Bedding the Beast Read online

  BEDDING THE BEAST

  Doreen DeSalvo

  ®

  www.loose-id.com

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id® e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  * * * * *

  This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable (anal sex).

  Bedding the Beast

  Doreen DeSalvo

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by

  Loose Id LLC

  1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-2924

  Carson City NV 89701-1215

  www.loose-id.com

  Copyright © February 2007 by Doreen DeSalvo

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.

  ISBN 978-1-59632-411-4

  Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader

  Printed in the United States of America

  Editor: Maryam Salim

  Cover Artist: April Martinez

  Dedication

  For Sam --

  Love you.

  Always have.

  Always Will.

  Chapter One

  February 1881

  John looked up from his noontime meal. Had that really been a knock at his door? No one had come to his farmhouse all winter. Usually folks said hello if they saw him in the fields as they passed by, just to be sociable. But no one ever came to the house, and especially not at noon, when there were chores to be done.

  The knock came again.

  He left his food and crossed the single room of his farmhouse to the door. Damn, the latch was cold. He let go as soon as he could, using the wooden knob to pull the door open.

  A young woman stood on his narrow porch, staring up at him with huge blue eyes set in a gaunt face. Her gray wool coat was worn threadbare in spots, and her bonnet was frayed around the brim. Who was she, a beggar? He had nothing to give.

  On the narrow track road a couple of acres behind her, a wagon trundled away toward the McNeil's spread. She turned and waved, though the driver was out of sight.

  She looked back at him. Her gaze lingered on the hideous scar that marred his cheek for just a few seconds before she met his gaze evenly, not showing any reaction to his ugly face. "Giovanni DiAngelo?"

  A name he hadn't heard in years. He nodded once. "Who are you?"

  "Good afternoon. My name is Mariana Del Dio Russo," she said, in the Tuscan dialect he'd never thought to hear again.

  Del Dio Russo? "You're a relative of Francesca?" Perhaps she'd brought his money in person. She clutched a rough drawstring bag in her hands, satchel-shaped and made of canvas.

  "I'm Francesca's sister."

  Her teeth chattered a little. She shivered in her thin coat and gazed over his shoulder into the house. He had no time to talk, but he couldn't keep her standing outside in the bitter cold of a Pennsylvania February. He moved to the side, and she walked in quickly.

  He closed the door and turned. She'd already walked to the tiny stove, holding her hands out to it for warmth. Her canvas bag sat in a heap on the floor next to the table.

  His bowl was still steaming on the table. Might as well finish his meal while they talked. He sat down and lifted a spoonful of stew to his mouth. "Did you bring money for me?"

  She looked confused. Ah, he'd spoken in English. Before he could repeat the question in Italian, she spoke.

  "My parents received a letter from you," she said in Italian. "You wrote that Francesca had died."

  "Six months ago." Might as well speak in Italian, if that was all she understood. "Why are you here?"

  She squared her shoulders. "I'm here to take my sister's place."

  God, no. He'd asked Francesca's parents to send him some of his money back. She'd died so soon after their marriage, it hardly seemed fair that her parents kept the full amount he'd paid for her. And he needed money. "I don't need another wife."

  Her brows went up in surprise. "You have married again?"

  He scowled. "No. But I don't want a wife."

  "But ... you paid my parents for a wife."

  Yes, he had. A wife to help him on the farm, a wife to give him children, a wife to warm his bed. None of those things were worth the price he'd paid ‑‑ and not just the price of the lire her greedy father had taken. "One wife was enough. I did not ask your parents to send me another."

  "But they owe you a wife." Her gaze was fixed on his bowl. Was she merely avoiding looking at his face? He saw her throat move in a swallowing motion. No, she was hungry. And he only had enough stew for his own lunch.

  Well, he could share a little with her. She looked thin; she probably wouldn't eat much. He stuck the fork in his half-finished bowl and handed it to her. "Eat."

  He grabbed another bowl from the shelves over the sink, then went to the simmering pot on the stove and spooned out more for himself. When he turned to the table again, she was eating her way through the stew like she hadn't had a meal all day. A small moan escaped her, a sound of pure pleasure.

  She'd pushed off her coat and tossed it onto the back of her chair. Her shoulders were thin and bony, her neck long and narrow. Too skinny. He'd never cared for skinny women.

  John sat across from her and speared a bite of meat with his fork, studying her covertly as he chewed. Her dress was patched and much mended, little more than a rag. Her father had talked of sending his sons to school, of buying an apprenticeship for the oldest boy. He must not have spent any of John's money on his daughters.

  Her dress stretched tight across her bosom, as if she'd been wearing it since before she'd fully grown. Her breasts were small. Too small. Probably not even enough to fill his hands.

  If he married her, he could cup those small breasts in his hands. Fondle them. Kiss them.

  No. There was no place in his life for a wife. When he wanted a woman, he'd spend a few coins on a whore in town. He couldn't afford the money, but at least a whore knew better than to cringe at the sight of a man's face when he covered her. A whore knew to keep her eyes closed, and pretend he pleased her.

  Perhaps this girl had family in America. People she could live with. "Who brought you here? The people passing in that wagon?"

  She stared at him blankly. Ah, he'd spoken in English. He repeated it in Italian.

  "Your neighbor. Kathleen ... McNeil? She passed me on the road, and gave me a ride."

  No help there. He couldn't expect a widow with two boys to take in a stranger. "Where have you been staying?"

  "I was in New York until two days ago. In that prison place."

  "Ellis Island?"

  "Yes."

  Right off the boat, she had come to him. She'd expected him to let her stay. Too bad for her. "Do you know anyone in America? Anyone other than me?"

  "No." She looked up from the bowl, and her chin lifted a notch. "I can find somewhere else to go, if you don't want me."

  Which meant she had nowhere else to go. He recognized foolish pride when he saw it. "Do you want me?" he dem
anded.

  She gave a small start, but didn't look away. Her eyes were a vivid blue, and they gazed at him solemnly, as though she didn't see his scar. "Why do you care what I want?"

  He shrugged and ate more, avoiding her gaze. "I don't care."

  "I want to honor my father's debt to you."

  Not an answer at all. Like most poor girls, she had no choice about her own future.

  He deliberately stared at his narrow bed, less than four feet away from her chair. And then he looked back at her and scowled, determined to show her his worst. "Now that you have seen me, you have no fear about being my wife? You have no fear about sharing my bed?"

  Her gaze steady, she gave an indifferent shrug. "After the long journey to come to America, and spending a month in that prison, I have little fear left in me."

  He could well believe it. Ellis Island had been hell for a strong man like him ‑‑ how much worse had it been for a young girl, alone, who barely spoke any English? She couldn't be more than twenty. At twenty-eight, he felt decades older.

  She stopped eating for a moment and focused that solemn blue gaze on his eyes. "I will be a good wife to you, Giovanni."

  He frowned. "I've told you, I don't need a wife."

  His bowl was empty. He rose, but she quickly stood and took it from him. "May I bring you more?"

  Why not let her serve him? He nodded.

  She turned to the stove, giving him a view of her backside. At least one part of her body wasn't too thin. Her waist was narrow but her hips were generous, her bottom well-rounded. Very well-rounded. As she spooned stew into his bowl, that alluring ass rocked back and forth with the rhythm of her arm. His cock lifted a notch.

  If he married her, he could bed her.

  Mount her.

  Fuck her.

  He knew many English words for the sex act. And looking at this skinny woman's ass made him think of all of them.

  God, no. Women were trouble. Wives were trouble.

  Perhaps it would be different this time. Now he knew the dangers. And now he knew how to pleasure a woman. This bony little woman, this small-chested girl with the surprisingly generous ass, could help him practice his hard-won knowledge.

  Even a skinny woman could ease a man's needs. That was one chore she could do for him. She looked too weak to do anything else.

  She turned back to the table. When she caught his gaze, she stopped abruptly. His lustful thoughts must have shown in his eyes, on his face. But he saw no revulsion in her expression. None at all. She smiled ... a slow, warm smile. An inviting smile. A flirtatious smile.

  Hell, other men must have looked at her this way. Even ugly men like him. And she must have encouraged them all with that sultry smile.

  What kind of innocent girl looked at a man like that? Like she wanted to climb into his narrow bed with him now, right now, in the light of day? Perhaps she wasn't an innocent. Perhaps her damned father had foisted a ruined daughter off on him.

  She dropped her gaze, sat down at the table, and pushed the bowl toward him. With a tiny nod, she went back to eating her own food, as if she hadn't just looked at him like he was a more tempting meal than the beef stew. An innocent woman would never give such a look to an ugly man like him. She was trying to persuade him to let her stay. Working her wiles on him. The few wiles that a scrawny woman like her had available to her.

  He grabbed his bowl and ate, glaring down at the food. She'd given him a full portion, and he needed every bite of it. There was a lot of work to be done in the north field today, despite the bitter cold.

  "This is delicious," she said.

  "Speak English."

  One hand fluttered in an apologetic Italian gesture. "My English isn't good," she said in Italian.

  "Then go back to Italy," he answered, in English. "There's no place here for someone who doesn't speak the language."

  She frowned again, with the concentration that came from translating his words back into her native tongue. "As you wish, Giovanni," she said, in halting English.

  "John," he corrected, head bent to his food.

  "John?"

  He looked up at her. "Yes?"

  She looked flustered. "No, I ... why ... why no Giovanni?"

  Even though her English was poor, she'd force him into idle conversation. "I'm an American now. John is my American name."

  "Oh. Will I have a ... an American name?"

  He shrugged and kept eating. "Up to you."

  "You would wish?" she asked timidly.

  He shrugged again. "Giovanni was difficult for Americans to pronounce."

  She looked hopelessly confused.

  "Giovanni was hard to say." Maybe she'd understand simpler words.

  Her brow cleared. "Will Mariana be ... hard to pronounce?"

  Clever girl, catching the new word so quickly. Then again, it was very similar to the Italian word. "I don't know."

  She ate for a moment in silence. But only a moment. "The other word you used ... difficult?"

  "Yes. It means difficile."

  "Ah. Do you have ... paper?"

  Paper? He could tell her what a senseless luxury that would be on a hardscrabble farm, but she wouldn't understand the words. "Why do you need paper?"

  "To write. To remember ... new words."

  At least she wanted to learn. He stood and found the small chalkboard he kept in the cupboard, for making lists and such. The chalk was in a drawer. He handed the items to her, and her face lit up.

  He froze. By the saints, that happy smile made her look almost pretty. As gaunt as her face was, he hadn't noticed. But her blue eyes were set in a perfect oval, her light brown eyebrows were even and smooth, her lips gracefully curved and pink. He couldn't see her hair under that pathetic bonnet, but with skin so fair, likely it was blonde.

  Even skinny as a wraith, in a ragged, ill-fitting dress, she was a comely little thing. And this woman pretended she was willing to marry a hideous man like him? To share his bed?

  He sat down, glowered into his bowl, and focused on eating.

  Hell. He should keep her. Use her. It would serve her right for looking at him the way she had before.

  If she wasn't a virgin, he wouldn't have to be gentle with her. But maybe she hadn't really looked at him in that lusty way. Maybe, in the surprise of feeling his own lust for her, he'd merely imagined that she felt the same.

  "Please," she said, motioning with the chalk. "Difficult?"

  "Spell the word?"

  She nodded.

  He spelled it out loud in English, and she wrote it perfectly the first time, to his surprise. She studied the chalkboard, lips moving as she silently mouthed the letters. Watching her mouth made his throat go tight. He pulled his gaze back to his bowl and kept eating. After a moment, she set the small chalkboard down carefully and picked up her spoon again.

  They ate in silence. Her fork scraped off the last few bites as she finished her stew. He didn't look up, didn't want to see that waifish face or those feminine lips.

  He'd already given her more food than he'd wanted to. Enough that he'd be hungry again long before supper. But her hand, resting patiently on the table, seemed pathetically thin, her knuckles huge in her slender fingers. He couldn't eat with that scrawny hand in front of him.

  He pushed his bowl across to her. "I'm done. Help yourself."

  She looked confused again.

  God, he'd done more talking with this woman in a few minutes than he'd done altogether in the past six months. "Help yourself. Eat. Mangia."

  She smiled. "Thank you, John." She ate quickly. Must be as hungry as she looked. At least eating kept her quiet.

  He should leave, get back to work in the north field. A fence had broken in three places under the weight of heavy snow. But if he left, he'd have to let her stay. And if she stayed, he'd have to marry her. His neighbors, all God-fearing farmers, would shun him if he lived with an unmarried woman.

  "Do you have money?" If she had money, she'd be less of a burden. He'd be
en wanting to buy some acres from Kathleen to expand his spread.

  Her expression fell. "Two dollars."

  Next to nothing. "What chores can you do?"

  "Chores?"

  "Chores. Housework. Farm work."

  "Ah. I can cook, and clean, and make preserves."

  She didn't seem to notice that she'd used the Italian words for make preserves. He didn't bother correcting her. "I like my own cooking. And I don't need much cleaning done. Things just get dirty again fast enough."

  She raised her eyebrows with an odd, faintly mocking look on her face, as if he'd said something stupid. But she said nothing. Smart girl. She'd have been smarter to guard her expression, too. Now wasn't a good time to criticize him.

  "Can you do anything else?"

  She turned suddenly, bent down, and opened her bag. God, everything she owned must be in that tiny bundle. After rummaging in it for a moment, she held up two small books. Translation dictionaries. One for English to Italian, the other for the reverse. "I need this to say in English."

  "These," he corrected automatically. "To speak English."

  She looked through one book for a few moments, flipping from one page to another. "I can get eggs. Make cheese. Get milk from a goat."

  "I have a cow."

  "I will get milk from a cow, then."

  "Just say, milk the cow."

  She nodded, looking earnest. "Milk the cow," she repeated. "Every morning, I will milk the cow, and ... get the eggs."

  She already assumed he'd keep her, the little temptress. As if no man had ever denied her. She'd just met the first. "No."

  A frown formed on her lips. "But ... I must do things. To be good wife."

  He scowled. "I don't want a wife. No wife."

  She looked confused. Concerned, maybe. "But ... you paid my father. You said, I will marry daughter."

  So now she'd accuse him of breaking the agreement with her rotten father? Her father could go hang. John would gladly pay for the rope. "I married one daughter. Francesca. I didn't say I would marry a second daughter. And I won't."