WyndRiver Sinner: 1 (WesternWind) Read online

  “Well, aren’t you the gentleman?” she asked as she swung her leg over the horse’s neck and braced her hands on the Reaper’s shoulders. She leaned into him and slid her body down his as he lowered her to the ground.

  “Behave, wench,” he said, but his tone suggested he enjoyed her tactic.

  “I’m so much better when I’m bad,” she whispered, gazing up at him through her long, spiky eyelashes.

  He couldn’t resist swatting her derriere and that surprised the hell out of him. As unaccustomed as he was to interacting with women, it seemed altogether too natural to put his hand playfully to her small rump. He also found it gave him a funny feeling deep inside his chest and—to some extent—that concerned him. This little woman was fast becoming a temptation he both enjoyed and feared.

  “Are you going to stand there all day looking like you could gobble me up or are we going to find me some decent food?” Aingeal inquired, one perfectly shaped brow lifted in challenge.

  The Reaper’s lips twitched. “I offered you hardtack and biscuits, wench. You declined.”

  “Humpf,” she said, and pushed past him, stepping up on the boardwalk and heading straight for O’Hare’s Eatery.

  Cynyr shook his head and strolled after her, reaching around her to open the café’s door for her to enter. He almost laughed at her grunt of surprise.

  There were ten tables scattered about the pleasant room. Green and white checked tablecloths were adorned with little white clay pots filled with an overflowing growth of shamrocks. White linen napkins and polished flatware made the tables look homey and welcoming.

  “Top of the morn to ya!” a portly waitress greeted them with a beguiling smile before she got a good look at the tall man following the petite woman into the room. As soon as he swept off his hat, the woman’s eyes widened and she stopped dead still in her tracks, drawing in a quick, fearful breath.

  “He’s a handsome brute, isn’t he?” Aingeal asked the woman. Her bright smile drew the woman’s tremulous gaze to her. “His bite isn’t nearly as rough as his bark, though.”

  “How would you know?” he whispered to her as he put his palm on her back and escorted her to a table at the far end of the room.

  “Can I get you some coffee?” the woman asked nervously, bunching the immaculate white apron she wore in her hands.

  “The hotter, the better, if you please,” Aingeal replied. She smiled up at the Reaper when he pulled out her chair. “Thank you, Cynyr.”

  “My pleasure, Aingeal,” he returned, and draped his hat on a coat peg behind him. He took her hat from her and placed it alongside his own.

  The waitress stood where she was, watching the black-clad bounty hunter take a seat so that his back was not to the room. She glanced down at the six-shooter strapped to his hip, but it was the silver handle on his other hip that drained the color from her face.

  Cynyr looked at the woman. “Coffee?” he prodded, his eyes locked on the woman’s.

  Katy O’Hare stared into those dark amber depths and felt as though she was falling through layers of ice. The blue tribal tattoo fanning out from his right eye was one with which she was familiar and it made her blood run cold. It was all she could do to turn away from his frigid stare and scurry to the kitchen for the coffee.

  “Stop intimidating the poor thing or we’ll be here ‘til doomsday getting our food,” Aingeal chastised him.

  “She’s Gaelach,” he said as though that accounted for the woman’s jitteriness.

  “Now what were the odds of finding a Gaelach woman in a place called O’Hare’s?” Aingeal asked, opening out her napkin and placing it in her lap.

  Cynyr didn’t answer. He tipped his chair back and folded his arms over his broad chest. Though there were no other patrons in the eatery, he seemed to be constantly scanning the room.

  “So, what does it mean?” Aingeal asked.

  His gaze shifted to her. “What does what mean?”

  She was sitting to his left—away from his gun hand. “The tattoo.”

  He reached up to finger the design. “It’s a raven, the symbol of Morrigunia, the Triune Goddess of Life, Death and War. It signifies I am one of Hers.”

  The waitress came to the table carrying two white china cups and a pot of coffee on a silver tray. She didn’t glance at the Reaper, but put the tray down and poured first Aingeal’s then Cynyr’s coffee.

  “Go raimh maith agat,” the Reaper said to her.

  Katy O’Hare ducked her head. “Tá failte romhat, mo tiarna,” she replied in the old language. She stood with her eyes downcast, waiting for the Reaper to order.

  Cynyr ordered a platter of scrambled eggs, a bowl of fried potatoes, a rasher of bacon, toast and jam then asked if there was any fresh fruit.

  “We got peaches, mo tiarna,” she told him.

  “That’ll do, Katy,” he said, and pretended he did not see the waitress flinch when he used her name.

  The woman bobbed a curtsey then hurried off, her hands once more wrapped in the safety of her apron.

  “What did you say to her?” Aingeal asked. She had her elbow on the table, her chin propped in her hand as she sipped her coffee.

  “I thanked her and she said I was welcome,” he explained.

  “You called her by her name. Do you know her?”

  He shook his head and took a sip of the hot brew. “I plucked it from her mind, wench, trying to make her more comfortable around me, but I think I made matters worse.”

  Aingeal shrugged. “People fear you, Cyn. You should be used to that.”

  “I am.”

  She studied him as he squinted against the waves of heat wafting up from his cup. His amber eyes were narrowed, half-hidden by the longest, darkest lashes she’d ever seen on a man. He was by the far the most handsome she’d ever encountered, with a rugged complexion that bespoke power and authority. The finely chiseled planes of his face with high cheekbones, a strong chin with just a suggestion of a cleft, lips that were sensually full, dark eyebrows with wicked peaks rising at the corners of his eyes, a straight, manly nose and ears that sat close to his thick dark brown hair gave him the appearance of a god stepped down from the heavens—and in a way, he was.

  “You have the strangest thoughts, wench,” he said, casting a glance to her before looking down into his coffee.

  “Stop reading them then,” she warned, and leaned back to pour them both another cup of coffee. The mouthwatering aroma of sizzling bacon and frying potatoes made her stomach growl and she giggled. “You don’t need to read my mind to know I’m famished.”

  He half-smiled at her. She had an uncanny way of bringing out the human side of him and that bothered him. It was his inhuman side that held sway most of the time and he liked it that way. The inhuman side kept his head firmly attached to his shoulders and evil walking a tightrope around him.

  “Where is home?” Aingeal asked.

  “A world in the Fuilghaoth Galaxy,” he said. “A long, long way from here.”

  “I don’t know any worlds beyond my own,” she said with a sigh. “What is its name?”

  “Peacúil.”

  Aingeal frowned. “That sounds sinister.”

  “It was a dark world, a place of deep shadows and rampaging evil.” He finished off his cup of coffee but shook his head at her offer to pour more.

  “How did you learn Gaelach?”

  “The Gaelach and I have a common ancestry,” he replied. “Long ago, another of my kind crash landed on this world. He taught the tribe the language all Reapers speak.”

  “He too came from Peacúil?”

  The Reaper shook his head. “He came from Rysalia, a world located in a distant galaxy from the one in which I was born.”

  Aingeal’s eyes showed her concern. “There are Reapers on a lot of other worlds?”

  He looked her in the eye. “Wench, Reapers are made, not born. Even a Reaper’s offspring must have a fledgling transmerged into him before he can have the full powers of his sire. The m
ale child is born with a parasite but in order for him to have all the abilities his sire has, he must have a fledgling given to him when he reaches puberty.” He shrugged. “Otherwise, can you imagine what a mean little brat of a kid could do with Reaper powers if he didn’t like his nanny?”

  The waitress brought their food and quietly placed it before them. She stood with her head down, awaiting the pleasure of the man sitting beside Aingeal.

  “That will be all, Katy,” Cynyr said. “Thank you.”

  She bobbed him a curtsey and backed away.

  “Does it bother you that people fear you like that?” Aingeal asked as she ladled food onto their plates.

  He shrugged. “Not especially so. At least they leave me the hell alone.”

  Outside a rumble of thunder shook the building and Aingeal flinched. “Where did that come from?” she asked. “The sky didn’t have a cloud in it when we came in here.”

  “If you don’t like the weather on the plains, just wait a minute and it will change,” he told her.

  Wind pushed against the eatery’s windows for a moment then rain began pelting the roof overhang. It sounded as though it might be hailing.

  “I don’t like bad weather,” Aingeal stated, glancing toward the windows where darkness had gathered. “Lightning scares the juniper berries out of me.”

  Cynyr half-smiled at her comment. “I’ll see about getting you a room here,” he said as he finished the last of his eggs and stuffed a piece of bacon in his mouth.

  Aingeal paused in taking a bite of toast. “Why?”

  “You’ll be safer here than on the trail with me,” he replied. “You wouldn’t want to get speared by a bolt of lightning.”

  She put down the toast. “You aren’t going out in weather like this!”

  “Why not?” he asked. “Lightning wouldn’t dare strike me, wench.” He crammed the last of the bacon into his mouth. “And even if it did, it wouldn’t do that much damage.”

  Aingeal thought of the rumors she’d heard whispered about his kind and asked if it was true only a beheading could kill him.

  “That, drowning or being burned to cinders,” he replied casually. He leaned back in his chair with his coffee cup.

  “And lightning wouldn’t burn you?” she challenged.

  “It might, but I’m not afraid of it.”

  She looked out the window where a streak of white light had raced across the sky. “I don’t want to be left alone here,” she said quietly.

  “You think the Jakotai would venture this close into town?” he asked.

  “Some do,” she said. “Back in Dyersville there was a brave who hung around the jail. He—”

  “I saw him and I could smell the booze on him when I passed. He’s about as useless as a brave as I would be in a knitting contest.”

  Aingeal chewed on her bottom lip, glancing once more to the onslaught battering the tin roof overhead. She reached out to lay her hand on his forearm. “Please let me go with you. If I stay here, Otaktay will find me. I know he will.”

  Cynyr held her gaze for a moment, seeing the fear clouding her gray eyes. She was terrified of the man tracking her and that terror could lead him straight to her.

  “We’ll have to get you some foul weather gear if you’re going with me,” he acknowledged, liking the feel of her hand on his arm. He could feel the heat of it through his silk shirt and it sent spirals of warmth pooling through his groin.

  Her eyes lit up. “You’ll take me with you? You won’t leave me here?”

  “And I’ll have to get you your own horse,” he said. “You’re too much of a distraction sitting in front of me.”

  She grinned. “Can’t keep your hands off me, eh, Cyn?”

  “Do you want me to?” he asked in a soft, menacing voice.

  Aingeal felt a tremor of desire spiraling through her lower body and slowly shook her head. “Never,” she said. “Not ever.”

  “That’s good because now that we’ve mated, I have no intention of ever letting you get away from me,” he said. “You are mine and mine you will stay.”

  Something delicious undulated through Aingeal at his words. She savored both the tone and the words themselves, for the way he had said them and the look in his eyes made her feel wanted and treasured.

  Cynyr looked around and caught the waitress’s eye and motioned her over. She came so quickly, she nearly stumbled in her haste to reach him.

  “Aye, mo tiarna?” she said with a gulp.

  “Who owns the best livery in town, Katy?” he asked, fishing in his pocket for the money with which to pay for the meal.

  “My nephew Danny,” she said. “You want him to fetch your horse to the stables?”

  “No, we’ll be riding out,” he said, and ignored the sigh of relief the older woman heaved. “I need a mount for my lady and a poncho for her. Can you see to it for us?”

  Katy bobbed her head. “Aye, mo tiarna,” she agreed, and when he looked away from her, rushed off to do his bidding.

  “What does that mean?” Aingeal asked. “Mo tiarna?”

  “My lord,” he answered.

  “Mo tiarna,” she repeated. “I like that. Can I have a Gaelach title of some kind?”

  “Bean mo chroi,” he said softly.

  “Which means?”

  “Woman of my heart.”

  Aingeal blushed. “You don’t know me well enough yet to call me that,” she said in a husky voice.

  “An rud a líonas an tsúil líonann sé an croí,” he responded. “What fills the eye fills the heart.”

  Aingeal felt a tremor go down her spine and ached to put her arms around him. His voice was a black velvet band wrapping gently around her heart, binding her to him, and she did not have any desire to break free.

  He reached out to take her hand and brought her fingers to his lips. “Tá mo chroí istigh ionat,” he said, and when she cocked her head in silent request for the translation, he told her it meant my heart is within you.

  She sighed and tears brightened her eyes. Not once in the four years they were married had Donal ever spoken a single love word to her. Theirs had not been a happy engagement, for their parents had arranged it and the marriage had been one long fight between them with Aingeal on the receiving end of her husband’s meaty fists.

  “Never,” Cynyr said, “will I lay a hand to you, mo ghrá.”

  “I know you won’t,” she said.

  He studied her a moment. “Well, let me correct that. Should it become necessary, I wouldn’t be averse to applying my hand on your ass if you need it.”

  Aingeal raised her chin. “You’d have to catch me first, Reaper, for that’s something I wouldn’t sit still for.”

  “You wouldn’t be able to sit at all if I ever needed to spank your ass,” he stated.

  “Big, bad Reaper,” she said, and took the remaining piece of toast, spreading the last of the peaches upon it. She took a healthy bite and chewed, grinning at him as she did.

  “Wench, you are going to give me problems from time to time, aren’t you?” he asked, his eyes soft and loving as he looked at her.

  “I’ll keep you on your toes,” she agreed.

  “I’ve no doubt of that,” he said as he wiped his lips on his napkin. “Are you finished or do you need another feedbag to calm that fierce appetite of yours?”

  “Well, now that you mention it,” she said, a faint red tinge forming on her cheeks. “I could eat a bit more bacon.”

  He delved lightly into her mind as he remembered her hunger from the night before. It had been a few days before that since she had eaten, and only then her meal had been a few wormy apples and a blueberry pie she’d swiped from a farm wife’s windowsill.

  “How about another couple of eggs to wash down the bacon?” he asked.

  Aingeal’s smile lit the storm-darkened room. “I think I could find a place for maybe four eggs,” she replied.

  Shaking his head as he got up, he delved into his pocket and produced a couple of gol
den coins—more than enough to pay for the meal and then some. “If you don’t watch it, I’ll have to buy a team of oxen to cart you about,” he joked as he plucked his hat from the coat rack.

  She grinned at him, liking the way the sun crinkles around his eyes made him look so much younger and less stern. Settling back in her chair, she poured another cup of coffee for herself and watched him as he walked across the room, pushing the door to the kitchen open to ask for more food.

  “I’m going to head on down to the livery. When she’s finished, just roll her on down there if you can budge her,” he told the waitress.

  “My nephew has a horse for your lady,” Aingeal heard the older woman say. “And the poncho you asked for, mo tiarna.”

  “My thanks to you and yours, Katy O’Hare,” the Reaper said. He barely glanced at Aingeal before putting on his hat and going out into the onslaught of the storm.

  The smell of bacon frying made Aingeal’s mouth water and she got up from the table, taking her cup with her to the kitchen door. As she drew closer, she could hear the older woman talking.

  “Don’t act like none of the Reapers I’ve heard tell of,” Katy was saying. “Got a mean sense of humor, he does.”

  “Make no mistake about it, woman,” a man’s voice said in a severe tone. “If’n he was after you, he’d not think twice of using that whip of his.”

  “Aye, well, you didn’t see the way he looked at that little gal. He was fair to eating her up with them golden eyes of his,” the older woman said, and then sighed so loudly Aingeal could hear her. “They say when a Reaper mates, he’s like a wolf and does it for life. The gods help anyone stupid enough to try to take her away from him.”

  Aingeal coughed—letting the couple behind the door know she was nearby. She pushed the door open and stuck her head in. “Could I have a couple of pieces of toast with my eggs?” she asked.

  “By Alel’s tooth, you sure can!” Katy said. She reached for a loaf of bread and sliced off two pieces. “Anything else you want, dearie?”

  “Some company while I eat?” she asked.

  Katy exchanged a look with the man Aingeal surmised was her husband. At the man’s careless shrug, Katy said she’d get herself a cup of coffee and join Aingeal as soon as the bacon finished frying up.