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

that smile—combined with a very feminine giggle—transformed

her face from merely lovely to breathtakingly beautiful and it chased away his

18

Her Reaper’s Arms

drowsiness in a heartbeat. He stared at her, transfixed. No woman had ever looked at

him in that way, but then again, no woman had ever met his gaze before.

“Where are you from, milord?” she asked.

“A long way from here,” he mumbled, not wanting to think or talk about his past.

Lea felt his hand tense on hers and knew she had asked something she shouldn’t

have so she said nothing more. When he suddenly tugged on her hand, pulling her

toward him, she moved over, laying her head on his shoulder as naturally as though

she had done it a hundred times before. She snuggled against him as he enclosed her in

the perimeter of that strong arm, his fingers curling around to cup her shoulder. Unsure

of what to do with her hand, she laid it gently in the center of his chest, liking the feel of

those crisp hairs beneath her palm, her other arm trapped between their bodies, her

fingers touching the leather of his pants along his hip.

For a long time they just lay there with his arm cradling her, their breaths mingling,

their heartbeats seemingly synchronized with one another. He covered the hand she

had placed on his chest with his, caressing her fingers gently. When he at last broke the

silence, it was with a question that stunned her.

“Would you consider being my compánach, Lea?” he asked. “My companion?”

She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked up at him with shock clouding her

gray gaze, her full lips parted. “Milord, I…”

“I don’t mean as my mate,” he was quick to tell her. “I would not ask that of you or

any woman—I can not ask it—but just to be here when I pass through, to lie beside me,

to keep me company.” He squeezed her hand. “You would not have to service me. I

would not ask that either.”

She heard such longing in his voice and a touch—of what? Self-pity?—that broke

her heart. He looked like a little boy asking his mother for a toy, the light in his eyes

expectant, enthusiastic.

“I would buy you a house,” he said. “Furnish it. Give you a comfortable allowance.

I would take care of you.”

“In exchange for just being held, milord?” she asked softly. “Just talking to you?”

He smiled hopefully. “Aye, wench,” he said eagerly. “Nothing more. I swear it.”

“You would not expect me to…to…” Her face flamed.

“Service me?” he asked. “Not unless you willingly offered.”

She eased her hand from beneath his, trying not to react to the keen disappointment

that flitted through his hopeful eyes. She laid her palm on his cheek. “You sell yourself

too cheaply, milord,” she said. “You ask little of me but are willing to give so much.”

She caressed his face. “Too much. Surely you know any woman would jump at the

chance of having you as her protector. I am not much to look at and—”

“You are beautiful!” he interrupted her. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve

ever seen.”

“Milord…” she said in a chiding tone.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“You are.”

She nearly laughed, thinking he was joking, but the earnest look on his face stilled

her twitching lips. “You are serious,” she said.

“Reapers do not lie,” he said, and sat up, twisting to look down at her. She watched

his pectorals jump as though he were offended she would consider that he could tell a

falsehood.

She realized he was holding her hand to his thigh and stroking the back of it with

his other hand. Looking up at him, her gaze wandering over his tousled hair—one dark

curl hanging over his eye—she wanted to thread her fingers through that dark mass to

discover if it was as soft as it looked.

“I could give you everything you have ever dreamt of, Lea,” he told her. “You

would want for nothing.”

Lea searched his gaze and realized he was offering her something far beyond her

ability to understand. Reapers were feared, avoided until needed, and once their job

was finished, the townspeople wanted them gone. What would it be like to be his

woman? How would the good folk of Orson treat her?

“I could take you wherever you wish to go,” he said, reading her mind. “It does not

have to be here.”

Self-conscious to be lying there with him huddled over her, she sat up, feeling the

tremendous strength in his hand as he helped her. “This is my home,” she said. “I am

content here.”

“You would be more content if you did not have to toil like a commoner,” he said.

“What pleases you, milady? Gardening? Reading? Painting?” He hitched a shoulder.

“Sewing?”

She smiled. “I never could sew a decent stitch and I seem to kill whatever I plant.

The only painting I have ever done was a bedroom.” She tucked her lower lip between

her teeth before telling him that she loved to read but books were scarce in Orson.

“Then I’ll ship you a library!” he said. “I spend a lot of time reading myself.”

Lea thought on that for a moment. “Do you mean it, milord? Would you send

books for me to start a library for the town?”

Bevyn blinked. “A library?” he repeated. He was unaccustomed to women thinking

of anyone other than themselves. “You would do that?”

“There used to be one here before the War but it was destroyed in the fighting. I

know there are those who would gladly welcome having a place where they could

come and read, take home a book or two.”

“Then I will see to it,” he declared, his word law. “Orson will become my primary

residence.”

Before she could say anything else, he stretched out beside her, drew her into his

arms and rested his chin atop her head.

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Her Reaper’s Arms

“I can sleep now,” he said as though the entire matter were settled, and within a

matter of moments he was snoring lightly.

Lea marveled at the ease with which he could simply close his eyes and shut down

the world. She had a terrible time falling asleep each night—no matter how tired she

was. Lying in his arms, hearing his steady, even breathing, feeling the overwhelming

strength of him