A Woman Scorned

by Liz Carlyle

  “Oh, no, my darling” Cole teased, almost fully withdrawing again. “I think you ought to have it slowly. Very, very slowly.” Again, his strong hand spread her wide as he drove mercilessly inside.

  Jonet stared up at the hard, handsome lines of his face. “Let go my hands, Cole,” she began to plead, thrashing beneath his weight “Untie... untie me and I will... I will...”

  “Oh, yes, my sweet,” crooned Cole thickly. “I know exactly what you will do with those wicked, wayward hands. But I would rather do it for you.” Gently, he lifted himself and stroked her deeply and perfectly. The bright edge of pleasure slid nearer.

  And again, he thrust. Harder and higher this time. Slowly, he rocked back, then into her again, bearing his weight forward onto powerful arms. His thick, blond hair fell forward in a shimmering, fluid curtain as he held himself over her, working her deeply, the taut muscles of his arms and chest bunching, his hot flesh slicking over her moist skin. Mindlessly, Cole drove into her, until his arms began to tremble and his throat began to cord. “Come with me, Jonet,” he begged, her pleasure intensifying. Cole’s eyes tightly shut as he pounded against her. “Come with me, sweet. Now. Now. Yes! Now—.’”

  The explosion rocked the room. Jonet’s awareness was swallowed up in a flash of light and ecstasy, until she could hardly separate her orgasm from his. She turned her head into the pillow and gave a soft cry as the hot rush of his seed filled her, and left her trembling.

  She came back to earth to find Cole collapsed on top of her, air dragging in and out of his lungs, his heart pounding against her chest and in her ears.

  ———

  It was a long, long time before Cole realized just what Jonet was up to. As their mornings at Elmwood turned into long, torrid nights, Cole knew only that his bleak past was rapidly becoming a distant memory. After celebrating Robert’s birthday in good style, Cole and the boys tried to return their attentions to schoolwork, but it was a challenge, given that most of their books had been left behind in their rapid exodus from Brook Street.

  While he patiently awaited the return of the messenger he’d discreetly sent to Charles Donaldson, Cole’s afternoons were given over to estate matters, but his nights were reserved for Jonet. In her usual headstrong way, however, Jonet seemed disinclined to restrict her passion to the bedchamber. Over the next two days, there was hardly a room at Elmwood that Cole and Jonet didn’t use to its full advantage. She begged him to ruck up her skirts one morning in the library. She drove him to madness with her mouth behind his father’s desk on a rainy Friday afternoon. And one night after dinner, she dragged him to a chair in a dark corner of the dining room and sat— Well, it should have been shameless, the things that they did—and perhaps it was.

  But never in his life had Cole been so grateful for a shortage of household staff. Alas, however, his luck was short-lived. When Mrs. Birtwhistle caught them mindlessly pawing one another in the still-room one morning, with Cole’s shirt untucked and Jonet’s hair tumbling down, he knew without a doubt that he was done for.

  He was going to have to make an honest woman of the wayward Countess of Kildermore, or the Sorceress of Strathclyde, or whatever she was rightly titled. Mrs. Birtwhistle, who pulled shut the door with a huff and a glower, looked as if she might insist upon it. And somehow, marriage no longer seemed the rash, irresponsible thing Cole had once thought it Moreover, Cole did not kid himself for one moment Fornication was a sin. And he had been praying for strength since the first time he’d touched Jonet, knowing all too well that his flesh was weak where she was concerned.

  The strength had come, albeit not in the form he had expected. Instead, he had found the strength to love and to trust and to feel hope for the future. He had grieved too long over Rachel. Yes, she had been a good woman. But she had never been a good wife, and perhaps she’d not been able. But Cole had done his best by her, and that was all a man could do. Now, it seemed that God had answered his prayers in an unexpected way. Jonet had shown him what a blessing love and passion could be. And it had made him feel whole. Healed.

  Slowly, he had come to accept the fact that it was God’s will —not to mentionJonet’s—that they should be together. His only prayer now was that he would not get her with child before her mourning was ended. Society would find their match titillating enough without the added embarrassment of an early wedding. He could imagine the whispers at their first introduction as Captain Cole Amherst and Jonet, Lady Kildermore. But that was not very fair, was it? Jonet didn’t give a damn who he was or what he was called, and she never had. It had taken but a few short days alone with her to make Cole look past his stupidity and see what Jonet had tried to tell him; that all she wanted was love and a family.

  In their whispered nights, they dreamed a hundred lovely dreams—wild imaginings that he had begun to allow himself to believe. After they were wed, they would spend summers in Scotland, going to London only when it was unavoidable, and spending the rest of their lives together here at Elmwood. The thought of it pleased Jonet, and it certainly pleased him. Moreover, Cole had made the decision to sell his commission. Someday, if he ever felt worthy, he might speak to the bishop about a return to the church. But for now, he had Elmwood and his marriage to Jonet to consider. Moreover, he had Stuart and Robert to think of, not to mention all the children he and Jonet dreamed of having. His life would be full. Their union would be blessed. He knew it with a certainty.

  All the ecstasy and contentment aside, that afternoon Cole grimly decided that there was one last task he must take on. It had rained the better part of the day, and so he pulled on his shabbiest boots and went downstairs to find his old greatcoat, then set out across the rear gardens toward the squat, stone tower of St. Ann’s and the churchyard that lay beyond. In his heart, he knew that he could not begin a new marriage until he had allowed his first to end.

  Cole no longer questioned how or why he was aware of Jonet’s presence when she was near; he simply accepted the fact that his intuition in that regard was unerring. On this particular occasion, Jonet was already in the gardens, apparently having braved the drizzle in order to take her afternoon stroll. She almost caught up with him halfway across the back lawn, and yet, she did not draw up along his side to walk with him up the narrow path. Instinctively, she seemed to hold back, and not even when he went up the three stone steps and pushed open the wrought-iron gate into the churchyard did she approach. Instead, she lin gered in the shadows of the willow trees that fringed the low stone wall and waited for him there.

  ———

  Jonet saw Cole the moment he left the house, and knew without a shadow of a doubt where he was going. And why. She told herself that it was time; that it was what she had wanted and encouraged. But the thought of Cole talking to—or even saying a prayer over—his dead wife made her heart hammer with jealousy. And yet, she was as ashamed of her own selfishness as she was proud of Cole’s integrity. He was a far better man than she deserved, and she knew it well. These sweet days spent as a family in the shelter of Elmwood had been the happiest of her life. Under the watchful eye of Cole’s servants, her children had run wild andfree for the first time in months. It gladdened her heart and made her all the more grateful for the strange twist of fate that had brought this man into her life at a time when all else had failed her.

  The rain was over now. Only the occasional plop! plop! of water slithering off leaves and into the grass was left to remind her of the weather. Cambridgeshire was a lush, wet place, and Jonet did not mind at all. Indeed, she found it comforting to know that she might spend the rest of her life in this blissful haven. And so she spread open her cloak and sat down on a low stone bench nestled beneath the willow branches, and awaited Cole’s return.

  It was a long, agonizing interval until at last she heard the shrieking of the gate hinges and the sound of Cole’s heavy boots coming down the steps and along the path. Jonet’s head jerked up, and she went to him then, her hands outstretched. It was clear that he had been cryi
ng.

  Heedless of prying eyes, Jonet pulled him to her breast, lightly circling one arm beneath his greatcoat, cherishing his warmth and his goodness. Cole bent his forehead to her shoulder, and they remained thus for a long moment. There seemed nothing to say, and nothing to ask. Plainly, Cole had made peace with his past. Gently, Jonet brushed the back of her hand across his cheek, and Cole turned his face into it, kissing her knuckles, then folding her fingers into his.

  “The past is over and done,” he said softly. “Let us look to the future, Jonet. It may be fraught with danger, but at least all of our old ghosts are being laid to rest.”

  Again, Jonet felt just a little bit ashamed. She let her arm fall from his waist and pulled him back toward the bench. “Come sit, my love,” she said quietly. “I would speak with you privately, if I may?”

  Cole looked at her in some surprise. Then, whipping off his greatcoat, he sat down beside Jonet and spread the coat over both their shoulders. He turned toward her, his eyes searching her face, even as his fingers came up to thread lightly through her hair. Suddenly, she wanted him to hold her, needed to feel his hardness pressed against her. Instinctively, he did so, kissing her gently, his long, dark lashes sweeping down across his cheeks. When he was done, long moments later, Cole slid his hands to her shoulders and set her a little away from him. “Now, my dear, if it is best said, then it is best said swiftly.” Clearly, he sensed her hesitation.

  Jonet looked down at her hands, now clasped tightly in her lap. “A man and a woman who are to be wed ought not keep secrets from one another,” she quietly began.

  Affectionately, Cole brushed his knuckles beneath her chin, urging her head up. “That is true,” he gently replied, struggling to hold her gaze. “But be assured, Jonet, that there is nothing you might say which would alter my devotion to you. Have you some dreadful secret, my dear?”

  Jonet looked at him plaintively. “Sometimes, Cole, there are secrets which are not fully ours to confess. Do you understand? I speak, as you may well guess, of my relationship with Lord Delacourt?”

  Cole’s brows drew together. “Jonet! Really, my dear, must we talk of him? He is a part of that past which we intend to set aside. Is he not—?”

  “Not... not exactly,” she answered, softly mouthing the words. “Indeed, I would have you understand that as much as I love you, I cannot entirely set aside my friendship with him. I wanted to tell you now, and to ask your understanding.”

  She could see at once that Cole was deeply displeased. “Jonet, I see no redeeming characteristic whatsoever in that man,” he answered grimly. “And although I love and trust you, I am not wholly without pride. Nor, I daresay, a measure of arrogance. I’ll not be thought a cuckold even before I are wed.”

  Jonet tossed up her hands with a despairing little laugh. “Oh! Already you sound like my dead husband. But Henry deserved it You, on the other hand, certainly do not”

  “Good heavens, Jonet!” Cole sounded more worried than angry. “What has Henry to do with this? I wish you would speak plainly.”

  Beneath Cole’s coat, Jonet shifted her weight on the bench until she faced him. Lightly, she laid her hands across the breadth of his chest. “You once said, Cole, that men like you did not marry women like me. But what would you say, I wonder, if I were a nobody? Or as near a nobody as a Scottish gentlewoman can get?”

  Cole’s hands came up to cover hers. “It would not matter to me, Jonet, if you were the scullery maid,” he whispered, his eyes dark and serious. “I think you know that In truth, I would almost be relieved, but such is not the way of life. We do not get to choose who we are, and oftentimes, not even what we will be.”

  Jonet smiled weakly, staring down at the cat, who had just darted from the shrubbery. “Oh, how well I know that!” she said, bending forward to trail her fingertips down the cat’s fur. “I never wanted to be heir to Kildermore. I never even loved it the way Nanna or Ellen or even Charlie did! And most certainly, I had no wish to marry for position, nor to be fawned over by men who...” Her voice almost broke, but she caught it. “I just wanted a good husband, Cole. A man who would love me. I just wanted... a normal life.”

  Beneath his calm exterior, Cole was intently studying Jonet She was deeply disturbed, more so than he had seen her in some days. His mind raced. Clearly, that bastard Delacourt was up to something. Had he somehow been in touch with Jonet?

  Probably. And what hold could he possibly have over her? Obviously, it was not a hold she greatly resented, and irrationally, that both angered and wounded him. He had thought a great deal about Delacourt since coming to Elmwood, and his suspicion had grown.

  Over and over, his mind returned to Jonet’s remarks about her husband’s argument with Delacourt on the night of his death. Delacourt, who had pushed Lord Mercer’s inquest to a hasty end. And Delacourt, who faithlessly kept a mistress behind Jonet’s back. The man was nothing but trouble.

  Cole forced his voice to be calm as he tipped up her chin again. “Jonet, my dear,” he said firmly, “it is time you explained yourself. I must confess, you worry me with this strange talk. I begin to fear that Lord Delacourt is some sort of threat to you.”

  “Oh, no,” she said stridently, shaking her head. “But our... friendship is quite complex.” Jonet looked blindly down at Elmwood’s expectant barn cat, who was now persistently twining herself around their ankles. “You see, David is—to my way of thinking, and perhaps even to his own—the rightful heir to Kildermore. Beyond that, I cannot say more.”

  Cole drew back an inch. “Jonet, I fear that makes no sense at all.”

  But Jonet continued on as if she could not hear him. “It is simply this, Cole. If life were fair, all that I possess —my estate and my titles and my wealth —all would be his. I would be plain Lady Jonet Cameron, a bad-tempered Scot of no particular merit. And if I wed you, society would account me quite fortunate to snare such a fine catch—just as I account myself now.”

  In astonishment, Cole stared at her. “But Jonet... surely you cannot mean... what you are really saying is—”

  “I really do not think I can say anything more,” she said softly. “You must trust me, Cole. And you must do so based on a half-truth. I am sorry for it.”

  Suddenly, a feeling of sick dread seized Cole. There were but few conclusions that could be drawn from Jonet’s comments. None of them made sense. And none of them were pleasant. He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Darling,” he said urgently, “listen to me! Did Henry know of this? Did he understand?”

  Jonet laughed bitterly. “Oh, no one knew better! Indeed, I think he took a perverse sort of pleasure in it Until the gossip became too much. And in the end, that is what so angered David. The threat that...” Shuddering, she let her words slip away.

  “The threat that what—?” Cole rasped, his fingers digging into her flesh.

  Jonet’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Nothing,” she said quietly. “Now, I have answered your questions as best I may. I can only hope that you will trust me, and let this be the end.”

  “Do not be ridiculous, Jonet.” Cole jerked to his feet and paced away, leaving her on the bench, swaddled in the folds of his greatcoat “You cannot begin such a tale as this and not expect to finish it! And if you cannot—or will not— then Delacourt most certainly shall.”

  Jonet leapt up, leaving the coat to slither unheeded to the ground. “What do you mean, Cole? Where are you going?” she demanded hotly, and Cole could sense that his briefly compliant fiancée was gone, and that her banked temper had burst into full flame.

  He spun about to face her, his boot heel squeaking sharply in the wet grass. “I am going to London, madam,” he said, biting out each syllable. “And when I get there, I am going straight to Curzon Street, where I mean to jerk Lord Delacourt up by the coat collar and shake a few answers out of him. I have meant to do so for quite some time, and now I see that I can delay no longer.”

  Jonet stalked after him, her fists balled tightly at her sides, the pr
egnant cat bounding awkwardly at her heels. “You have deliberately chosen to misunderstand me, Cole!” she shouted, her voice rising as they moved swiftly toward the house. “And I shan’t have it, do you hear! That sanctimonious shroud of yours is worn perilous thin, sir! I see the truth—that you can be just as petty and obstinate and jealous as the rest of us!”

  Stopping cold in the middle of the garden, Cole ran an unsteady hand down his face and stared at her. “I daresay I may be, Jonet. But I am not—and never have been—a fool.”

  ———

  By the time Cole was ready to set out for London, Jonet was in a true fit of temper. She had paced the floor of her bedchamber, alternately searching for something to hurl at his door, then consigning almost every man she’d ever known to the fires of perdition, her father, her husband, David—and sometimes even Cole—amongst them.

  She and Cole were barely speaking. Following their heated discussion in the garden, he had stalked into the house and immediately begun shoving shirts and stockings into an old leather saddlebag. For a few moments, Jonet had tried to reason with him, dogging his footsteps from bureau to wardrobe and back, circling around the bed until she was breathless, and ripping out clothes as fast as he packed them.

  As usual, it had all been for naught, since Cole was the most implacable, exasperating man she had ever known. And so she had resorted to threats. She was never going to touch him again. She wished his penis would wither and die. Most assuredly, she was never going to marry him. No, she was going to marry him- And then she would make his life a living hell.

  The result had been predictably laughable. With his long, hard jaw set at its obstinate angle, Cole had merely stared at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. “Jonet,” he’d finally said, as he’d fastened the buckle of his bag, “you are a sharp-tongued shrew. But you are my shrew, and I mean to keep you safe. Long may I live to regret it”

  “Oh, God!” she had cried, clawing madly at her hair. “I hate it when you are reasonable.”