Reaper's Revenge (19 page)

“You’ll get your turn, Gehdrin,”
Lord Kheelan assured him.

“Danielle came by to help Annie bathe me last evening,” Cynyr said in a conversational tone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arawn stiffen and turn a hard glare toward him.

Arawn stared at the man sitting in the rocker. “Shouldn’t you be bathing yourself, Cree?” he asked. “I’d think that would help strengthen you.”

Cynyr shrugged. “Why bother when I can get a pretty woman to do it for me?” he prodded. He could see the Prime Reaper’s hands clenching into fists at his sides and almost laughed. Instead, he glanced up at Arawn with a perfectly innocent look on his face. “You don’t begrudge a man a little fun with a comely lass now, do you?”

The Prime Reaper’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed into thin slits. “What the hell do you mean by fun, Cree?” he demanded.

Moira came shuffling out on the porch and poked Arawn in the ribs with the blunt end of one of her knitting needles. “Stop acting like ye ain’t got a jealous bone in your body, Arawn Gehdrin!” she chastised him. “Ye know ye’ve set your cap for that Brewster gal. Everybody else knows it!”

“What did you and Danielle do?” Arawn snarled as though he hadn’t heard the old lady’s words.

“I just lay there,” Cynyr answered. “It was what she did with those soft, gentle, little warm hands of hers that—”

Arawn’s fist went back before he thought and he would have plowed that fist down into Cynyr’s laughing face had not Moira latched onto his arm as though she were about to swing upon it. The surprising strength in the old lady’s hands took Arawn off guard and he stared down at her with his mouth ajar.

“Ye love that gal whether ye be man enough to admit it or not, Arawn. We all see it so stop your foolishness and help Cynyr to bed. He needs to get in outta this rain!”

“I won’t have him talking about my woman like—” Arawn realized what he was yelling and cut himself off, his handsome face turning bright red as he took in the humor puckering the faces of his Reaper and the old lady. He clamped his lips shut, 103

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narrowed his eyes even more—if that were possible—and glared at them, a muscle working in his lean jaw.

“Gotcha,” Moira said, poking him again with her knitting needle. “Bring the lad on inside now a’fore he catches his death of cold.”

“A’fore I kill him,” Arawn hissed, and swooped down to pluck Cynyr from the chair as though lifting a child. He carried his burden into the jail, slamming the Reaper’s shoulder none too gently against the doorjamb as he passed.

“Damn, Gehdrin, that hurt!” Cynyr complained, rubbing his shoulder.

“I’ll break both your hands if you so much as put one finger on Danielle Brewster,”

Arawn spat.

Moira was chuckling to herself, nudging Owen with a bony elbow until she had the fourth highest-ranking Reaper laughing along with her.

“She doesn’t even know I’m in the room,” Cynyr said as Arawn tossed him upon his cot. He bounced, wincing as his aching muscles made complaint about the rough treatment.

“I’m not ready to take that little hoyden on yet,” Arawn admitted. “So I don’t want any of you encouraging her!”

“As if she needed encouragement,” Moira said with a snort.

“Follows me around like a little lost puppy,” Arawn complained. “Batting those cow eyes at me. Mincing around, touching me like I’m a…I’m a…” He threw his hands up in the air. “I’m a…” He couldn’t think of the word he wanted to use and let out a foul curse in Rysalian that had Owen and Cynyr blushing.

“She certainly can’t be enamored of your gentle nature and polite manners,” Moira accused him. “Most likely she touches ye ‘cause she thinks ye be tetched and she’s of a mind to try to comfort ye.”

Arawn’s eyes bulged. “Tetched?” he repeated, his voice higher pitched than normal.

“She thinks he’s a retard,” Owen agreed with the old lady. Cynyr lay on his cot with his head turned to one side, watching the fury rising in the Prime Reaper’s face. Unaccustomed to being teased, Arawn looked as though he could pull out Owen Tohre’s guts and drain Moira McDermott dry. He was standing in the middle of Cynyr’s cell with his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, his face crimson red, his cheeks puffed out as though he were about to explode, fairly quivering with anger, and when the objects of his ire dared to laugh out loud, Cynyr thought Gehdrin would physically attack. He half pushed himself up on the cot should it be necessary to intervene, but when Arawn slammed his hands into his own hair and pulled, squeezing his eyes shut as though in mortal pain, he knew his leader had given in to the jokes at his expense.

“She won’t leave me the hell alone,” Arawn whimpered, banging his head lightly on the cell bars.

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Moira sobered long enough to ask him if he wanted her to.

“No,” Arawn admitted. “No, I really don’t.”

“Then deal with her, lad,” Moira told him.

The storm had passed over and all that was left was a gentle rain that was being pushed to the east by a much cooler wind. It was highly likely sleet—even snow—

would follow on the heels of the storm.

“Let’s let Cyn take a snooze, lads,” Moira said. “Owen, blow the candle out and let’s ye and me head on over for some grub.” She cast Arawn a look from head to toe.

“Ye don’t look hungry but if’n ye ask nicely, I might be persuaded to send ye back a slice of plum pudding.”

Arawn sighed. He’d gained at least fifteen pounds since he’d been in Haines City and his was the least of the Reaper weight gain—excluding Cynyr who had lost weight during his illness. “Just a small slice, please,” he asked, never one to turn down anything the old lady cooked.

“Humph,” Moira commented, rolling her eyes. “Ain’t no such thing in your vocabulary, lad.”

Owen opened the door then stepped back, quickly removing his hat as Danielle Brewster came in, shaking her closed umbrella before standing it up against the outside of the jail.

Arawn groaned, his gaze automatically going to Cynyr who was grinning broadly.

“Good day, Milady Danielle,” Owen said, his hat pressed against his chest. Danielle batted her eyes at the handsome Reaper. “Good day to you, Owen. Are you leaving?”

“He’s coming with me,” Moira answered. “Growing boys need feeding as I’m sure you know, Danni.”

Danielle had yet to even look at Arawn. She was smiling at Owen, her lush red lips parted to reveal very white teeth. She put a hand on Owen’s arm. “I’ve got an orange cake in the oven right now, Owen. Why don’t you stop by later and I’ll cut you a piece?” She ran her hand up and down his forearm.

Owen cast Arawn a quick look, saw the fury building on the Prime Reaper’s face and ducked his head. “I don’t know, milady. I—”

“Orange juice in the batter and boiled orange zest icing that runs down the sides,”

Danielle said. “My orange cake took first place three years in a row at the county fair.”

Moira’s lips were twitching for she expected to see steam come out of Arawn Gehdrin’s ears at any moment. His hot glare was latched on Danielle’s hand where she was gently rubbing Owen’s arm. “Danni knows her cakes,” the old lady said. Danielle turned her head, sweeping her eyes over Arawn and looked to Cynyr.

“Would you like me to bring you over a piece, Cyn?” she inquired. Cynyr could only nod. He was watching Arawn’s hands opening and closing as he stood there as rigid as a piece of steel.

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Swinging her head back toward Owen, Danielle patted his arm one final time.

“Then I’ll send you back a piece by Owen,” she said then bent over to retrieve her umbrella.

“What about me?” Arawn demanded, walking out of the jail cell. Danielle didn’t look around. She didn’t answer. She stepped out on the porch, opened her umbrella and stepped out into the light rain, her skirt lifted clear of the mud puddles.

Arawn marched to the door. “What about me, Danni?” he yelled after her, and when he received no answer, he spun around and locked his raging glower on Owen.

“You go to her house and I’ll pull your innards up through your throat, Tohre. Do you understand me?”

Owen’s face was a blank canvas as he agreed he would not venture to the lovely lady’s home.

Moira snorted—a very unladylike sound—and Arawn whipped around to pierce her with his steely stare. She smiled sweetly and said, “
Nuair atá an cat amuigh bíonn na
luch ag damhsa.” While the cat’s away, the mice will play.

“Aye,” Arawn answered, his eyes narrowing at Owen. “
Coimhéad fearg fhear na
foighde.” Beware the anger of a patient man.

Moira grinned at him. “Don’t seem to me you’re that patient a man, Arawn Gehdrin,” she replied. “But I can sure see the anger in ye.” She took hold of Owen’s arm and led him out the door.

“Interfering old biddy,” Arawn called after her.

“
Nár lagaí Alel do lámh!
,”
Moira shouted back, but thunder rumbled overhead, drowning out most of her words.

“What did she say?” Arawn fumed.

“May Alel not weaken your hand,” Cynyr told him.

Arawn slammed his palm against the doorjamb. “Interfering old biddy!” he yelled again, and hit the doorjamb again when Moira waved a hand in his direction. Cynyr was tired and his body full of aches and pains that plagued him. He turned over on the cot and closed his eyes, smiling as he listened to the Prime Reaper stomping about the jail office—kicking a chair out of his path, plopping down in Moira’s rocker, mumbling to himself. The rain had returned in full force and was battering at the tin roof overhead, lulling him. Arawn had left the door open and a cool breeze wafted over Cynyr, bringing with it the scent of ozone that he found soothing. The dream came almost as soon as the Reaper sank down into the arms of the god of sleep…

Iron wheels clacking against the long stretch of rail made the train car rock gently to and fro.
The clean cotton sheets held the crisp scent of starch and ozone and were as soft as silk beneath
his naked body. He lay stretched out on his back, his hands beneath his head, staring up at the
ceiling. His legs were parted and Aingeal was kneeling between them, her soft hair dragging over
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his thighs as she gently and expertly used her lips to soothe his throbbing cock. Her lips were like
warm velvet as they slid from his head to the root along his fevered flesh, engulfing his rigid
member in the satin of her mouth. She had forbidden him to touch her and it was all he could do
to lie calmly beneath her ministrations, for his blood was roaring through his veins, his heart
pounding furiously, his body quivering at her slightest touch.
Slowly she slid her mouth down the length of him until his swollen head was being laved by
her wicked tongue. He drew in a breath as that sly muscle flicked into the slit of his cock to taste
him, swirling around the top of him as though he were a stick of peppermint. Licking him gently,
she used the broad surface of her tongue to lap at his essence. He heard her hum her approval and
his entire body clenched with need.

“You are torturing me, my love,” he whispered, fearing his voice would break so strained
was his throat with passion.

She looked up at him, her gray eyes devouring him. “That was my intent,
mo shearc
,” she
replied. Once more she lowered her head and drew him deep into her mouth.
Cynyr was lost in the sweetness of her art. She laved. She lapped. She suckled; all the while
her soft hand cupped his sacs and massaged them gently, her thumb sweeping tenderly over the
top of their wrinkled surface. She pulled upon him with a fiery need of her own that made his
heart swell with pride at how much she loved him.

Her free hand slid under him, between the cleft in his ass. He stiffened as her middle finger
touched the puckered rim of his anus. Slowly circling that small perimeter, she dipped the tip of
her finger into him and laughed when his hips jerked upward. She nipped the head of his cock
with her teeth until he lay still once more, this time with his hands wrapped around the metal
headboard of the bed upon which they lay, hanging on for dear life.
The train whistle blew—a long, lonely sound. There would be no stopping for a while yet so
the clank-clank-clank of the iron wheels turning over the track continued, slowing only a little as
the train passed whatever had warranted the warning.

Aingeal sat up to run her palms over her lover’s thighs. She gently scraped her nails from
groin to knee, her eyes locked with Cynyr’s. There was a flame of passionate lust leaping in her
pretty gray depths but the fire was yet building, not fully engaged as it would eventually
become.

“You are an uncommonly handsome man, Cynyr Cree,” she said in a throaty voice.
He smiled, unused to such compliments, though she often handed them out to him. He was
glad she found him attractive, worthy of her substantial beauty and not for the first time did he
wonder why her first husband had traded her for a brace of horses.

“Because he did not see the value within me,” she said, easily reading his mind.
She bent forward to drag her tongue from the crisp curls at the juncture of his thighs to his
bellybutton, swirling the tip into the deep concavity until he was squirming. His cock was
pressed upward, sliding along her chest wall until it was imprisoned between them. Anchoring
his hips with her hands, she trailed little kisses up his belly and onto his chest before closing her
lips around one of his paps and drawing it deep into her mouth.
Sensation rippled down Cynyr’s sides and into his legs. He ached to grab hold of her hair
and position her over his straining manhood. He was throbbing so hard, the heat so high in his
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