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

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.

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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