Bedding the Beast

Bedding the Beast
Gemma Woods
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2024 Gemma Woods

February 1881

John looked up from his noontime meal. Had that really been a knock at his door? No one had come to his farmhouse all winter. Usually, folks said hello if they saw him in the fields as they passed by, just to be sociable. But no one ever came to the house, and especially not at noon, when there were chores to be done.

The knock came again.

He left his food and crossed the single room of his farmhouse to the door. Damn, the latch was cold. He let go as soon as he could, using the wooden knob to pull the door open.

A young woman stood on his narrow porch, staring up at him with huge blue eyes set in a gaunt face. Her gray wool coat was worn threadbare in spots, and her bonnet was frayed around the brim. Who was she, a beggar? He had nothing to give.

On the narrow track road a couple of acres behind her, a wagon trundled away toward the McNeil’s spread. She turned and waved, though the driver was out of sight.

She looked back at him. Her gaze lingered on the hideous scar that marred his cheek for just a few seconds before she met his gaze evenly, not showing any reaction to his ugly face. “Giovanni DiAngelo?”

A name he hadn’t heard in years. He nodded once. “Who are you?”

“Good afternoon. My name is Mariana Del Dio Russo,” she said, in the Tuscan dialect he’d never thought to hear again.

Del Dio Russo? “You’re a relative of Francesca?” Perhaps she’d brought his money in person. She clutched a rough drawstring bag in her hands, satchel-shaped and made of canvas.

“I’m Francesca’s sister.”

Her teeth chattered a little. She shivered in her thin coat and gazed over his shoulder into the house. He had no time to talk, but he couldn’t keep her standing outside in the bitter cold of a Pennsylvania February. He moved to the side, and she entered quickly.

He closed the door and turned. She’d already walked to the tiny stove, holding her hands out to it for warmth. Her canvas bag sat in a heap on the floor next to the table.

His bowl was still steaming on the table. Might as well finish his meal while they talked. He sat down and lifted a spoonful of stew to his mouth. “Did you bring money for me?”

She looked confused. Ah, he’d spoken in English. Before he could repeat the question in Italian, she spoke.

“My parents received a letter from you,” she said in Italian. “You wrote that Francesca had died.”

“Six months ago.” Might as well speak in Italian, if that was all she understood. “Why are you here?”

She squared her shoulders. “I’m here to take my sister’s place.”

God, no. He’d asked Francesca’s parents to send him some of his money back. She’d died so soon after their marriage, it hardly seemed fair that her parents kept the full amount he’d paid for her. And he needed money. “I don’t need another wife.”

Her brows went up in surprise. “You have married again?”

He scowled. “No. But I don’t want a wife.”

“But… you paid my parents for a wife.”

Yes, he had. A wife to help him on the farm, a wife to give him children, a wife to warm his bed. None of those things were worth the price he’d paid -- and not just the price of the lire her greedy father had taken. “One wife was enough. I did not ask your parents to send me another.”

“But they owe you a wife.” Her gaze was fixed on his bowl. Was she merely avoiding looking at his face? He saw her throat move in a swallowing motion. No, she was hungry. And he only had enough stew for his own lunch.

Well, he could share a little with her. She looked thin; she probably wouldn’t eat much. He stuck the fork in his half-finished bowl and handed it to her. “Eat.”

He grabbed another bowl from the shelves over the sink, then went to the simmering pot on the stove and spooned out more for himself. When he turned to the table again, she was eating her way through the stew like she hadn’t had a meal all day. A small moan escaped her, a sound of pure pleasure.

She’d pushed off her coat and tossed it onto the back of her chair. Her shoulders were thin and bony, her neck long and narrow. Too skinny. He’d never cared for skinny women.

John sat across from her and speared a bite of meat with his fork, studying her covertly as he chewed. Her dress was patched and much mended, little more than a rag. Her father had talked of sending his sons to school, of buying an apprenticeship for the oldest boy. He must not have spent any of John’s money on his daughters.

Her dress stretched tight across her bosom, as if she’d been wearing it since before she’d fully grown. Her breasts were small. Too small. Probably not even enough to fill his hands.

If he married her, he could cup those small breasts in his hands. Fondle them. Kiss them.

No. There was no place in his life for a wife. When he wanted a woman, he’d spend a few coins on a whore in town. He couldn’t afford the money, but at least a whore knew better than to cringe at the sight of a man’s face when he covered her. A whore knew to keep her eyes closed and pretend he pleased her.

Perhaps this girl had family in America. People she could live with. “Who brought you here? The people passing in that wagon?”

She stared at him blankly. Ah, he’d spoken in English. He repeated it in Italian.

“Your neighbor. Kathleen… McNeil? She passed me on the road, and gave me a ride.”

No help there. He couldn’t expect a widow with two boys to take in a stranger. “Where have you been staying?”

“I was in New York until two days ago. In that prison place.”

“Ellis Island?”

“Yes.”

Right off the boat, she had come to him. She’d expected him to let her stay. Too bad for her. “Do you know anyone in America? Anyone other than me?”

“No.” She looked up from the bowl, and her chin lifted a notch. “I can find somewhere else to go, if you don’t want me.”

Which meant she had nowhere else to go. He recognized foolish pride when he saw it. “Do you want me?” he demanded.

She gave a small start but didn’t look away. Her eyes were a vivid blue, and they gazed at him solemnly, as though she didn’t see his scar. “Why do you care what I want?”

He shrugged and ate more, avoiding her gaze. “I don’t care.”

“I want to honor my father’s debt to you.”

Not an answer at all. Like most poor girls, she had no choice about her own future.

He deliberately stared at his narrow bed, less than four feet away from her chair. And then he looked back at her and scowled, determined to show her his worst. “Now that you have seen me, you have no fear about being my wife? You have no fear about sharing my bed?”

Her gaze steady, she gave an indifferent shrug. “After the long journey to come to America, and spending a month in that prison, I have little fear left in me.”

He could well believe it. Ellis Island had been hell for a strong man like him. How much worse had it been for a young girl, alone, who barely spoke any English? She couldn’t be more than twenty. At twenty-eight, he felt decades older.

She stopped eating for a moment and focused that solemn blue gaze on his eyes. “I will be a good wife to you, Giovanni.”

He frowned. “I’ve told you I don’t need a wife.”

His bowl was empty. He rose, but she quickly stood and took it from him. “May I bring you more?”

Why not let her serve him? He nodded.

She turned to the stove, giving him a view of her backside. At least one part of her body wasn’t too thin. Her waist was narrow but her hips were generous, her bottom well-rounded. Very well-rounded. As she spooned stew into his bowl, that alluring ass rocked back and forth with the rhythm of her arm. His cock lifted a notch.

If he married her, he could bed her.

Mount her.

Fuck her.

He knew many English words for the sex act. And looking at this skinny woman’s ass made him think of all of them.

God, no. Women were trouble. Wives were trouble.

Perhaps it would be different this time. Now he knew the dangers. And now he knew how to pleasure a woman. This bony little woman, this small-chested girl with the surprisingly generous ass, could help him practice his hard-won knowledge.

Even a skinny woman could ease a man’s needs. That was one chore she could do for him. She looked too weak to do anything else.

She turned back to the table. When she caught his gaze, she stopped abruptly. His lustful thoughts must have shown in his eyes, on his face. But he saw no revulsion in her expression. None at all. She smiled… a slow, warm smile. An inviting smile. A flirtatious smile.