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

of his gun belt. “That would be

good.”

She glanced at him before she went out the door. He was moving so slowly—as

though every movement cost him dearly, every eye blink hurt. She went to him and

brushed aside his fingers as he struggled with the buckle. “Let me,” she said.

He stood perfectly still as she took off the gun belt and slung it over the post at the

headboard of the bed where it would be handy should he want it. She undid his belt

and removed it. Tugging gently, she pulled the silk of his shirt from his pants and then

unbuttoned the front and the cuff, helped him out of it before pushing him gently to the

edge of the mattress, bidding him silently to sit while she saw to his boots.

Bevyn sat down heavily and stared at the top of her golden head as she knelt at his

feet, removing his boots and socks. He obediently stood when she took his hand to

lever him to his feet so she could undo the fly of his pants and slide them down his long

legs. He had to brace himself with a hand to her shoulder as he stepped out of his pants

and just touching her gave him a strength of which he was in desperate need at that

moment.

She moved behind him and threw back the covers. “Lie down,” she said. “I’ll be

right back.”

Like a child, he did as she ordered, lying down on his back, his eyes staring

sightlessly at the ceiling as he waited for her to come back to him. He could hear her

downstairs speaking quietly to the saloonkeeper, ordering her to close her doors for

their Reaper was not feeling well.

“‘Our Reaper’,” he repeated her words aloud. “‘Our Reaper is not feeling well.’”

She was back with a basin of water, a rag tossed casually over her shoulder, and

Mable followed close behind with a pitcher and ewer clutched in her wrinkled hands.

“Put them there,” Lea ordered the older woman, and Bevyn could not help but

smile. The roles had been reversed and Mable was now Lea’s servant instead of the

other way around.

“Anything else he might need?” he heard Mable whisper.

35

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“I’ll see to it,” Lea answered. “Close the door behind you.”

The pain thundering between his temples was getting worse by the moment and he

knew he needed something for it. As much as he hated taking another dose of the

tenerse—the one each morning was bad enough—he knew he’d never be able to sleep

without help, and sleeping was the only way to rid himself of the brutal agony

hammering at him.

“Wench,” he said. “Get the needle and vial from my saddlebags.”

Lea nodded without speaking, knowing he was watching her as she poured him a

glass of water. She brought the glass to him, slid her hand under his neck and lifted his

head for him to take a sip. When he had, she lowered his head then set the glass aside to

do as he’d asked. When she brought the vac-syringe and vial to the bed, he instructed

her on how to load it and lay there watching her move as efficiently as any healer he’d

ever known.

“You do that right well, wench,” he complimented her, turning his head so she

could have access to his neck.

“I imagine I’ll get plenty of practice over the years,” she replied, unaware that her

words had given him a stronger dose of relief than any amount of tenerse ever could.

Placing the empty vac-syringe on the night table, she massaged the pain she had

given him, her fingertips cool against his heated flesh, then she wet a rag and wrung it

out, folded it and laid it across his forehead.

“Lie with me?” he asked, reaching up to catch her wrist before she turned away.

“I will,” she said. “Let me see to the door first.”

He watched her go to the portal and slide shut the latch. That she had thought to

keep them safe while he was incapacitated made his heart swell with pride. His eyes

tracked her every movement though it hurt to even move them.

Lea went around to the other side of the bed just as she had the day before and sat

down, removing her boots and stockings but this time when she had done that, she

stood to draw her gown over her head. In just her chemise, she draped the gown over

the footboard then climbed up into the bed with him. She sat with her back propped

against the headboard.

“Come here, milord,” she said, holding her arms open to him. She had no qualms

about his nudity, the fact that his powerful body was bare except for the horrendous

scars that streaked across it.

Bevyn did not question her order. He simply moved so he could lay his head in her

lap, curled beside her in a fetal position, wriggling one arm behind her back and the

other falling over her thighs.

The minutes ticked by as she sat there smoothing the hair gently back from his high

forehead, her free hand splayed between his shoulder blades, feeling one brutal wound

puckered beneath her palm. She was looking down at him, wondering how long it

would take for the medicine to take effect. His eyes were open and he was staring

36

Her Reaper’s Arms

unwaveringly across the room without blinking. When the first sob took him, she

tightened her arm across his back.

“Oh god,” she heard him moan, and then a solitary sob became a torrent that shook

his entire body.

Whatever he had seen, whatever he had been a part of had taken a violent, brutal

hold on him and was digging in with cruel barbs. His tears saturated the thin cotton of

her chemise and ran down between her thighs. They were scalding tears and the sounds

that came from his very soul shook her as he cried. She was unaccustomed to hearing a

man cry and to hear a man like this one—a Reaper—do so was unnerving and it sent

chills down her back.

“Tell me, milord,” she whispered to him. “Let it out.”

He was whimpering as he cried, as though whatever he was remembering was so

terrible, so exacting, that it was refreshing itself over and over