She just had no idea, none whatsoever, as to why he had removed her from her bedchamber in such a manner and was now refusing to answer her appeal for an explanation.
She tried a second time. “Jericho, please…?”
“Do not speak again unless you wish to take the consequences,” he warned between what sounded like gritted teeth.
Jocey’s unease deepened. Was it possible that whatever bad news Jericho had received three days ago had turned him as mad as his father became after the death of his wife?
The possibility that might be the case was enough to cause her to struggle in his hold.
“Cease that this instant!” The second warning was accompanied by a heavy slap to her gown-covered bottom.
Jocey was so shocked at being spanked at all, she could only squeak a protest.
She felt the blast of cold air as the front door was thrown open and Jericho carried her out of the house and down the steps to where his carriage waited.
“My lord—”
“Have Taylor inform Lady Gwendoline,” the marquis cut in on Poulter’s puzzled query, “that Lady Jocelyn and I will be away for several days and nights, and she is not to worry.” He lowered Jocey to her feet before pushing her inside the carriage. He closed the door behind her with a decisive slam before quickly stepping up onto the driver’s seat and taking the reins himself. “There is a blanket on the seat beside you if you are cold,” he bit out tersely as the carriage lurched forward with the crack of his whip over the heads of the two grays, succeeding in tumbling Jocey back onto the seat.
It took her several seconds to realize he was talking to her, her head still slightly foggy from being woken in such a manner. The carriage was already halfway down the long driveway, Wessex Manor but a blur in the darkness as Jocey glanced behind her.
She turned forward again. “Jericho, what—”
“I have no intention of the two of us talking until we reach our destination. At which time, you will be the one answering the questions, not I,” he added grimly.
He really had gone insane, Jocey decided as the fear rose up within her. Whether from grief or otherwise, this harsh and uncompromising man was not the Jericho she was used to. Most certainly not the man who had kissed her with such passion only days ago.
She could see little of him in the darkness, but knew from the rigidity of his back and the tense angle of his shoulders that Jericho was a man driven by some deep emotion. An emotion that did not bode well for her wherever they were going.
Her trepidation grew, and she was grateful for the warmth of the blanket as the carriage and horses ate up the miles and dawn began to break on the horizon, all without Jericho turning to look at her or speaking so much as another word. Cold anger came off him in waves, and, bearing in mind his warning, Jocey dared not even attempt to speak to him again.
Nor did she recognize anywhere they had been or where they were going as he turned the carriage off the main thoroughfare and they began to travel through denser and denser forest. The trees were so close together here, there was barely room for the carriage to pass through them, and it seemed to grow dark again within the thickness of that deep green foliage.
Just when she believed her nerves had reached the breaking point and she would have to say something, the trees parted and Jericho drove the carriage into a clearing. There was a small timber-built house to one side of it, much bigger than a cottage but nowhere near the size of a manor house. There was also what looked like a stable, with a lean-to beside it where wood was stored.
Jocey had her first glimpse of Jericho’s face as he jumped down from the driver’s seat. He looked gaunt, his skin so pale, he appeared almost ghostly, with dark circles beneath his eyes.
Eyes that were a cold and stormy blue. His frigid gaze raked over her mercilessly after she had tentatively opened the carriage door and stepped down onto the grassy ground.
She moistened lips that were dry from nerves and the hours she had spent in the carriage. “What is this place?”
His top lip curled. “I believe my mother always referred to it as Pomeroy Cottage.”
“Your mother?” Jocey rarely heard him speak about the mother who had died twenty years ago. Jericho did not look pleased to be talking about her now either. Nor did he answer her as he began to unfasten the harness on the horses. “What are we doing here, Jericho?” Her voice shook slightly from her nervous tension.
His eyes narrowed to glittering slits. “You and I are going to talk.”
She frowned. “Could we not have done that at Wessex Manor?”
“Without interruption. Or interference,” he added harshly.
He meant Lady Gwendoline, of course, that lady long having been Jocey’s champion in most things. “I do not understand—”
“You will,” he assured ominously.
Jocey was exhausted in both body and mind, from nerves and too many nights without sleep. Jericho’s coldness toward her now made her regret that she had ever worried about him. Whatever news he had received in that letter three days ago, he had no right nor reason to treat her so abysmally.
She drew in a shaky breath. “We are to stay here?”
He nodded abruptly. “Until I am satisfied you have told me the truth.”
“The truth about what?” She eyed him anxiously. “What have I done? What is it you wish to talk to me about?”
Jericho had no intention of answering her as he left off the rest of unharnessing the horses until later, but instead turned on one booted heel and strode the short distance to use the key from his pocket to unlock and enter the house.
It had been closed up for many years now. The air smelled stale, and the dust sheets covering the furniture had done little to allay its neglected appearance. Not that Jericho cared a whit for his surroundings or the lack of comfort to be found here. He had a mission to complete. The house his mother had used for her adulterous trysts suited that purpose perfectly.
He had crossed the room and was lighting a fire in the hope of dispelling the worst of the cold and damp when he heard Jocelyn slowly enter the house behind him. A glance toward her as he straightened showed she was shivering, her arms wrapped about her to garner some vestige of warmth.
A pity. He would have enjoyed hunting her down if she had tried to run away.
Jericho felt suddenly weary beyond description. An exhaustion that went bone deep and caused him to drop heavily into one of the two chairs placed either side of the fireplace as the flames took hold and a slight warmth began to permeate the neglect and cold.
It was the first bit of cheer Jericho had seen or recognized for three days and three sleepless nights. Although he knew the warmth of the flames would not succeed in dispelling the lump in his chest where his heart should be.
The news from Stonewell was so dire, so terrible, Jericho feared none of The Sinners would ever recover from it.
He rose restlessly to his feet. “I suggest you consider trying to sleep in my absence,” he instructed harshly.
Jocelyn looked startled. “Where are you going?”
“To finish unharnessing the horses and then to hunt rabbits for a stew,” he bit out tersely. “Your gown, if you please.” He held out his hand.
There was an expression of shock on her face, her eyes wide. “My gown…?”
His mouth twisted. “If you have no gown to wear, then you might be less inclined to try to leave whilst I am gone.”
Her throat moved as she swallowed, her face pale. “I am to be your prisoner, then?”
“My captive,” he corrected.
“It is one and the same thing.”
“Not at all. As my prisoner, you might have expected certain…rules and concessions to apply. As my captive, you will be given none.”
“But I… Why?” She looked at him in appeal. “What have I done to warrant such harsh treatment from you?”
Jericho remained unmoved, both by the entreaty in her voice and the unshed tears glistening in her eyes. “Y
our gown,” he repeated, his tone uncompromising.
Jocey was reluctant to comply. To give up her gown would leave her completely vulnerable and exposed. Not only was it cold inside the house, but Jericho was right to point out that she would also be less inclined to try to escape from here while dressed only in her chemise and drawers.
“I shall have no compunction in ripping it off you if you do not hand it over voluntarily in the next few seconds,” the marquis warned in a harsh voice.
She gave a slow shake of her head. “I do not understand what has happened to make you like this.”
“No?” His nostrils flared.
“No!”
“We will discuss exactly that, and what is to be done with you, upon my return,” he assured her. “Do not make me ask a third time,” he said softly.
Jocey winced, knowing he was referring to the removal of her gown.
“Unless you would prefer I tie you to one of the beds upstairs to ensure you do not leave in my absence?” he challenged mildly.
Her eyes widened. “Tie me to the bed?”
Jericho nodded. “I believe my mother had metal rings attached to the top and bottom of the beds upstairs for just that purpose.”
Jocey had no idea under what circumstances Caroline Black would need to have metal rings attached to the beds. It sounded distinctly—
“She enjoyed tying up her lovers or having them do the same to her during sexual play,” Jericho supplied with obvious distaste.
“Oh.” Jocey had never heard of such sexual practices as that. The subject had certainly never come up in her embarrassing conversations with Lady Gwendoline on the subject of the marriage bed.
His top lip curled back with disgust. “I am unsure whether the thought of that alarms or arouses you.”
Jocey was unsure of that too.
On the one hand, to be tied up and unable to escape was totally unacceptable.
On the other, she could not deny the heat that suffused her body, her nipples having hardened and between her legs feeling damp, at the thought of having Jericho tie her to the bed and pleasure her until she screamed for mercy.
A chill ran the length of her spine at the realization the only mercy she would be begging Jericho for in future appeared to be that of lenience in whatever punishment he chose to inflict upon her, for whatever crime he believed her to be guilty of.
She turned her back toward him. “My gown unfastens at the back,” she explained as Jericho made no move to assist her. Whether Jocey left this house today or another day, she would need her gown, undamaged, in which to do so.
Jericho’s fingers were cold against her skin as he unfastened the tiny buttons. “There,” he finally murmured before stepping back.
Jocey allowed the gown to slide down her arms and to the floor before bending to pick it up. Her cheeks were warm with embarrassed color as she straightened, her gaze avoiding his as she handed it to him. She felt very self-conscious at how brazen she must look dressed only in her chemise, drawers, and stockings.
“If you are cold, there are blankets upstairs, or the one still inside the carriage,” the marquis dismissed. He rolled her gown up into a haphazard bundle and thrust it beneath his arm. “In either case, do not attempt to leave the house. I will be forced to take further action if you do.”
Jocey felt a shiver down the length of her spine that owed nothing to the chill of the room and everything to the apprehension engendered by Jericho’s uncompromising words and demeanor.
Chapter 7
Jericho felt slightly less numb of emotions by the time he returned to Pomeroy Cottage several hours later. The walk through the forest had done him good. Hunting for rabbits had been successful and the water of the river refreshing when he skinned and gutted them ready for cooking. The weather was briskly cold, but at least it was not raining.
It was the sort of day, in fact, when he would normally have enjoyed being outside.
However, the closer he drew to his mother’s cottage in the woods, the heavier his mood became. Not because of any unpleasant thoughts of his mother spending time here with her lovers; he had ceased to care what his mother did long, long ago. But because the truth, and Jocelyn, awaited him there— Or, at least, she had better be waiting there for him, if she knew what was good for her.
The events of the past week meant Jericho was no longer undecided about extracting the truth from her. Nor did he particularly care how he went about it.
Jocelyn was nowhere to be seen when he unlocked and stepped inside the house, but she seemed to have been busy in his absence. The fire was banked and had now warmed most of the chill away from downstairs. A kettle hung partway over the fire on one side of the hearth, steam emerging from its spout testament to the hot water inside. A pot hung on the other side, also filled with water that bubbled and steamed, no doubt in preparation for the stew Jericho had mentioned making.
He glanced toward the stairs, wondering which of the three bedchambers Jocelyn had chosen for her own. Not that it mattered when all had those metal rings attached to the beds. Metal rings he had every intention of using to secure her until he was sure she had answered all his questions truthfully.
He scowled as he felt a stirring of his cock at the thought of Jocelyn spread out upon a bed, her wrists and ankles secured. The spreading of her arms would pull her chemise tight, forcing her breasts to swell over the top of it and no doubt make her nipples visible through the thin material. The slit in her drawers would be pulled apart along with her legs and would reveal her plump nether lips. Or perhaps he should have her remove all her clothes before he—
“There you are.”
He turned sharply toward the kitchen to see Jocey standing in the doorway. Her hair was in disarray, and there were several sooty smears upon her cheeks. She wore an overlarge pinafore looped about her nape and tied about her waist, concealing most of her chemise and drawers but leaving her shoulders and her stockinged legs bared to his gaze. His cock gave an acknowledging pulse of approval.
Damn it, he had not brought Jocelyn here for his pleasure or her own. He wanted the truth of her involvement with the French, and he would have it before they left here, by fair means or foul.
“I have been trying to light the range in the kitchen,” she continued lightly at his silence. “But I first had to remove the family of mice who had taken up residence inside.”
His brows rose. “Remove them how?”
“I unbolted the back door and carried them and their nest outside and placed it inside a hollow tree stump further into the forest. I hope they will be safe there,” she added with a frown.
His jaw tightened. “What did I tell you about leaving here?”
Color warmed her cheeks at his accusing tone. “You said I might collect the blanket from the carriage, but otherwise I was not to leave or there would be consequences. But I only went a short distance away from the house,” she defended. “Just far enough to relocate the mice and to gather some wild vegetables, mushrooms and such, and herbs for the stewpot.”
“Do you know the difference between an edible mushroom and one that is not?” He eyed her scathingly. “Or is it your intention to poison me before making your escape?”
Jocey was, quite frankly, tired of Jericho’s disparaging, and, since last night, his more alarming comments to her. She was exhausted from a lack of sleep, but also the emotional uncertainty of what it was he wanted from her and intended doing to her to achieve that end.
She had been unable to put the thought of those metal rings attached to the beds upstairs from her mind after venturing up the stairs to make sure two of the beds were aired and fit for their use. She had also filled the jugs in the rooms with water for both of them to bathe with later tonight.
To keep herself busy and dispel the image of being tied to one of those beds and completely at Jericho’s mercy from the forefront of her thoughts, she had swept and dusted through the downstairs of the cottage. She had kept the fire burning and heated u
p water for tea and the stew ready for his return before making a start on cleaning the kitchen and lighting the range.
She was now too emotionally and physically exhausted to want to placate him a moment longer with her poor attempt at pleasant conversation.
“If I had intended poisoning you, I would not have told you about the mushrooms,” she snapped. “And yes, I am well aware of the difference between an edible mushroom and one that is not. My education might be lacking in some areas, but my years of residing with your father in the wilds of Scotland and his refusal to employ any household staff have ensured I am more than capable of cooking and cleaning.”
Jericho grimaced as he recalled the condition in which he had found Jocelyn living under his father’s guardianship when he had ridden up to Scotland three years ago to pay one of his rare visits.
The hunting lodge where his father preferred to live on the estate was rustic at best. Nor did the older man trust any of the estate workers or their families enough to allow them inside. Food and other supplies from the estate were delivered. But from what Jericho had been able to observe during his stay, Jocelyn had been in charge of preparing and cooking the food she also served to the table.
Meaning Jocelyn was not, as she had just pointed out so succinctly, a typical lady of Society, afraid to get her hands, or anything else, dirty.
Even so, Jericho had no intention of feeling in the least guilty as to his reason for bringing her here. People had now died to get the information he desired from her, and Jocelyn was now even more at the center of his own investigation. “In that case, you will not mind slicing and dicing the meat for the stewpot.” He brushed past her to place the rabbits on top of the kitchen table. “While the stew is cooking, we will see about dealing with your punishment for having disobeyed me,” he added with a challenging raise of his eyebrows.
Temper flared in her eyes and caused her cheeks to flush. “You do not frighten me with your threats, Jericho Bla—” She broke off with an indignant squeak as Jericho’s fingers closed about one of her wrists before he sat on a kitchen chair and pulled her facedown over his thighs.
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