ROMANCE: PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Coveted by the Werewolves (Paranormal MMF Bisexual Menage Romance) (New Adult Shifter Romance Short Stories) (299 page)

                      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.