Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WesternWind 01 - Wynd River (3 page)

“Your accent is not from this region,” he observed. “What are you doing out here?”

Hiding a yawn, she told him she’d come out with her husband.

Cynyr arched a dark brow. “Your husband?”

Aingeal lowered her head. “He thought we could make a fresh start on the plains. He had it in his mind

that he could start a horse ranch, so he bought some acreage over near Farmington. The purchase wiped

out what savings we had.”

“He’s dead?”

The woman shook her head. “No, he’s still in Farmington.” She looked up. “With his new wife and

family.”

“You’re divorced?” he asked, knowing it took a great deal for such a thing to happen. The High Council

often granted divorces but, when they did, it was an extremely costly venture.

“He had the marriage annulled,” she replied. Her eyes were steady on the Reaper. “After he sold me to

a Jakotai chieftain for a brace of stallions and five mares to start his ranch.”

Anger turned Cynyr’s eyes a deep scarlet red. “He sold you,” he said, a thin white line forming around

his lips.

“It happens,” she reminded him.

In the times in which they were living such a thing was not unheard of, though it was rare, for the High

Council frowned on such an arrangement. To some men, women were considered chattel and could be

sold into slavery to either work off the man’s debts or to acquire for him something he wanted more.

“And you ran away from the Jakotai,” the Reaper assumed.

“I was given to Chief Akecheta and he in turn gave me to his son Otaktay. It was Otaktay’s horses

Donal got in exchange.” She wiped a dirty hand across her tired face. “Otaktay is a very cruel man. I

took it for as long as I could then I ran away.” She shrugged. “The first time I nearly made it across the

border to Owacha.”

“How many times did you run away?”

“This is the third,” she answered. “The first time he beat me badly, but the second time I couldn’t walk

for nearly a week.” She grimaced. “He said if I did it again, he’d kill me.” Her lips twitched into a

semblance of a smile. “I believed him so I’ve been particularly careful this time.”

“You think he’s still tracking you?”

“Oh, I know he is,” she said, looking him in the eye. “But I’ll die before I’ll ever return to the

encampment. He’ll make sure of it. He’s lost face enough as it is.” She touched her rumpled hair. “He’ll

take my scalp back with him to display on his lodge pole.”

Something dark moved through the Reaper’s fiery eyes and his jaw tightened. He knew what it was like

to be sold into slavery and the thought of a man doing something so evil to a woman he’d vowed to

protect sent spasms of fury down his rigid spine.

“You won’t have to worry about going back,” he said, “or the brave taking your scalp, wench. I’ll see to

that.”

Aingeal blinked. “You want me for your woman?” she asked, her heart trip-hammering in her chest at

such a thought.

“I’ve no need of a woman,” he told her. “But I’ll not let you go back to such a vile existence. If you

want, I’ll take you wherever it was you planned to go and see you’re safe there.”

Having no place to go, Aingeal had not thought of anything beyond getting away from Otaktay. She had

hoped to reach a big enough city where she could hide amongst the inhabitants and find a job to sustain

her. She had grown accustomed to hard work and figured she could get a position as a servant. That she

would actually make good her escape had not seemed real to her. She was simply living day by day on

hope and prayers to Alel, along with whatever she could steal to keep herself from starving.

“I know a few families who would take you in,” he said, reading her thoughts. “I assume you can read

and write?”

She lifted her chin. “Of course, I can.”

“I’ve got two more rogues on my list to dispatch,” he said, interrupting her. “One is in the Exasla

Territory and the other in Oklaks Territory. Once those jobs are done, I’m due for a month of R&R. I’ll

take you back east then.”

Tears filled Aingeal’s eyes. “You mean it?” she asked. “You’d really do that?”

“Didn’t I say I would?”

“You’ll protect me from Otaktay?”

“I’ve no love for any man who would hit a woman,” he said. “If we meet, I’ll make sure he never lays a

hand to another.”

Despite the happiness stealing over her heart, Aingeal yawned, hiding her mouth. Her eyes were

bloodshot and her shoulders slumping beneath her fatigue.

“Lay down,” Cynyr told her. “This is one night you won’t have to worry about being attacked.”

She looked at the sand beside her for a long moment then making up her mind he meant her no harm,

leaned over, curling her legs up in a fetal position within the comfort of the heavy canvas. Her arms were

wrapped within the protection of the material, all but her eyes and nose hidden.

“Good night,” she said, her voice muffled beneath the material.

“Sleep good, wench,” he told her, and turned to his back, his head cradled in the palms of his hands as

he looked up at the bright stars overhead.

For over an hour he lay there gazing at the stars. It had been years since he had flown among their

brilliance. He knew the chances of him ever sailing the skies again was a dead issue. He was where the

High Council had placed him and there were more rogues hiding on Terra, their lives at the mercy of the

other bounty hunter like himself.

“What’s your name?”

Cynyr turned his head and looked at Aingeal. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“I’m getting there but I just wanted to know your name.”

“Cree,” he replied. “Cynyr Cree.”

She laughed, and the sound went through him like a sharp knife through butter. “That’s fate, wouldn’t

you say?” she asked. “Cynyr and Aingeal?”

He half-smiled. “Go to sleep, wench.”

“Good night, Cynyr.”

No one dared call him by his first name. It had been years since anyone had. He wasn’t sure he liked it,

but the sound of his name on Aingeal’s tongue caused warmth to spread through his chest. He watched

her settle down but could see she was shivering.

He sighed.

“Wench,” he said, his face crinkled. “Why don’t you come over and lie with me? It’ll keep you warm.”

He half-expected her to turn down his offer, but she hopped up and gathered the bedroll in her arms to

hurry over to him. She stretched out close beside him, fanning the canvas over them. Her ripe body odor

made his eyes water and he turned his back to her to help alleviate the stench. He stiffened when she

slipped her arm over his waist and pressed up tightly against him.

“Reapers don’t mate, do they?” she asked, her voice muffled against his back.

“No,” he said.

“So you won’t be doing anything nasty to me.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that. “No, wench. I’ll try to restrain myself.”

“Good,” she said, snuggling even closer to him.

Cynyr could feel the length of her body pressed to his. She had lush breasts—he’d gotten a glimpse of

one of them back in the alley—and the peaks of them seemed to be stabbing hotly into his flesh. He

shifted, but she appeared to take that as an invitation to tighten her hold on his waist.

He sighed again, thinking it was going to be a long, long night.

The dream came again—as it did nightly—and he woke sweating profusely, his heart racing, blood

pounding in his ears. He sat bolt upright, kicking away the bedroll, dragging a trembling hand through his

thick brown hair. The sun was nearly up and he stared into it for a moment as he willed the traces of his

nightmare to dissipate.

Then the pain struck so hard he shamed himself by groaning.

He twisted around and grabbed his saddlebags. There was only one thing that would help to keep the

monster at bay for already the pain in his back was spreading, sending agony through the rest of his

body.

He found the vac-syringe and laid it on his thigh, quickly fishing in the saddlebag for the ampoule of

tenerse. Filling the syringe, he stuck it between his teeth and rolled up the sleeve of his black shirt until his

forearm was bare. Holding his breath, he took the syringe and stuck its payload into the heavy vein that

ran the length of his forearm. Instantly the fiery path of the drug spread up to his shoulder and he

shuddered, but the clawing, biting pain in his back began to lessen.

“Feed me.”

The demand came from within him. It was a fierce order that turned the Reaper’s eyes to the forest.

Closing them, he willed the nearest creature to come to him. As he waited, the pain

remained—scratching across his back with unsheathed claws.

Timidly, a rabbit hopped out of the underbrush. Its eyes were glazed as it made a beeline for Cynyr. The

little animal made a strange mewling sound as the Reaper picked it up and gently bit into its neck, but it

did not struggle. It lay in the man’s hands without moving and when at last it was released, hopped away

with only a small amount of clumsiness.

Breathing as slowly as he could as the pain subsided, Cynyr lay back down for a moment, his eyes

closed and his jaw clenched. There was something nagging at him as he lay there but he couldn’t

remember what. It wasn’t until he sat up again—staring at the blanket and wondering why he’d covered

himself with it—that the memory of the woman came back to him.

Cynyr got to his feet, scanning the clearing where he’d camped. The woman was nowhere to be seen

and his heart did a painful thud. His horse was still tied to the tree where he’d left him picketed the night

before but there was no sign of the woman.

Grabbing up his gun, he slung the heavy leather belt around his hips, buckling it as he went. He was tying

the thong to his thigh when he heard the splash of water behind him and spun around. Hurrying toward

the creek by which he’d camped, he darted silently through the scrub oaks, careful not to make a sound.

If there was an enemy about, he didn’t want the bastard to hear him until it was too late.

The Reaper came up short when he saw Aingeal bathing in the creek. She was standing with the water

up to her breasts, her right arm lifted above her head as she dragged a piece of material down her flesh

with her left hand. Vigorously scrubbing at her dirty flesh, she had apparently already washed her hair, for

the matted mess lay in sleek dark strands down her shapely back. He glanced at the gown she’d already

scrubbed and left to dry on a rock by the creek bank and recognized what he knew was his comb laying

atop the worn garment.

Amazed that she had gotten up without waking him and managed to rummage through his saddlebag to

find a comb and what he knew was his bar of soap—again without disturbing him—stunned Cynyr and

he heard himself growl low in his throat.

“Did you sleep well, Cyn?” she asked, turning around to look at him. She didn’t seem in the least

concerned with her nakedness or the fact that his eyes were locked on her breasts.

“Get out of that water!” he snarled, coming toward her. “Now!”

“I’m not finished,” she said, dipping her rag beneath the surface. “I haven’t washed my legs.”

“Get the hell out of the water!” he shouted, fear clouding his vision as he reached the edge of the creek.

Aingeal could see the terror stamped on his handsome features and she remembered hearing that

Reapers were afraid of water. She held up her hand. “All right, I’m coming.”

It wasn’t the striking beauty of her body as she waded out of the water that made him lay hands to her

and drag her against him. He barely noticed her nudity or the wetness clinging to his clothes. His arms

were like steel bands as they held her, and she had to double her fists and hit him on the back to get him

to release his tight hold so she could draw a decent breath.

Cynyr was trembling as he reached down and shackled her wrist, dragging her away from the creek. He

would have kept right on pulling her back to the camp if she hadn’t yelled at him that she needed her

gown.

“It isn’t much but it’s all I’ve got!” she said, jerking on his punishing grip.

He stopped and ran his gaze down her naked body—pausing just a fraction longer than he should have

at the dark triangle at her thighs. “Ah, hell!” he snapped, and swept a hand over her.

Aingeal thought he was going to hit her and cowered away from him, shielding her face with her free

arm, but as soon as she felt the constriction around her body she yelped, reacting so powerfully she

managed to yank her hand free of his hold. She stumbled back, her eyes wide and her mouth open.

“How did you…?” She stared down at the jeans and white cotton shirt that covered her body.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” he said, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Do you hear me?”

She ran her hand over the crisp white cotton and slowly lifted her head to stare at him. He was glaring at

her, but it wasn’t anger shifting through his amber gaze. She flinched when he snaked out a hand and

captured her wrist once more, pulling her behind him back to the camp. She stumbled along, unable to

speak for the rasp of the jeans against her bare legs and rump was sending sensations that curled in her

belly.

“Damned women are always more trouble than they’re worth,” he muttered to himself as he walked.

Aingeal took exception to that. “I didn’t ask you to come looking for me.”

He stopped and she almost collided with his back. “While you are under my protection, you’ll do as I

say. Is that clear?”