by Cheryl Holt
Jack was in no hurry for the lesson to end, and he planned to loiter in the forest as long as he could. The manor was in chaos, so he'd stay away till matters calmed. Percy had left for London. Ophelia and Edith were heading for the Dower House, but complaining every step of the way.
Jamie had wed Anne, against her will, and Jack had assisted in orchestrating the event, and he wasn't sorry. While others might curse Jamie for forcing Anne, Jack never would. No one at Gladstone could be allowed to countermand or disobey Jamie. He was fully in charge and would be from now on. Anne—and everyone else—had to get used to the idea, but it definitely made for a rough afternoon.
The servants were sullen and unruly, Anne was in a state of shock, Sarah was spitting mad, and Jack couldn't stand any of it. Shooting at squirrels with a polite and enthused young boy was preferable to any of the alternatives.
At least one person on the blasted property was glad for Jack's company!
Jack played with Tim till his arm grew tired, till they could find no more stones on the path. They started toward the house, when they rounded a curve on the trail and they came face-to-face with Sarah.
She looked as if she'd been crying, and Jack steeled himself against feeling any sympathy for her. They'd had sex on a few raucous occasions, but he refused to read anything into the episodes.
She had too many problems, more than he could solve, more than he could assume, and he didn't like judging her, but he couldn't help it. Her silence regarding Tim's parentage had Jack wondering about her true character. If she was really as callous as her behavior indicated, he wanted no part of a relationship with her—despite the physical attraction they shared.
On seeing him, she stopped, and she was still visibly angry over his role in Anne's wedding, but it was best for Anne to be Jamie's wife. What other choice did she have?
Jamie had merely kept her from making a dreadful mistake, and one day she'd thank them. That's what Jack was telling himself anyway. If Anne never came round to their way of thinking, Jack cared not. Jamie's goals were paramount, and Sarah's and Anne's protests were naught but insignificant chatter out on the edge of the world.
For a moment, it appeared as if Sarah would stomp off in a snit, but she couldn't resist the opportunity to speak with Tim.
"Hello, Tim."
"Hello, Miss Carstairs."
As she noticed what was dangling from Tim's fingers, she frowned. "What have you got there?" "It's a slingshot, Miss. Mr. Merrick gave it to me."
"He did?"
The information had her extremely upset, but Tim didn't recognize her pique, and he answered eagerly, "We've been practicing shooting at squirrels, so I can keep the rabbits out of the garden."
Her temper flared, and she focused her livid gaze on Jack. "I won't have him killing small animals. I can't believe you'd instigate such an activity without asking me.
"It's not up to you, is it, Miss Carstairs?' Jack taunted.
"I don't give my permission for him to own a slingshot! I don't want him to have one."
Tim was unnerved by her fury, and he peered up at Jack. "It's all right, Mr. Merrick. If she'd rather I not, I don't need it."
"I gave it to you, Tim, and it's yours." Jack glared at Sarah and goaded, "Unless you'd like to enlighten him as to why your decisions should supersede mine?"
She blanched, turning so white that, for a second, he worried she might faint. Tears swarmed to her eyes, and she hurled, "I hate you, Jack Merrick. I hate you and your awful brother, and I wish both of you would slither back to whatever hole you crawled out of."
She began to cry full on, and she whirled away and ran. Jack's heart lurched in his chest, her terrible words hurting him in ways he didn't like or understand, but he wouldn't race after her like a besotted idiot. She was crazy as a bedbug, and he needed to involve himself in her troubles like he needed a trip to the barber to have a bad tooth pulled.
"She's very annoyed with us," Tim said, stating the obvious.
"Yes, she is."
"Should I go to the manor and apologize? I'm not sure what I'd be apologizing for, though. I'm not sure what I did."
"Let this be a lesson to you, Tim," Jack sagely advised. "With women, you never know what it is that you did wrong. As you grow older, that fact will never change."
He walked Tim to the barn, then went to the house, himself, slinking in a rear door, hoping to avoid any of the disgruntled occupants. He'd planned to head to his room, to wash and relax before supper, but his feet had a mind of their own.
At the landing on the stairs, where he should have proceeded to his own bedchamber, he turned to tiptoe to Sarah's, instead. The hall was empty, so he spun the knob and slipped inside.
She was on her bed, her face buried in the pillow, and weeping as if there were no tomorrow. He was as irate as she was, but he'd never been the type to make a woman cry, and he couldn't bear to see her so sad and to know that he'd been the cause.
"Sarah," he murmured.
She raised up and stared over at him. "Oh, go away! Just go away." Then she clutched at the pillow again, her sobs muffled, her shoulders shaking.
He stumbled over and stretched out next to her, and he drew her into his arms.
"Hush now," he soothed. "Hush. It will be all right."
"Where is my sister?"
"She's in the earl's suite—with Jamie."
"Will he beat her?"
"No! Gad! Is that what you think? He'd never harm her."
"I tried to talk to her, but he wouldn't let me."
"She'll be fine," he insisted. No matter Jamie's many faults, he'd never resort to physical violence against a woman. Well, unless the woman did something violent first. Then, the gloves would come off.
"He was so angry with her."
"Yes, he was."
"I swore to her that she wouldn't have to marry him. I swore that I'd protect her."
"She didn't need your protection. Their marriage was for the best."
"I couldn't stop him!" she wailed. "I couldn't help her, and I couldn't help my son, and they're the only two people who've ever needed me. What good am I? I've never done anything worthwhile in my whole life."
"They're both fine. You needn't fret so much."
"But I've failed at every turn. Who can count on me? Why would anyone?"
She was at the end of her rope, and he hated to witness the depth of her despair. He'd spent many hours grumbling over her lack of integrity, and he'd convinced himself that she was a cruel shrew, when he knew she wasn't.
It was simply easier to paint her with a brutal brush, for if he viewed her realistically, he'd have to admit that she was merely a lonely woman who'd made some difficult choices. Then he'd have to admit his strong feelings for her, which would give her too much power over him.
He didn't want to care for her, didn't want to put himself in a position where she could reject him or kill him with her disregard. He'd been snubbed or deserted too many times over the years, and he never attached himself to others.
Relationships were fleeting. People died. People were left behind. People moved on. It was better to remain separate, but Sarah had him yearning for something more, something different from the empty existence of traveling the globe with his rootless, itinerant brother.
He held her for an eternity, calming her as if she were a young child who'd awakened from a nightmare, and the experience was wonderful.
Her anguish had his masculine instincts surging to the fore. He wanted to cherish and shelter, wanted to love and bond. The sensations were new and intriguing, and during this odd period of his life, when his entire world was being transformed, he wouldn't discount them out of hand. He would embrace them and see where they led.
Finally, her tears dwindled to a halt. She shuddered and sighed.
"I'm so pathetic."
"Yes, you are. You're an absolute wretch."
His sarcasm earned him a soft punch in the belly.
"I don't need you agreeing with me."
He chuckled as she drew away to peer up at him. She was utterly despondent, and he was crushed that she was so unhappy.
"Don't be sad, Sarah."
"What's to become of me? What possible reason is there for me to continue on? I'm twenty-six years old, and I have nothing to show for it. No money. No home. No family of my own. I'm such a failure."
"You're very pretty, though."
'Talk about something that matters or be silent."
He grabbed the quilt, using a corner to dry her eyes.
"You don't have to figure it all out today." "I suppose I don't."
She studied him, looking confused and morose, when suddenly she shifted nearer and kissed him. She'd surprised him, but he wasn't about to complain.
They couldn't seem to interact without a sexual incident occurring, especially when they were snuggled on a bed. Sparks always sizzled when they were together, and while he eagerly joined in, she was definitely the one in charge. She needed the contact, and he was enough of a cad that he would indulge her in any fashion she desired.
She groaned with pleasure and dismay, and she rolled them so that she was on top. Her mouth ravaged his, while her hands explored; then she climbed over him, her skirt floating over his thighs, her privates pressed to his loins. Her hot gaze locked on his, she tugged at the bodice of her dress, baring her bosom. Her breasts were full and round, the tips rosy and luring him to his doom.
All modesty gone, she arched forward, urging him to feast, and he clasped her nipples, playing with them, squeezing them so that she moaned in delicious agony. She opened his trousers and took hold of him, stroking him to a painful erection; then she centered herself and eased down.
He'd understood that she had a very sensual nature, but he hadn't seen this side of it. She was demanding control, and he was thrilled to let her have it.
"What do you want from me, Sarah?"
"Just this, Jack. Nothing more."
"But I want to—"
She rested a finger against his lips.
"Don't wreck the moment by speaking of what I can't bear to hear."
"There's something happening between us, and we have to discuss it."
"There's nothing happening. Nothing!" He was about to argue the point, and she said, "Just give me this."
She was on her knees, her toes digging into the mattress, and she was rocking across him, taking him deep, retreating, taking him deep again. As if she were performing for him, she pulled the pins from her glorious brunette hair, and it swirled down to her hips.
He'd never viewed such an erotic sight. Her eyes were closed, her head thrown back, her breasts thrust out, and she kept on and on. Her lust increased, and she fell forward, a nipple at his mouth, and he sucked at it.
"Harder," was all she could say. "Do it harder."
He bit down, making her beg, making her squirm.
So far, he'd restrained himself, but his lust was raging, too, and he needed more than to lie under her like a stump of wood. He began flexing into her, being rough and unrelenting, and as he reached between their bodies, her sheath tightened around him, spiraling her into a potent orgasm. He continued pumping into her, desperate for his own release. He rolled them again, so that she was beneath him, so that she was his, and he delayed the end for as long as he was able.
With a feral growl, he heedlessly spilled himself inside her, his seed flooding her womb. It was the most wild, most reckless thing he'd ever done, and he reveled in the decadence, not caring that she could wind up pregnant. He simply proceeded to the conclusion that seemed unavoidable, like a bad carriage accident.
He jerked away, both of them on their backs and assessing the ceiling like a pair of strangers. Their
breathing steadied, and their pulses slowed. The quiet settled. Ultimately, she curled onto her side, away from him.
"Why don't you go?" she requested, dismissing him as if she were the bloody Queen of England.
"No," he replied. "I don't believe I will. Not this time."
He dragged her to him. Though he'd just fornicated like a randy adolescent, his cock was ready, and he slid over her and wedged himself between her thighs.
"What do you think you're doing?" she snapped. "I asked you to go."
"And / have decided to stay."
He pushed into her and started in again.
Fifteen
Jamie stopped at the door that separated the earl's bedchamber from the countess's. As he'd expected, it was locked, and he figured Anne had pulled furniture in front of it, too, as an added barrier to keep him out.
When he'd wrestled her upstairs after the ceremony, and had unceremoniously deposited her inside, she'd been more infuriated than he'd realized a female could be.
His own temper had been in no better shape, and it had taken many hours to calm himself sufficiently to where he figured he could converse with her without tossing her over his knee and giving her a good paddling. He'd never met anyone who was so contrary.
He didn't bother asking her to open up, for he knew she wouldn't. He simply raised a foot and let loose. As the wood shattered, it occurred to him that he ought to have a carpenter reside permanently in the manor. She had a knack for goading him to such violent rages that he'd regularly need repairs.
As he'd predicted, she had items blocking his way,
so a few more heaves and pushes were necessary before he walked across the threshold. She was on the other side of the room, appearing as livid as he'd anticipated and clutching a fireplace poker that she wielded like a sword. At her bravado, he nearly snickered.
How could she assume that a flimsy piece of iron would prevent him from doing whatever he wanted?
"Hello, Anne." He grinned and stalked toward her.
"What do you want now, you beast, you dog, you swine?"
"I'm ready to consummate, but you haven't undressed."
At his crude pronouncement, she was so horrified that he laughed and laughed. She humored him in too many ways to count
"After your antics this morning, you think I'd lie down with you?"
"Yes, and I can guarantee you'll like it."
"You are mad!"
"Not mad. Just lusty as the dickens and looking forward to some romping with my wife."
"I am not—and never will be—your wife."
"It says you are—right in the parish register. Your friendly neighborhood vicar even signed as a witness."
"The man is a weasel!"
"He certainly is, but his name is still there, bold as brass."
Jamie drew closer, closer, and she stepped back, back. "Don't you come near me," she warned, brandishing the poker.
"It's too bad you were having such a tantrum that you couldn't attend our wedding breakfast."
"I'll show you a tantrum, you despicable wretch!" He approached until he was an arm's length away and she'd trapped herself into a corner and could go no farther.
"I'll kill you," she insisted. "I swear it!" "If you did, my brother would miss me." "He'd be the only one!" "I'm sure you're correct."
"I hate you!" she seethed. "I will hate you till the
day I die." *
He lunged and grabbed the poker, and he fought her for it. He was bigger and stronger, and he could have yanked it away, but he understood pride and courage, and he allowed her to continue, letting her believe she had a chance, that she'd given it her all.
Ultimately, he snatched it from her and pitched it over his shoulder. They glared, breathing hard, as if they'd run a long race.
"I hate you," she said again, but with much less rancor.
"I don't hate you," he replied, and he dipped under her chin to nibble her neck.
There was something about her that drove him wild. It provoked all sorts of naughty thoughts, and he could have dawdled there for an eternity, sniffing and nuzzling her skin, yet she was stiff as a board, refusing to relax the tiniest bit.
He picked her up and tumbled them onto the bed, and he hovered over her, a
n arm braced on the pillow, a leg on her thighs and pinning her down. She was sweet and lovely and so much more than he deserved or ever imagined he'd have, and the strangest wave of tenderness swept through him.
His wife. His! Forever. He was so lucky!
"I'm sorry," he murmured, and he brushed a kiss across her lips. "Don't be angry."
The apology sucked the wind from her sails. She'd planned to argue and harangue, but what could she say to an earnest expression of regret? And it was earnest. For the most part.
He wasn't sorry that he'd bullied her, or threatened the vicar, or tied her up, or locked her in. He simply felt bad that she was so unhappy.
"Liar," she petulantly charged. "You've never been sorry for anything you've done in your whole life."
"I'm glad you're mine."
"I'm not."
He kissed her more slowly, easing her into the notion of a wedding night, even though it was early evening.
He intended to go at it till dark, till the next morning, and he'd keep on and on until she was reconciled to the idea of being his bride. He wasn't proficient at words or flirtation, but he knew more about satisfying a woman in the bedchamber than any man alive. As he'd previously discovered, she had a potent sexual nature, so he would soon have her melting with ecstasy.
She'd forget why she was furious, and her reservations would scatter like leaves on the wind.
She broke away and clasped his shoulders, giving him a slight shake.
"Why did you really marry me? Why go to so much trouble?"
"You know why: The Prince asked it of me."
"But he didn't demand it."
"No."
"Yet you pressed ahead." He chuckled. "I certainly did." "I don't suppose there's any way for me to get out of it, is there?"
"I don't see how you could. The vicar read the vows.
We repeated them." She scowled. "All right, one of us repeated them, there was a witness, and it's all recorded neat and proper."
"So it's final, then."
"It definitely is."
"And you forced me into it even though I was adamantly opposed."
"I prefer to say I chose you."
