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

in his mind. It had a

strong grip on him, refusing to let go, and she could tell he was battling with that evil,

straining to break away from it.

“Let it out,” she said. “Don’t keep it bottled within you.”

“No,” he whined.

“Share it with me, milord,” she said. “Let your burden become mine. We will

banish it together.”

The bed was shuddering beneath his sobs and the keening sound he made caused

her eyes to fill with sympathetic tears.

She didn’t think he was going to tell her, but then the tale spilled from his trembling

lips as he squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that continued to fall unchecked. She

sat there in stunned silence as he told her what he had seen hanging from the walls of

the rogue’s shack, of the evil that had been wrought in that isolated place, of the

atrocities that had been done.

“They were young women,” he sobbed. “And they had been tortured.”

Lea could have told him of the nunnery near Dixonberg that had burned to the

ground a year earlier, of the nuns who supposedly had succumbed to the flames but she

knew he would remember hearing of it. Twenty females—many no older than thirty—

had been reported to have perished in that fire of unknown origin. Obviously at least

some of them had not.

“Their bodies were hanging on meat hooks,” he said, and shuddered so violently

she thought he would come apart in his struggle. “If he hadn’t already been dead, I

would have stripped the skin from him inch by inch for what he’d done.”

How long did it take for the medicine to claim him? To knock him out?

She laid her fingers over his lips to keep him from speaking aloud any more of the

horrendous things he had witnessed in that vile place. If she could reach into his mind

and extract the scene of such carnage, could erase it, she would.

37

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

He sobbed brokenly for so long, she feared he would make himself sick. His tears

had soaked the sheet beneath them and still he shuddered with such pitiful cries he was

getting hoarse. His body trembled, his hand clutching hers as he vented his sorrow.

“Help him,” she prayed to whatever gods still listened to the people of Terra.

“Please, help him.”

All of a sudden the scent of gardenia drifted through the room and Lea looked up,

stunned, for there were no flowers nearby. It seemed darker in the room and cooler, and

then the delicious aroma increased until it was almost as though it were being poured

upon her skin. It flowed over them along with a soft breeze that came out of nowhere.

“Forget for now, my Reaper,” a sigh breathed through the room.

Bevyn’s body was tense as a steel spring one moment and in the next, it was as limp

as a string of silk. When at last his sobs died away to hitching breaths that shook the

bed, the terrible grimness smoothed from his face and he lay quietly, his head heavy in

Lea’s lap, his fingers relaxed and slightly curled toward his palm.

“Morrigunia,” she heard him whisper, and looked about the room with fright for

the Triune Goddess was rumored to be a fearful sight.

But only darkening shadows filled the room. No creature with flaming red hair

hovered in the corner to rush at them with wicked talons. No fire-breathing entity

lurked to snatch the Reaper from her arms.

Yet Lea’s arm stiffened around her man, holding on to him protectively. If she

needed to fight for him, by all that was holy, she would.

She stroked his forehead and cooed to him, humming a lullaby from her childhood.

Over an hour had passed since they had lain down but it felt to her like an eternity.

She felt his fingers running along the underside of her arm as though he were

testing the softness of her flesh. As he spoke to her, she could hear the gruff roughness

of his strained throat.

“I want you,” he said.

“I am here,” she replied without hesitation.

He moved, lifting his head from her lap, pushing up in the bed until his face was

mere inches from hers.

“You are mine, Lea Walsh,” he said, putting a hand to her cheek to cup her face.

“I know I am.”

“You will always be mine.”

“That I will, Bevyn Coure,” she agreed.

Had he not been under the influence of the very potent drug racing through his

system, she did not think he would have cast aside his normal cautions. Had not the

memory of what he had seen not been hanging there to remind him of how fleeting

human life could be, she wondered if still he would have acted upon his need.

38

Her Reaper’s Arms

His hand moved from her cheek to behind her neck and he pulled her toward him,

put his lips on hers in a soft, tender kiss. He plied her mouth gently, his tongue

caressing her lower lip, the creases, then he moved back.

“I want you,” he said again, searching her eyes.

“Then take what you need, milord,” she told him. “I offer it freely.”

His hand shook as he lowered it to her breast, caressing her through the worn

material of her chemise. He held her gaze even as his thumb swept over her nipple,

causing it to harden.

“I need you,” he whispered, and moved his hand so he could insinuate it beneath

the fabric, could touch the softness of her breast, could center the puckered nubbin in

his palm. He cupped her. “More than I need breath, I need you.”

There was so much hurt in his amber eyes, so many injuries streaking his soul, that

she would have moved heaven and earth to bring joyous light back into those bleak

depths. Her heart ached for this man—wounded so deeply that the scars had become

badges of honor to him. She could see the loneliness in his gaze, feel the barrenness of

his very being looking back at her. She knew something of such loneliness, such

emptiness, and it called out to her—like unto like.

Yet she hesitated.

“What worries you, sweeting?” he asked gently, sensing her reluctance.

“I don’t want to be like you,” she said.

“You can’t be like me,” he said. “Not unless I give you a fledgling