The hateful man loomed over her, his eyes ablaze with black fire. His cheeks above his bearded chin were like marble. Was the rest of his skin so smooth? Against her will, images of the naughty wife on the train, over her husband's lap while he paddled away, filled her mind. Then the image of herself over the desk… the desk right in this very building. Heat sizzled through her veins.
"My wife, why are you so sure nothing happened between us? Are you saying I neglected my husbandly duties on our wedding night? That I left my lovely bride with her maidenly virtue intact and slept elsewhere?"
"You wouldn't fit in the bed," she ventured. "It's too small."
"Oh, sweetheart," he dropped beside her and trailed his fingers up her bare arm to her shoulder, "I assure you, I did not sleep elsewhere."
"Well, perhaps… but nothing… nothing else happened." She waved at the white sheet, confident in at least this one matter, although disconcerted that she'd slept with him.
He narrowed his eyes, then tipped his head back and laughed. "I see, because there is no blood, you assume I did not penetrate you. Are you not aware that many a bride does not bleed when penetrated for the first time by her new husband?"
"Well perhaps they are less pure than I. If you are implying that I have… that I… that I did not come to you innocent, I assure you otherwise!" A flicker of intelligence penetrated her rage. "Or, perhaps, you were deceived, given a sullied bride." She ducked past him and ran for her dress. "I will leave now and go home to my father."
He followed her, in no great rush, and took the fabric from her hands, dropping it back on the chair. "I implied no such thing." Linking their fingers, he strolled back to the bed, taking her with him. "I don't think we have time to get to church now, so we might as well amuse ourselves in other ways."
She spun and, before he could see it coming, slapped him hard across the other cheek.
Chapter Seven
Marguerite's eyes widened until William could see the white around the periwinkle. Her hand was still in the air, his cheek stung, and the moment was ripe.
"Apologize."
She spat in his face.
He sank onto the mattress, her spittle dripping off his chin, and pinned her between his thighs. Holding her wrists, he assured that at least she couldn't slap him again until he said his piece.
But she struggled like a captured wild thing, writhing and cursing. "Did they teach you those words at Miss Pomeroy's? If so, I believe our school has the advantage in teaching ladylike behavior. None of Miss Adam's charges have ever heard such," he said.
She snarled.
He dragged her closer.
She tried to lift her knee but he held her legs immobile—fortunately for his manhood. What kind of a creature had her father saddled him with? "I can sit here all day." And he could. But he'd get mighty tired.
"Let. Me. Go." She renewed her cursing. With the aftereffects of the drink, her shrieks and thrashing likely caused her more pain than she caused him. After a few moments, she sagged, but he didn't release her. He'd learned that trick.
"We need to talk. About actions and reactions. We are going to be married a long time, and if you do that again, there will be repercussions. Do you know what I mean by that?"
"I went to the finest finishing school in the country." Her jaw tightened, but she didn't move. "I believe I know the meaning of the word repercussions."
"If I let you go, will you sit here beside me and converse?"
"Are you sure you don't want to 'amuse' yourself with me? Fallen woman that I am?"
He searched her face and saw a trace of sadness in her eyes. "What do you mean?"
"Well, when you did—whatever you did with me—last night, I shed no blood. Therefore, I am one of those women you mentioned who are not… who do not…"
Loosening his hold on her legs, he brought her to sit at his side. "Do you think that if you tell me I was not the first, I will let you go?"
"You should."
"I can't." He pulled a pin from her hair and a curl fell to her shoulder, soft and bouncy. "I am entrapped." He extricated a few more, focused on each lock as it landed on her shoulders and dropped down her back, and framed her cheeks until none of the richness remained bound. "You're too beautiful." William watched her face, her expressions flickering over it. Anger, exhaustion, confusion, defiance.
He had no idea which she would settle on but feared that none would be what he wanted. In taking on the daughter of his enemy, he had bound himself to her for life. Why hadn't he realized that when he'd made the agreement? Was such bondage worth any amount of money? If she knew why he'd done it, would any chance of peace between them end?
"Marguerite, nothing happened last night."
"I don't believe you." She leaned away, rosebud lips parted, soft breaths puffing through them. "Why else would you tell me it had?"
"I didn't, really. You assumed. All you had to do was ask."
Tossing her head, she sent blonde curls flying, catching the light around her face. "William, I was supposed to ask my new husband what he did to me after I fainted. Did he take my maidenhood when I was unaware?"
He felt shame, guilt and desire. The tip of her tongue flicked out and moistened her lips and he longed to follow it back when it retreated. Dammit, against every bit of logic his Oxford-educated mind had to offer, and years of building anger, he was falling in love with the daughter of his enemy. Could there be a worse situation?
"I did not take anything from you. I undressed you and tucked you into bed. Then I sat on the edge of the mattress until you woke."
"Fine, then." She licked her lips again and he wanted to kiss her, but the time was wrong. He had begun to care for her, but she did not feel the same about him.
His plan was now skewed far to the left.
How did a man, married to a woman he loved, but who had married him only to avoid being thrown out on the street in abject poverty, convince the woman of his dreams that he was the man for her?
William had no idea. The only thing he could do was keep on as he'd begun, stay in the school, keep her part of his world until she felt him worthy to be part of hers. And he was, indeed, her husband. Responsible for her and their future family. The head of the household. And any enmity he might feel toward her father need not destroy a future he accidentally formed while seeking vengeance.
"I want to go to church."
He stood and straightened his trousers. "You'll have to wear your white dress. I don't have any of your clothes here yet and there's no time to get them.
"Fine." She slipped past him and lifted her corset from the chair. "But if you don't help me get into this, I won't be able to fasten my dress." She held it in front of her and faced away. "My father is expecting to see us there, I feel sure. You don't want to make him mad, or neither of us will get what we want."
"And what is that?"
Her back straightened as he began to pull on the corset strings. He'd never done it before, but how hard could it be?
"Money. We are in this for the money."
"Of course." He gave a giant jerk and a string snapped. "For the money."
After the long service, where the pastor's theme was love and seemed to include a lot of marital advice—especially since the man was not yet wed himself—William arranged for her things to be brought to the school. Her father had expressed doubt, but deferred to her husband's desire to "keep her close at all times." The old thing probably thought it would be helpful in civilizing her. Building their marriage. Maybe he thought they would provide him with grandchildren sooner if she was always at her husband's beck and call. At least she wouldn't have to attend classes anymore and deal with those ignorant old biddies who tried to share knowledge they did not have.
She could not attempt to leave on her trip back East too soon or everyone would think she had fled her marriage. But how to stay long enough to actually create an illusion of marital bliss while still keeping him at arm's length? And not going mad from boredom?
"William," she said, placing a hand on his arm. "You know I am much more qualified than any of the teachers you have in the school. Perhaps I could help with the curriculum? Add more science, math, a foreign language?"
"A married woman teaching?" He chuckled. "How preposterous." He cut her off so surely, she wasn't sure where to go from there. True, she'd never known a married teacher, but why?
"If I am to live in the school, isn't it logical that I would use my skills to help you in your work?" Offering him her most winning smile, she prayed he'd see the wisdom of her suggestion.
"You will have more than enough to keep you busy as my wife."
Marguerite followed him down the hallway and into the kitchen at the back of the school. No one else was in the entire building, it seemed, and certainly nothing was cooking. Her stomach growled, reminding her she had not eaten at all since lunch the previous day, and now that the champagne headache had worn away, she was starving.
"Perhaps we should have eaten in town," she murmured, staring in dismay at the cold cookstove. "I am quite hungry."
"I am, as well. Fortunately, I am now a married man." He beamed at her. "I have a number of things to prepare for school tomorrow, so while you make us some dinner, I will get out of your way." Lifting a big white apron over her head, he tied it behind her and spun her to face him. His gaze took her in from the top of her head, to the tips of her toes peeking out of the bedraggled hem of her wedding dress. "Quite wifely." Sliding an arm about her waist, William bent her backward and covered her mouth with his. His kiss caught her quite off guard, her lips already parted in surprise, so he found no barrier to his explorations. Leaving her mouth behind, he trailed his lips to her ear and nibbled on the lobe. "I think having a wife in residence shall be quite pleasant. Perhaps we can steal moments together even when there are others in the building."
Goose bumps traveled up and down her limbs and she clasped his shoulders, feeling as if she was going to fall backward to the floor at any moment. But he held firm and continued to kiss down the side of her neck until he reached her pulse where he rested, sucking softly. "What will everyone say," he murmured, "about my excellent fortune in marriage? A beautiful woman in my bed and in my kitchen." He stood her on her feet and held her gaze. "What more can a man ask?"
Turning away, he ambled back down the hall, leaving her in the bewildering confines of the place where food was prepared… by others. Her trembling legs held her upright, but barely, and she grasped the wooden tabletop to steady herself while she considered the situation. He wanted her in his bed and he wanted her to cook. For Marguerite, unwilling to allow the consummation of their vows to trap her with a child, and without the least bit of knowledge of how to prepare a meal, both prospects held great distress.
First, a woman had no right to refuse her husband the ease of her body.
And, second, she had never so much as lifted a pot lid to check and see if soup was boiling. The big black stove loomed against the white-painted wall, an array of heavy iron pots and skillets hung on hooks behind it.
A barrel in the corner proved to yield flour, smaller crocks held pickles, salt pork, and other foodstuffs the likes of which she had no idea how to turn into a meal. What was her father thinking, handing his gently raised daughter to a man who expected her to do the work of a servant?
Just a few months before, she'd been cozy in the study at Miss Pomeroy's, studying science, mathematics, the works of the great thinkers of the ancient world. Sipping tea from bone thin china and eating those spicy snickerdoodles Cook made only for her pets. She'd met her friends after and strolled arm in arm in the snow, discussing the available scions of the local families and planning their ensembles for the social events where a young lady might find her perfect match.
Courting apparently didn't work that way in Virginia City.
And if her husband and she were to dine entirely on the results of her efforts, they would soon be so thin as to disappear.
After some more hunting around, she found a loaf of bread, only a little dry, and a long knife, and sawed off a slab to go with some cheese from a bright yellow wheel. Another barrel held apples, deep red from a new harvest. She sliced them, arranged it all on a tray, and covered it with a napkin.
Carrying the bounty to her husband's office, she returned to thinking of the strange ways of the silver country. Here, a girl's father matched her up with the most unsuitable possible mate—because he beat her. Struck her. Completely humiliated her. Then the unsuitable mate used her as a scullery maid and cook. Pushing the door open with her hip, Marguerite set the tray in front of William and stepped back. It might not be the roasted chicken and slices of white-frosted cake from their wedding they would have enjoyed at her father's home, after church, but it was the first meal she'd ever prepared. And she expected praise.
She twisted her hands in the apron then, while waiting for her husband to notice her. He had a big book open on the desk in front of him, filled with columns of numbers. Probably something related to the running of the school. He traced one line and another, made a note on one page and a line through a row across on another. His forehead creased in concentration. Marguerite scanned the numbers and could detect a glaring error, even upside down. But William continued to stare at them. Why didn't he fix it? Was it possible her brilliant, confident husband had a weak spot?
Her patience wore thin quickly. "Well?"
He looked up, a brow lifted. "Well, what?"
"I brought you dinner." She pushed it closer to him.
"That's fine."
She shifted from foot to foot. "Aren't you going to eat it?" Another page, another column. She'd made an effort, belittled herself to bring him food. To wait on him. She hadn't even brought anything for herself. Reaching over, she slid it forward another few inches, bumping it into his ledger book with its ink blobs and incorrect totals.
"Yes. When I find the mistake here."
"I can do that for you." In a heartbeat.
"Thank you, no. I don't need any help."
Marguerite's anger rose to heat her cheeks. Was she going to spend her marriage standing in front of a desk, staring at a husband who couldn't be bothered to pay attention to her? Or allow her to help him when he confronted something she could do better?
She might as well be hung for a sheep as a goat… a lamb… duck? Well, whatever. She reached for the tray and gave it a big shove, bread, apple slices and chunks of cheese flying.
Her husband lifted his eyes to her and a slow smile lifted the corners of his moustache. He reached behind him and brought the paddle to the fore. "Lift your skirts, wife. It is time for repercussions."
Chapter Eight
She had played right into his hands. Marguerite's horrified stare told him she realized it as well. The columns of numbers held no charm for him. He hated the bookkeeping that his job as headmaster required him to do and, if he hadn't been deliberately pushing her, would have been more than happy to accept her help.
He'd wanted a show of temper, and she'd not let him down.
William had struggled not to take action earlier when she'd slapped him, but he'd wanted to make an appearance at church. Especially since none of the women of the community had attended their wedding and he wanted the veneer of respectability as they entered the marital state.
How would it have looked if they'd been late and his new bride unable to sit? And had tear streaks on her cheeks? The lady gossips would have had a field day and they would never have had peace, particularly his wife.
Marguerite's out of control actions would need to be dealt with that afternoon. No one would be requiring her presence anywhere until church the following Sunday, to the best of his knowledge. If she had trouble sitting… who would know or care?
Standing, he brushed the bread and cheese from his lap and rounded the desk. She backed toward the doorway and he lunged, grabbing for her arm. "Where were you going, my dear? You weren't going to leave while we have unfinished business b
etween us?"
She trembled but lifted her chin and pursed her lips.
"Spit on me again, and you won't be able to sit down for a week. Do not try my patience."
"Are you going to beat me? Is that all you know how to do?" Marguerite's defiance remained strong, her spirit a big part of his attraction to her, but he couldn't allow her to create chaos wherever she went.
"I know how to do many things more than disciplining my unruly wife, but I have to start somewhere." He forced her forward around the desk, now strewn with his dinner and the ledger, and dropped into his chair. "When you have been suitably punished, perhaps I will show you what else I am capable of." Her ruffled behind rose into the air as he drew her across his lap. This time he would not—did not have to—hesitate to bare her bottom. She would feel his hand on her bare skin, then perhaps the paddle, then he would figure out how they would dine because otherwise they would have no strength to continue with the activities he had planned for the night.
If he'd had any thought that his new wife would submit gently to his hand, her curses belied that. She would fight him until he taught her such behavior would only make her situation worse.
William flipped her skirts up, over her head, and faced her second layer of clothing. A ruffled petticoat, as heavy as it looked, consisting of hundreds of folds and yards and yards of white cotton on the back. When that followed the skirt, muffling her unladylike oaths, he exposed a wire cage. The bustle, which presented such an alluring rear view, was quite in his way. William had only to remove it to learn, as men often wondered, how much was real and how much illusion.
He could, of course, spank her across her upper legs again, but her bottom was his and he would get it in view somehow. The device defied his every attempt to understand its mechanism, however, and his plan to discipline his wife fell to the wayside as frustration rose and, with it, his desire to rip the thing from her body. But it appeared quite sturdy and he could not find a place to do that. A growl escaped his throat.
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