Bedding the Beast Page 2

  A sudden gust of wind rattled the window over the sink, strong enough to seep around the frame and blow gently across his face.

  Mariana shivered, her eyes wide with fright. She glanced at the bed, then back at him. "Do you want ... a woman?" She took a deep breath. "For the bed?"

  Oh, she was a bold one all right. She'd probably stay and share his bed, whether he married her or not. Just to have a home. He couldn't blame her for trying, but if he kept her to warm his bed, he'd have to marry her. Even a solitary man like him needed to trade with his neighbors, to do business in town. If he used her like a whore, no one would speak to him. And he'd want a whore with more meat on her bones, anyway.

  "No. I don't need a woman."

  She bit her lip. "I understand."

  But she made no move to leave. He pushed his own chair back from the table. "I have work to do."

  She stood slowly, then slipped on her coat. She kept her head averted, as if hiding her expression. "Thank you for the food, John." Her voice was little more than a whisper. "Can I ... today ..." She reached for one of her books.

  He braced himself to say no as she thumbed through the book. No. No. Whatever she wanted, the answer was no.

  "Can I stay in barn? Only tonight?"

  She'd freeze to death in the barn. She'd have to find somewhere warmer than that to sleep. "No."

  She turned away, fumbling with the buttons of her coat. One hand brushed across her eyes, but he'd seen no tears.

  Trying to make him feel guilty. Damn her. "How will you get back home? Two dollars won't go far, and I have no money to give you." Her greedy parents were the ones who owed him money.

  She shook her head. "I not go back."

  "Why not?"

  She looked surprised by his question. "I was sent to be your wife," she said, speaking in fluid Italian. "To honor my father's debt to you. If I went back, he would be dishonored. No one in the village would trust him again. My family would be outcasts."

  He snorted. "You're worried about the honor of a man who would sell his own children?" He spoke in Italian, without thinking.

  She looked down at the floor. "He is my father," she said simply. "It is his duty to find me a husband."

  She paused for a long moment, as if waiting for him to say something. He didn't.

  "And I no have money to go back," she said in English. Then she bent and picked up her pathetic cloth satchel, stuffing the tattered books inside. "Is not a problem," she said with a brisk nod, as if trying to convince herself. "Kathleen McNeil is nice. She will let me stay her house."

  Oh, she was a clever little thing. Surely she knew he didn't want her showing up on Kathleen's doorstep, telling the widow how her evil neighbor had thrown out this pathetic girl after she'd come all the way from Italy. After he'd paid her father for a bride. No way in hell would he let her go to Kathleen's place.

  She had his hands tied now. But he wasn't letting her off the hook that easily.

  "And how will you earn your keep? Kathleen has two strong sons, and she's the best cook in the county." He didn't believe that, but he'd use it to rile her. "She doesn't need anyone to milk the cow, or make preserves, or anything else you could do."

  She thought about it for a long time, indecision clouding her eyes. The way she kept biting her lip annoyed him. Kept his gaze fixed on her mouth. "Then I will work for money," she said at last. "I will give to her money."

  As if she had any skill that folks would pay for. "You'll work for money? Where?"

  She shrugged. "In the town, maybe." She raised her chin. "Is not your problem. Is mine. Mine problem."

  "My problem," he said, before he could stop himself.

  So, she thought she could work for money. He snorted. A woman, and one who didn't speak good English? No one would ever hire her. She was even too skinny and flat-chested to be a whore. She might be passably pretty when she had a happy look on her face, but no man would pay to bed her.

  Although one man already had.

  Him.

  He might as well take her. Marry her. Bed her. It might be handy to have a woman in his bed every night.

  Until she died.

  She looked so scrawny, it wouldn't take long. But until then ...

  He wouldn't make the same mistakes he'd made with Francesca. No, this time he'd be on his guard. She'd never know how to hurt him. And he'd never let her.

  "Stay," he said.

  Her mouth dropped open. "What?"

  "You heard me."

  "You will ... you wish to ... be husband of me?"

  God, her English was pathetic. "Marry you." He wouldn't say he wished it. "I will marry you."

  She nodded and took her coat off again. This time she crossed to the door and hung it on a peg, next to his own coat. Making herself at home already.

  Her dress was so ragged, it was no wonder he'd thought her a beggar. The fabric was nearly worn through over her backside. "Can you sew?"

  "So?"

  "Sew." He said it again, in Italian.

  "Yes."

  "Good. I won't have to waste money buying new clothes for you." He pointed to the low, rough-hewn chest against the far wall. "Your sister's clothes are in there. You can make them over to fit you." She was so much leaner and less buxom than Francesca, she'd have plenty of fabric to work with.

  She nodded. "I understand."

  He couldn't stay here all day, entertaining her. He went to the door and pulled on his overcoat. "I'm going out."

  She nodded. "I will ... make chores."

  He almost groaned. "Do chores."

  "I will do chores."

  "Very well."

  Her brow furrowed. "What?"

  "Very well," he said, as clearly as he could. "Va bene."

  As he put on his hat, he saw her writing on the chalkboard again. Very well must be a new phrase for his skinny little bride-to-be.

  "When do you return?" she asked.

  How long had it been since he'd had someone to come home to? "Maybe four hours. A fence needs mending in several places."

  She clearly didn't understand about the fence, but she smiled anyway. "I will ... do chores."

  That happy, bright smile had to be fake. No one could be so happy about doing chores.

  "Good." He slung a scarf around his neck.

  She stood in that quick manner of hers and rushed up behind him. Before he could stop her, she put her hands on his coat and turned his collar up, tucking it under his scarf. Her fingers brushed his hand for an instant. Lord, her skin felt soft against his calloused fingers. As soft as if she'd never done a day's hard work in her life.

  "It will help keep out the wind," she said in Italian, then stopped. "How to say in English?"

  She was a full head shorter than him, and shockingly skinny next to his bulky frame. But with her head tilted back, her expression so earnest, her blue eyes so vivid, he wanted nothing more than to bend his head and kiss her.

  No. He'd never kiss her in the daytime. That was certain. Francesca had taught him that lesson all too well.

  "Look it up," he said, turning away and yanking open the door. He left, stepping into the bitter wind and slamming the door behind him.

  It seemed he had a new wife. For better, for worse. And after his first marriage, he knew just how much worse things could get. She'd probably come to hate him soon enough. All women did. Starting with his own damned mother, and ending with his first wife.

  Francesca had at least been a sturdy, strong woman. But not strong enough. Within a year, a fever had carried her off. How much more quickly would her scrawny sister be gone?

  Chapter Two

  Mariana wiped her brow with a damp cloth, relishing the coolness against her heated skin. She'd earned a break. She cut a thick slice of bread off the half loaf that rested in the breadbox, spread it with butter, and sank into a chair at the table, just for a moment's rest.

  The bread was delicious. If that man had baked this, no wonder he didn't need her to cook for him. She
got up and cut another slice. She'd seen more bread in the cold cellar, which was hidden under a small trapdoor. He wouldn't mind if she finished this loaf. She hoped.

  The house looked decent now, at least. After hours of cleaning, the floor was swept and scrubbed, every surface had been dusted, and the cobwebs were gone. She'd washed every pot and pan, every dish and piece of silverware. Even the sink was scoured clean.

  That man -- John ‑‑ mustn't have cleaned a thing in months. She'd even had to hunt for the soap, which he'd stored down in the cold cellar, for some odd reason. And such fancy soap ‑‑ two kinds, hard and soft, and store bought, with a printed label from Philadelphia on the tin of soft soap. What luxury. He even had a pump in the house. She wouldn't miss lugging water in from the well, like she'd done at home.

  No. Not at home. Italy wasn't her home anymore. This was her home now. Hers, and John's.

  Such a scary-looking man, with that terrible, jagged white scar. With those rough features, the dark, shaggy hair, and that forbidding glower, he'd been frightening indeed. And big. Tall and strong, and incredibly broad-shouldered. When she'd stood next to him, he'd made her feel so very small. And just a little frightened.

  Leave.

  She jumped and clutched a hand to her chest. The word was unmistakable. Earlier, with John, and now again. The same eerie woman's voice, the same word lingering in her ears. She glanced around. Yes, she was alone. The house was only one room -- there was no place for someone to hide.

  The second sight, her grandmother called it. Intuition. But this seemed different. This voice was ... outside of her.

  "Ridiculous." When it had happened before, John hadn't seemed to hear anything. No, this must be her intuition. Nothing more.

  The window over the sink rattled. Leave.

  Coincidence. Her second sight couldn't make the wind blow. "Where will I go?"

  Away.

  That must have been her imagination, not her intuition. Wishful thinking. His face might be scary, but John was her only hope.

  She knew better than to judge a man by his looks. But his demeanor had been frightening as well. Cold and hostile. Why had he decided to marry her after all his refusals? Maybe he didn't want Kathleen, his neighbor, to know he wouldn't take her in. That seemed to be the argument that had worked.

  What if he changed his mind again? He didn't want her at all. Not as a wife, not as a woman.

  Or so he'd said. But he'd given her a look, just once, the kind of look that she'd seen from other men. The kind of look her mother and brothers had warned her about. The kind of look that stripped her naked and pushed her down on her back and spread her legs.

  Her brother Pietro had told her that, had told her what happened between men and women, hoping to shock her, hoping to scare her into not trusting men who looked at her that way.

  But John would be her husband, and then he'd do those things to her. John, with the scowling face and bushy black eyebrows and disturbing scar. He'd strip her naked, he'd lay her down on the narrow bed right over there, he'd spread ...

  She shivered, and her stomach felt fluttery, the way it had when John had given her that look. She'd have to let him do those things to her. But only after they were married. Her mother had warned her not to let him lie between her legs until they were married.

  But if she pushed him away completely, he might send her away. No, she had to make sure he kept looking at her that way ... kept wanting her ... but she couldn't let him take her virginity. She couldn't risk him throwing her out, unwed and ruined.

  Perhaps she could convince him to marry her tomorrow. Then she would have nothing to fear. Nothing to fear? Ha. Nothing but having him lie between her legs and push his male part up inside her. She knew it would hurt the first time. Her mother had warned her. Why did some women do it willingly, with men they weren't even married to?

  No sense in worrying about it now. First she'd prove that she could be a good wife.

  Not good enough.

  "Basta. Stop." Never before had her private voices been so cruel. She stood. Best to busy herself. When her hands were busy, her second sight stayed dormant.

  The more work she got done before he came back, the more he'd want to marry her. She'd done a wonderful job cleaning his house ‑‑ a job he'd said was unnecessary. Now she'd wash his clothes and the dirty sheets on his bed. Their bed.

  She brushed the crumbs from her bread into one hand and dumped them into the sink, then went outside to check on the laundry water. Earlier, she'd found two huge tin tubs in the barn and rolled them outside. Now the tubs sat across a large iron fire grate, and the fire she'd lit underneath had the water boiling in both.

  The wind made her shiver, out here in the cold without a coat. With the heat from the fire and boiling water, plus the strain of hefting the sopping wet clothes, she'd be sweating before long.

  She dropped a scoop of soft soap into the first tub and swirled it around with a long pole until it dissolved. Then she tossed in some of the dirty clothes and pushed them under the boiling water, adding more laundry until the tub was half full.

  She stirred the clothes slowly, saving her strength. As much as stirring the sodden clothes hurt, wringing them out would be harder still. Difficult. That was the English word.

  She'd learn English. He thought she was stupid, but she'd prove him wrong. She'd learn English, and she'd learn how to milk his cow, and she'd learn how to do everything Francesca had done for him.

  Everything.

  You could never do enough.

  She gasped. The words had been as clear as a bell, in a woman's voice -- and definitely not from her own conscience. "Francesca?" But why would her sister say such cruel things?

  No answer, no sound but the creaking wood burning under the grate. She crossed herself reflexively, then grinned. Evil spirits weren't real. The voice must be her imagination. The strain of meeting a man who didn't want her, coupled with homesickness and grief over her sister's death.

  Poor Francesca. Why were some taken, and others spared? On the boat, wretchedly ill, terrified of what the future held, she'd wanted to die. Others had. But she'd survived. Only God knew why.

  And now she'd make the most of the precious life she had left. Even if it wasn't the life she'd once dreamed of.

  A year ago, she'd dreamed of love. A year ago, on St. Valentine's Day, no less than five men had given her hothouse flowers ‑‑ and three had kissed her. She'd hoped to fall in love with one of them, to marry one of them. Now Valentine's Day was less than a week away, but there would be no flowers for her this year.

  Enough. She had no reason to feel sorry for herself. On the boat, she'd promised to look to her future. Not to the past. And no suspicious voices were going to stop her from making a home for herself.

  The breeze shifted, blowing smoke and heat from the fire into her face. She turned her head away. A tiny, desolate garden sat between the house and the barn, nothing but dried-up perennials that seemed to shiver in the wind as they poked out from a thin blanket of snow. On the other side of the house, a dozen chickens clucked and fluttered in a small coop. She could take care of the chickens, feed them, gather the eggs. She knew how to do that.

  The farm was set among rolling hills, rather like the village back home in Tuscany. Pietro had told her it rained a lot here in Pennsylvania. Those hills must be a beautiful green when they weren't covered in snow.

  Time to rinse the clothes. She used the long pole to lift the heavy, soaking wet clothes from the tub of soapy water and slosh them into the tub of clear water. Her jaw clenched with the strain. When she was done, she leaned on the long pole, panting. Her arms ached and her dress was soaked with sweat.

  After she caught her breath, she put the rest of the dirty clothes into the soapy water and swished them around. Thank goodness he didn't have much in the way of clothes or linens. She'd only have to do two tubs' worth of laundry.

  There was even room for her sweaty dress. Her sore arms trembled when she lifte
d her hands to undo the buttons. She stepped out of the garment and dunked it in the soapy water.

  She should be freezing, with only her shift and drawers on, but the fires kept her hot. And at least her brothers weren't here to tease her about her state of undress.

  No one would see.

  * * * * *

  John hefted the wooden beam into place, bending over to balance it on his back. He reached awkwardly for the sack of nails at his feet, barely managing to get a couple pounded in from this strange angle. He turned carefully, using one hand to keep the beam steady across his back. If the wood fell off his back and crashed to the ground, ripping out the nails, he'd have to start over again. He pounded nails in the other side. Cautiously, he backed out from under the crossbeam. It held.

  His back gave a twinge as he straightened. He leaned into the new crossbeam, and it wobbled a bit. He pounded more nails in, fixing the new piece to the broken ends of the old.

  There. The last break was fixed. He swept his forearm across his brow, wiping the sweat off on his coat sleeve. Even in the cold, mending a fence alone was hot, hard work. Next time he'd see if that useless girl could help him. At least she could hand him the nails.

  "Hello," a woman's voice called.

  He turned, squinting into the winter sun, and saw Kathleen and her eldest son walking toward him from their side of the fence. She must have come out to check on the boy, who'd been chopping at a rotten oak tree earlier. John had planned to give him a hand after his fence was mended.

  He walked down the fence to meet them. They all leaned along the top crossbeam, and John nodded at young Bill. The boy was nearing seventeen, and almost full-grown.

  "How's Mariana?" Bill asked.

  Why did the lad care? "She's fine, I suppose." His breath came out like a small cloud in the chilly air.

  Bill didn't meet his gaze. "She walked a long way from town before we took her up this morning. I hope she didn't catch cold."

  There didn't seem to be any answer to that. As thin as she was, she'd likely catch something worse in no time. "Thank you for taking her up."

  "Oh, we were happy to give her a ride," Kathleen answered. "Weren't we, Billy?"