Bedding the Beast Page 4

  Hell, it wasn't nearly enough.

  He lowered the wash rag down her belly to her thighs, brushing back and forth across her bush. The cloth dragged a little on her private hair. A braver man than he would take her now. Turn on the light and carry her to the bed, look his fill of her naked body before climbing between her legs and --

  A roaring sound crashed through his head, and he took a deep breath. God, he hadn't been breathing. He was more nervous tonight than he'd been with his first woman.

  Back then, he hadn't been smart enough to be nervous. Back then, he hadn't known the ways a man could hurt a woman. The ways a woman could hurt a man like him.

  Enough of this torture. He washed her arms quickly, then pressed the cloth into her hand. "Do the rest," he said, his voice rough.

  Without looking at her, he rinsed his hand off at the pump and walked away. Just away, away to the window, away where he couldn't see her. He didn't need to see her lift those long legs out of the tub, to watch her glide the soapy cloth up the inside of her thigh and wish it was his own hand.

  But he couldn't just stand here all night. Ah. Supper. Food would calm him.

  The bread box was empty. She must have been hungry after lunch. She must be hungry now. She'd eaten less than him, and he was starving.

  He pulled open the trap door and went into the tiny cold cellar, careful to keep his head bent in the narrow, low space. They'd have to make do with simple food for supper. He wasn't going anywhere near that stove ‑‑ the tub was right in front of it.

  He grabbed a chunk of ham, a quarter wheel of cheese, and a loaf of bread from the shelves. His winter supplies were thinning. Good thing spring was on the way.

  And there was only one loaf of bread left. Maybe she could bake. Well, she certainly wouldn't be kneading bread anytime soon. Not with those pathetic arms. Please, Lord, let her be capable of doing just one useful chore. One besides driving me insane with lust.

  He climbed back up the narrow ladder and dumped the food on the table. She was still soaking in the tub, but the washcloth and tin of soap were sitting next to it on the floor.

  He brought a knife to the table and quickly made her a sandwich, then brought it to her with a small dry cloth. "Here."

  She looked up in surprise, then smiled when she saw what he held. "Thank you, John." She dried one hand, then took the sandwich. Her first bite was generous. If she kept eating like this, she'd put some meat on her bones.

  He ate his own sandwich at the table, slowly, staring at the back of her head while the sun set and the weak light of a winter moon crept into the room. The cover of darkness.

  When she finished her sandwich, she dried her face with the small cloth he'd handed her. "Can I ... will you give me a towel?"

  She used the Italian word for towel, so he wrote the English word on her chalkboard. "I keep them over here." He opened the drawer and brought one to her.

  She reached out for it, but he shook his head and held it before him. "Stand up."

  She hesitated. "Please, can you ... no look?"

  He closed his eyes. In a moment, he heard water dripping off her body. The towel was pulled from his hand. He counted to ten once. Then again. When he opened his eyes, she had the towel wrapped around her. One slender hand held it closed at the throat while the other brushed the hem over her raised knee, drying it.

  Let me dry you. He couldn't bear to say the words, couldn't bear to hear her refuse him. So he moved behind her again, where she couldn't see him, where he couldn't see the revulsion on her face, and reached around her, rubbing the towel cautiously over her belly.

  His breath quickened. She might be skinny, but she was still a woman, with a woman's curves, a woman's shape. A woman's scent. Better ‑‑ her scent was clean and fresh, not harsh with perfume like a whore. He hadn't been this close to a woman in a long time. And never to one who smelled so sweet.

  She pulled away. God, no. Not yet. He wanted to hold her tighter, but he'd never force her. He let her go. She stepped out of the tub, then stood passively with her back to him, waiting.

  Waiting for him.

  His hands trembled as they came around her, wandering over her belly, across her thighs, then up to cup her breasts. He could barely feel her shape through the damned towel.

  But even so, was there anything more wonderful than feeling the body of a woman? Holding her slender form against his larger one? Imagining that she wanted him? No, nothing more wonderful had ever happened to him.

  Then she lowered the towel to her waist.

  And his hands touched her damp, silken skin.

  Chapter Three

  Mariana leaned back into the solid heat of John's chest as his hands smoothed magic over her body. She'd never imagined a man's touch could make her feel so warm. His big hands were rough, calloused, but gentle. So gentle. How strange, that such gentle stroking could make her feel this yearning, this ache, that wasn't gentle at all. She wanted to groan, and whine, and stamp her foot with frustration. And yet she didn't want him to stop. She never wanted him to stop.

  His lips found her neck, kissing and ... Oh! He bit her, but it didn't hurt, not at all. His licked the spot, and she shuddered when his breath heated her wet skin. His hands caressed her bosom, stroking her over and over again, as if he'd never touched anything as pleasing.

  Other men had touched her, through her clothing. Nothing had ever felt remotely like this. His rough skin caught on her nipples, and she felt a rush of heat deep inside, between her thighs. She felt empty ... achy ... needy.

  And she knew, she suddenly understood, why a woman would give her body to a man she hadn't married. Why a woman would willingly lie back and let a man spread her legs. Now she knew how much a man could make a woman ache. How much John could make her ache. John, with his wicked-looking scar and gruff voice and calloused, gentle, tormenting hands. She wanted John to press her down on that narrow bed, spread her legs, cover her with his huge body ... and go up inside her.

  Yes.

  The towel slipped from her nervous fingers, pooling over her feet. She felt the rough canvas of his pants against her bare bottom, felt the hard bulge of his male member against the small of her back. The part of him that would go inside her. That would take her virginity forever.

  His hand squeezed her breast carefully, his thumb grazing the nipple with tantalizing heat. And his other hand, his other wicked, wicked hand, drifted over her ribs, over her stomach, lower ... lower ... ah, would he touch her there? And then would he put her on her back, put her on her back and spread her legs? Take her innocence?

  Let him.

  Of all the times to hear her second sight! She wanted to listen, to give herself to pleasure. She wanted John more than she'd ever thought possible. But ... if he took her virginity and didn't marry her, she'd be ruined.

  Forever.

  She caught that wandering hand in hers. "Stop."

  No!

  "Stop?" His hot breath tickled her neck.

  She swallowed. Only in Italian would her words make sense. He could teach her the English later. If he cared to. "If ...When you are my husband, I will never deny you. But tonight ... tonight you are not my husband. Not yet."

  His thumb stroked her nipple again. She squeezed her eyes closed, denying the pleasure.

  "I will be your husband soon enough," he murmured in Italian. His mouth found that sensitive spot on her neck, below her ear, nibbling gently. "For tonight, Mariana, for this one night, can I not be your lover?"

  Her knees quivered, made her lean back against him. Oh, he knew exactly how to make this difficult for her. Exactly how to weaken her resolve. But as much as she wanted him, as much as she feared rousing his anger, she could not lie with him out of wedlock. He already thought she was worthless, especially now that she'd failed at doing the laundry. What if he sent her away? After taking her innocence? No man would have her then.

  John will.

  She froze. That same ethereal female voice. It wasn't her conscienc
e, nor her second sight. It must be ... it must be a spirit.

  Francesca.

  It didn't sound quite like Francesca's voice, but who else would speak to her from the other side? And in Italian? She shivered a little, despite the warmth of John's surrounding arms. Francesca wanted her to give John pleasure. The man she could no longer love on the Earthly plane.

  But why tell her to leave before, and now tell her to bed him? The voice was not to be trusted.

  "When can we be married? Tomorrow?" Perhaps he wouldn't mind waiting one day. Just one more day.

  He teased her nipple again, and then he moved his hand to her stomach. Her breast felt chilled at the loss of his heat.

  "Not until Sunday," he answered. "The preacher won't be back in town until Sunday."

  Half a week away. "Sunday? But ... that's St. Valentine's Day."

  He grunted, as though he didn't care. "Is it?"

  What a wonderful coincidence. She'd been thinking of last Valentine's Day, of how happy she'd been, and now she'd be married one year later. Married on the day that celebrated love. Surely that would bring good luck to their marriage. She smiled. "How perfect, to be married on Valentine's Day."

  He pulled his hands away and moved back, until he wasn't touching her at all. Was he angry? Would he send her away now, if she didn't let him take her tonight?

  "Don't you think that will be a perfect wedding day?" she asked hopefully. "A good omen?"

  "You wish to wait?"

  She turned her head. In the shadows, with the moonlit window behind him, she couldn't see his face at all. "Yes."

  He turned his face to the window, away from her. "Until Valentine's Day, then." His voice sounded rough. Rougher than usual.

  She bent and picked up the forgotten towel, wrapping it around her. A bit late for modesty, but she was cold without his heat surrounding her. "Until our wedding," she corrected.

  He was closer to the window now, and she saw his forbidding scowl. "Until Valentine's Day," he said. "Until Sunday. You had best pray it doesn't snow, or there will be no wedding."

  But there would still be a bedding. His meaning was clear. He looked angry and fierce. Had he looked so when he'd been touching her? She hadn't seen his face.

  Without his hands on her, without his body pressing against her back, she felt bereft and alone. Was she foolish to insist on this? Her body still hummed from his touch. Still ached deep inside, between her legs. Where he would put himself, if she let him.

  He seemed like an honest man. She'd asked him to stop, and he had stopped right away. Surely he wouldn't abandon her after he took her virginity. If he took her, he'd be obligated to marry her. And if that mysterious voice was Francesca's spirit speaking to her from beyond, surely she knew her widowed husband. Her own sister wanted her to lie with him.

  Was this how women convinced themselves to lie with men who weren't their husbands? How they happily agreed to ruin themselves? She didn't care. She didn't care at all.

  "John ... if you don't want to wait ..."

  "Yes?" He sounded harsh, growling the English word after all that smooth-sounding Italian.

  How to tell him she'd changed her mind? He'd think her foolish. Fickle. A silly, stupid woman. "If you don't wish to wait ..." She struggled to find the right words, even in Italian. "I don't have the strength to fight you."

  He stepped back as though she had struck him. "I will never force you. Never."

  She reached out, but he scowled at her. "I only meant ... when we are married, it will be your right ... and we will be married soon."

  "I will never force you," he repeated. "Not even when I have the right. Not even when you are my wife."

  He grabbed his coat and stomped to the door. "Put some clothes on," he growled. He slammed outside, letting in a rush of cold air, leaving her standing naked and alone next to the cooling tub of water.

  Leaving her before she could tell him that he hadn't understood.

  She hadn't meant to say that she didn't have the physical strength to fight him. She'd meant that she didn't want to fight him at all.

  * * * * *

  His pitiful farm was small, but he walked the perimeter for over an hour, cooling his hot blood.

  This was exactly why he didn't need a wife. He hadn't thought of bedding a woman in days, and then she showed up. Now he could think of nothing else. And he'd be thinking about it for the next four days. Four long, agonizing days. And nights.

  He could still feel her warm, soft skin ... still taste her dewy flesh on his tongue. When she'd dropped that towel, he'd wanted to weep in relief. He'd wanted to turn her, kiss her with his tongue, and take her right there on the floor.

  And she'd wanted him, too. She'd trembled in his arms. But had she trembled with eagerness? Or with fear?

  Valentine's Day. Only a hopeless romantic would want to be married on Valentine's Day. From the breathy wonder in her voice when she'd told him that Sunday was Valentine's Day, Mariana was clearly the worst sort of hopeless romantic.

  No doubt men had been making fools of themselves over her for years. She'd probably expect flowers ‑‑ in the middle of winter -- and a hand-made card, and poetry. Poetry about her eyelashes.

  He snorted. Not from him. He'd marry her, and he'd bed her ‑‑ he'd even be gentle about it, as gentle as he could be after waiting through four long nights ‑‑ but he wasn't going to wrap it up in romantic nonsense.

  She acted as though this was a fairytale marriage. As though he'd courted her. Hell, he'd paid her parents for a woman to help him work this hardscrabble farm ... for a woman to warm his bed. They'd been more than happy to turn over a daughter ‑‑ two daughters ‑‑ in exchange for his lire.

  Mariana had determination, at least. Weak as she was, she must have been in agony long before she'd wrung the last of the laundry. If she could stand that much pain, maybe she could stand the pain of lying with him.

  But he wouldn't cause her pain. Not too much, at least. Hell, if she wasn't a virgin, he wouldn't hurt her at all.

  He stumbled a little on the uneven ground. Maybe he should wish that she wasn't. That some other man would have the memory of seeing her weep with pain from an act that gave him selfish pleasure.

  And if she was a virgin, well, he'd do his best not to hurt her badly. That last whore, the one he'd paid to show him what a woman liked, had told him it always hurt a woman the first time. He hadn't known that when he'd taken his first wife to bed. But now he knew how to make it hurt less. And now he knew how to pleasure a woman.

  As he'd been pleasuring Mariana tonight.

  Enough. If he kept thinking about bedding his almost-wife, he'd never lose this cockstand. Would he sleep at all, with her lying next to him in that narrow bed?

  He headed toward the farmhouse. The window cast a soft yellow glow in the cold, frosty night. She must have lit the lamp.

  He stomped up the porch, making enough noise to warn her he was coming. God knew he didn't want to surprise her half-naked. Not since he'd made that damned promise.

  When he stepped into the warmth and shut the door, he didn't see her at all. She wasn't in bed, but the bed was made, the blankets back in place. The laundry was all still hanging, so she must have found the spare set of linens. Where the hell was she?

  He took off his coat and hung it, then came further into the room. God damn it. She was lying on the floor between the tub and the stove, wrapped in a single blanket.

  "What the hell are you doing?" he all but shouted.

  She turned and looked up at him with frightened blue eyes. "Sleeping?"

  His jaw clenched. "Get in the damned bed."

  "I wish to sleep here." Her chin was high, but her voice wavered.

  "Like hell." He strode across the room and bent, gathering her up. She squeaked like a mouse when he stood. Lord, she weighed less than a sack of potatoes. He dropped her on the bed.

  "I will sleep on the floor," he said. That tone would have gotten no argument from Francesca, but cer
tainly her stubborn sister would give him one.

  "But ... this is your house."

  Yes, he'd known she'd argue. "You need rest."

  "So do you, John."

  "Sleeping on the floor will stiffen your arms. With useless arms, you're no use to me."

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked rapidly. "Please don't be angry." She said it in Italian.

  He must be scaring the hell out of her. By the cross, he hadn't meant to frighten her. The bed frame creaked as he sat next to her on the mattress. "Did you think that if I found you in bed, I would break my promise?"

  She shook her head. But why else would she be on the floor? He knew, from bitter experience, that few people were willing to trust a man who looked as hideous as he did. It was human nature to mistrust the ugly, and to think the best of beautiful people. She'd have to learn to trust him. He'd given her little reason to trust him so far.

  He stroked her hair back with one hand. She wiped her eyes, but didn't flinch away from his touch.

  "A few nights on the floor won't hurt me, Mariana."

  "But ‑‑"

  "No arguments," he said, talking over whatever she added. "And tomorrow you'll rest your arms. You shouldn't have made the bed."

  "Made the bed," she repeated. Then she smiled. "What a strange way to say. I didn't make the bed. I put linens on the bed."

  When she smiled like that, his thoughts scattered. He just stared, wishing he could unwrap that blanket and look at her body through whatever threadbare garment she had on. "Get under the covers." He stood up. "I need that blanket."

  She unwrapped the blanket, revealing a voluminous gray flannel nightgown that had been Francesca's. Nothing could have cooled his blood faster than seeing her in one of Francesca's nightgowns.

  "We will share the bed," she declared.

  Had he heard her right? Yes, he was sure of it.

  She stood up suddenly and rushed to the table, then picked up one of her dictionaries. She held it up to the light as she flitted from page to page.

  He spread her cocoon blanket across the bed while she searched for words.