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

reach her, snaking out a

hand to snatch the whiskey bottle from her.

“You’re starting to piss me off, wench!” he snarled. He pivoted, clamping his hand

around her upper arm, drawing her behind him.

Lea stumbled as he ushered her into the room and then kicked the door shut behind

them. She stood still—shivering uncontrollably—as he uncorked the bottle with his

teeth, spat out the plug and lifted the bottle to his lips, sloshing some of the whiskey

over his stubbled cheek as he swallowed the fiery brew. She watched it trickle down his

throat and onto his broad chest. Wide-eyed, she saw him drain half the bottle before

lowering it and running the back of his arm over his mouth before staggering to the bed

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Her Reaper’s Arms

and sitting down on the mattress, the bottle gripped tightly in his hand as it dangled off

the edge of the bed.

“Stop looking at me like I’m going to gobble you up, wench. I’m not going to fuck

you,” he said in a slurred voice. “Couldn’t get it up now if I wanted to.”

She swallowed convulsively, not knowing what to say, what to do, how to act. She

didn’t service the men who came to the White Horse and had no idea what was

involved in doing so. Her hands were buried in the folds of her skirt, clutching the

fabric for dear life.

“What’s your name?” he demanded.

“L-Lea,” she managed to croak.

“Lea,” he repeated. “Lea what?”

“Walsh.”

He nodded then lifted the bottle for another long slug. When he lowered it, he held

it out to her.

She shook her head, too afraid to tell him she didn’t drink.

He shrugged then leaned over to put the bottle on the table beside the bed. His

large body seemed to shrink some as he sat there with his shoulders slumped then he

lifted his hand, motioning her with his fingers to come to him. When she didn’t move—

seemed unable to do so—he narrowed his eyes dangerously.

“Come here, wench,” he ordered in a gruff tone.

Biting her lip, Lea reluctantly came toward him, her feet dragging, her hands so

tight in the material she could feel her fingernails scoring her palms. As soon as she was

within range, he lashed out a hand and took her wrist, pulling her closer, spreading his

thighs to draw her up to him.

Lea was not a tall woman and the bed upon which the Reaper was sitting was high

up off the floor. She was on eye level with him as he pulled her between his legs, his

hand still gripping her wrist. Up close, the natural high heat of his Reaper body, the

spicy cinnamon scent he gave off overpowered her senses to make her head reel. She

could barely breathe as he lifted her right hand and looked down at it, twisting her

wrist gently so he could see the palm.

Her hand was work-roughened, reddened, calloused, and her fingernails chewed

down to the quick. The flesh smelled of harsh soap as he laid his free hand over hers to

gently stroke the flesh, pulling his big palm along hers. He stroked her palm gently.

“You’re not one of her whores,” he said then lifted his head to fuse his eyes with

hers. “Not with hands like these.”

She didn’t think he wanted a confirmation of his guess so she said nothing.

He studied her face for a long time—making her very uncomfortable beneath his

close scrutiny as his gaze crawled over her features, but she could not look away from

that intense golden stare. It almost felt as though she were falling into those smoldering

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

orbs, being drawn down into the very soul of their owner. Then he tilted his head to one

side.

“Don’t be afraid of me, wench. I won’t hurt you,” he said.

He turned her hand sideways and brought it to his cheek, closing his eyes as the

coolness of her flesh contacted the heat of his. He leaned his face into the cup of her

palm and when at last he opened his eyes, it was then Lea saw into the Reaper’s soul,

and what she discovered there made her heart hurt for him. Loneliness cried out to

loneliness, holding out a hand to be touched.

This man was alone but it was not his solitude that spoke to her. It was the deep

isolation in his gaze, the desire for something other than the trail and the next kill, the

next burden to handle or the next wrong to set aright that caught and held her

enthralled. She thought she could see down to the very core of him and what she

glimpsed pulsed from him in waves of desperation. She knew he was but a hair’s

breadth away from becoming completely irretrievable. In that moment, she lost all fear

of him, the unease fading away as though it had never been.

Bevyn felt her hand tense on his cheek and thought she was going to pull away, but

instead she caressed him, smiling tentatively when he gave her a surprised look.

“What would you have me do, milord?” she asked, though every instinct in her

body screamed at her to run—to run before it was too late and she could not ever

escape him. “How can I ease your pain?”

No woman—or man for that matter—had ever dared speak to him without first

being bid to do so. He was startled by her bravery and more than a little unnerved by

the way she was meeting his direct look. No one looked his kind directly in the eye

unless bidden to do so.

“You’re a brave one, wench,” he mumbled.

She shook her head. “No, milord. I am scared spitless,” she said.

He felt ashamed, the burden of his position, the nature of his existence having worn

him down to the quick just as she had savaged her nails. People feared his kind and he

could see that fear in her pretty gray eyes, but she was gamely holding his stare though

she was trembling beneath his steady gaze.

She eased her hand from his and knelt down in front of him, her trembling hands

going to his thighs. She could not seem to look away from his bewildered stare. “How

can I help you, milord?”

Bevyn needed something to which he could not seem to