped to the other. His black felt cowboy hat was
pulled low over his forehead, the silver concho band on the crown catching the light.
He walked with a swagger that was unmistakable as he bellied up to the bar.
Bevyn’s gaze flicked to the woman standing off to one side, swept over the three
huddled together and then settled on the blowsy tramp behind the long, rough bar. He
strode purposefully toward her, ignoring the tremulous smile of greeting on her
painted face. He glanced down at the bottle then back into her frightened face, waiting
for her to pour the rotgut. She was quick to oblige him and he picked up the shot glass,
knocked back the potent liquid and then set the glass down for another round.
“Be about your business, ladies,” he said quietly to the other women, not liking that
they were behind his back. He could see them in the long sweep of mirror behind the
bar but he was never comfortable with anyone lurking at his back.
Merrilee, Keesha and Su Lin made themselves scarce, taking the stairs to their living
quarters without a backward glance at him. Mable stayed where she was like a deer
caught in a spotlight.
Bevyn propped a foot on the tarnished brass rung that ran along the bottom of the
bar and hunched over with his elbows on the nicked top, pushing his once again empty
glass toward Mable to refill. “Anything I need to see to while I’m here?” he asked the
saloonkeeper.
“I think there might be, milord,” Mable said as she poured his third whiskey. “I can
send for the sheriff.”
11
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
He nodded, swept his glance past her to the mirror to watch the girl behind him as
she moved to another table with her bucket and rag. “I don’t remember her being here
last time,” he said.
“She wasn’t, milord,” Mable said. “If you want me to send her upstairs…”
“Leave her be,” he said, and continued to watch the girl as she worked. It surprised
him that she’d stayed and it intrigued him that she didn’t cop furtive looks at him as
she went about her job. His curiosity was further piqued that she was dressed for what
she was doing and not decked out in whore finery as the other women.
Lea could feel his eyes on her from the mirror. His steady stare was unnerving. She
knew if she left the room, Mable would dock her for the day’s work and she desperately
needed the pitiful wages she got for cooking and cleaning at the White Horse.
Thankfully the men in town left her alone and she wasn’t expected to turn tricks like
Merrilee, Keesha and Su Lin, although she’d had more than her share of men groping
her since she’d been working for Mable.
“I’ll need a room,” she heard the Reaper say.
“Of course, milord,” Mable readily agreed. “Lea, get upstairs and make sure our
best room is made ready for Lord Bev
yn.”
He had not taken his eyes from the girl as he spoke. Despite the faded blue calico
she was wearing—the cuffs and hem and neckline frayed—she was the prettiest thing
he’d seen in a long, long time. Her breasts pressed against the tight bodice but he
figured that was because she had outgrown the dress rather than making an attempt to
emphasize the lushness of her chest. As she hurried for the stairs, he turned his head
and lowered his gaze to her boots. They were badly scuffed, the soles coming away
from the uppers, and when she lifted her skirt to climb the stairs, he could see her
stockings had holes in them.
He continued to drink steadily—his shot glass never empty for long—until the girl
came back down the stairs. He went back to observing her in the mirror as she took up a
broom and began sweeping.
“She got a man?” he asked Mable as he rocked the shot glass between his fingers,
staring down into the dark liquid.
“No, milord,” Mable said.
He drained the glass and set it down. He straightened, his hands on the rolled edge
of the bar. “Is she clean?”
Mable’s eyes widened. “She’s not one of my girls, milord,” she said, her gaze
snapping nervously to Lea. “She just cooks and…”
“Is she clean?” he repeated, his voice hard.
“Aye, milord, but…”
“I want her.”
Lea heard his low statement and felt her heart skip a beat. Her head snapped
around and she met the Reaper’s steady gaze in the mirror. She could see little of his
12
Her Reaper’s Arms
face beneath the broad brim of his black hat, but she knew he was staring straight at
her. She felt herself begin to tremble.
“Milord…” Mable began, but the amber eyes of the Reaper leapt to hers.
“Same room as before?” he queried, cutting her off, holding her captive in the
unwavering glint of his attention.
Mable nodded. “Aye, milord, but she’s not…”
“Send someone to take care of my horse and to bring my saddlebags in.”
“Of course, milord, but…”
“Tell her to bring another bottle when she comes,” he said, snatching up the one on
the bar along with the glass.
“Milord, please,” Mable said. “She’s…”
He wasn’t listening. He took the stairs—a bit unsteady for he’d had nothing to eat
that day and the booze had gone straight to his head—with the neck of the whiskey
bottle clutched in his left hand, the shot glass hooked under his index finger.
Looking to Mable for help, Lea saw the older woman shake her head.
“Ain’t nothing I can do, girl,” Mable said. “He won’t hurt you. Leastwise, I’m pretty
sure he won’t. He won’t fuck you. His kind don’t do that but he’ll expect you to jerk
him off or blow him. Just be quick about it and hightail it outta there so he can sleep.”
Lea’s face flamed. She had no experience with that sort of thing. Although she’d
had her breasts pawed and her ass pinched, her lips slobbered on and her belly rubbed
by stony erections, she had never lain with a man. She’d never even seen a man’s
privates much less knew what to do with them.
“Mable…” she said, tears filling her eyes.
“Look here,” Mable said, coming around from behind the bar. She extended her left
index finger then grabbed it with her right hand, fingers wrapped around. She showed
Lea what was expected. “Don’t squeeze too tight and be careful of his balls. Go slow at
first then faster, pulling on his meat with a firm, steady grip. That’s how to jerk him off.
If’n he wants you to suck him, just pretend his cock is a lollypop. Lick him around the
knob and down the whole of him. Lick his balls. Draw him into your mouth and suck,
but you’ll have to relax your throat to take it all the way in. I’ve heard he’s big down
there. Try not to gag. It might offend him. Be careful of your teeth. Don’t graze him with
’em. And whatever you do, don’t bite him, girl. The gods know what he’d do if you
were to bite him!”
Tears spilled down Lea’s cheeks. “I don’t think I can do this,” she whimpered.
Mable stiffened. “Well, you’d fucking well better if you know what’s good for you,
girl! I’m sorry you gotta do this but you don’t dare gainsay a Reaper if you want to
live.”
Lea glanced at the door, her breathing loud and quick. “I…”
“Girl, if you run, he’ll come after you. I promise you that,” Mable warned. “He’s
done marked you for what he wants and if you don’t give it to him, there’s no telling
13
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
what he’s liable to do to you and me!” She went back around the bar, grabbed another
bottle of whiskey and brought it to Lea, shoving it at her. “Here, before he starts
wondering where you are!”
Shivering like a leaf in a violent storm, Lea nearly dropped the bottle. She was so
frightened her teeth were chattering.
“Go on, girl,” Mable said. She put out a hesitant hand to pat Lea’s shoulder. “Go on
now. Don’t keep him waiting. As Reapers go, he ain’t a bad sort. Ain’t never heard of
him hurting a girl.”
“Mable…”
“Lord, girl, you don’t keep a Reaper waiting! Go!”
It was the hardest thing Lea had done since burying her mother. As she took the
stairs to the Reaper’s room, her legs felt as though they would give out beneath her
with every step. A hazy red film had invaded her vision to go along with the loud
buzzing in her ears. Each step was a trial, a test of strength as she climbed. Every
squeak of the old wooden steps set her nerves on edge. On the landing she stopped,
looking back down at Mable, who was standing at the foot of the stairs, her wrinkled
hands twisting against one another. She saw the saloonkeeper nod in encouragement
and turned away, her fearful eyes going to the door of the Reaper’s room, yet she could
not seem to take a step toward it. She was panting as though she’d run an exacting race
and her heart was thudding dangerously fast against her breastbone. When the door to
his room opened and he appeared in the opening, she could not stop the moan that
escaped her lips.
“I’ve not got all day, wench,” he said in a gruff voice.
His black silk shirt was unbuttoned and hanging free of the black leather pants to
reveal the thick matting of hair on his broad chest. The belt was gone from his pants
and the top button had been undone. He stood there barefoot, his left hand braced on
the doorjamb, his amber stare boring into her. One look at the dark blue tribal tattoo
that stretched from his temple to his cheek on the left side of his face labeled him the
deadly warrior that he was. Despite the unbelievable male beauty of his face, his
swarthy complexion, the thick crop of curly brown hair that covered his head, the sight
of him standing there elevated her terror to the point she thought she would pass out.
She flinched when he cursed and took three long strides to reach her, snaking out a
hand to snatch the whiskey bottle from her.
“You’re starting to piss me off, wench!” he snarled. He pivoted, clamping his hand
around her upper arm, drawing her behind hi
m.
Lea stumbled as he ushered her into the room and then kicked the door shut behind
them. She stood still—shivering uncontrollably—as he uncorked the bottle with his
teeth, spat out the plug and lifted the bottle to his lips, sloshing some of the whiskey
over his stubbled cheek as he swallowed the fiery brew. She watched it trickle down his
throat and onto his broad chest. Wide-eyed, she saw him drain half the bottle before
lowering it and running the back of his arm over his mouth before staggering to the bed
14
Her Reaper’s Arms
and sitting down on the mattress, the bottle gripped tightly in his hand as it dangled off
the edge of the bed.
“Stop looking at me like I’m going to gobble you up, wench. I’m not going to fuck
you,” he said in a slurred voice. “Couldn’t get it up now if I wanted to.”
She swallowed convulsively, not knowing what to say, what to do, how to act. She
didn’t service the men who came to the White Horse and had no idea what was
involved in doing so. Her hands were buried in the folds of her skirt, clutching the
fabric for dear life.
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
“L-Lea,” she managed to croak.
“Lea,” he repeated. “Lea what?”
“Walsh.”
He nodded then lifted the bottle for another long slug. When he lowered it, he held
it out to her.
She shook her head, too afraid to tell him she didn’t drink.
He shrugged then leaned over to put the bottle on the table beside the bed. His
large body seemed to shrink some as he sat there with his shoulders slumped then he
lifted his hand, motioning her with his fingers to come to him. When she didn’t move—
seemed unable to do so—he narrowed his eyes dangerously.
“Come here, wench,” he ordered in a gruff tone.
Biting her lip, Lea reluctantly came toward him, her feet dragging, her hands so
tight in the material she could feel her fingernails scoring her palms. As soon as she was
within range, he lashed out a hand and took her wrist, pulling her closer, spreading his
thighs to draw her up to him.
Lea was not a tall woman and the bed upon which the Reaper was sitting was high
up off the floor. She was on eye level with him as he pulled her between his legs, his
hand still gripping her wrist. Up close, the natural high heat of his Reaper body, the
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