Her Reaper's Arms (7 page)

The Reaper went back outside and began gathering fallen branches of dead wood

and piled them around the perimeter of the shack. When he was finished, when he’d

stacked as much incendiary material as he could at the base of the rotting walls, he

untied the rogue’s horse from its place on the far end of the porch and walked it out to

where Préachán stood patiently waiting. Tying the animal beside his own mount,

Bevyn took a box of matches from his saddlebags and lit the debris around the shack,

standing back as the dried wood caught fire with a loud whoosh.

It took the cabin over an hour to burn to the ground, the roof timbers caving in,

going up in tall flames to singe the branches of the green trees and wither the leaves to

blackened ash. While the fire hissed and popped and cleansed the world of the horror

housed inside the shack, Bevyn had stood with his mount and the
balgair
’s.

His head ached miserably and he knew one of the debilitating migraines that

plagued his kind was about to take hold. The pain was rapidly approaching. It hurt

even to mount Préachán, but once in the saddle, once sure there was nothing left but the

smoldering ruins of cabin, he kicked his mount into movement, leading the
balgair
’s

scrawny beast by its reins.

“Are you all right, Lord Bevyn?”

It was Lord Kheelan’s voice that broke into Bevyn’s thoughts as the Reaper rode

back toward Orson. Disinclined to answer the Shadowlord’s question, it wasn’t until

the High Lord spoke again—this time in a voice that brooked no ignoring—that he

replied.

“I’m here,” Bevyn said aloud, his jaw tight.

“We felt your revulsion, Lord Bevyn,”
Lord Kheelan stated.
“To remedy such things are

why you are in this world.”

“Aye,” Bevyn agreed. In his mind’s eye, he saw again the atrocities that had been

hanging from meat hooks along the walls of the shack.

“There was nothing more you could have done for the rogue’s victims,”
Lord Kheelan

reminded him from the Citadel, that bastion of armed protection many, many miles

away.

“Had I known of English sooner—” the Reaper began, but the High Lord cut him

off.

“We did not know of it, Lord Bevyn. How could you?”
came the reprimand.

Bevyn swiped at the sweat that was rolling down from the headband of his hat. He

ran the back of his hand under his chin. “I should have made my rounds of Orson long

before now,” he said, his voice harsh.

“There are many of them and few of you, Lord Bevyn. You can not be in two places at once

and you were needed in Beverton.”

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Her Reaper’s Arms

“I was needed
here
!” Bevyn snarled.

“Do not blame yourself for what the rogue did. You could not have prevented it, Bevyn. We

understand you need time to get over what you saw,”
Lord Kheelan said.
“Take a few days, a

week, and then join us here at the Citadel.”

Bevyn felt the High Lord withdrawing. He had been given an order and was

expected to carry it out. How magnanimous of his masters to allow him time for the

horror to diminish in his mind. Not that it ever would. He was sick to his very soul and

the pain lacerating his temples only added to the hell in which he now found himself.

He could imagine the healers at the Citadel sitting down with the Shadowlords to

soberly discuss their Reaper’s frame of mind. There would be much exchanging of ideas

of how best to handle him when he presented himself before the High Council, what

would be required to return him to a state of semi-normalcy—as if there were such a

thing with his kind.

If there was one thing Bevyn Coure hated more than being forced to witness the

evil perpetrated by the rogues, it was being handled. Kennocha Tramont had handled

him—gods how she had handled him!—and his body still bore the scars of that

handling.

Looking down, he took his left hand from the reins and gazed at the back of it. A

star-shaped scar stood out faintly on the tan of his skin. He stared at the old wound—

realizing his hand was shaking. His right hand bore the same scar but was even fainter

than this one. The pain that had accompanied the searing of his flesh by the Dóigra had

been but a taste of Kennocha’s revenge against him.

Where, he wondered, had the rogue found a Dóigra? From what Amazeen

warrioress’s hand had he taken the long mahogany spear with the glass-tipped starshaped laser bulb at the end? Were there now Amazeens on Terra?

That last question set his teeth on edge. If those bitches were here, if they were in

league with the rogues, Terra had been thrust closer to the Abyss and the evil that

resided there.

33

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Chapter Three

Lea was helping Mable and her girls do their wash when news came that the

Reaper had returned and had been seen down at the stable. She dried her workroughened hands on her apron and went through the saloon, pushing open the batwing

doors to look toward the stable. Debating whether to wait for her man there at the

saloon or to go to him, she tucked her lower lip between her teeth and nibbled on it.

Would he be offended if she met him at the stable?

At that moment, she saw him coming out of the building, his head lowered, his face

hidden behind the brim of his down-turned hat, the silver conchos on the headband

glinting in the sun. His saddlebags were slung over his shoulder and must have been

very heavy for his footsteps were slow, almost dragging, and his shoulders were

stooped.

“Look at me, warrior,” she whispered to him, wondering if he would hear though

he was a long way from her.

The Reaper’s head lifted and his eyes met hers. His face was so grave, the look he

gave her grim.

Something had happened, she thought as she let go of the batwing doors and

walked out onto the boardwalk. Though she had only met this man the day before, she

was so finely attuned to him already that she knew he was hurting. Without a qualm,

she stepped off the boardwalk and ran to him, her face filled with concern.

They met in the center of the dusty street, completely unaware of the townsfolk

who had stopped their business to watch them. She reached out a hand to him and he

took it, bringing it to his lips.

“Are you all right, milord?” she asked.

“I will be,” he answered, and released her hand to put his arm around her waist as

though he needed the support of her body to hold himself up.

Lea slid her arm around his body and they headed for the saloon. She was keenly

aware of their hips touching as they walked and the rub of his holster against her leg.

She said nothing—just held him—as they made their way into the saloon and up the

stairs side by side.

“You’ve been keeping busy,” he said quietly. He could smell the scent of wash

powder on her hands.

Lea nodded. “I don’t like idleness,” she said. “I had to do something while I

awaited your return.”

Her words were a balm to his soul and they slipped unerringly into his black heart

and began to make a home for themselves there. No one had ever awaited his return

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Her Reaper’s Arms

before—not even the Shadowlords. No one had ever cared whether he ever returned or

not.

She opened the room door and went ahead of him, easing her hand from his waist

to go to the window and pull the drapes shut for she had not missed his squinting eyes

while they had been out in the sun. Instinctively she knew the light was bothering him.

Bevyn shrugged off the weight of the saddlebags and let them fall onto the chair

beside the bed. He took off his hat and put it over them, staggering a bit.

“Is it your head?” she asked, for he had put a hand up to rub at his right temple.

“Aye,” he answered. “It hurts like a bitch.”

“Would something cold to drink help, milord?” Lea asked him. “Perhaps a wet rag

for your head?”

“Aye, sweeting,” he said, his hands at the buckle of his gun belt. “That would be

good.”

She glanced at him before she went out the door. He was moving so slowly—as

though every movement cost him dearly, every eye blink hurt. She went to him and

brushed aside his fingers as he struggled with the buckle. “Let me,” she said.

He stood perfectly still as she took off the gun belt and slung it over the post at the

headboard of the bed where it would be handy should he want it. She undid his belt

and removed it. Tugging gently, she pulled the silk of his shirt from his pants and then

unbuttoned the front and the cuff, helped him out of it before pushing him gently to the

edge of the mattress, bidding him silently to sit while she saw to his boots.

Bevyn sat down heavily and stared at the top of her golden head as she knelt at his

feet, removing his boots and socks. He obediently stood when she took his hand to

lever him to his feet so she could undo the fly of his pants and slide them down his long

legs. He had to brace himself with a hand to her shoulder as he stepped out of his pants

and just touching her gave him a strength of which he was in desperate need at that

moment.

She moved behind him and threw back the covers. “Lie down,” she said. “I’ll be

right back.”

Like a child, he did as she ordered, lying down on his back, his eyes staring

sightlessly at the ceiling as he waited for her to come back to him. He could hear her

downstairs speaking quietly to the saloonkeeper, ordering her to close her doors for

their Reaper was not feeling well.

“‘Our Reaper’,” he repeated her words aloud. “‘Our Reaper is not feeling well.’”

She was back with a basin of water, a rag tossed casually over her shoulder, and

Mable followed close behind with a pitcher and ewer clutched in her wrinkled hands.

“Put them there,” Lea ordered the older woman, and Bevyn could not help but

smile. The roles had been reversed and Mable was now Lea’s servant instead of the

other way around.

“Anything else he might need?” he heard Mable whisper.

35

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“I’ll see to it,” Lea answered. “Close the door behind you.”

The pain thundering between his temples was getting worse by the moment and he

knew he needed something for it. As much as he hated taking another dose of the

tenerse—the one each morning was bad enough—he knew he’d never be able to sleep

without help, and sleeping was the only way to rid himself of the brutal agony

hammering at him.

“Wench,” he said. “Get the needle and vial from my saddlebags.”

Lea nodded without speaking, knowing he was watching her as she poured him a

glass of water. She brought the glass to him, slid her hand under his neck and lifted his

head for him to take a sip. When he had, she lowered his head then set the glass aside to

do as he’d asked. When she brought the vac-syringe and vial to the bed, he instructed

her on how to load it and lay there watching her move as efficiently as any healer he’d

ever known.

“You do that right well, wench,” he complimented her, turning his head so she

could have access to his neck.

“I imagine I’ll get plenty of practice over the years,” she replied, unaware that her

words had given him a stronger dose of relief than any amount of tenerse ever could.

Placing the empty vac-syringe on the night table, she massaged the pain she had

given him, her fingertips cool against his heated flesh, then she wet a rag and wrung it

out, folded it and laid it across his forehead.

“Lie with me?” he asked, reaching up to catch her wrist before she turned away.

“I will,” she said. “Let me see to the door first.”

He watched her go to the portal and slide shut the latch. That she had thought to

keep them safe while he was incapacitated made his heart swell with pride. His eyes

tracked her every movement though it hurt to even move them.

Lea went around to the other side of the bed just as she had the day before and sat

down, removing her boots and stockings but this time when she had done that, she

stood to draw her gown over her head. In just her chemise, she draped the gown over

the footboard then climbed up into the bed with him. She sat with her back propped

against the headboard.

“Come here, milord,” she said, holding her arms open to him. She had no qualms

about his nudity, the fact that his powerful body was bare except for the horrendous

scars that streaked across it.

Bevyn did not question her order. He simply moved so he could lay his head in her

lap, curled beside her in a fetal position, wriggling one arm behind her back and the

other falling over her thighs.

The minutes ticked by as she sat there smoothing the hair gently back from his high

forehead, her free hand splayed between his shoulder blades, feeling one brutal wound

puckered beneath her palm. She was looking down at him, wondering how long it

would take for the medicine to take effect. His eyes were open and he was staring

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Her Reaper’s Arms

unwaveringly across the room without blinking. When the first sob took him, she

tightened her arm across his back.

“Oh god,” she heard him moan, and then a solitary sob became a torrent that shook