DeButy & the Beast (6 page)

"What?"

"If I must wear my hair up, only you will touch it." She turned her head and looked up, giving her husband a smile. Hilary, a docile girl who rarely said a word, stood meekly behind him. "If anyone else but you so much as touches a strand of my hair, I will cut off their fingers, one at a time, and feed them to the wild dogs that howl at night."

"Anya!" Julian snapped.

But his protest came too late. Hilary was gone. Anya turned her head forward again, glancing out the window to the lovely, warm day beyond the panes of glass.

"Your manners are atrocious," Julian accused.

"It is your job to teach me, is it not?"

He groaned, and slipped his hands beneath the long locks. His fingers brushed against her back, and the hairs on her neck stood. She closed her eyes as he lifted and twisted the strands. Oh, such strong hands he had. The top of her head positively tingled as his fingers moved clumsily through the motions of arrangement.

"This is going to look ghastly," he mumbled.

"If I must learn new things, you must also learn," she said softly. "I will be patient while you master your new skills, as I hope you will be patient with me."

His fingers worked through her hair. Some strands were piled heavily atop her head, others fell around her shoulders. Julian tried to hold it all in place while he reached for the pins on the table at her side. "I cannot believe you threatened that poor girl with physical violence," he said as he stabbed at her hair with a pin. "You actually threatened to cut off her fingers!"

"She left, did she not?" Anya said, unconcerned. "Just as I desired. And you are learning to style my hair as you wish me to wear it. We should both be pleased."

Her grandmother had complained that she had a difficult time keeping help, as of late. Besides Peter, only Hilary and Betsy remained as live-in servants, though there were a number who came in and worked odd hours or odd days. They all avoided Anya like the plague, just as she wished. She knew quite well what Betsy's name was, and that Hilary was easily frightened.

Again Julian stabbed at her hair, lifting some of the strands that had fallen. His hands were gentle, strong, and capable, but tender. He would make a wonderful lover, when he finally capitulated. And he would capitulate. When he did, he would be hers to command. Her willing slave, a submissive husband. He would belong to her, in every possible way.

"Hilary should have known better than to run," he said evenly. "Even if you had been serious with your ridiculous threat, there are no sharp objects within reach for you to..."

Moving quickly, Anya lifted her skirt and unsheathed the knife she wore at her right thigh. The leather strap rested over the linen of her drawers, today, instead of against her bare thigh, but she had no trouble slipping the dagger from its sheath and lifting her hand high to display the weapon for Julian.

His hands stilled. "Where did that come from?" he asked softly.

She lifted her white-stockinged leg and slowly drew back the pale blue skirt of her blasted dress so that he could see the leather strap and sheath.

"What on earth made you decide that you needed to leave your bedroom armed this morning?" He tried to sound calm, but did not quite manage.

"
Caro
," she said softly, "I never leave my room unarmed."

"Yesterday..."

"Of course."

"Last night at dinner..."

"Naturally."

He poked at the twisted hair atop her head with more pins, remaining silent for a long moment. "This is your home, Anya. There is no need for you to carry a weapon. When you do leave the house you will be escorted, so at that time there will be no need. Do you... do you think someone here will try to harm you?" His voice was so gentle, so thoughtful, she felt something shift inside her. She had been right when she looked into his eyes that first day and determined that he had a good heart.

"As long as I have the dagger, I have no need to fear anyone."

His fingers worked at stray, misbehaving strands, touching her scalp, brushing against her neck. She felt his warmth and presence behind her, and savored it. Yes, he was a good man. And he was hers.

"Anya," he finally said. "Have you ever... have you ever used that knife?"

"Of course."

"On a human being?"

She sniffed and hesitated before answering. "No. The threat has always been enough."

He placed the final pin in the hair, circled around her, then dropped to his haunches so that his face was close to hers. He looked her in the eye, deep. So deep. "You are home," he said softly. "Among family and friends. No one will ever hurt you here."

She wanted to believe him, she did. But she had been too long alone, she had been too long an outcast. No matter how she wished otherwise, she knew she could count on no one else. Not for protection. Not for security. Not for anything. If she were successful and Julian came to her—
when
she was successful, she amended—she would buy his devotion with her body. It was the only way. Nothing was free. Not loyalty, not affection.

He laid a hand on her cheek. "You are not so fearless after all, are you?"

Unwilling to let her husband see too much, Anya grinned and shook her head gently. Her hair came tumbling down.

Julian's eyebrows lifted slightly, in obvious dismay. "Well, we'll get it right eventually, I suppose."

She thought, for a moment, that they were finished, but Julian simply stood over her and crossed his arms. "Our first lesson will concern your language."

"I speak many," she said innocently.

"A lady carefully considers every word that leaves her mouth. People will judge you by your manner of speaking."

"I do not speak well?"

He narrowed his eyes, like a hawk. "You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. Ladies do not
curse
."

"Never?"

Julian shook his head.

"How bloody boring that must be."

Her husband ignored her deliberate jab, staring at her as his eyes went dark.

"Well, what does a lady say when she is upset or frustrated?"

"A simple
mercy
, if you must. Or perhaps,
goodness gracious
."

Anya smiled, stood, and patted her husband lightly on the cheek. "Thank you for trying to teach me,
marido
, but I prefer to continue to speak as I always have."

"Anya..."

"Are there any other lessons for this morning?" She placed her foot on the sofa, lifted her skirt, and returned the dagger to its sheath. When she glanced up and over at Julian, she found that his gaze was pinned to her leg. It was an opportunity she would not waste. She took her time making sure the dagger was secure in its leather housing, and then she picked at a nonexistent wrinkle in her drawers, raking her palm over her thigh. That done, she moved her hand lower to smooth out the stockings.

Julian said nothing, so she asked again. "Lessons? Manners? Speech? Corsets?" She smiled and raked her hand down her side, where there was no corset.

"Not right now," he said hoarsely. And then he turned his back on her and stalked from the room.

Anya's smile faded. Her husband might want her, but she was beginning to realize that he was also very stubborn.

Chapter 4

The next day, Julian stiffened his spine as he and Anya walked into the sitting room that connected their bedchambers. Afternoon sun streamed into the fine, spacious room. He had never in his life lived in such a place. His last, inadequate apartment had not been as large as this one sitting room. But what a price he was paying for this fine place.

Reason, he needed reason. He was a professional, a scientist, and his wife was a fascinating subject. She was a project; walking, talking evidence of the effects of a pagan society on a woman of good stock. She was a fascinating medical and sociological subject. There was no other sane way to approach the situation.

Now that a fairly pleasant lunch with the family was over, Anya was to take a nap and he would make notes on the travels he would undertake after his chore was done. Unfortunately, Anya did not look at all like she wanted or needed a nap.

He watched, fascinated, as she walked to the window and lifted her face to catch the rays of sun that streamed through the panes. With Valerie's help, they had managed to restrain his wife's abundance of red hair atop her head. Only a few strands had gone astray, wispy curls of red dancing around her cheeks and neck.

For the first eight years of her life, Anya Sedley had lived a fairly normal existence. As normal as possible, for a child living through a barbarous civil war. She had been as protected as possible, by her family and her family's wealth. She had been schooled, sheltered, and taught the ways of a well-bred young lady. The war had ended, and perhaps for a couple of years Anya had been a part of the ideal family: a mother and father, a loving grandmother, cousins to play and learn with. And then her father had tired of Reconstruction and packed up his wife and child to leave it all behind, to join a colony of disenchanted Southerners in Brazil.

Sole survivor of the shipwreck that had taken her parents' lives, Anya had lived the next twelve years as a pagan; and had taken quite well to her new lifestyle.

Anya was beautiful, that was true. But she was also an utterly primitive female. Sometimes he was quite sure his wife was more animal than human. Her self-control was non-existent. She said whatever came to her mind, no matter how inappropriate it might be. Her natural sensuality rose to the surface on occasion, and she was not ashamed. She was never ashamed.

In a very small, very reluctant way, he envied her that freedom. To say what she thought without reserve. To truly dismiss the cares and expectations of the civilized world. She was fascinating. Seductive. Free. She was everything Dr. Julian DeButy was not.

There had been times, terrible moments, when he'd looked at her and wondered if there had been other men in her life, men besides the king of Puerta Sirena. She had been the king's concubine, not his wife. Had there been other men before the king? Did the king's concubine entertain other men? When his thoughts turned in that direction, the wondering made him a little crazy, so he never wondered for long.

She turned from the window and began to unbutton the bodice of her gown.

"What are you doing?"

"You said when we were alone I could dress as I like." She sent her hated shoes sailing, with a hearty flailing of one leg after the other.

He had said that, hadn't he? "Yes, but it's an awful lot of trouble to remove... all that, and then have to dress again for dinner."

Her eyes met his. Challenge and defiance sparked there. "Grandmother will expect me to wear something hideously adorned for dinner. Lace that scratches my throat, bows so large that when I try to sit they get in my way; little, tiny roses made of satin." She scoffed. "In the past I have thrown the awful dresses she leaves on my bed out the window, or cut them up with my knife in protest. But if I must wear clothes..." She seemed to pout, in a way so naturally female, it must come easily to every girl-child and woman on the planet, no matter what their age, no matter what their education.

"You must."

"Then I will be comfortable in my own room." She continued unbuttoning. "And I am not going to take a nap," she said, sounding thoroughly disgusted at the idea. "I do not know why Grandmother always insists that I sleep in the afternoon, when I sleep very well at night."

"Many young ladies find that an afternoon nap refreshes them."

Anya again snorted in disgust.

"You must stop making that noise," Julian said.

"Why?" Anya peeled off her dress and stepped out of it, kicking it aside with a vengeance before beginning with her chemise and petticoat.

"It's not..." Something rose up in Julian's throat to choke him. "Not..."

"Ladylike," Anya supplied with a smile.

"Exactly."

He had to admit, grudgingly, that her smile was enchanting. It was so real. So honest and unfettered. Anya had surely never stood in front of a mirror and practiced that grin, or worried that such a smile would give her wrinkles in her later years. She simply... smiled.

In a matter of moments she had shed her clothing. Entirely. Here in the privacy of their sitting room, she apparently felt safe enough to remove the knife and sheath from her thigh and set it aside.

After looking her over once, Julian turned his gaze to the floor. And he had thought restraining all that unruly hair was such a fine idea. But with those red tresses atop her head, there was nothing to cover her breasts, no soft curtain of hair to conceal at least a portion of her body.

"I imagine you will want to put on your scarf and let down your hair," he said, walking to the window and lifting his head to look to the East. One could almost see the ocean.

"No. I am perfectly comfortable as I am."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Anya stretch this way and that. She lifted her arms and twisted slowly, moving like a cat. He had never seen so much flesh. He had never studied a woman's curves and softness and... freckles. In desperation, he tried to appeal to her feminine side. "That very colorful scarf, the one you wore on the day we met, it was quite lovely. Very beautiful, in fact. I was rather hoping you would wear it again."