Bedding the Beast Page 6

  "I wish." She shifted a little, and he felt her move closer. Her slender hand came to rest on his hip. "And I will pet your cock. And we will ... come."

  His cock twitched at the words. She sounded drowsy, sated with sexual pleasure. If she'd been more awake, he'd have taken her hand to his cock right then.

  Yes, this skinny, innocent young woman could warm his bed very well indeed. Even if she never had the strength to manage the laundry. Mariana would do this one thing well; Francesca had done everything else well, everything save this. But it had been his fault, not hers.

  Mariana had settled down at last. Her breath was slow and steady. Perhaps she slept. How much time before dawn? Only an hour, two at most. He yawned, drifting toward sleep.

  "I feel so much different when you touch me," she murmured.

  His brain was half asleep, and it took him a long, long moment to recognize the implication of her words. He sat straight up, wide awake. "Who else has touched you?" he demanded.

  No answer. Her breathing was deep, even; she slept.

  He tossed the blanket off and slid out of bed. Might as well get up. He'd have no more sleep this night, picturing another man's hand between Mariana's legs.

  Chapter Four

  Mariana woke up in a cocoon of warmth. How long had it been since she'd woken up to warmth? To soft, clean sheets?

  She stretched, reaching out across the bed with one arm, hoping to find John there. Nothing. Nothing but emptiness, and the slight stiffness in her arms, reminding her of the reason the sheets were so clean. John must be up already.

  John. Her lover. Her lover.

  She felt heat rise in her face and grinned. Her lips felt bruised, a delicious soreness. His kisses had been so exciting. Rough and lusty. But his hands ... For such a gruff, scary-looking man, he had surprisingly gentle hands. Amazing hands. Hands that knew her body better than she did, even in the dark.

  And when he'd taken her hand in his, and shown her how to touch him, how to make him tremble and groan, and spill his seed ‑‑ how to make him come, oh, that had been even better. He'd been happy with her then. For the first time, she'd managed to please him.

  She couldn't wait for Valentine's Day. They'd be married. And then he'd lie on top of her and press his cock inside her. Just like his finger had. Only better. Bigger. Much bigger, from what she'd felt last night. And she'd be so wet, it wouldn't hurt at all.

  She squirmed, pressing her thighs together to ease the tension. What a wanton woman she'd become. If he were in bed with her now, she'd be tempted to let him take her, wedding ring or not. Where was he?

  She rolled over and opened her eyes. Bright sunlight streamed through the window. The laundry was down, and John sat at the table, drinking from a steaming, heavy cup. He looked tired, his great bushy brows drawn together in a frown.

  She sat up and smiled at him. "Good morning."

  He didn't look up, but he nodded once. His chair scraped against the floor as he stood. With his back to her, he walked to the stove and put the skillet over an open burner.

  Butter sizzled in the pan, and she heard the crack of an egg, the popping noise of rapid frying. As the scent of melted butter filled the air, her mouth watered.

  She slid her stockinged feet onto the cold floor. He'd made coffee, folded the laundry, emptied the tub and moved it to a far corner of the room, all without waking her. She walked up behind him and peered around his side. "I want to make the breakfast."

  He cracked more eggs into the pan. "I like my own cooking fine."

  He'd said that yesterday, too. Didn't he want her to be useful? "My arms are good. I can make the milk ... I mean, I can milk the cow, and get the eggs. And feed the chickens."

  He tossed some chopped ham into the skillet. "I've done all that already."

  Of course he had. There was a basket of eggs sitting next to his elbow. But why wouldn't he look at her? Was he disappointed in her again? For not being awake sooner? Maybe he was just crabby in the morning.

  She got plates and forks and set the table, then added the remaining loaf of bread and the butter keeper. With his back to her, uninviting, he obviously wanted no help with the cooking. He didn't seem interested in her at all. Where was the tender lover of last night? The man who'd held her close? She'd expected a good morning kiss. At least.

  "Today, I will make ... I'll make bread."

  He glanced at her, then looked back at the eggs he was stirring. "No. Rest your arms today."

  His voice sounded harsh. Annoyed. Maybe he was still angry that she hadn't been able to finish the laundry. Well, she could do nothing about that now. "Very well. I will rest. I will ... make again my sister's clothes."

  "You mean sew," he said, his voice a little sharp.

  "Yes." She'd look up the word later, make sure she could use it correctly.

  "Good. Your own clothes are awful."

  Another word she didn't know. But she didn't need to look it up ‑‑ the scorn in his voice told her what he thought.

  With a rag wrapped around the handle of the iron skillet, he brought the eggs to the table. He stood close to her, tilting the pan and using her fork to shovel eggs and ham onto her plate. She wanted to reach out, to rest her arm across his lower back, to lean her head against his side. Just to touch him, in some small way. But she didn't dare, not with him acting so cold. As cold as he had when she'd first arrived.

  Maybe what they'd done in the night hadn't been enough to keep him wanting her. Maybe her hand wasn't enough to satisfy him.

  Maybe he still didn't want her as a wife.

  He wants you.

  The words made her jump. John said nothing. He didn't look up, merely went around the table to his own place. Obviously he didn't hear anything.

  She looked down. Why, he'd put nearly half of the scrambled eggs onto her plate. "I can't eat so much."

  He ignored her and started eating. Right out of the skillet, as if she hadn't set a plate down for him.

  Fine. She could ignore him, too. The eggs were delicious, fluffy and warm, and the ham added just enough saltiness. He really didn't need her to cook for him at all. But she wouldn't compliment him. No doubt he'd be rude if she did.

  He rose, got the coffeepot, and poured more coffee into his cup. She caught his gaze as he finished.

  "Want some?" he asked grudgingly.

  She shook her head. He needn't do her any favors. And despite what the spirit said, he obviously didn't want her. He wouldn't act so cold if he did. As soon as he sat down again, she stood and got water from the pump, filling a mug for herself.

  They ate in silence. He didn't look at her, not once. Even though she was hungry, she had to force the food past her tight throat. What had she done? What had she failed to do?

  She cut a slice of bread, buttered it, and offered him none. He saw the bread; he could get it himself. She took a vicious bite, scattering crumbs over the edge of her plate.

  His chair scraped across the floor as he stood. She didn't look at him, but in a room this small, she couldn't help but see him go to the door and take down his coat.

  He was leaving. Without a word. Without a kiss. Without even touching her.

  And she couldn't bear to see him go away. "Where do you go?"

  "To town." His tone invited no further questions.

  She ate three more bites of eggs before she could stand it no longer. "When did you return?" Oh, she'd said that wrong. Now he'd correct her, in that superior way of his.

  "Not until supper time."

  He hadn't bothered to correct her. Maybe he thought it no longer mattered. That she wouldn't be here long enough to need to learn English.

  He must intend to eat the noon meal in town. Goodness, he planned to leave her alone all day. With nothing to do but make over her clothes. To sew -- and to be haunted by a spirit who spoke nonsense.

  "Don't go in the barn," he said suddenly.

  She looked up. "Why no?" No, that was wrong. "Why not?"

  He looked
annoyed, frowning at her. "The horse has colic. If you startle her, she might get worse."

  "Colic?"

  "The horse is sick." He sounded brusque, impatient. He pulled on a hat. "I'm going to get medicine for the horse."

  Medicine. She wouldn't ask him to spell it. "Can I help?"

  He scowled at her. "What could you do? Just stay inside and rest your arms."

  He slung his scarf around his neck. She wouldn't help him bundle up today. He could freeze for all she cared.

  But ... "How will you go to town? Is long walk, to town and back again. Longer than one day ‑‑"

  "I'll borrow one of Kathleen's horses."

  He left in a gust of cold wind, before she could even say goodbye.

  The big, stupid man. She slammed the dirty skillet into the sink. He didn't even have the decency to eat from a plate. And how dare he order her to rest, then leave with all these dirty dishes on the table? Did he think she could wash them without using her arms?

  She scrubbed the pan roughly, making her biceps sore. At least the work relieved some of her frustration. What did he want from her? It wasn't her fault Francesca was gone.

  Wants you.

  She shook her head.

  Yes.

  As if it mattered what a ghost said. She slammed the dishes into the sink and washed them roughly, but nothing broke. Just as well. John had told her she wasn't worth spending money on. If she broke his dishes, he'd behave even worse.

  Awful man. She had done nothing, nothing, to make him angry. She had done nothing but try to please him. She'd cleaned for him. She'd done the laundry ‑‑ mostly. She'd let him touch her body, let him touch her in ways that no other man had dared. She'd let him touch her in ways that only a husband should.

  And she'd touched him. She'd made him come, too. But still he didn't want her. Maybe he wanted more than her hand. Maybe he was angry that she wouldn't let him go up between her legs. Not until they were married. But he should understand why she insisted. He should be pleased that she'd let him fondle her, and touched him in return.

  Would she ever be able to please him? To even make him smile?

  She didn't care if he smiled, the big dumb ox. All she wanted was a home. She would make a home here, with him. And she would be happy. He could be angry if he wished.

  She built up the fire a little, then quickly changed into her day dress in the still-chilly morning air. Taking in Francesca's huge nightgown would have to wait. She folded it and tucked it under a pillow on the bed.

  Francesca. Was it really her sister's spirit that had spoken to her? She looked around the small room, but nothing stirred. "Francesca?"

  Nothing. Oh, how silly she was, talking to thin air! And the voice had made no sense, first telling her to leave, then to let John touch her ... and now trying to convince her that John wanted her, when he acted the opposite.

  Kneeling in front of the chest that held her sister's clothes, she slowly opened the lid. The contents reminded her so much of Francesca. The dresses were in dark, somber colors that would have suited Francesca's complexion quite well. They'd make her own pale skin look sickly. But they were all in good condition, and the dark colors wouldn't show dirt easily. Francesca had always been practical that way.

  She pulled out the lightest-colored dress, a burgundy cotton twill with a high neckline and long sleeves, and carried it to the small mirror that hung next to the sink. Yes, she looked pale in this color, but it was the best of the lot, suitable for winter. She'd need to work fast to have a respectable dress to be married in.

  At least the dress was almost red. A good color for a Valentine's Day wedding. The color of love. She turned from the mirror. No sense in fooling herself. There would be no love for her this year. No love, only bed play.

  She dragged a chair to the window, where the light was strongest, and sat down with the dress and Francesca's sewing box. No ‑‑ her sewing box.

  Altering a dress of her older sister's to fit herself was nothing new. She'd have to dart the bodice, take in the width of the skirt along the side seams, and lower the hem as much as she could. Then she'd try to alter the height of the waist to suit her own short-waisted proportions. Making a new dress from whole cloth would be a lot easier, but she'd never had the luxury of making new clothes for herself.

  A gentle breeze stirred the hair over her ear, curiously warm in the chilly room. Must be a draft from the fire. The sensation was oddly comforting, like the brush of her mother's hand when she was ill.

  She turned the dress inside out and started sewing tiny stitches along the sides of the bodice, darting the fabric to fit her own smaller bosom. She'd trim away the excess cloth after the new seams were in. She had nowhere near the bosom that Francesca had, and lumps of extra fabric under the seam would cause unnecessary wear.

  No, she never could have filled out Francesca's bodice. And maybe she could never fill the hole Francesca had left in John's life. Perhaps he resented her for trying? For being alive, with him, while Francesca was dead? If he still loved her sister ... and an unwanted woman tried to take her place ... that would make any man angry. Perhaps when he'd touched Mariana in the night, he'd wanted Francesca instead.

  But he'd been so ... eager. Maybe now, in the light of day, he felt guilty for wanting another woman. She'd have to be brave and ask him. Ask him why he was angry. She would never be able to guess. She'd look up the English words and ask him properly.

  They would be married until death. If she wanted him to be a good husband to her, she must be a good wife to him. She would do whatever she could to please him.

  Perhaps she could never take Francesca's place in John's life. Or in his heart. But she would try. She would try.

  * * * * *

  The hour was late, the sun near set, when John rode into the barn. He checked on the sick horse as soon as he dismounted. Her belly was still distended, but she didn't try to bite him when he touched her. Getting better. Maybe it wasn't colic after all. But he dosed her water anyway, just in case, and left her fresh hay. Then he curried Kathleen's horse and set to cleaning the tack.

  It was cold work, handling the freezing iron bits and saddle buckles, and he couldn't wear gloves while he did it. Kathleen had told him to borrow the animal for a few days, until his own horse was set to rights. The least he could do was take proper care of her tack.

  He'd stayed in town longer than he'd wanted, making sure the preacher would be back on Sunday, leaving word that he'd have a wedding to perform after the service. Would Mariana mind that they didn't have a Roman Catholic priest? Hell, he didn't care. It'd be a legal marriage, and that was all that mattered. Once they were married, she'd have no reason not to let him fuck her.

  His jaw clenched. How could she smile at him so brightly this morning, all innocent and flushed from sleep, as if she'd never had another man's hands up her drawers? Another man she may have loved. Hell. Maybe that was why she didn't want to rut with him before they were married. Before she had to.

  He hung the tack and headed for the house. No sense in staying out any longer. This was his house, and no skinny little flirt of a girl was going to make him feel uncomfortable in it.

  The last thing he expected to hear when he stepped onto his porch was laughter. Hers. And a man's.

  He pushed open the door and burst in.

  She sat at the table across from young Bill McNeil, the lamp lit between them, a dark reddish-brown dress spread on her lap, needle and thread in her hand. Their laughter startled into silence, and they looked up at him.

  Bill stood and reached out one hand. "Hello, John. My ma sent me 'round with some fresh-baked bread and peach preserves."

  No doubt it had been the boy's idea. An excuse to come see Mariana. He shook his hand, then turned away to hang up his coat. "You tell your ma I said thank you."

  "Sure will. It's no bother, though. She always bakes too much bread, and you know I'm not overly fond of peaches."

  Mariana's head came up from the dress sh
e'd been sewing. "Over what?"

  Bill chuckled like an old friend comfortable with ribbing her about her English. "Overly fond." He reached under the table and came up with the chipped chalkboard, then wrote the words on it. "It means you like something a lot."

  John would swear the kid had winked at Mariana. As if to say he was overly fond of her. His hands clenched into fists.

  The knot between her eyebrows grew. "You meant you were happy to give the peaches away. But you like them? You are overly fond of them?"

  "I said 'not' first. I'm not overly fond. That means I don't like them very much."

  She smiled again. "Ah. Thank you for explaining."

  Bill was close to her own age ‑‑ probably just a couple of years younger than her. No doubt she'd rather be marrying someone like the boy. Handsome and young, able to talk and flirt with her easily. A man she'd want to fuck in the light.

  The hell she would. He'd kill the boy first. With his bare hands.

  By the saints, what was wrong with him, thinking of strangling this kid just because he'd been laughing with Mariana? And she'd probably been the one who'd started the ribbing. No wonder Bill was sweet on her. He couldn't blame the kid that Mariana was such a flirt.

  The room was silent again except for a slow drip from the pump. His presence had disturbed their happy little chat.

  Good.

  He went to the sink and jiggled the pump handle until it stopped dripping, just for something to do. A covered pot simmered on the stove, and he smelled cooked onions. He'd told the little fool to rest. Did she ever listen to a word he said?

  "I'd best be going," Bill said at last. "It's getting dark."

  Dark. Tonight, in the dark, he could teach Mariana more bed tricks. Tricks with his mouth and tongue. Tricks that an innocent young girl could never imagine, tricks that would drive her wild, make her moan and scream. Tricks that would leave her a virgin in fact, if not in spirit.

  Maybe she knew them already.

  Bill was standing, collecting his coat.

  "Good night, Bill," John said.

  "I am glad you came," Mariana added.

  John caught her gaze and raised an eyebrow. Her face went beet red. That's what happened with dirty words. Now she couldn't even use them in an innocent way.