Her Reaper's Arms (3 page)

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

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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

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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 him.

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

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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

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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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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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.