covered her gently then moved away to undress. As she removed her
day dress, she looked longingly at the porcelain basin but didn’t have the energy to
fetch the water from the well though it was only a few feet beyond the cabin’s door.
Instead, she listlessly put on her own nightgown and blew out the lamp, padding
barefoot to her bed, wincing as the creaking springs gave beneath her weight.
With her knees drawn up, one arm flung over her eyes, she lay atop the covers and
listened to the soft breathing of her child. Though she was tired from the trip, the
cleaning, the interview with Mr. Simmons then the meeting with Miss Laverne, she
wasn’t sleepy. Her mind was a seething mass of thoughts—each as gloomy as the next.
She was discouraged, disheartened, and tears pricked behind her eyes as she thought of
all she’d lost when Odell had been killed.
And all she had ached for when she’d met Glyn Kullen.
“Stop it!” she spat, and flipped to her side, curling her body into a fetal position,
thrusting her hands under the lumpy pillow.
The Reaper had ridden away without a backward glance and was gone from her
life as quickly as he’d entered it. He’d left nothing behind except an insistent longing
that was eating Mystery Butler alive and making her womb spasm with a need she
could not push away. Her palms itched wanting to touch him. Her lips burned with
wanting to feel his upon them. Her body ached wanting to know what it felt like to be
weighted down by him.
Tears oozed from her eyes and she buried her face in the pillow. It was not good to
want something so desperately, something she knew she could never have. It hurt so
deeply, so thoroughly, that she imagined her very soul was bleeding. It was a craving
that consumed her and she wanted to throw back her head and scream her defiance to
the gods who were so indifferent to her existence.
Sobs shook her slender shoulders and she had to press her mouth deeply into the
musty pillow so her daughter would not hear. Her heart breaking, her body on fire with
unfulfilled desire, she finally fell asleep with the Reaper’s smiling face before her and
his name upon her lips.
56
My Reaper’s Daughter
“Let me touch you,” she said.
He turned, his eyes as hot as the embers glowing in the hearth. “Do what you will with me,
wench,” he offered, and spread his arms wide.
For a moment she just looked at him as he stood there barefoot in his uniform. The top
buttons of his shirt were opened, the long sleeves rolled halfway up his powerful forearms. He
looked so handsome, so accessible, and she wanted to devour him.
She walked to him and laid her palms upon his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his
chest behind the black silk of his shirt. She ran her hands up and down the hard plane. The silk
whispered as her flesh smoothed over it.
The room in which they stood was breathtakingly beautiful and decorated with expensive
furniture, elegant draperies and fabrics and the richest carpet underfoot. Crystal lamps filled the
room with a soft golden glow and overhead, an elaborate chandelier gleamed with multifaceted
prisms that caught the light and sparked it upon the damask papered walls.
“Your flesh is so solid,” she said, looking demurely up at him through her lashes.
“It is flesh that yearns for yours,” he replied in a husky voice that made her knees weak.
“May I?” she asked as she moved her fingers to the top unopened button of his shirt.
He nodded but did not speak. His eyes were locked on her face, the steady rise and fall of his
broad chest reassuring and oh-so sensuous.
One by one she slipped the black buttons from their holes and when her knuckles touched the
waistband of his leather uniform pants, she stilled and raised her head to fuse her gaze with his.
She arched a brow in question.
“Do with me what you will,” he repeated.
A soft, teasing smile tugged at her lips and she began to ease the tail of
day dress, she looked longingly at the porcelain basin but didn’t have the energy to
fetch the water from the well though it was only a few feet beyond the cabin’s door.
Instead, she listlessly put on her own nightgown and blew out the lamp, padding
barefoot to her bed, wincing as the creaking springs gave beneath her weight.
With her knees drawn up, one arm flung over her eyes, she lay atop the covers and
listened to the soft breathing of her child. Though she was tired from the trip, the
cleaning, the interview with Mr. Simmons then the meeting with Miss Laverne, she
wasn’t sleepy. Her mind was a seething mass of thoughts—each as gloomy as the next.
She was discouraged, disheartened, and tears pricked behind her eyes as she thought of
all she’d lost when Odell had been killed.
And all she had ached for when she’d met Glyn Kullen.
“Stop it!” she spat, and flipped to her side, curling her body into a fetal position,
thrusting her hands under the lumpy pillow.
The Reaper had ridden away without a backward glance and was gone from her
life as quickly as he’d entered it. He’d left nothing behind except an insistent longing
that was eating Mystery Butler alive and making her womb spasm with a need she
could not push away. Her palms itched wanting to touch him. Her lips burned with
wanting to feel his upon them. Her body ached wanting to know what it felt like to be
weighted down by him.
Tears oozed from her eyes and she buried her face in the pillow. It was not good to
want something so desperately, something she knew she could never have. It hurt so
deeply, so thoroughly, that she imagined her very soul was bleeding. It was a craving
that consumed her and she wanted to throw back her head and scream her defiance to
the gods who were so indifferent to her existence.
Sobs shook her slender shoulders and she had to press her mouth deeply into the
musty pillow so her daughter would not hear. Her heart breaking, her body on fire with
unfulfilled desire, she finally fell asleep with the Reaper’s smiling face before her and
his name upon her lips.
56
My Reaper’s Daughter
“Let me touch you,” she said.
He turned, his eyes as hot as the embers glowing in the hearth. “Do what you will with me,
wench,” he offered, and spread his arms wide.
For a moment she just looked at him as he stood there barefoot in his uniform. The top
buttons of his shirt were opened, the long sleeves rolled halfway up his powerful forearms. He
looked so handsome, so accessible, and she wanted to devour him.
She walked to him and laid her palms upon his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his
chest behind the black silk of his shirt. She ran her hands up and down the hard plane. The silk
whispered as her flesh smoothed over it.
The room in which they stood was breathtakingly beautiful and decorated with expensive
furniture, elegant draperies and fabrics and the richest carpet underfoot. Crystal lamps filled the
room with a soft golden glow and overhead, an elaborate chandelier gleamed with multifaceted
prisms that caught the light and sparked it upon the damask papered walls.
“Your flesh is so solid,” she said, looking demurely up at him through her lashes.
“It is flesh that yearns for yours,” he replied in a husky voice that made her knees weak.
“May I?” she asked as she moved her fingers to the top unopened button of his shirt.
He nodded but did not speak. His eyes were locked on her face, the steady rise and fall of his
broad chest reassuring and oh-so sensuous.
One by one she slipped the black buttons from their holes and when her knuckles touched the
waistband of his leather uniform pants, she stilled and raised her head to fuse her gaze with his.
She arched a brow in question.
“Do with me what you will,” he repeated.
A soft, teasing smile tugged at her lips and she began to ease the tail of
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