Reaper's Revenge (24 page)

“Wouldn’t want to be in that brave’s moccasins,” Liam agreed. He took the reins from his wife and slapped them lightly. “Geddup!”

Mick rode beside the buckboard, casting a nervous eye behind them in case the Jakotai was following.

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Chapter Fourteen

Harold Warrington eased the door open and stuck his head inside the jail office. “Is he awake?” he whispered.

Moira didn’t care for the prissy little man and when she saw he was carrying a wicker basket covered with a red-and-white-checked towel, thunderclouds began brewing in the old woman’s eyes. She laid her knitting down in her lap. “What ye got there, Harry?” she demanded.

The man the Shadowlords had provided for Cynyr and Aingeal as a servant winced, hating the nickname everyone in town had bestowed upon him as soon as they found out it annoyed him. He disliked having to live in the backward town, loathed the room he’d been given at the Guthrie House, and wished he could return to the Citadel and never see another western town as long as he lived. If he’d had his druthers, he would stay on the side-railed train car where he had a bedroom but no one would fill the water tanks or empty the privy or provide him with firewood for the stoves so he was forced to stay in the hotel he considered one step above a ghetto residence.

“Please, do not call me that,” Harold asked, knowing full well it would do no good. He came on into the jail. “I made him some vegetable and beef barley soup.”

Moira cast a look toward the cot and knew her charge was sleeping soundly so she got up and walked over to the desk where Warrington had set down the fancy wicker basket. She raked her eyes over the little man, feeling the same as the rest of the townsfolk who disliked him, considering him a fussy, prissy little man who looked down his nose at them. He had alienated everyone in town with his attitude. “And what else?” she inquired.

Gritting his teeth, Harold replied the basket also contained freshly baked bread and a jug of apple juice.

“Surprises the hell outta me that old Guthrie gives ye the run of his kitchen, all things considered,” Moira stated, lifting the cloth to inspect Harold’s offering. Harold stiffened, his five feet tall frame nearly quivering with outrage. “I will have you know I am a certified blue ribbon chef, madam!” he hissed. “I have trained in the finest culinary—”

“Smells all right to me. Guess it won’t kill him,” Moira pronounced, and went back to her rocker, dismissing the man.

His pencil-thin mustache trembling, Harold spun on his heel and marched to the door, the ever-persistent wheezing noises coming through his nose making him sound like a dying steam engine. He closed the door carefully behind him.

“Mincing little fop,” Moira mumbled.

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“He’s a damned good cook, Moira,” Cynyr said.

Moira looked over at him. “If’n ye say so.”

Groggy from sleep but with less pain in his head, Cynyr asked Moira for water. It was all he could do to push himself up when she brought him a glass. He drank greedily, his mouth and throat dry.

“Ye smell a bit ripe, lad,” Moira informed him, wrinkling her nose.

“I need a bath,” the Reaper agreed for he could smell his own odor.

“Rain seems to have stopped for the time being. I’ll go fetch Annie and we’ll see to ye.”

Cynyr eased his legs from the cot and attempted to stand up but though he knew he possessed the strength to do so, his head swam unmercifully so he lowered it, closing his eyes to the wildly spinning room circling around him. He was still sitting like that when Brett Samuels and Verlin Walker came in with two buckets of hot water each to fill the small copper tub that had been brought to Cynyr’s cell.

“How’s the levy holding?” the Reaper asked.

“All right for now,” Samuels reported. “Most we’re likely to get is a quagmire running through the street.”

“Last time we had flooding we got a tad more’n that but nothin’ to write home about,” Walker agreed. “Seems a big waste of time to me to be shoring up but whatta I know?”

Annie and Moira came in with the items needed for Cynyr’s bath. They waited until the water had been poured and the men shooed out before helping the Reaper to the tub. Having long since accustomed himself to the women seeing him naked, he allowed them to undress him, although he could have waved a hand to rid himself of his clothing if he’d had the energy to do so. Slipping into the hot water, he sighed deeply and leaned his head against the tall back of the tub.

“You know your friends spent a goodly portion of their time the other day swimming in the river despite it being on the rise,” Annie told Cynyr. “Well, all except the newlywed, Owen and Bevyn.”

“Bevyn can’t swim,” Moira said as she poured water on Cynyr’s head and began lathering his hair. “Arawn had other things on his mind other than a dip in the river.”

“That was sweet of you to give Danielle your ring,” Cynyr said, and met Annie’s eye. “It’ll be treasured.”

“Figured as much,” Annie said, ducking her head. She cleared her throat as though wanting to change the subject. “Reckon one of the men will teach Bev how to swim?”

“Might be harder than normal,” Cynyr said as he lifted a hand to swipe at the suds flowing down his cheek. “He’ll have the natural inclination of a Reaper not to want to go near the water.”

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“Seems to me they figured out there weren’t no danger to that creepy-crawly in you so the lad won’t be too a’feared,” Moira commented. “He seemed downright despondent he couldn’t join in the playing.”

“Not unlike a man to want what the others have or can do,” Annie put in. Cynyr smiled for Annie was vigorously lathering soap up and down his arms and across his chest, seemingly unaware of his nakedness. When she told him to lift his leg, he did so obediently.

“Jamie was like that,” Moira stated. “Always after me to get him a pony like Matt Schumann had or pestering me for a pair of boots like Johnny Denning’s granddaddy sewed for him.”

“Men ain’t nothing but tall little boys,” Annie said with a giggle, and she motioned Cynyr to put up his other leg.

“That’s the truth if you’ve ever spoke it,” Moira agreed.

“What does that make you women?” Cynyr asked.

“Long-suffering saints who have to put up with your nonsense,” Moira replied. The jail door opened and the sheriff sauntered in, wiping the rain from his florid face. “Started back to pouring again,” he announced. “Saw a wagon and rider over near the rise.”

“That’s Aingeal,” Cynyr said, his voice filled with excitement. He took the rag out of Annie’s hand. “I’ll see to the rest of me.”

Annie and Moira chuckled at the blaze of color that accompanied the Reaper’s words and left him to finish his bath.

“Best stay with him while he dresses himself, Dan. He ain’t none too steady on his feet yet,” Moira suggested as she waved Annie ahead of her to the door. Lightning cracked overhead and rain slammed down hard on the tin roof.

“Don’t look like you’re going nowheres, Miss Moira,” the sheriff warned.

“Think ye may be right,” Moira granted, staring at the rain slashing across the muddy street.

“Aingeal is going to get drenched,” the Reaper said, and no one could mistake the worry in his voice. He was leaning against the sheriff as he pulled himself out of the tub.

Though Annie wasn’t facing Cynyr, she could see him from the corner of her eye as the sheriff helped him dry himself. She could feel the heat rising to her cheeks.

“He’s all man,” Moira said quietly.

Annie nodded, acutely embarrassed her mother-in-law was aware she’d been surreptitiously ogling the Reaper. She turned her head away so she wouldn’t be tempted to keep on staring at the broad, hairy chest and the sensual triangle at the junction of Cynyr’s thighs.

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The sheriff shook his head as he watched the Reaper fan a hand down his body and clothing magically appeared. He knew he’d never get used to the miraculous things the bounty hunters could do.

“Do I look all right?” Cynyr asked, running a hand through his damp curls.

“Good enough to eat,” Moira said with a laugh.

“Reckon Lady Aingeal won’t care how you look,” the sheriff said, “if’n she’s a drowned rat herself.”

Once more the door opened and Bevyn and Phelan hurried in, their clothing soaked from the downpour.

“It’s coming down like dogs and cats out there,” Phelan announced, shaking the water from the brim of his black hat.

“I think your lady’s here,” Bevyn said. He took off his hat and ran the back of his arm over his wet face. “I saw a buckboard pulling into the stable.”

Cynyr ran a trembling hand down his black leather breeches. He was unsteady on his feet, standing close to the bunk should he need to sit down quickly. His head was hurting still, but not nearly as badly as it had been.

“I sure don’t fancy getting wet out there,” Moira said, “but we got a ton of chores to do.”

“Yes, we do,” Annie allowed.

“I’ll see you ladies to home,” the sheriff offered.

“Much obliged, Dan,” Moira said.

“You’re going to get soaked,” Cynyr told her.

“A little rain never hurt nobody,” Moira said, and pushed Annie ahead of her out the door, followed closely by the sheriff.

“No one wants to be here when you and your lady see one another, I reckon,”

Phelan laughed. He jammed his hat back on his head.

“You go on. I’ll wait until she’s here,” Bevyn said. He went over to the windows and began pulling down the shades.

“What are you doing?” Cynyr asked.

“He’s dense, ain’t he?” Phelan asked, shaking his head. He left, running across the street toward the Guthrie House.

“I’ll lock the door behind me and warn people to refrain from coming to check on you,” Bevyn said as he leaned up against the desk.

Cynyr’s face flamed. “You really think I’m capable of doing what you people think I’ll be doing?”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?” Bevyn inquired.

“Aye, but I feel like shit still and Aingeal had to have tenerse and—”

“And, and, and,” Bevyn interrupted. “Why don’t you sit down before you fall down and stop raking your hand through your hair and messing it up even more?”

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Cynyr lowered his hand, about to plow it through his hair still again. He sat down on the cot, threaded his fingers together and pressed his hands between his thighs. He stared at his bare feet, wondering why he hadn’t thought to put on his boots when he’d fashioned his uniform. He started to then lost interest when Bevyn spoke.

“When the river goes down a mite, Glyn’s going to teach me how to swim,” Bevyn said, trying to take his fellow Reaper’s mind off the impending reunion.

“Yeah?” Cynyr said, looking up. The subject held vague interest for him.

“Always wanted to learn,” Bevyn added.

The sound of running feet coming up the sidewalk planks brought Cynyr’s head up and his eyes straight to the door. He held his breath as a shadow passed across the drawn shades and the door opened.

Mick Brady came in, his hair plastered to his head. He was smiling. “She says she’ll be here as soon as she puts on some dry clothes,” the barber proclaimed. He swiped the rain from his face with a spread hand. “Reckon I’ll go get dry too.”

“She’s okay?” Bevyn asked for Cynyr.

“Doing real good. Slept a long time after I gave her the tenerse.” Mick frowned.

“Must have hurt her something fierce, though.”

Bevyn looked at Cynyr. “Was it your tenerse he gave her?”

Cynyr flinched and groaned. “By the gods, it was!”

“No harm done, I guess,” Mick said. “She feels just fine now.” He nodded to the men then turned to go.

Cynyr was shaking his head. “I didn’t stop to think,” he admitted. Once more the door opened and Aingeal was standing there. Her dress was wet around the hem, her braided hair wet, but she was the most beautiful thing Cynyr had ever seen. His knees felt weak and he was unable to stand, looking at her with such hunger it nearly growled.

“Milady,” Bevyn said, tipping his hat to her. She was looking at him, a frown on her face.

“You’re not my man,” she said.

“No, I’m surely not,” Bevyn agreed, and nudged his chin toward the jail cell where Cynyr was seated, looking as though he’d been poleaxed.

Aingeal turned her head and when she saw the handsome man sitting on the cot, her insides did a funny little flip. It was his eyes she recognized and everything else in the room simply faded away.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Bevyn said, and slipped out the door, making good on his promise to lock it behind him.

Aingeal could feel her legs shaking beneath the skirt of the borrowed dress someone had sent to her at the stable. Her heart was thundering in her chest and she was breathing strangely—almost as though she’d been running. 134

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Cynyr swallowed. “Will you come to me,
mo shearc
?” he asked in a strained voice.

“He hit me in the head,” she explained, taking a step forward. “I don’t remember much.”

Fury shifted across Cynyr’s face. “You will be the last woman he’ll ever hit,” he swore. He tried to push himself up but the pain in his head nearly made him pass out. Seeing her mate was having problems standing, Aingeal hurried to him, kneeling down in front of him and reaching for his hands. “You have been ill,” she said. “This much I know.”

He threaded his fingers through hers. His gaze was moving over her face, looking for signs of hurt. He brought her hands to his lips and pressed her knuckles to his mouth.

Aingeal looked into a face that was the handsomest she’d ever seen. His amber eyes were glowing, moist from unshed tears she could see hovering just beneath the surface. His lips pressing against her hands sent a wave of warmth pooling low in her belly.

“I’m better now,” he told her. “Much better now you’re home.”

She slipped one hand from his grasp and laid her palm against his cheek. “This feels right,” she said. “My soul knows yours.”

“You are my wife,” he told her. “We were legally Joined before witnesses. You are my heart, my soul, the very essence of my being.”