Bedding the Beast

by Doreen DeSalvo

  She looked through Francesca's chest again, setting the dresses aside. Nothing but undergarments and a cotton nightgown. A shift would be easy to alter, and practical. Hers were about to fall apart. She lifted one out of the chest and brought it to the table, then got one of her worn shifts out of her own cloth sack. The old shift would help her keep the measurements straight.

  She took the scissors from the sewing box and started picking apart the seams of Francesca's shift. Like the dresses, her under things were in good shape. John must have bought all these clothes for Francesca, brand new. Yet he'd told Mariana he would spend nothing on new clothes for her. His unwanted second wife.

  When she'd woken up he was gone, leaving only a few scattered breadcrumbs on the table to show that he'd eaten something for breakfast. She'd gathered the eggs, milked the cow, and fed the chickens, but there'd been no sign of him outside. The horse was stabled in the barn. He must be off in the fields somewhere.

  The scissors slipped, and she nicked her finger with the sharp point. She sucked it into her mouth to keep from getting blood on the shift. At least hurting her finger gave her an excuse to have tears well up in her eyes.

  She wiped them away with her free hand. How silly could she be? Of course he didn't care for her ‑‑ not yet. Francesca had been gone for only six months. And her mother always said that men took longer than women to sort out their feelings.

  But even knowing how silly she was, expecting him to care for her so soon, she'd cried to hear him say -- so bluntly -- that he didn't care for her at all. That he wouldn't let their daughter end up like her, with a man who cares nothing for her.

  A warm draft touched her forehead, just like the other day. He cares.

  Oh, no. She glared at Francesca's clothes chest. "He doesn't care. He doesn't need me. He doesn't want me."

  Or if he did, it was only her body he wanted. And only in the dark of night, when he couldn't see her.

  She pointed at the chest with her scissors. "And why do you speak only of his feelings? What about me?"

  No answer. "Aha. You care more about John than you do about me. Your own sister."

  Not sister.

  Not her sister? Then who was this? What other woman would be speaking to her from beyond the grave? "Who ... who are you?"

  Mother.

  Mother? Surely ... surely her mother was still alive back in Tuscany. One of her brothers would have sent word if ... But how long would it take for a letter to reach her? Would they want to spend the money? "Mama?"

  The window rattled. No.

  A chill ran up her spine. Whoever this spirit was, she dare not trust it. "Enough. Leave me alone." She threw the scissors into the basket and slammed the lid shut.

  She'd been cooped up inside for too long. A walk would make her feel better, even though it was cold outside. She'd get away from this strange haunting woman. Maybe she'd see John.

  She put the clothes back in Francesca's chest ‑‑ her chest now ‑‑ and put on her coat and bonnet.

  The wind hit her in the face as soon as she opened the door. Cold wind, but not freezing. She could barely see her breath. The snow was slowly melting, fading away in wet, muddy patches.

  Outside, she hurried off the narrow porch and onto the front path. With every step away from the house, her mood grew lighter. The narrow track that led to the road was muddy, so she walked to the side, where dried grass kept the worst of the mud from caking on her thin boots.

  She'd need new boots soon. Would John be angry to spend the money? Maybe she could find a way to make extra money. Taking in sewing, perhaps? She would ask John if he thought anyone would pay for that.

  Noise came from the west end of the road ‑‑ a horse and creaking wood. John? No, she'd seen the horse in the barn earlier. Wherever he'd gone, he was on foot.

  The horse approached, pulling a narrow wagon. Ah, Kathleen was driving. Mariana smiled at her, but the woman's expression looked taut. Anxious.

  Kathleen pulled back on the reins, and the wagon came to a stop. "I'm heading to town to fetch the doctor," she said, without any greeting. "The boys are powerful sick."

  "Can I help?"

  "Aren't you a dear. Could you sit with them until I get back? They were sleeping when I left, but I'd feel easier knowing someone was there."

  She nodded. "I'll go now. Where ... where is ..." Oh, speaking English was so hard at times.

  "Where's my house?"

  "Yes."

  "Follow the road three miles. My place is off to the left, right after a stand of willow trees. There's a sign that says McNeil at the edge of the road. You can't miss it."

  Mariana nodded and turned to go back to the house. She heard the reins snap and the wagon trundle down the road.

  "Thank you, Mariana," Kathleen called.

  Mariana turned to wave, but Kathleen had already moved along.

  She rushed into the house and grabbed her dictionaries, stuffing them into her worn cloth bag. What else would she need? Oh, she could bring the shifts. If Kathleen's sons were sleeping, Mariana could get some sewing done.

  As she hurried to the door, her gaze fell on the chalkboard. Maybe she should leave a message for John.

  No. No, he hadn't told her where he was going, or when he would be back. Why should she do him that favor? Let him wonder. If he cared at all.

  He cares.

  "Be gone. I won't listen to you." She waved a hand over her ear to clear the air, as if swatting at an insect. Then she left as though the hounds of hell were after her.

  Chapter Eight

  Mariana trudged up the lane toward the house, breathing hard in the crisp night air. The sun had set hours ago. Surely John would be home by now. Maybe he had even wondered where she was.

  She opened the door quietly. He was sitting at the table, and he seemed surprised to see her. Odd. The room was chilly, so she left her coat on and sat down on the bed. He said nothing, so she said nothing.

  "Where were you?" he asked at last.

  His voice was harsh. As if he expected her to sit at home waiting for him whenever he decided to disappear for an entire day. "You are out all day, too."

  His brows lowered in a forbidding scowl. "I was home well before dark. Now give me an answer. Where were you?"

  She wanted to ask where he had been. But he looked so angry, she didn't dare. Maybe he'd be happy that she'd done something useful. "I go to Kathleen's house."

  He glowered. "Why?"

  He sounded suspicious. Mad. Why would he be angry that she went to Kathleen's? "Her sons are sick. She went for doctor. I watch her sons. I watched her sons," she corrected.

  "Sick?"

  She nodded.

  "Sick with what?"

  Why couldn't she remember the word? She rolled her hand in small circles, thinking. "Hot," she said at last. "Very hot."

  "A fever?"

  That was the word. She nodded. "Yes, a fever. Bad fever. Kathleen is afraid. The doctor ‑‑"

  He got to his feet so quickly, his chair fell over behind him with a crash. "You knew the boys had a fever? And still you went?"

  She helped a neighbor, and he would yell at her for it? "Kathleen is nice woman. Of course I went."

  He came to the bed and glared down at her, his face dark and scarier than ever. "You little fool."

  She shrank back from him, but he leaned closer. "Are you trying to kill yourself on purpose? Is living with me so horrible that you'd rather die?"

  Why was he saying these things? Why was he yelling at her? She swallowed and shook her head.

  He put one hand on either side of her head, leaning so close, she could barely focus on his eyes. "Did you ever stop to think what would happen if you died? Maybe your parents would send your little sister to be my next wife. She's what, all of thirteen years old? Would you like her to go through Ellis Island alone?"

  He was so close, and so angry, she could say nothing. She just lay there trembling.

  He took a breath ... to yell again.
"Your greedy father probably doesn't give a damn about her, either. He'd send her to me in a minute. Or maybe he'd finally blow the dust off his God damned wallet and send me my money back."

  She lay in shock, eyes smarting with hot tears, and stared at him. She didn't understand every word he said. But she understood enough. "You want the money," she whispered. "Only the money. That's why you are so angry, first day I ... first day I'm here."

  He straightened and turned away from her. As if he couldn't stand to look at her. His hands were clenched into fists. "Of course I wanted the money. Do you think I wanted another wife? A wife so stupid that she'd go out and try to catch a fever?"

  Enough. She'd heard more than enough. She brushed her tears away and stood up. He still couldn't bear to look at her.

  She grabbed her old dresses from Francesca's chest and stuffed them into her bag, then pulled the drawstring tight. Everything she owned was in her bag again. Just like when she'd arrived.

  Stay.

  She ignored the voice. Stupid woman. What did she know? She didn't want what was best for Mariana. Only for John.

  My son. Needs you.

  Her son? She knew nothing of John's mother. And she didn't want to know. She clasped both hands to her ears, shaking her head. "I don't care."

  John didn't turn. "I don't blame you."

  She wouldn't spend another night with this awful man, this man who called her names, this man she could never please. This man who cared nothing for her. Who didn't want her.

  She left without even looking at him again.

  * * * * *

  The slam of the door sounded like a gunshot, cutting across the quiet of the night with a sharp burst and then fading away, taking John's anger with it.

  Now that she'd left, he felt calm. Strangely calm. He wouldn't miss her. Not at all. Oh, he'd miss having her in his bed. But he'd never really wanted her for anything else.

  She'd probably head to the McNeil's place. Kathleen would see her settled. If she got sick, if she came down with whatever the boys had, Kathleen would take care of her. No need to worry about her.

  He went to the window and saw her walking away in the light of the full moon. And suddenly he was five years old, standing at another, more grimy window, watching his mother walk away. Wondering when she'd come back for him.

  She never had.

  And Mariana would never come back if he let her walk away from him now. Best to let her go. She'd find another man. A better man. A man she cared for. He'd never wanted her, and she'd never wanted him. How could she? An ugly brute of a man, who'd done nothing but hurt her, yell at her. Bed her.

  Love her.

  As best he could.

  By the saints, he loved her. And she was leaving him. Already he could barely see her in the moonlight.

  Panic seized him. He ran out the door, gasping in the cold air, and chased after her. He stumbled in the dark, nearly falling on his face. She looked over her shoulder, saw him, and kept going. A better man, the man she deserved, would let her go.

  He caught up with her at the edge of the road and grabbed her arm. Gulping for breath, shivering without his coat, he pulled her around to face him. She wouldn't look at him. "I'm sorry," he gasped. "I'm so sorry."

  She tried to pull away. "No."

  He clutched both of her arms. They felt so thin under his beefy hands. So vulnerable. How could he have yelled at her? "I know I'm just a stupid oaf of a man. But I'm sorry."

  She still wouldn't look at him. "Yes. You are stupid oaf. Now I go."

  As long as he held her arms, she couldn't leave. And he wouldn't let go until he convinced her to stay. But why should she? He couldn't think of one single reason. "Stay. You must stay."

  She tried to shake off his hands. "Why can you yell at me, call me stupid, and then say me stay?"

  God. Had he really said that? "You're not stupid. I'm the stupid one."

  "Yes," she agreed, with heat. "Stupid ... oaf." She tried to pull away again.

  He gripped her arms. "You can't leave me. You're my wife, damn it. I said wedding vows to you before God."

  Her hands clutched at his forearms, trying to pull him away. "Let me go. Those vows are ... not real."

  "They're damned real vows to me." Ah hell, he hadn't meant to shout at her.

  "Stop, John." Her eyes were teary. At least she felt something for him. "Why do you fight now? Let me go."

  "I can't," he said, helplessly.

  "You want money. You don't want me."

  "Don't want you?" Did she really believe that? Hell, what else did he expect her to believe? He'd shouted it in her face not five minutes ago.

  He'd never find the words to explain how much he wanted her, needed her. He pulled her close. How had he ever thought her too skinny? Her slim, delicate figure was irresistible. Perfect. Perfectly designed to set his blood on fire.

  And oh, he burned. He wrapped his arms around her back, desperately, and rubbed his burgeoning cock against her stomach. "Please," he said against her neck. "I'm sorry. Please. Let me ..."

  He groaned, and kissed her neck. She was pliant in his arms. Willing?

  His mouth nuzzled the edge of her bonnet up, exposing her little ear. "I want you, Mariana," he whispered. "So much ... want you so much ..."

  He kissed her, and her lips answered. She didn't fight him at all. He cupped her cheek, kissing her deeply, dragging her up against his body with his other arm.

  "I want, too," she murmured against his mouth.

  She was his, only his, and he would never let her go. He lifted her in his arms, his slender, beautiful, perfect wife, and headed back into the house. With one foot, he kicked the door shut behind them.

  When he set her on her feet, she looked up at him with those huge blue eyes. Huge blue frightened eyes.

  "Are you sore?" he asked. "From last night?"

  "Sore?"

  "Do you hurt? In your pussy?"

  She blushed. "Not so much."

  Thank God. His hand trembled as he untied her bonnet and let it drop behind her. He brushed her hair back from her forehead. "I can be gentle." He prayed he could. "Let me show you."

  She nodded and tilted her face up. With the lamp shining bright, he could see every detail ‑‑ the little freckle on her forehead, the downy fuzz on her cheeks, the yearning in her eyes. Yearning. She was so close, she had to see his own face clearly. And still she wanted him.

  He closed his eyes and kissed her. Gently, gently. No need to rush.

  But she pressed against him, wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, and suddenly his tongue was deep within her mouth, dueling with hers, and his hands were pulling at her coat, her dress, her shift. God, he'd nearly lost her. He couldn't go slowly. He needed her too much.

  When her bosom was bare, he bent his knees and grabbed her around the waist, lifting her off the floor to bring her breasts level with his mouth. He suckled, and she moaned, and his hands clutched her ass.

  He laid her on the bed in a tangle of clothes, her dress and shift pulled open to bare her breasts, her skirts rucked up to her knees. Her nipples glistened with wetness from his mouth.

  Ah, what a vision. His woman, his wife, half-naked and waiting for him. She gazed at him with a hunger he'd never before seen in a woman's eyes. Hunger for him.

  He stood and stripped off his shirt. Before it hit the floor, she was struggling out of her own clothes.

  She finished before him, and he stopped to drink in the sight of her naked body. She was kneeling on the bed facing him, and her slender waist, her thin legs, made the generous flare of her hips all the more stunning. And her pussy hair, oh, her pussy hair was a tawny light brown, exactly as he'd imagined.

  While he stared, she lifted her hands and stroked over her breasts, making heat rush to his cock. Her gaze moved down his body, and her eyes widened. Ah, she'd never seen him before, either. "Oh," she whispered. "I never ... oh." Her tongue came out and licked her lips.

  His cock lifted, as though
that tongue had touched it. A blush spread from her face all the way down to her breasts. The breasts her hands fondled.

  He had to touch her. Right now. He started for the bed, and the tangle of pants around his ankles tripped him. But he fell next to her on the soft mattress, then kicked off his pants and long johns impatiently, his gaze never leaving her. She didn't shy away from looking at his face. She looked eager and wanton, kneeling there tweaking those big wet nipples.

  He couldn't wait another minute. He swung around, lifted her hips, and slid his head under her kneeling body, lying on his back with his head between her thighs. In an instant, his mouth reached up to taste her juicy cunt. His tongue licked, thrust inside her, flicked against her clit, and she moaned, cried out, shunted her hips over his face.

  She fell forward over him, onto her hands and knees. His thighs shivered from the brush of her hair. Her hand stroked his cock, and then the wet heat of her mouth sucked him in. She mimicked the motions of fucking, and he thrust his tongue deep into her cunt, matching her strokes.

  She sucked. He moaned.

  He licked. She whimpered. The vibrations from her wordless little noises of need tingled on his cock, made him shudder.

  He cupped her ass in his hands, molding her cheeks, holding her still over his mouth. He ate her fiercely, starving for her, forcing his pleasure on her. And her eager mouth did the same to him.

  Suddenly she pulled away and sat next to him, breathing hard. "Inside me," she gasped. "What is the word for when you go inside me?"

  If she said it, he might come before he even got inside her. "It's called fucking."

  "How do I ask for this?"

  He swallowed. "You'd say, fuck me."

  "Fuck me," she repeated. And then she reached out a hand to him.

  He took her hand, but when she pulled him toward her, he resisted. He'd pound into her savagely if he got on top of her again. She was still sore, tender. And this time, by the cross, he'd be gentle with her.

  He tugged her over to him instead, and pulled her down until she sprawled on top of his own body.

  She put one hand on his chest, pushed herself up, and gazed down at him. Her lovely eyes looked confused. "No?"

  "Like this," he said, lifting his knees so that her legs spread open on either side of him. "Take me inside. Take as much as you want. As slow as you want. Stop whenever you want."