Reaper's Revenge (29 page)

“She,” the Reaper said, flicking his wrist outward, “is my woman.”

The laser whip shot toward Otaktay and the brave screamed as his left ear fell to the ground at his feet.

“She is my wife.”

The right ear plopped down beside its mate and the red man staggered back, his eyes wide.

“She is my heart.”

Mick Brady saw the lightning flare of the laser whip streak toward the savage’s lower body and watched in horror as something fell to the ground between the Jakotai’s legs.

“I don’t want to see this,” John Denning, the saloonkeeper, said, and turned away, pushing through the crowd.

Every man standing there behind the Reapers that day shuddered at the long, trembling scream of the brave as his body was picked apart by a man who had no compassion, no other thought than vengeance for his lady.

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Those who stayed until there was hardly anything left of the Jakotai and the brave had heaved his last gasp would tell the tale in whispers. Not a one of them had any sympathy for the red man. He had gotten what he deserved at the hands of the man he had wronged. And not a one of them would remove the carcass that stayed out on the plains until the last scavenger had picked the bones clean. 158

Reaper’s Revenge

Harold bustled around, his lips set in a prim line. He had not signed on to accompany a train car full of Reapers and their women to the Citadel. Having to cook for seven men—eight if he counted himself—and three women was a tedious chore he did not enjoy. The additional sleeping and dining cars that had been sent out were his responsibility and he considered himself overworked.

“How’s it hanging, Harry?” Cynyr asked as he came into what Harold considered his domain—the kitchen area of the dining car.

“Please, Your Grace,” Harold said on a whining note, “do not call me that.”

Cynyr slipped his arm around the fussy little man’s shoulder—ignoring the instant stiffening—and lowered his head to speak in Harold’s ear. “If I didn’t like you, Harry, can you imagine what I might call you?”

Harold shrugged away the arm and moved to one side. “I would prefer you not like me, milord.”

“I didn’t like the savage,” the Reaper reminded the man the Shadowlords had assigned as his housekeeper. “Did you see what happened to him?”

Harold sniffed, not in the least intimidated by the gruff words. “Did you have a reason for coming to annoy me, Your Grace?” he said from between clenched teeth. Cynyr hung his head in exasperation. There was no way to make the man less stodgy. “My lady is not feeling well and she asks if you would brew her a cup of tea.”

Instantly Harold went into action, pushing the Reaper aside as he reached for his tin of tealeaves. “Why did you not say so from the start? I will do anything for Her Grace!”

“Aye,” Cynyr said with a shrug. “I know you will.”

Bevyn and his lady were playing cards in the parlor with Arawn and his wife Danielle. Lea, Bevyn’s mate, had joined them on the ride to the Citadel. She was a lovely woman with a wealth of blonde curls and sparkling gray eyes. The couples looked up as Cynyr came back from the kitchen area.

“Did you go annoy Harry again?” Arawn asked, throwing down an ace, much to Danielle’s delight.

“Aingeal woke up sick to her stomach this morning,” Cynyr reported. “She wanted some tea.” He frowned when he noticed everyone staring at him. “What?”

“Is she expecting?” Danielle asked.

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The thought had never occurred to Cynyr and he stood there blinking, his mind skipping to his lady only to find her bending over the chamber pot again. A slow smile began spreading across his face. “Maybe,” he said.

“Don’t you think you should ask?” Lea inquired.

“I believe I should—” Cynyr started but Harold pushed rudely past him, bustling with teacup rattling on a silver tray. The Reaper stared after the little man. “I really don’t like that prissy twerp.”

“He knows you don’t,” Bevyn said with a chuckle. “So stop trying to make friends with him. It ain’t going to happen.” He scooped up the cards his lady discarded.

“Your lady needs you, Cree.”
The voice from far away was a command every Reaper heard.

Cynyr sighed. He had no idea why Lord Kheelan seemed to have such a tender spot in his black heart for Aingeal and it irritated him. He waved a hand at his fellow Reapers and their mates, nodded at the four who were sitting in the rear of the car staring out at the passing scenery and exited the dining car. The blast of the wind hitting his face as he stepped between the dining car and his private car helped to cool him for he found he was sweating, his palms slick by the time he reached the sleeping room door.

Harold was bent over, holding Aingeal as she retched. The little man was cooing to her, bracing her head in his palm. It had long been apparent he had gentler feelings for Aingeal than he would ever have for her husband.

“Do make yourself useful and fetch a bowl of cool water and a rag,” Harold demanded as he helped Aingeal back to bed. “After all, you are the cause of her suffering.”

Cynyr’s heart soared for there could only be one cause he could have instigated. They had been trying to have a child for months, ever since Aingeal had come home to him, and it seemed the gods had finally smiled upon them. Hurrying to do as Harold bid, he came back with a grin a mile wide on his face.

“Wipe that self-satisfied smirk off your face, milord!” Harold ordered as he fluffed the covers around Aingeal. “It is unseemly.”

“Harold, he is my husband,” Aingeal said weakly. “Please try to get along with him for my sake, will you?”

Harold wheezed as he straightened up and reached over to pull the shades on the windows down a little more. “For you,” he said in a gentle voice, but when he turned around, he gave the Reaper a haughty look that made Cynyr growl. He wedged his body between Cynyr and the door and minced back down the hall.

“Well, we’ll gods-be-damned sure not name the bantling Harry!” Cynyr threw after him.

“
Mo shearc
,” Aingeal said, her words drawn out in chastisement. 160

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“I don’t like that man,” Cynyr said, coming to hunker down beside her and take the hand she held out to him. He brought her fingers to his lips. “Is it true?” he asked. “Are we going to have a baby?”

She smiled at him. “I don’t know about you, but I am.”

“Seems you fixed my broken pecker, huh?” he teased. “It seems to be working just fine now.”

“Give me a day or two and I might break it again, milord,” she countered.

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About the Author

Charlee is the author of over thirty books. Married 39 years to her high school sweetheart, Tom, she is the mother of two grown sons, Pete and Mike, and the proud grandmother of Preston Alexander and Victoria Ashley. She is the willing house slave to five demanding felines who are holding her hostage in her home and only allowing her to leave in order to purchase food for them. A native of Sarasota, Florida, she grew up in Colquitt and Albany, Georgia and now lives in the Midwest.

Charlotte welcomes mail from readers. You can write to her c/o Ellora’s Cave Publishing at 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

Also by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Ellora’s Cavemen: Legendary Tails I
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Fated Mates
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Passion’s Mistral

WesternWind: WyndRiver Sinner

WindVerse: Ardor’s Leveche

WindVerse: Pleasure’s Foehn

WindVerse: Prisoners of the Wind

WindWorld: Desire’s Sirocco

WindWorld: Longing’s Levant

WindWorld: Lucien’s Khamsin

WindWorld: Rapture’s Etesian

And see Charlotte Boyett-Compo’s stories at Cerridwen Press

(www.cerridwenpress.com):

BlackWind: Sean and Bronwyn

BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn

Discover for yourself why readers can’t get enough of the multiple award-winning publisher Ellora’s Cave. Whether you prefer e-books or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC

on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you breathless.

www.ellorascave.com