WesternWind 4 - Tears of the Reaper (2 page)

Reapers weren’t allowed to chase targets into the Northmen’s Provinces and had no jurisdiction there. As far as the Shadowlords knew, no balgairs, or rogues, had ever ventured across the border and even if they had, the Northmen employed their own police force to protect them.

He’d never been this close to the boundary of his adopted country and the ruin of the large metropolitan Manontaque city that lay on the plains like toy blocks scattered by the hand of an angry child saddened him. In the archives at the Citadel he’d seen pictures of the devastated city before the bombing of the land, the shifting of the tectonic plates and the sweep of the massive tsunami from the west had caused after the Burning War. What he viewed now was nothing more than tumbled debris. Tent cities had sprung up on the dryer ground around the big lake but even those were now deserted, the land continuing to shift and break apart year after year, making the area inhospitable. Now there was but a buckled strip of land that served as a bridge between the two countries. The manmade bridge that had once spanned the lake now lay in the water like the mangled bones of some strange gigantic animal. Shaking his head at the waste, he clucked his tongue at Céierseach and pulled lightly on its mane to start it moving again, away from the border.

Then he heard a child scream and when it came a second time he didn’t stop to think but kicked the horse forward and crossed the border into Manontaque Province, galloping toward the jumbled docks where rotting hulks peppered the lake. Riding full out, bent low over Céierseach’s neck, he drummed his boot heels against the horse’s flanks to urge it to increase its speed. He barely heard the third scream but his acute eyesight had already spied the child—little hands in the air—flailing to keep from going under the rough oil-slicked waters of the bay.

There had been a time when Owen Tohre would have hesitated even stepping close to the water. He had been told his parasite would not allow it. Now the thought of drowning never entered his mind. He yanked off his boots, snatched off his hat to fling it aside and arced through the air, hitting the water cleanly and coming up well away from the dock. With sure, strong strokes, he set out for the child who had disappeared beneath the choppy waves. Knifing his body in the water, he dove down, swimming furiously under the murky surface. He came up with the boy’s shirt clutched in his hand, the little head braced on his shoulder as he sidestroked for the crumbled pier.

Three more little boys were standing on the pier, their fishing poles ignored as the Reaper struggled with lifting the unconscious child onto the shaky dock. The pain in his head had intensified and he knew what was oozing from his nostrils wasn’t lake water but blood, but he managed to shove the boy to safety. Wide-eyed, the other children moved back as he hefted himself up on the wood planking and hovered over the child he’d pulled from the water.

The boy wasn’t breathing.

As one of the child’s playmates would later tell the elders, the man in black lay Jonas on the dock, turned their friend’s head to one side then began pushing his big hands against Jonas’ belly.

“Water came pouring out of Jonas’ mouth! Lots and lots of water!”

“Then the man put his fingers on Jonas’ nose and kissed him!”

“He kissed him three times then pushed on his belly some more.”

The Reaper saved the child’s life—bringing him back from the edge of death—but at the cost of his own health. As Jonas Dayton took his first gasping breath after almost drowning, the man who had saved him fell to one side and began seizing.

Luckily one of the elders had heard the boy’s screams and had come running. He arrived in time to keep the outsider from swallowing his tongue as the convulsions claimed him.

“What is he, Elder Carlton?” one of the boys asked. “What manner of man is he?”

Elder Carlton stared down at the man and swallowed hard. “He’s a killer.”

* * * * *

The buckboard pulled into the compound’s main courtyard and stopped before the infirmary. Two men hopped up into the buckboard’s bed. They were strong, burly men and they needed to be for the man they carried into the infirmary was struggling violently to get free of them.

His eyes wild, teeth gnashing at those who carried him, his attention fell on a young woman and held as firm but confident hands assessed what was wrong with him. With every step the woman took in the infirmary, his fevered gaze followed her until a tall man with a forbidding frown leaned in to his line of vision.

“What’s your name?”

He lashed out at the man for he wanted to see the woman. He wanted to face the threat she posed to him head on.

“Can you tell us your name?”

He bellowed his rage and fought the hands holding him down.

“He’s going to hurt himself like this,” he heard the tall man say.

The brew they forced down his throat choked him and he bucked beneath the hard hand that held his jaw clamped shut until he swallowed the vile brew. In a matter of moments, his eyes rolled back in his head and his body relaxed, pulling him down into a pleasant darkness where soft hands caressed his cheek and a beautiful face journeyed along beside him.

* * * * *

He came to the crest of the hill and stopped to admire the spectacular beauty that stretched out below him. Miles and miles of verdant green grass swayed in the cool spring breeze upon the rolling hills. To the south, sparkles of light glittered on the water of the bay like gemstones on a bed of blue velvet. The scent of saltwater and clover mingled together and the sun reached down with warm fingers to caress his face. When he spied what he had come there to find, he started down the hill, heading for the lone figure who sat with legs tucked to one side on a pale green blanket spread upon the crimson clover.

Her eyes were the color of lilacs in the spring and her pale hair draped in long, lush waves to her tiny waist. The smile that hovered on her full lips made his heart beat faster when she gazed up at him through her thick blonde lashes. She was so incredibly beautiful it took his breath away to gaze at her.

“For you, my Owen,” she said in a voice that sent ripples of desire undulating through him. She held up a long stalk of lemongrass to him and he hunkered down beside her and plucked it from her slender fingers, bringing its fragrant bulb portion of the stem to his nose. “It will help reduce your fever.”

“Nothing will reduce this fever, milady,” he said, sitting down on the blanket with her and stretching out his long legs. He turned so he lay on his back, his head in her lap. “It is one born of raging desire. It is a blaze only you can quench.”

“For shame, Reaper,” she chastised him. “You should not say such things.”

“It’s true,” he said, reaching up to tug at a lock of her soft blonde hair. He wound the thick strand around and around his finger. “My body aches for need of you.”

She threaded her fingers through his dark hair, sweeping it back from his forehead for a single wavy lock was forever striving to hang over his left eye. Her violet eyes stared into his with such love, with such trust, he found it hard to draw breath.

“When will you be leaving?” she asked.

“Not for a while yet,” he said, and let go of her hair to snake his palm behind her neck and bring her lips to his.

She tasted of the lemongrass and of sweet, sun-warmed honey. Her lips were as soft as the petals of a rose and the heat of her mouth sent tremors of passion trickling through his system.

It had been many months since last he’d had a woman’s hands on his willing body. Her soft hand pressed over his heart as he plied her lips made him long for her touch to go lower—lower still—until she could touch that part of him that needed her so desperately. He released her, trying to quell the tremors that went through his body at breaking the contact.

He knew she was untouched by life. No man had ever lain beside her as he was doing at that moment. Her flesh was virginal, her body never having known the things he yearned to do to it. She was naïve, pure, and she belonged to him. It was his right, his privilege, to initiate her into the mysteries of womanhood but he wasn’t sure the time was right.

“Tell me of our wedding night,” she said shyly as he returned his head to her lap. “I want to hear of it again.”

He smiled. “There will be musicians to play,” he said. “Chalean jigs that bring the dancers to their feet, for who can sit still when the fiddles and bodhrán are going strong?”

“No one,” she said, and began plaiting the hair at his temple into a thin braid.

“And the food!” he said, putting a hand to his belly. “The food will be fit for the goddess Herself! Roast beef, chicken smothered in gravy, pork swimming in a tangy sauce, crisply fried catfish and venison sausage. We’ll have all the vegetables we each like and rice and buttered noodles. Breads and muffins and biscuits. Fruits of every kind and cakes and pastries loading down the table ’til it is nigh to bursting.” He grinned. “And plenty of Moira’s blueberry pies.”

“Are they really that good?” she countered, plaiting a similar braid down his left temple.

“They are heaven,” he told her. “Nothing like them in all the world.”

“Do you really think your friends from Haines City will come?”

“We’ll send the train! I know they’ll come because there will be ale and whiskey for the men and hard cider for you women,” he said. “Lemonade for the young ones and tall, cold glasses of sweet milk.”

“What about afterward?” she asked shyly. “Before the shivaree begins?”

He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. “When I pick you up and carry you to our cottage?”

She nodded shyly, her face tinting a pretty pink.

“I will kick open the door to our cottage and carry you inside…”

“To protect me from the evil spirits lying in wait under the threshold,” she said.

“Aye,” he agreed. “Nothing will ever harm my lady.”

“Then what?” she asked, caressing the material of his black silk shirt.

“Then I’ll carry you into our bedroom and set your feet to the floor,” he said, his voice turning husky. “I’ll take the veil from your hair and lay it aside.”

“And I’ll turn so you can unhook the buttons of my gown.”

“Not until I’ve held you in my arms and kissed you as I have wanted to kiss you since the first moment I laid eyes on you,” he insisted.

“Then I’ll turn and you will undo the back of my dress,” she said, her chin raised.

“Aye, that I will, milady,” he agreed, and he sat up, coming to his knees beside her. He pulled her to a sitting position. “Shall I show you how that will feel?”

She put a gentle hand to his cheek. “Aye, my Owen,” she said. “Show me.”

His legs felt weak as he got to his feet and held out a hand to her, pulling her to stand beside him. His arms went around her and he held her with her cheek pressed against the thundering beat of his heart.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his breathing coming in short pants of need.

She pulled back and looked up at him. “Aye, I am sure. I would have you truly make me your woman before you leave this time.”

He cupped her chin and held her face for another kiss that was as heady as a fine, expensive wine. For the first time he nibbled on her lower lip until she opened her mouth to him and he slipped his tongue inside, thrilling to the little groan that escaped her sweet throat. He bracketed her face with his palms and held her as he deepened the kiss, swirled his tongue inside her honeyed mouth. His cock leapt against her belly and she pressed closer to him.

“Ah, milady,” he groaned, tearing his mouth from hers.

Easing out of his arms, she turned her back to him, gazing over her shoulder with eyes so trusting, so innocent.

Her gown was of the softest gingham and it fit her back as though it had been molded upon her. The gentle ridge of her shoulder blades tempted him, the precious nape of her neck called to him to place a gentle kiss there. Sweeping aside her long hair, he put his lips to that delicate flesh.

“I love you,” he whispered, his breath stirring the small hairs at her nape.

“As I love you,” she replied.

With hands that shook, he trailed his fingers from button to button, unhooking them, his blood pounding fiercely as more and more of her unblemished, satiny flesh was revealed to him. By the time he had undone the last button in the long row that ended at her waist, he was nigh to bursting with a need that had grown hard and engorged.

She pivoted around to face him again, standing there waiting for him to push the bodice from her shoulders. Her gaze was tender as she smiled at him.

“Are you sure?” he asked again.

“Aye,” she whispered.

“If I do this, there will be no turning back. I’ll not be able to keep from claiming you.”

She took his hand and laid it on her breast and Owen thought he would go up in flames. His palm itched to feel her bare flesh, his palm to graze the peak of her breast. He squeezed her lightly then began to tug the bodice down her slender arms.

The sight of the pristine white lace of her camisole made him swallow hard. It was all he could do to keep pushing the gown down over the flare of her hips and let it drop to a blue-and-white-check pool at her feet.

“Now my petticoat,” she said, and held her arms out from her sides to give him access to the elastic waist of her garment.