spicy cinnamon scent he gave off overpowered her senses to make her head reel. She
could barely breathe as he lifted her right hand and looked down at it, twisting her
wrist gently so he could see the palm.
Her hand was work-roughened, reddened, calloused, and her fingernails chewed
down to the quick. The flesh smelled of harsh soap as he laid his free hand over hers to
gently stroke the flesh, pulling his big palm along hers. He stroked her palm gently.
“You’re not one of her whores,” he said then lifted his head to fuse his eyes with
hers. “Not with hands like these.”
She didn’t think he wanted a confirmation of his guess so she said nothing.
He studied her face for a long time—making her very uncomfortable beneath his
close scrutiny as his gaze crawled over her features, but she could not look away from
that intense golden stare. It almost felt as though she were falling into those smoldering
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Charlotte Boyett-Compo
orbs, being drawn down into the very soul of their owner. Then he tilted his head to one
side.
“Don’t be afraid of me, wench. I won’t hurt you,” he said.
He turned her hand sideways and brought it to his cheek, closing his eyes as the
coolness of her flesh contacted the heat of his. He leaned his face into the cup of her
palm and when at last he opened his eyes, it was then Lea saw into the Reaper’s soul,
and what she discovered there made her heart hurt for him. Loneliness cried out to
loneliness, holding out a hand to be touched.
This man was alone but it was not his solitude that spoke to her. It was the deep
isolation in his gaze, the desire for something other than the trail and the next kill, the
next burden to handle or the next wrong to set aright that caught and held her
enthralled. She thought she could see down to the very core of him and what she
glimpsed pulsed from him in waves of desperation. She knew he was but a hair’s
breadth away from becoming completely irretrievable. In that moment, she lost all fear
of him, the unease fading away as though it had never been.
Bevyn felt her hand tense on his cheek and thought she was going to pull away, but
instead she caressed him, smiling tentatively when he gave her a surprised look.
“What would you have me do, milord?” she asked, though every instinct in her
body screamed at her to run—to run before it was too late and she could not ever
escape him. “How can I ease your pain?”
No woman—or man for that matter—had ever dared speak to him without first
being bid to do so. He was startled by her bravery and more than a little unnerved by
the way she was meeting his direct look. No one looked his kind directly in the eye
unless bidden to do so.
“You’re a brave one, wench,” he mumbled.
She shook her head. “No, milord. I am scared spitless,” she said.
He felt ashamed, the burden of his position, the nature of his existence having worn
him down to the quick just as she had savaged her nails. People feared his kind and he
could see that fear in her pretty gray eyes, but she was gamely holding his stare though
she was trembling beneath his steady gaze.
She eased her hand from his and knelt down in front of him, her trembling hands
going to his thighs. She could not seem to look away from his bewildered stare. “How
can I help you, milord?”
Bevyn needed something to which he could not seem to put a name. He ached for
just a solitary moment of comfort, one single bolstering act that would help him
through the next day, the next hour, even the next breath. What he sought had eluded
him all his life. He never thought to find it and certainly had never looked for it in the
perfumed arms of a stranger.
“Lie with me,” he said. “Let me hold you. That is all I want.”
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Her Reaper’s Arms
Lea felt heaviness between her legs that she did not understand and she could have
sworn moisture gathered there at his words. Her belly did a tight little squeeze that she
thought odder still.
“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
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