“I didn’t know who made it.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Who made it? I don’t understand.”

  My cheeks flushed but I continued on bravely. “If your ma made it, I’ll eat it gladly and thank her.” I swallowed. “But if it was made by Geraldine, I’d rather go hungry, and I have no wish to serve it to my newlywed husband.”

  He blinked. I held my breath. I waited for him to scold, shake his head, or order me to cut it, eat it, and stop acting like a child. But then his eyes twinkled and his lips twitched, as if he were trying not to laugh. He cleared his throat before he spoke. “I see. Now, Pearl, what difference does it make who made the bread?”

  “All the difference,” I whispered. It meant something to me.

  Nodding slowly to himself, he took another bite of a griddlecake. He brushed a finger over his beard meditatively for a moment. I wondered if the conversation was over, but then he placed his fork down and folded his hands in his lap. His honey-colored eyes were gentle and kind when he spoke, but his voice was firm. Not corrective, exactly, but I was again aware of his steadfast dedication to morals, and how much older and wiser he was than I. “Pearl, have you ever heard the expression ‘hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?’”

  I shook my head. “No, sir.”

  He nodded again. “It means that a woman who can’t have the man she desires can rival hell itself in her fury. Does that make sense to you?”

  I nodded.

  “You’re my wife now, and it’s fittin’ that you know Geraldine was sweet on me when she was younger. I’d have nothin’ to do with her. Geraldine didn’t take too kindly to that.”

  “I see,” I said quietly. I didn’t like thinking of Geraldine with my Aaron.

  “She caught Phillip’s eye, and her pa was more’n happy to wed her off. Her parents left for the east coast, and she’s been with Phillip ever since. Now, Phillip does well by her, but she hasn’t forgiven me. She doesn’t dislike you, Pearl. She dislikes what you represent.”

  I didn’t know how to respond, so I didn’t.

  “Do you understand now?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. Goodness,” I muttered to myself, giving way to that habit I had of speaking before I thought. “I couldn’t imagine such a woman with you. Really, a woman like Geraldine would find herself over your lap more often than she found herself on her own two feet. You’d wear the palm of your hand out on her stubborn backside.”

  I looked with surprise to Aaron as he let out a sound that was wholly unfamiliar to me, something between a snort and a guffaw. My eyes widened as he fairly sputtered his coffee all over the table, he was laughing so hard. He pushed away from the table and his sides shook with laughter. His laugh was deep, like thunder, and it took me by surprise. I’d never heard him laugh so uproariously before. I began to chuckle myself.

  A knock came at the door, and I scurried to answer it, grateful for something to do as I was not quite sure what to do with my nearly hysterical husband. To my relief, ma stood at the door. Her eyes widened when she heard Aaron’s uproarious laughter, and she peeked around my shoulder.

  “Is he quite all right?” she whispered in a hush.

  I giggled. “Quite,” I said, gesturing for her to come in. “He… seems to be in a fit of laughter over something I’ve said.”

  He was slapping his thighs with his palms, hooting with laughter. “Wear my palm out,” he muttered under his breath. It was nice to see him laugh so. I didn’t know he had it in him. And to think, I’d always thought him such a serious, foreboding man. He certainly could be, but apparently, I amused him.

  Finally, he quieted, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand and getting to his feet to greet his ma. He kissed her cheek, and her eyes twinkled as she unwrapped several loaves of bread and placed them on the table.

  I eyed the bread. “Did you make those yourself?” I asked, and to my shock, Aaron resumed his uproarious laughter.

  “Aaron!” I said. It was barely a rebuke, but I was trying to get him to come to his senses.

  He curled an arm around my waist and pulled me onto his lap—right side up, thankfully—and embraced me that way. I squirmed, uncomfortable with the intimate gesture in front of his ma.

  “Hush, now,” he said. “There’s nothing at all wrong with you sittin’ on my lap. I’m keepin’ you out of mischief. I’ll not get a thing done today if you keep makin’ me laugh so.”

  Ma’s eyes twinkled and she grinned at us as she laid supplies on the table. A bolt of cloth and sewing supplies for me, a lovely skein of soft cotton yarn, and sundry other supplies that would keep my fingers useful as my husband did his work outside our home.

  “You young whippersnappers are making my day,” she murmured. “Makes me miss your pa.”

  Aaron rocked the chair with me still in his lap. “You’d’ve liked my pa,” Aaron said to me. I nodded.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, in my typical habit of speaking exactly what I thought before considering my words. “I’ve no doubt if he was anything like ma and yourself, I’d have loved him.”

  His eyes warmed to me and ma’s movements quieted behind me. I could see Aaron looking at her over my shoulder. I turned to her. She was eyeing me wistfully.

  “Pearls are precious and rare,” she said softly, turning to Aaron. “Wherever did you find such a treasure?”

  “I’ll tell you the story one time,” he said. “Not today. But when I saw her I knew I would not let her go.”

  It often felt odd when people spoke of me as if I were not there. But in that moment, it felt quite nice. Had he truly felt that way? But yes, he always spoke the truth. He was not one to lie. I had no idea that he’d really felt that way when he saw me. I wondered if I’d been a burden to him, as he was the type of man to take care of one weaker and in need of protection.

  He stood then, gently putting me on my feet.

  “I’ve much work to do,” he said in his deep way, a protective lilt now in his voice that made my heart flutter. He bent over and planting a tender kiss on my forehead. “You be a good girl and ma will help you learn your tasks around here. I’ll be back for dinner.”

  My heart constricted. I would miss him. But then he leaned and whispered in my ear as ma fiddled in the pantry.

  “And tonight, I will remind you who you belong to. I have plans for you.”

  My heart fluttered in my chest.

  I had so very much to learn.

  * * *

  Aaron was honest and forthcoming during the day. He was a man of his word, upright and moral, and he never spoke an untruth or hid his feelings.

  But it was in the dark of our evenings that he revealed what could not be spoken of in daylight.

  During the day he spoke of things like the price of feed in the store, how we would keep warm in the winter, and his plans for the years ahead with our land.

  In the night, he spoke of his past. He would often bed me, and in that first week, he was gentle. I needed gentle. I needed him to ease me into being his, to learn how to accept pleasure and to be pleasured. His appetite seemed insatiable, as he often woke me in the morning with one goal in mind, and our nights together were intensely intimate. But after, when he held me, sated and weakened with pleasure against his bare chest, we would talk. When we were bared to one another, and the room was darkened, it seemed easier then to speak my mind, too. I spoke of my days at the Fitzgeralds, how I’d been no more than a servant, and how very different my days were now. I spoke of my desire to learn to read and write, and how I yearned to learn how to act like a woman. He spoke of his father and his brothers, their early years farming and their moving to a new land. He spoke of his father’s illness and subsequent death, and I was shocked to learn Aaron was wild in his youth. I had much to learn about him.

  He did not speak of the French woman until we were wed for weeks.

  As we entered October, we managed a sort of routine. In the morning, we’d wake together. He’d often begin the day by having his way with me, before I cooked him breakfast and he tended to the chores. During the day I cleaned, cooked, and baked, and sometimes did chores around our homestead. After supper, I did my evening chores. I cleaned our dishes, wiping them with the soft cotton towel left for us by ma, stacking them neatly in our cupboard.

  One evening, Aaron sat by the fire, polishing his gun.

  “You’re taking a long time finishin’ your chores, and I told you I had plans for you,” he scolded, but when I looked to him his eyes were twinkling. He was teasing, then. Two could play at that game. I picked up the dish in my hand. I stroked the towel over the dish as slowly as possible. He turned his head to the side and his brows raised high. I placed the dish on the clean pile and flicked out the towel. I hung it to dry on a hook by the fire, and walked with slow, deliberate steps to pick up the broom in the corner. Instead of brushing it briskly over the floor as was proper, I dragged it in measured strokes, so slowly I could hear the scratching of the straw over the floor. It was hard for me to keep my eyes away from him, as his presence was nearly stifling.

  After I swept the floor, I leaned the broom against the wall and slowly, ever so slowly, smoothed out my skirt. I picked up a rag and went to the fireplace, my back to Aaron, and I continued my deliberate housecleaning.

  I thought I would’ve heard him, but he pounced like a cat.

  The next thing I knew, the rag was flying in the air and so was I, up over his shoulder. I smacked his back with the palm of my hand and kicked my legs, squealing, but I was no match for him. One arm held me firmly against his back, while one of his hands smacked down my skirt-clad bottom. The smack was muted by the thickness of my skirts, but somehow the impact without the sting of pain caused a throbbing between my legs, as he delivering one smack after another.

  “Deliberately toyin’ with me?” Whack! “Think I didn’t notice your provocation?” Whack! “Don’t you know me well enough by now to know your antics would earn you a paddlin’?”

  He’d threatened paddling a few times in the past weeks, several teasing, and one very serious warning when I forgot to put the latch in place when he went out to hunt one morning, but he hadn’t taken his hand to my backside since the curse word by the hearth. It confused me, because the smack of his hand on my backside was surprisingly welcome.

  I was laughing while shrieking as he marched to our bedroom and tossed me on the bed like a sack of flour. He towered over me, his cheeks flush from the exertion, his eyes smoldering, as he placed both of his hands on his hips. I sat up then, suddenly shy. He was so strong and handsome, and I knew he was about to have his way with me.

  “Can’t trust her,” he murmured to himself, eyes roaming our little room. “Little imp’ll get away.”

  There was naught much in it but a small pile of bedding by the chest and our bed. I pushed myself on my elbow, but he spun around and pierced me with a look, one finger pointed at me.

  “Stay right there, girl,” he said, and his eyes had sobered. No more laughter. His demeanor had begun to change once I was on the bed. Now he was growing steely, and I felt again the delicious fear I felt when in his presence, on the cusp of losing what little control I had.

  “Such a naughty girl,” he murmured thoughtfully, placing his fingers on his chin and rubbing. “And trying to get away with disobeyin’…” I held my breath, afraid to move, as if his very presence was holding me on the bed. “What to do with a naughty little girl? She’s already earned herself a good paddlin’…”

  I closed my eyes as heat suffused my cheeks. Why was it that knowing he would overpower me—whip me, even—caused me to want him even more?

  “But now I need to make sure she stays put,” he said in a lower voice. My eyes flew open as his wandered the room and fell on me, on the bed. He stalked back over to me, towering over me, his arms folded across his chest.

  “Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, that will do quite nicely.”

  My brows rose and my eyes widened. What was he talking about?

  He leaned over, his knees straddling me on the bed, and I felt his strength and power as his hands nimbly reached behind my back and untied my apron strings. He pulled the white cotton apron off and gently laid it atop the pillows on our bed, then lifted me gently and began undressing me.

  “You’ve gotten much better at that,” I said.

  “And I mean to learn how to be even quicker about it,” he murmured in return. My heart thudded in my chest as he removed the layers of clothing, my dress still harboring the husky scent of fire from cooking supper. He pulled it over my head and laid it across the chest, then made quick work of removing my undergarments. Even though he’d taken me to his bed every night since our wedding, I still trembled a bit as I lay naked before him, still fully clothed above me.

  He lifted me then, sitting heavily on the bed and sitting me on his lap. I felt the scratch of his shirt on my legs and arms, and his whiskers tickled my shoulder. I shivered. The nights were cool, and the heat from the fire did little to warm me.

  “You’re cold,” he murmured. “I need to warm you.”

  I wondered what he meant, but he soon showed me. I found myself over his knee, and his palm descended on my bare skin with no prelude.

  “Think you’ll get away from me?”

  I squealed as his hand fell rapidly.

  “Think I’ll forget how to blister your backside?” Another hard swat as I squirmed upon his lap.

  “No, sir!” I protested.

  “Little lady, I’ve allowed you to go uncorrected.”

  “What have I done?” I protested as another hard swat descended. It wasn’t that I wanted him to stop. Part of me had been itching to feel him overpower me, yearning to feel his strength over me. It baffled me, at times. Punishment was something to be avoided, yet when I was alone in the cabin, kneading the bread dough with my hands, chopping carrots for our stew, or sewing a button on one of Aaron’s shirts, I remembered how it felt like to be turned over his knee, and I wanted him to do it again.

  He paused, his hand on my bottom. He rubbed out the sting, then I gasped as his fingers thrust between my legs. The differing sensations were shocking. He trailed his fingers back to my backside and again, his hand raised and descended.

  “Deliberately making me wait to bring you to my bed?” he reminded me, a hard swat falling in the same place he just smacked, causing me to yelp. His voice lowered, and his fingers lingered. I couldn’t breathe from the intensity of the feelings he aroused in me. “You are mine, Pearl. And I’ll not wait. I will take what is mine.” I squeezed my eyes shut.

  He was the master of me.

  His fingers trailed between my legs. “Does it excite you, darlin’? Being overpowered by me?”

  “I…” Bent on honesty, I hesitated before I spoke the truth. It was easier now that I was bare to him and face down on the bed. I swallowed. “I don’t like being punished, sir,” I whispered. “But I do like that you will punish me if I need it. I feel… as if you care about me. And yes, I… am very much attracted to your strength.” Stronger now, as I found I could indeed give voice to the strange feelings that plagued me, I continued. “I feel safe with you.”

  How could I tell him that never in my life had I been with someone who cared enough about me to teach me the difference between right and wrong? It was too difficult to say those words out loud. It was too difficult to give voice to what I held close to my heart and I was still struggling with how confusing it all was.

  “I know you do,” he said in a low whisper. “And I can’t tell you how it is knowing you’re mine, girl.” He turned me over so that I faced him, and my bare skin grazed the roughness of his pants as he continued. “So, tell me.” He lifted me and lay me on the bed, his hands grasped firmly on my wrists. “How does it make you feel when I hold you down like this?”

  I could feel the flush along my chest and neck.

  “How does it make me feel?” I whispered.

  “Yes, Pearl,” he said, lowering his body down over mine and whispering in my ear. One knee pushed my legs apart so hard it almost hurt as he pinned my wrists down by my head. “When I overpower you.”

  “Weak,” I whispered. “And I… want you do to do those wonderful things to me.”

  His eyes warmed at that. “That’s what I thought,” he murmured. His eyes quickly flitted to the side and rested on the white apron that lay crumpled with the rest of my clothing. Still holding me with one hand, his other hand reached out and tugged the apron. He released my hand as he sat up, still holding me in place with his knees.

  “You stay still,” he ordered low, his voice a harsh release. With a flick of his wrist, he straightened out the apron and held it by the strings. He bent down, and I felt the cool cotton on my wrists. What on earth was he doing?

  “Aaron?”

  “Hush.”

  I obeyed. I closed my eyes as he bound my wrists together with the strings of my apron, not harshly, but firmly enough that I couldn’t move them. My breath came in gasps, my chest lifting and rising on the bed as he pushed himself to standing, gazing at my naked, bound form on the bed with a wicked grin. Slowly, he began to unbutton his shirt. One button came undone and beneath the fabric I could see the first glimpse of his tanned, muscled chest. I swallowed. One by one, he undid each button until he stood in front of me in just his slacks. His hand went to his waist, and I watched as he slowly unfastened his belt. My heartbeat began to accelerate as I watched in rapt fascination.

  There was a whoosh as he removed his belt. But he did not toss it on the floor with his shirt. Eyeing me, he doubled the belt over and pulled. A snap resounded in the room. I started. His eyes narrowed. “Not today,” was all he said.

  The intermingled prickling of fear and arousal was making my head spin. Not today? Would he take his belt to me? It was then that I realized I wasn’t the only one who found his power over me erotic.

  He pushed his pants down over his hips, and my eyes automatically roved over his body. He was so strong, every bit of him masculine, his body made of rigid planes and corded muscle, hewn to perfection with the rigorous physical pursuits of farming. There were times I watched him from the window in the kitchen as he chopped wood, his hands wrapped around the axe, muscles rippling as he lifted and brought it down with vigor, a sheen of sweat across his forehead and neck. Sometimes the sight made my dizzy with desire.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18