Reaper's Justice Read online

  This was a man with whom she could do more than sleep and no one would know. This was a man so far outside society that no one would believe that she’d invited him to her bed. This was a man she could love and leave with impunity. This was a man with whom she could explore her earthier side, without consequence. This man, in rescuing her, had provided her with the one opportunity to be the sensual woman she’d never thought she could be.

  It wasn’t as if anyone thought she was still a virgin after her time with the Indians, and this excursion wasn’t going to help her reputation. It also wasn’t going to damage her marriage prospects. Matthew Hacklebury, the merchant she’d selected to be her future husband, had reassured her multiple times that it wasn’t important to him whether she was a virgin. Despite her constant reassurances that she was, he continued to tell her he didn’t mind “her experiences.” Which irked her. She wasn’t a liar. There were even times when she’d gotten the suspicion that Matthew might actually not want her to be a virgin, which was absurd, because every woman knew that every man wanted a pure wife. But still, at times when he didn’t think she was watching, she thought she caught him watching her with a certain light in his eyes that made her wonder what he really thought had happened to her during her time with the Indians.

  “You’ve got a strange look on your face,” Isaiah murmured, pushing his hat back.

  Addy put her hand on her hip and tilted her head to the side, studying him in return. “That’s probably because I have a strange thought in my head.”

  Isaiah laced his fingers together and tucked them behind his head, looking so superior she wanted to smack him. He arrogantly thought he had her over a barrel. He thought that she was the type to back down when facing an obstacle, when in truth she was the type who liked to explore her options. But there was one obstacle she needed out of the way before she could make any decision. “You need to shave off your beard.”

  To his credit he didn’t look shocked, or call her crazy. “Why?”

  “Because I will not have relations with a man who has more hair than skin.”

  That arrogant smile slowly slipped away as her statement sank in. “Who said anything about making love?”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “Have relations, make love. I’m not splitting hairs.”

  “Well, I am.” He sat up. “Look, lady, I was just pulling your chain. I don’t have any intention of . . . having relations with you or any other phrase you want to attach to it.”

  That was a heck of a note. She might not be a dewy thing fresh out of the schoolroom, but she was not a hag. And as powerful as her attraction was for him, it was inconceivable that he didn’t feel the same for her. “Why not? Do you think I’m too old?”

  “You’re not too old for anything.”

  At least that was encouraging. “Do you think I’m ugly?”

  He frowned at her. “I think you’ve lost your mind.”

  “Well, for your information, I am perfectly within my right mind. I’m also twenty-five years old. And despite what you might have heard, I am a virgin. I’ve long accepted that I’m unlikely to marry a man about whom I feel passionate, but I find, intriguingly enough, that I feel passionately about you.”

  “And this means what to me?”

  “This means you get to make love to me and it will be no one’s concern but our own. When I get home, we’ll just go our separate ways and it will be over.”

  “So I’m just an experiment?”

  “Exactly.”

  His expression went hard. “Well, maybe I have no interest in being an experiment.”

  “I’m not a young girl, Mr. Isaiah. Every man is willing to be that kind of experiment.”

  He grunted, then asked in little more than a growl, “And what do you get out of it?”

  “Hopefully, an experience to look back on and smile over for the rest of my life.”

  “You should save that experience for your husband, not for a—”

  “For what? For the man willing to risk his life to save mine? The man who is willing to continue to risk his life for me? A man to whom I am strangely attracted? A man who sends tingles up my arm whenever he touches my hands? A man who can steal my breath with a glance? Can you name me someone who would be a better candidate?”

  Isaiah didn’t have a ready response. Addy couldn’t tell whether that was because he was breathless with anticipation or speechless with shock. Hopefully it was the former, but just in case it was the latter, she pressed on.

  “I’m not looking for forever, Mr. Jones. I’m just looking for a night of passion with a man who I think can make me see the stars.”

  “And I just got done saying, it’s your husband who should be making you see stars.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “And I just got done telling you the man I have chosen to be my husband is not likely to even cause my breath to catch, let alone cause stars to fall from the sky.”

  “Then why the hell are you marrying him?”

  “Because he’s stable, even tempered, and makes a good income and will be a good father to whatever children I might have.”

  “And you think this is normal?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what if this paragon wants you to make him see stars? Do you think he’s going to be happy with a woman who can’t tolerate his touch?”

  He was so annoying with his logic. And so irritating with his lack of ability to see hers. “Of course, I thought of that eventuality, and that would be the second benefit to making love with you tonight. I will have the experience to be able to fake the enthusiasm that will satisfy him.”

  Isaiah raked a hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ, woman! You are something.”

  “What I am is practical, Mr. Isaiah. I’m not the type to cheat on a husband, and as I’m expecting Mr. Hacklebury to propose upon my return to town, this is about my only opportunity to experience a grand passion. If there’s one thing I’ve learned through my experiences in life, it’s that lost opportunities rarely return and chances for happiness should not be ignored.”

  Isaiah rubbed his hand over the back of his neck and glared at her under the slash of his eyebrows. “Shit, not only do you expect me to make stars fall from the sky, you also expect me to make you happy?”

  She shook out her skirt and sat down on the edge of the pelts. He didn’t need to make it sound so onerous. “I expect if you succeed in making the stars fall from the sky, I’ll be happy.”

  Isaiah scooted to the left, putting a good foot between them. “Well, I don’t want to shave my beard.”

  “That’s not negotiable. It’s extremely unhygienic.”

  “Then I guess you have to set your sights elsewhere.”

  She sighed. “I was hoping not to have to resort to this.”

  He ran his hand down his face and said wearily from behind his fingers, “Go ahead, I might as well hear it all. What’s ‘this’?”

  This was bribery. “I have a hundred dollars in my bank account back home. Fifty dollars I need for supplies to keep my bakery running. The other fifty is yours if you shave the beard and—”

  He looked at her over the edge of his palm. “Make the stars fall from the sky for you.”

  “Yes.”

  His response was a long silence. He didn’t fidget, didn’t speak or give her any other indication of what he was thinking. Was he insulted at the offer of money? Thrilled? She didn’t know if that silence was good or bad, but she’d played enough poker with her cousins to know when to stay silent and when to let her arguments speak for her. This was one of the silent times. She’d never had to work harder to bite her tongue. Never been more aware of the untidiness of her appearance. Especially when Isaiah rolled to his feet, stood, and glared down at her. “You’re crazy.”

  Bracing her weight on her hands, she arched her back in a pose she’d seen on her cousins’ dirty picture cards. As she’d hoped, Isaiah’s eyes fell to her breasts rather than lingering on the mess of her hair
.

  “And you’re a coward.”

  He slapped his hat on his head. “You’d better hope the hell I’m not.”

  At least he wasn’t running. “Why?”

  “A coward would be thinking of the consequences of taking you up on your offer.”

  That was encouraging, too. “And you’re not?”

  “I should be.”

  “Why?”

  Instead of answering, he strode toward the ledge.

  “Where are you going?”

  He didn’t even look over his shoulder as he snapped back, “To shave.”

  SON of a bitch, he was actually shaving, which meant he was actually contemplating messing with his sanity. Isaiah stared at his reflection in the water of the pool. He touched the razor edge of the knife blade to the thick mass of hair bristling out from his face just below his ear. He’d worn the beard so long that it was a part of him. A bestial mask that reminded him of what he was. A reminder of what he could never be again. Unless he went forward with this. He tested the edge against his skin. The blade inched lower, tested his jugular. He had no right to go forward with this.

  But he was. He’d sworn to regain his humanity. Making love to a woman was a hell of a step in the right direction. Especially to a woman who made him feel more human than anyone ever had. Isaiah drew the knife edge up his neck and over the edge of his jaw, feeling the bite and drag on the flesh, scenting the blood of the subsequent nicks and not caring. He was fucking shaving to make love to a virgin who wanted a love-’em-and-leave-’em moment that would make her see the stars. He needed his head examined. As if he could give any woman that.

  As if he could give her that.

  Son of a bitch, why was he doing this? He had no business contemplating making love with Addy. His beast snarled at the thought. He heard it in an inward rumble that rippled along his nerve endings and set the hair on the nape of his neck standing on end. For once he and the beast were in accord. They both needed tonight with Addy. They both needed this touch of humanity.

  Running his fingers over his skin, he found it pretty smooth, the blood slicked over wounds that were healing even as he touched them. Another benefit of whatever it was that they had done to him was that he healed fast, so taking care with shaving wasn’t the priority it was for most men. The pain from the nicks was barely noticeable. The torture he’d endured to make him a more reliable weapon made him pretty immune to most pain. Unlike Addy. He thought of her feet. At least his saliva had healing properties that had aided the blisters.

  His reflection caught his eye. He ran his fingers over his jaw again. How long had it been since he’d seen his face? He traced the hollow of his cheek, touched the slight bump on his nose. It was so familiar yet eerily not. His nose had been broken. The change didn’t heal old injuries, only new ones, so the bump was a legacy from before he’d been taken. He touched the narrow scar on his lip. Had he fallen as a child? Had he been hit? Had there been someone to comfort him? Had there ever been anyone? His fingers curled into a fist. There was a lifetime in his face, and he couldn’t remember a damn minute of it. His beast growled.

  “Shut up.”

  He didn’t want to hear from it. He hadn’t wanted it, had fought it, but it’d been stronger than he and now he was stuck with it. But that didn’t mean he was going to have daily chats with it. Or let it dictate his life.

  He dipped the knife in the water again, making a mental note to resharpen the blade when he got back. Or maybe later. He had a warm, willing woman in his bed.

  His cock thickened on a pleasurable throb as he recalled the faint scent of her arousal. Sharpening his knife was not going to be a priority. A shiver snaked over his skin as he imagined the soft buss of Addy’s lips on his. They’d be softer than her touch, sweeter than her scent. And they’d be his. Just his. A growl rumbled in his chest as satisfaction washed through him.

  It’d been forbidden for the Reapers to have contact with women. The penalty had been death, but all of the Reapers’ appetites, especially the sexual, had been enhanced, right along with their senses. Isaiah, like the others, had had some contact with women, but not much, though it wasn’t the threat of death that kept his encounters few and far between. No, that had been seeing what Reapers, in the throes of lust while under the influence of the drug, did to the women with whom they lay. If the women survived the beasts’ passion, they were often left insane by the bites many Reapers invariably delivered.

  Three times Isaiah had been called in to clean up the mess—killing the rogue Reapers and supposedly killing the women. Two of the women had been bitten multiple times. They had been pathetic to see—half beast, half human, tearing at themselves with their claws as the metamorphosis could not proceed. Killing them had been a mercy. The third woman had only been bitten twice. She’d been scared, but lucid. When she’d looked up at him from her bed, sleep and innocence in her eyes, he’d stayed his hand. It would have been so easy to kill her, but he . . . hadn’t. To this day he didn’t know what it was that had stayed his hand, made him disobey an order, but when he’d left that house, she’d still been alive.

  And when he’d returned to the compound, no one had looked deeper than his assurance that he’d handled it. They’d never questioned his obedience at that point. They’d just assumed he’d given himself over to the beast that was so strong within him by then. His lip curled in a snarl. They had been too complacent.

  He hadn’t said a word as They’d given him his reward. Just accepted the drug and the oblivion it brought, her face and a niggling wonder accompanying him into the void. That woman haunted him. His one failure of duty. His one act of mercy. He’d even gone back to the house for reasons he didn’t understand, either, except he’d needed to know something. She hadn’t been there. No one had. The house had the musty smell of neglect. He’d found a tintype with her image on the dresser. He didn’t know why, but to this day, every time he looked at it, he had the same questions. Had he really done her a favor? What if it wasn’t the bite that drove the women insane? What if she’d only had a delayed reaction? What if. What if. What if.

  Isaiah splashed water over his head before tossing it back and shaking the excess out of his hair. She was fine, he told himself for the hundredth time. The woman was fine. Sparing her life was one of the few good things he’d done, which just went to prove nothing was all bad. He stood and shoved the knife back in the sheath. Not even a Reaper.

  9

  WHEN ISAIAH ENTERED THE LEAN-TO, ADDY WAS SITTING where he’d left her, fully dressed, hands folded in her lap—the left over the right. She had her worry stone in her right hand. He knew this was a mistake, but the same way she clung to her worry stone, he was clinging to her. Her dress was stained, her hair a mess. And she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  She touched her hand to the end of the sloppy braid, then moved to the lose strands hanging around her face. Her gaze was belligerent and vulnerable all at once. “I don’t have a comb.”

  The same turbulence warred inside him. He reached out then thought better of it. It was too soon for touching. “You don’t need one.”

  She didn’t need anything but to be herself.

  She blinked as his hand fell to his side. The belligerence in her expression increased as did the vulnerability.

  Shit. She wanted him to make her see stars, and he couldn’t even allay her concerns about her hair. The weight of all he didn’t know, all he needed to know, pressed down on his shoulders, heavier than any load he’d ever had to bear. Addy was a good woman. She should have a good man. But she was stuck with him.

  “I don’t do too well with words.”

  She blinked again. Some of the belligerence faded. With the calm logic he’d come to expect from her, she said, “I may be new to this, but a skill with words is not necessary.”

  “You know you’re beautiful.”

  “You make it sound like an accusation.”

  Maybe it was. “Beautiful women expect a
lot.”

  “Practical women accept what they get.”

  “As you’re accepting me as a lover because I’m the only choice you have?”

  She bit her lip, dainty white teeth sinking into pretty pink flesh, leaving it white around the edges but a deeper red farther out. She reached out and caught his hand in hers. His beast made a sound it never had before, half moan, half growl. Pleasure. Her touch was such pleasure.

  He froze, closing his eyes, imprinting the memory on his mind, expecting her to withdraw her hand. Wanting her to. Needing her to. Prepared to hate her if she did. Refusing to stop if that was her wish.

  “You’re going to have to meet me halfway.”

  That he hadn’t expected. He opened his eyes at the tug on his hand. Her hand looked so small in his. Because she was expecting him to do something, he curled his fingers around hers. She smiled. The connection sank deep into his bones. This was his sanity. His pleasure for the night. Her fingers tucked around his. His woman.

  Yes.

  Satisfaction whipped through him, whether driven by beast or man, he couldn’t tell. But it was enough. Her scent held a slight, acrid tinge. “You’re scared.”

  Her smile faltered to a twitch of her lips. “A little.”

  He liked that she told him the truth. He knelt beside the pallet. Her breath caught on a betraying gasp. She really was afraid. “For a woman of bold talk, you aren’t that sure.”

  “Talk can only get me so far. At some point I need experience.”

  “That’s true.” He took a swathe of her hair in his hand. It felt like silk and looked like sunlight. “Then I guess it will be up to me to get you the rest of the way.”