Her Reaper's Arms, Charlotte Boyett-Compo [world best books to read .TXT] 📗

honey. Almost instantly

his body swelled, his cock stirring to aching hardness. Her scent was on the pillow

beside him and he reached for it, drawing it to his face. He inhaled, closing his eyes. He

was still clutching the pillow when she came back to the room, his breakfast on a tray.

“I hope I didn’t bring something you hate,” she said as he scooted up in the bed.

“I would have come down, wench,” he said. No one had ever catered to him in

such a way—especially not those who had raised him—and when Lea placed the tray

on his lap, he felt tears gathering in his eyes.

“The sheriff is waiting downstairs for you,” she told him. “I bid him wait until you

had eaten.”

He looked up at her. “What are you going to eat?” he asked.

Lea’s eyebrows shot up. She thought she had brought more than enough food for

the both of them but obviously that was not the case. “I’ll eat while you’re with the

sheriff,” she replied, her lips twitching with amusement.

“Okay,” he said, and delved into the food as though he hadn’t eaten in a week.

“You cooked this?”

“Aye,” she said.

“Good,” he said, mopping a piece of toast through a sunny yellow glob of egg yolk.

“Really good.”

She sat in the chair beside the bed and watched him devour every single morsel of

the food and drink the entire pot of coffee she had brought. When he was finished, she

got up to remove the tray from his legs.

“Thank you, Lea,” he said, gazing up at her with a look that made her womb

clench.

“You are welcome, milord,” she replied. “Are you feeling better now?”

He was still hungover and his growing need for Sustenance was an uncomfortable

itch but that was a condition he was more than accustomed to. He didn’t want to bring

up his need to consume blood at first rising for fear of frightening her. He gingerly

swung his legs from the bed and carefully stood, testing his equilibrium. “Aye, I’m fine

now,” he lied, for his head felt twice its normal size and was aching like the very devil.

24

Her Reaper’s Arms

She started out of the room with the tray but stopped when he called her name.

“Tell the sheriff I’ll be right down,” he told her, reaching for his shirt.

“Aye, milord.”

“Bevyn,” he corrected.

She gave him a bright smile. “Aye, Bevyn,” she said.

Unaware he was grinning like an idiot until he caught sight of himself in the mirror,

the Reaper shook his head, forcing his face into its customary scowl, but he couldn’t

seem to keep from smiling as he thought of the pert young woman who had slept

beside him during the night. By the time he started downstairs, he was biting the inside

of his cheek to stop from breaking into a grin. As soon as he saw the sheriff, his need for

Sustenance tripled.

Sheriff Buford Gilchrist was standing by the bar, his hat in hand. He bowed his

head respectfully at the Reaper but said nothing.

“You’ve a problem, Sheriff?” Bevyn asked.

The sheriff nodded. “Aye, milord. If it pleases you, I will speak of it.”

The Reaper glanced at Mable. “Where can we talk privately?” he asked.

“In there,” Mable said, pointing to the small room she used as her office.

“Let’s go,” Bevyn told the sheriff, and as soon as he had the door closed behind

them, gave a silent command for the sheriff to stand still.

It took only a moment to take out his blade, cut a deep nick on the sheriff’s forearm

and take what he needed to start his day. As soon as he had drunk his fill, he flicked his

tongue over the wound, closing it, planting the image of having scratched himself on a

thorn bush in the sheriff’s mind. He waved a hand across the older man’s face and the

sheriff blinked.

“Aye, milord. If it pleases you, I will speak of it,” the man repeated as though there

had been no break in time.

Bevyn nodded, folding his arms over his chest. He was annoyed with himself that

he had come downstairs without his hat or his weapons, something totally unusual for

him. “Tell me,” he said in a tight voice.

“There’s a rogue by the name of Roy English who’s been plaguing us for a few

months now,” the sheriff reported. “He’s killed several ranchers just north of us. Bled

them dry, he did. I’ve led posses after the bastard but we can’t find where he’s gone to

ground.”

“He’s gone rabid,” Bevyn said. “It happens even to rogues. Did you send word to

the Citadel?”

The sheriff nodded. “I did, milord, and received word back that you’d be along this

way shortly. That was about four days ago.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out

a handkerchief, extending it toward the Reaper. “Got this for you.”

25

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Bevyn took the handkerchief that was peppered with black-colored spots. He

brought it to his nose, the iron scent of spilled blood filling his nostrils.

“One of the ranchers’ sons nicked the bastard before he got away and the lad was

smart enough to mop up the specks with his snot rag,” the sheriff said. “Is there

anything else I can do for you, milord?”

“Nope, this is all I need, Sheriff. I can track him wherever he goes,” Bevyn told the

middle-aged man. He stuffed the handkerchief into a back pocket. “Anything else I

should be aware of?”

“We got a few other problems but nothing I need to bother you with,” the sheriff

reported. “I reckon me and my men can handle them.”

Bevyn nodded then opened the door, walking out ahead of the sheriff. “Then I

would ask a favor of you,” Bevyn said quietly, aware the saloonkeeper was listening.

“Anything, milord!” the sheriff was quick to respond.

“You know the lady who cooks here?” he asked.

“Lea?” the sheriff inquired. At the Reaper’s nod, he frowned. “Aye, milord. I’ve

known her since she was knee-high to a grasshopper. Has she offended you in some

way?”

“Far from it,” Bevyn replied. “She is now under my protection and I would take it

as a boon if you would look after her for me when I am not in residence here.”

Buford Gilchrist’s mouth dropped open. “R-Residence?” he croaked. “H-Here?”

Bevyn glanced at the