ROMANCE: PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Coveted by the Werewolves (Paranormal MMF Bisexual Menage Romance) (New Adult Shifter Romance Short Stories)

by Hawke, Jessa

  Her heart thumped anxiously as she recalled the first few months as governess of the Wreight’s household. Little Sara and Edward, then four and six, had terrified her at first; she had no idea what to do about their twin pairs of shining blue eyes and all the sticky hands everywhere. It had been her first post after completing her studies at Wenchworth’s Finishing School for Young Ladies, and while there was much she knew about geography, history, and art, no finishing school in the world could have prepared her for the amount of questions that children asked, for their unceasing energy that left her fatigued, and how very sharp their young minds were. So sharp that it would not have done to slip up in any way; to acknowledge your own humanity would be to admit defeat.

  Clara had grown strong very quickly. After only six months, she had managed to school both children into a vision of orderly perfection, honing their manners while allowing their creative little minds to develop according to the finest education. They, in turn, adored her passionately, following her everywhere. When it was announced, at the end of three years, that both children would be attending a boarding school in Earlmister, it was impossible to determine who was more devastated—Clara or Edward and Sara. Sara, chubby red cheeks framed by folds of long flaxen hair, had cried for a week straight, and Edward had done his best to be the image of a perfect, stoic little gentleman, but even he had broken down as Clara packed her trunks. The family had decided that the separation would be easier on the children if Clara left immediately, to give them a chance to adjust to her absence.

  Now she held a generous severance check in her hand, but found that applying to other posts as governess held little to no appeal for her. She imagined the long years stretching out before her, going from family to family, always leaving somebody’s dear little face behind. Certainly, it could happen that marriage might come her way, but Clara knew that she was unusual in believing that it was best not to expect such an opportunity to drop into her life, much like the stork delivering newborns. It was a quaint idea, although ultimately untrue. What she needed was a complete change of pace. Looking at the advertisement on her sprigged bedspread now, a certainty rose within in her that the path she was to take was already laid out somewhere. And as a proper Englishwoman, who was she to question God and all he had in store for her? Clara lifted her chin, rose off the bed and penned a reply to the advertisement. Then, before she could lose her nerve, she ran down to the postmaster and sent it off. It was out of her hands now.

  * * *

  The English are brave. The English do not falter. The English woman faces challenges head on and does not shirk the responsibility she has taken on herself.

  Clara told herself that if she repeated this enough times, she might actually believe it.

  The ranch of Mr. Kenneth Westeros was certainly not what she expected. She knew from the limited correspondence that she had received in reply to her telegraph that he was a widower who was, as she had suspected initially, looking for help on his ranch and around the house. But somehow, from the brief response of, “More housekeeper role. Stop. If you are good with animals, come. Stop. Wife status formality. Stop,” she had not gathered just how masculine the ranch actually was.

  The long, sloping planes were green as far as the eye could see. The horses that teemed about had long, swishing tails that quietly flicked off the flies that settled on their hindquarters. It was long, lonely man’s land, with a sturdy, rough-hewn wooden fence to keep the horses in that had not seen a paint job in a very long time. The house itself was a two-story monster that loomed over the land in a shadow that threatened to overwhelm you. She saw an oak tree that was centuries-old, and thought it would be perfect to read under; of course, since the entire place had not felt a woman’s touch in about an eternity, there was no seat or anything of the sort below it. The wind whistled around the long deck of the wraparound porch and Clara approached, the ruffle on the edge of her otherwise no-nonsense brown traveling gown whispering through the tall blades of grass. The house that Kenneth built, she thought, and then immediately switched the thought over to the more proper Mr. Westeros. Wouldn’t do to get too familiar just yet. As she traced one gloved finger up the weathered wood of one of the beams, she became aware of soft hoof beats behind her.

  The hat that shaded almost the entirety of his face left her uncertain as to the expression in his eyes, but she could tell they were dark. The stern line of his mouth hardened as he looked her unabashedly up and down, but he said nothing as he swung off the horse. He was far younger than she had imagined, but she barely had time to consider this before he had thrust the horse’s lead into her hands.

  “You’re Clara, right?” he asked, in a voice that was deep and calm, and incredibly intimidating. She swallowed hard and nodded. “Take Betsy out to the barn and wipe ‘er down. Dinner’s at five and lights are out at eight.” There was no time for breath, or anything at all, and she could not shake off the feeling that despite the add Kenneth Westeros had placed in that paper, he did not truly want her there at all. Furthermore, she was frankly outraged at the fact that he had not even had the manners to greet her appropriately, either as a lady or as a person who was to be living in his house. Good God, were all Americans this uncouth?

  He was looking at her as if he was quite sure she had never been within ten yards of a horse before in her life. Well, she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he was correct in this matter. She set down her bags on the deck and pointed her chin up.

  “And which way, pray tell, is the barn?”

  * * *

  When he saw her, he saw mayhem.

  Clara Wittibrew stood in front of him, not much taller than five feet. When Kenneth Westeros first put out the ad, he had done so because of his neighbor, who had done the same and the girl who had sailed across the ocean was a big, strapping English lass of some twenty-eight years who was now his right hand in helping with the heavy farm work. Taking in the petite girl in front of him, brown gown cinched in at the waist and her hair all up in curls, he very much doubted that she had any idea what was in store for her.

  Not that he would have to work particularly to make it more difficult for her. Ranch life was difficult, and Miss Wittibrew did not look as if she had ever had to deal with animals or a plentiful handful of housework before. Kenneth shook his head as he watched her take the horse’s lead and try to manage it down to the barn. Betsy could smell her nervousness, he knew, and from the way she was shying away from the girl, he doubted that a bond of trust was going to develop between them any time soon.

  Wiping the sweat off his brow underneath the hatband, he climbed up onto the deck and opened the door of the house. The kitchen was tidy and austere; he had had to learn much after Barbara had succumbed to typhus last spring. The cooking and cleaning because he could not abide the filth that had built up in the few weeks he had allowed himself to mourn after her passing. In some ways, he saw it as his birthright, the independence that he felt, but now it was spring, and the new colts were being brought to life, there were new stallions to train, and the work became overwhelming. Sally, Bill’s wife from the nearby farm had been a great help at first, but as she progressed into her last trimester, the six-mile ride became too much for her to handle, and besides, they’d have their first on the way soon. So Kenneth had filed the ad. And shrugged in disgust as a piercing feminine shriek erupted from the barn where he had just left the dandified Miss Wittibrew to her own devices. Clearly, she was going to be more trouble than help.

  The scene he encountered in the barn made him feel like he had regressed, gone back in time to a place where something was much simpler, where the rough farm work was more a joy than anything else. Prim, dainty little miss Wittibrew was sprawled on the ground, her skirts up over her neat little ankles, clutching her midsection for all she was worth. He had to give her credit, though; after the first shriek, whereupon she was no doubt taken aback, she had not emitted a single sound.

  Betsy, sensing the inexpertness of the
lady leading her, had gotten nervous at the last moment and knocked over the dainty woman. Now she was pawing at the ground with her slim legs and whickering softly, oblivious to the distress she had caused.

  It was all Kenneth could do from to keep from laughing aloud at the sight of his very self-possessed new wife on the ground, straw sticking in her carefully cultivated hair. Almost against his will, his gaze snared momentarily on the delicate curve of her calves and on the way the curls escaping from multiple pins brushed against her forehead. Her cheeks were pink with exertion as she carefully began righting herself, every blade of hay that stuck to her an added offense. When she was finally upright, she turned to glare at the horse, and that is when reserved Mr. Westeros felt the laughter erupt from his belly in a way he had not felt in years.

  It was nice to know that Clara Wittibrew had a nicely shaped derriere underneath her many mounds of skirts.

  Not for any reason that he could explain, but maybe it would make her next fall a little softer.

  At the continuation of that thought, the laughter rumbled through him again, the sound of it staining Clara Wittibrew’s cheeks scarlet. She turned back towards him, clutching at her rear, the embarrassment clear in the snap of her blue eyes.

  “You’re beasts, the both of you!” she cried and balled her tiny hands into equally miniscule fists. Kenneth tried, he truly did, to empathize with the helpless fury that seemed to be thumping out of her in waves. Bless her, she’d have to get a thicker skin that that, he thought, but then he noticed that the former governess had hay stuck to her upper lip and burst out with another roar of merriment.

  Clara Wittibrew fled from the barn.

  * * *

  “The wise bride will permit a maximum of two brief sexual experiences weekly — and as time goes by she should make every effort to reduce this frequency. Feigned illness, sleepiness and headaches are among her best friends in this matter. A selfish and sensual husband can easily take advantage of his wife. One cardinal rule of marriage should never be forgotten: Give little, give seldom and above all give grudgingly. Otherwise what could have been a proper marriage could become an orgy of sexual lust.”

  Goodness, thought Clara, there were so many things that she did not know. She continued to read.

  “Many women find it useful to have thick cotton nightgowns for themselves that need not be removed during the sex act. Thus, a minimum of flesh is exposed. When he finds her, she should lie as still as possible. Sex, when it cannot be prevented, should be practiced only in darkness.”

  Clara shut the book. Edward and Sara’s mother, when she learned that the young governess was on her way to become a wife, had, out of the generosity of her maternal spirit, given Clara a book on so-called useful tips for enduring what the formidable Mrs. Wreight had called, “the conjugal act.” Clara had accepted it gladly, for what did she know about being a bride? Whatever her newly married female friends told her was all covered in half-whispers, convoluted riddles and giggles.

  Still, if it was all as unpleasant and as unbearable as Ruth Smythers, the novelist writing the book, made it seem, then how were children as lovely as Sara and Edward ever even conceived? Clara supposed that there came a time when you just had to grin and bear it. She knew that the marriage was just for posterity’s sake, but suppose the formidable Mr. Westeros decided to claim what was lawfully his? Remembering the way he had glared down on her from atop Betsy, she felt a shiver go through her, although if it was from fear or something else, she could not rightfully say. Well, as the lady of the house, she would just set him straight, her own incident with Betsy be darned, she decided, nodding her head emphatically after taming the last of her curls into a bun.

  She was surprised to find dinner already on the table. Granted, it was a simple meal, some meat, cheese, and bread, with a copper pitcher of fresh milk—when had he found the time to milk the cow, she wondered—but nevertheless, Mr. Westeros had provided. After her long journey and earlier scare, she was famished. He was waiting for her at the round table in the kitchen, and as she sank down in the chair across from him, primly tucking her skirts under, she wondered how long it had been since he had someone else make him a meal. Was this, too, going to be a part of her duties?

  They said grace, which was a tradition she was glad to see he observed as well. From a childhood of growing up in an orphanage, one of the few things that she had carried away was the ability to thank the heavens above for a bountiful amount of food before her as an adult. As they filled their stomachs with the simple fare, she began to observe his face more carefully.

  It was even more austere than she had seen at first glance. Sand-colored hair swept low over his brow, and when he finally looked up at her, wiping milk off his lips with the back of his hand, she saw that his eyes were the deepest of blues. She supposed he was handsome, in a way, but when his eyes caught hers, they twinkled in a way that reminded her of the book she had upstairs and nervousness shot like a bullet down through her stomach. Having eaten her fill, she cleared her throat and pushed her chair away from the table.

  “Are you finished, Miss Wittibrew?” he asked as she got up.

  “Yes, Mr. Westeros, I believe I am. Thank you for the meal,” she offered, trying to bridge the gap between them.

  There was a long pause as he considered her, and she felt utterly and completely on display. Quite suddenly, she could see herself as he saw her—tiny, a little girl ill-suited for any kind of rough life, sure to crack at the first sign of distress. It was true that she was not well-equipped for this type of lifestyle, but in her entire life, short as it was at that moment, Clara Wittibrew had never backed down from a challenge.

  “I think it’s best if you call me Clara, Mr. Westeros. Since we are to be married, and all,” she told him, placing her hands on her hips. “And furthermore, I hope that you don’t think that the earlier incident with Betsy means that I will not be able to help you. I have my end of the bargain, and you have yours. I have extensive experience with children—” Here, she broke off as Kenneth Westeros got up and simply left the room. Her face flooded with heat and she could feel a note of anger rising through her chest. How dare he leave? How dare—

  He returned bearing a piece of paper in his hands, and a small pot of ink with a quill.

  “You know how to read and write, I presume, Clara,” he said, his voice an authoritative rumble, handing her the quill. “I obtained the marriage certificate about a week ago. Sign here.”

  Unable to speak a word, she took the proffered writing utensil and did as she was told. When she was finished, he signed his own name. She sank back into her chair and he sat across from her again. For just a moment, the house around them was silent, and when he spoke again, Kenneth’s tone was as deep and impenetrable as his eyes.

  “Now we are married, Clara. I have to warn you. Ranch life is tough, and yes, to me, you seem like someone who might be more in the way than helpful. But I trust that since you answered my ad, somewhere underneath all ‘yer fancy clothes, you’ve got a brave soul. Because you’re gonna need it.”

  She almost did not trust herself to speak, and quite suddenly, her voice was coming out of her seemingly without her own will involved.

  “Now that we’re married,” she spoke thickly, “Are we going to—I mean, do you expect—” and here she broke off, her own proper upbringing and sense of decency preventing her from speaking further.

  He took another long look at her, and it seemed to be eons before he spoke again. There was something that was definitely amused about his expression, but when he spoke, his voice was entirely serious.

  “As I told you before, the marriage is for the neighbors. I know I’m not from England—“ and here, he broke off into a smile that warmed his entire face—“But I do have some common decency, Clara. First of all, call me Kenneth. We’re married, after all. Second, I won’t have your reputation sullied by not giving you the proper position in my household. I expect nothing more from you than what I asked for
in my ad—I need a lady to run my household, ‘specially now it’s spring and I’m needed more and more out in the field. I can promise you, Miss Clara, that I will never touch you without your permission—I’m no animal, after all—unless that be somethin’ you yourself desire.”

  Clara’s heart was beating so loudly she was sure he could hear it over the ticking of the clock, the only sound to permeate the room after Kenneth finished his speech. The rush of emotions that came over her in that moment was as confusing as it was heady—gratefulness for him not breaching her sense of propriety, anger at his underestimation, worry that she herself would not be able to live up to both sets of expectations, and above all, a sense of respect for this forthright man who was not afraid to speak her mind. She had met far too many people in her own life who spoke in couched terms and did not make themselves clear. She was English, gently brought up in a way, but she liked the no-nonsense attitude on Kenneth Westeros a great deal. Ignoring the funny prickle in her belly at his use of the word desire, Clara finally rose definitively from the table and walked to the kitchen door. Just before she exited the room, she turned to her husband of all of five minutes.

  “Thank you, Kenneth. You can trust me not to let you down,” she said, and retired to her room.

  * * *

  Suddenly, the house seemed full.

  Kenneth could not remember the last time when his home seemed so organized or full of life. Certainly, Sally had done her share, sweeping up and wiping down his boots when he got mud on them, but it was an entirely different feeling when he walked into the main room and found an Oriental rug on the floor. The changes had started out small—crystal beading on lampshades that suddenly cloaked whole rooms in whatever color the silk happened to be, good hearty wine to be had with roast chicken in the evenings. They seemed to migrate from Clara’s room out towards the whole house. He could not remember the last time when somebody had cared enough to make the living space just that—a place to live in.