My Reaper's Daughter (3 page)

“You were moaning in your sleep,” she said.

“Reapers do that,” he acknowledged. Moving aside the leather curtain, he looked

out at the lowered sky and the deluge of rain. “How long has this been going on?”

“About half an hour,” she said. “It seemed to come up out of nowhere.”

“It does that out here,” he said. He couldn’t tell exactly where they were but didn’t

think they were far from the stage station at Barbara Springs. He knew they’d be

stopping there for the night and was hoping he’d be able to purchase a horse to tide

him over until he could reach the Citadel and the stable of specially trained Reaper

mounts.

He settled back in his seat and put his hat on the seat between him and the man

who had nodded off. “Where are you headed?” he asked, wanting to take his mind off

the dream that haunted him.

“Home to Charlestown,” she replied. “I have family there.”

“That’s Lord Phelan Kiel’s neck of the woods.”

Mystery nodded. “I saw him once but it’s been a long time since I’ve been home.”

“Where were you before?”

“My husband was a clerk in a store in the Moilia Territory,” she answered.

His attention went to her left hand, saw the thin gold wedding band circling her

finger, and felt a curious pang in the region of his rapidly beating heart. “Your husband

already in Charlestown or is he coming later?”

She looked down at her hand too. “I’m a widow, milord,” she said quietly. “I just

can’t bring myself to take off his ring.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

He let his gaze wander over her bent head. Both she and her daughter were

neatly—though inexpensively—attired. The bonnet she wore was as plain as her soft

dark gray gown and as sensible as the boots peeking from beneath the skirt’s hem. He

studied the slender hands gripped lightly in her lap and was mesmerized by the tint of

her flesh, the elegance of the tapering of her long fingers and the delicacy of her wrists.

When she looked up and her chocolate brown gaze met his, he grimaced, annoyed

at being caught staring at her.

“You don’t have much contact with people of color, do you, milord?” she asked.

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My Reaper’s Daughter

That question stunned him and his eyebrows slanted together. “What do you

mean?”

“I don’t know it for certainty but I believe all your kind are white.”

He shook his head. “Not all. Lord Jaborn is dark-skinned.”

“But he is not a man of color though, is he?” she pressed.

On his homeworld, the word to describe people of her shade of skin was “colored”,

as it had been in Terra’s far distant past. And like on Terra all those centuries ago, those

with flesh dark like hers had been born into the slavery caste. They were ignored,

overlooked and traded as a commodity, treated worse than a man would a farm animal.

Having come from a rich and powerful family who had owned many slaves of different

races, he had not given them much thought. They simply blended into the scenery.

Here on Terra, he rarely interacted with people of color for the vast majority of them

either lived in the Vircars Territory controlled by Phelan Kiel or Iden Beliel’s Flagala

Territory.

“No,” he said. “Jaborn is considered what you would call white, I guess.” He

glanced down at Valda’s two long pigtails. “But his hair is coarse like hers.”

“And as black?”

“Aye,” he agreed.

“Perhaps his is a blending of our two races then,” she said.

“Could be,” he replied, uneasy with the turn of the conversation.

Apparently sensing his reluctance to talk, the young woman lapsed into silence.

Beneath the brim of her fashionable hat, she watched the man sitting across from her

daughter and when he began to nod off again, her eyes locked on him. By the time she

began to succumb to the steady drumming of rain on the roof and the rocking motion of

the stage, his image was burning forever in her mind’s eye. Her eyes closed and she

sank down into sleep, reaching out to the arms of the god of dreams…

It had been a long time since Mystery Faye Butler had lain with a man and her body quaked

as she put her hands to the white lace veil that flowed from the high swirl of curls atop her head

and cascaded down her back. The billowing skirt of her wedding dress swept the floor and made

soft little swishing sounds as she set the veil aside.

“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he told her.

He looked so handsome standing there in his black uniform, the thin leather tie in a perfectly

straight line and just touching the edge of the black belt around his slender waist. His black silk

shirt was crisp, the black leather pants hugging his legs like a second skin—almost indecently

outlining the thickness at the juncture of his thighs. The black boots he wore had a high shine to

them and the silver rowels gleamed in the low light from the candles on the bedside table.

Likewise the silver raven insignia on the collar of his shirt caught and reflected the light with

every breath he took.

“Would you help me?” she asked, turning shyly to present her back to him.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

He came to her and put his hands on her shoulders, drawing her to him so their bodies

touched. He rested his chin on the plane of her shoulder and his breath washed over her neck.

“What would you have me do, Lady Mystery?” he asked in a voice that sent a trill of spasms

through her lower body.

“Unbutton me?” she questioned.

“I would rather rip the dress from you,” he whispered wickedly.

“You’d better not!” she warned, twisting her head around to look at him. “I want to see

Valda wearing this dress one day!”

“She will,” he said with a laugh, and stepped back, He put his hands to the first of many

tiny pearl buttons that ranged down the long bodice of the gown. “But I’d still rather tear it off

and ravish you.”

“Patience, my husband,” she replied, and her heart soared at the use of that binding word.

One by one he eased the delicate studs from their tatted lace catches and the bodice parted

little by little. The cool flow of air drifted over her back even as his warm breath tickled the hairs

at the nape of her neck.

She inhaled the scent of him and the powerful, sensual male pheromones he gave off that

combined to make her knees weak.

His rough knuckles touched the small of her back as the last button came undone and he

stroked the delicate skin there, leaning in to her, his head lowered so his cheek touched hers.

“Have you any notion how desperately I want you, Myst?” he queried.

Her heart thudded hard in her chest as his calloused palms slid beyond the gown’s opening

and he gripped her waist with his knowing, well-trained fingers, the pads of his fingertips

pressing lightly into her belly. He drew her closer to him. His mouth lowered to the bare area of

her neck exposed by the gaping of the bodice’s neckline.

“I will spend a lifetime worshiping this body,” he growled, lips grazing her flesh as he spoke.

Liquid heat oozed from the very core of her and she laid her head back on his hard, solid

chest, tilted her head to offer him the curved column of her neck.

“I have dreamed of tasting you here,” he said, and flicked his tongue over her skin.

“What does it taste like?” she asked breathlessly.

“Just as it looks,” he answered. “Like sweet, warm caramel.”

His tongue swirled along her neck and up to the underside of her jaw where he placed

lightning flicks that made her womb clench. Moist warmth cooled to a tingling chill as he kissed

his way back down her neck and onto the slope of her shoulder. His fingers tightened on her

waist then slid upward to capture her breasts.

“Glyn,” she sighed.

“They overflow my grasp,” he said.

Her entire body flamed with lust as his thumbs stroked over her nipples again and again

until she was breathless with need.

“And these hard little pebbles, I can not wait to savor,” he told her before plucking at the

taut buds. “I want them in my mouth. I want to nibble. I want to suckle.”

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My Reaper’s Daughter

She sagged against him and he moved one hand down her body and to the apex of her thighs,

sliding his palm between her legs to cup her.

“Glyn!”

“Shush,” he whispered in her ear then pierced that tender morsel with his tongue, probing

deep even as the middle finger of his supporting hand slid gently into her juicy slit.

One hand cupped her breast—squeezing, rubbing, massaging and worrying the nipple into

an erect nubbin that felt as though it would burst. The other hand held her tight as his finger

moved in and out. In and out. Going deep and retreating. Stroking the folds to either side before

entering again.

And again.

Mystery was lost to the powerful man whose body was rock solid behind her. She could feel

the press of his cock as he rubbed it against the cleft of her ass.

“My wife,” he claimed her, and stepped back, withdrawing his hands from inside her

clothing.

She groaned with frustration, with longing, with a galloping need that made her turn to face

him, her hand out in entreaty, but she stilled for he was easing his finger between his lips,

drawing the juices—her juices—into his mouth. She drew in a quick breath and held it as she

watched his amber eyes turn dark as sin.

“Spiced honey,” he pronounced as he licked at his flesh, sweeping away every molecule of

her essence.

“Please,” she begged him.

“When I’m ready, wench,” he responded. “This is our wedding night and I will take my

time with the precious gift you are about to render into my keeping.”

He put his hands to the shoulders of her opened gown and tugged it down, careful of the

long lace sleeves that covered her slender arms. Gently he pulled the fabric—and slowly—until

she wanted to scream at him to be done with it and sunder the garment from neck to hem. When

it was down to her waist, when her arms were free and she was bare to his hot gaze, she would

have put her arms up to cover herself but he would have none of that.

“Nay, milady. What you have is mine and I will look my fill before I taste it.”

Every word he said drove the spike of desire deeper into Mystery’s womb. She was

completely at his mercy and as unable to move away from the ensnarement of his golden eyes as

she was to cease breathing. She simply waited, eager for him to take her but enjoying the building

suspense as much as he.

She watched him go to his knees in front of her, easing the gown down over her hips, down

her thighs and past her knees until it pooled at her feet. He lifted his hand to hers to balance her

as she stepped out of the garment and he flung it carelessly aside. She would have protested but

all that protected her from complete nakedness before him were the stockings and the lacy garter

belt that kept them up, and she could do no more than tuck her bottom lips between her teeth…

“Mine,” he said, and pressed his face against the soft curls at the V of her thighs.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

She tensed as he inhaled deeply and rubbed his cheek across her mons. Pure hunger for what

she knew he could give her shot through her as his breath fanned over her thigh. His kiss on that

silky surface before he rose almost made her come.

“Now,” he said as he stood there facing her, so close her nipples brushed the silk of his

uniform shirt. He rested the palm of his right hand on her left thigh. “Open your legs for me,

wench.”

She obeyed, unable to do anything else.

His hand moved over until he was cupping her again and she accommodated him by moving

her legs farther apart. Her eyes closed as he began to rub her rhythmically—between and above.

Between and above. The tip of that wicked middle finger probed at her anal opening each time it

slid beneath her.

“Tell me what you want,” he commanded.

“You,” she was quick to say.

“Nay, wench,” he said, shaking his head. “Be specific.”

All her life Mystery Faye Butler had been a good girl. A virgin on her wedding night, she

had lain like a vestal virgin under the clumsy lovemaking of her first and only lover, the first and

only man to touch her in places so intimate she had no name for them then. She had given herself

willingly to her husband for she had loved him, but he had invoked no wild desire in her breast.

He had not awakened lust in her loins or set her juices to flowing. She had not found pleasure in

his awkward embraces or his quick rutting. Instead she had lain wide-eyed in the dark as he

snored loudly, staring up at the ceiling, wondering if that was all there was to the act of