laughed.
“I think I can handle you, wench,” he chuckled.
Penthe smiled even though she sent him a mental snort. Getting up, dusting the hay
shards from her jumpsuit, she slid down the loft’s ladder—boots to either side of the
ladder’s uprights—not caring if she made any noise now. She strutted out of the stable,
ignoring the stunned looks of the men and the uneasy looks of the women.
Lea was staring at the tall—she had to be at least seven feet—female with broad
shoulders and short brown hair who came striding purposefully from the stable. The
woman’s long legs and wide upper body were encased in a type of one-piece garment
that fit her like a glove. When she cast an insulting look over Lea before heading
straight for Bevyn, that look made the hair stir on Lea’s arms for the woman had a tribal
tattoo that covered the whole of her right cheek.
Bevyn stopped hammering and sat there on the rafter with his wrist resting on his
knee, his leg drawn up to ease the ache in his ass caused by the hard lumber upon
which he’d been perched for over an hour. He stared down at the woman who came to
stand directly beneath him with her hands on her hips. The dark green eyes looking
back at him were filled with a vibrant emotion he could not ignore.
“I am Commander Penthesilea Aracnea,” the woman stated. “I am the descendant
of…”
“Kennocha Tramont,” the Reaper interrupted.
“I came to take you back to Críonna,” Penthe told him.
“You’ll play hell doing it,” Lea snapped.
Penthe flicked an amused look over the Terran woman and then returned her
attention to the Reaper.
“I know little of Blackwinds,” Bevyn said. “What is it they call what you have
sworn to do?”
“Antapodidõmi,” Penthe replied.
“Which means?” he probed.
“Pay Back.”
“Pay Back for what?” Lea demanded.
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Her Reaper’s Arms
“Her ancestor believes I wronged her,” Bevyn said. He stood and walked the rafter
like an acrobat, easily and without a moment’s wobble. He climbed down the ladder
and turned to the other workers. “That’s it for today, men. I’m tuckered out.”
“Wronged her how, milord?” Lea asked.
Everyone else was standing about as though they had been turned into statues. It
was so quiet the proverbial pin could have been heard dropping.
“She wanted me and I refused her,” he answered.
“I imagine many women wanted you,” the Blackwind said softly.
“What is Kennocha to you?” he asked Penthe.
“She was my great-great-grandmere,” Penthe replied.
“Ah, so the beastess is no more,” Bevyn said, folding his arms over his chest. He
was less than three feet away from the Amazeen Blackwind, his gaze steady on hers.
“She was laid to rest thirty years ago,” Penthe declared. “It has taken me this long
to find you.”
Bevyn tilted his head to one side. “You can not be much older than that, wench.
What are you? Thirty-four? Thirty-five?”
Penthe raised her chin. “Forty-four, but I thank you for the compliment, Reaper,”
she said with pride.
“You wear your years well, milady,” he said. “So at the tender age of fourteen you
declared yourself my enemy and began to seek me out.”
“I would not say I declared you an enemy, Reaper, as it were. I simply wanted the
pleasure of catching you and bringing you back. You must admit you would be quite
the trophy.” Observing his raised eyebrow, she shrugged. “Perhaps I was a bit hasty in
seeking you out, milord,” she replied, the closest she would ever come in her lifetime to
asking anyone’s apology.
They stared at one another for a long, long time without either blinking then the
Reaper slowly smiled.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, unfolding his arms and walking past her, turning his
back to her, though the men tensed and the women gasped, for the strange woman was
holding a lethal-looking weapon in her hand as though it were a lance.
“I am starved, warrior,” Penthe admitted.
“Then you’ll be glad to know my lady is an excellent cook,” Bevyn said.
Lea’s eyes were narrowed as the tall woman fell into step beside the Reaper.
“I could eat a horse,” Penthe noted, “although yours I would gladly fight you to
possess.”
“Préachán is a stalwart steed,” the Reaper said. “And one for whom I would battle.”
“Would you consider it?” Penthe asked. “Fighting me for the mount?”
Bevyn shook his head. “No.”
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Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Penthe shrugged. “Too bad,” she said. “It might have been fun to have you
stretched out beneath me.”
Lea stiffened and opened her mouth to comment, but her Reaper reached out to
thread his fingers through hers, drawing her to him. “I love you,” he said so quietly
only Lea heard him.
Penthe ignored the Terran woman whose hand was clasped in the Reaper’s. She
walked with him to the blanket, and when he dropped down, pulling his woman with
him, she scowled. She looked pointedly at the basket from which the woman had fed
Bevyn Coure earlier.
“Tell me what it is you expect to happen here, milady,” Bevyn requested of Penthe
as the Blackwind hunkered down on the blanket, the Dóigra clutched tightly in her
hand.
“Unless my people come for me, I am trapped on this world,” Penthe replied. “A
warrioress among women scared of their own shadows.” She raked Lea with an
insulting glance.
“Let’s you and me get something straight,” Lea said, her hand tensing in Bevyn’s.
“Touch my man at your peril. I might not have your strength, I might not be a
warrioress, but your back won’t always be turned away from me and I can be a spiteful
bitch when I want to be.”
Penthe’s green eyes flared. “Are you challenging me?” she hissed.
“No, she is not. She is simply warning you as I will warn you,” Bevyn said. “If you
touch one hair on her pretty little head, you’ll have me on you in a way I promise you
won’t like, wench.”
Penthe swept him a heated look. Up close the man was by far the most handsome
she’d ever seen, and the tat on his left cheek made her womb clench with need. “I have
never lain with a man and never expected to, but I could make an exception with you,
Coure,” she
