A Woman Scorned by Liz Carlyle

could see no reason not to answer. “A good soldier never hesitates when battle finally comes, ma’am,” he responded, lightly resting one hand across his knee. “Perhaps he does not seek it. Indeed, he may even be filled with dread at the prospect, but he takes up the challenge boldly. It is a knack some men simply do not have.”
    “And few women?” she asked a little caustically. “I have often been accused of being overly bold, sir.”
    Cole nodded. “It was not ill-meant, your ladyship.”
    “You will call me Jonet,” she said again.
    “I think that unwise, ma’am. I am your children’s tutor.”
    Lady Mercer drew her full lips into a stubborn line and stared into the depths of the book-room. “Captain, you have come to me ostensibly as a member of my late husband’s family. You refuse to accept a salary—at least from
me
.” She flicked a guarded look at him. “And if we are to reside in this house together under such circumstances, I daresay we ought to go on as we have begun.”
    “And that would be?”
    “As
cousins
. Therefore, I am Jonet. And you are—
Cole
, is it not?”
    “As you wish,” he stiffly replied.
    “Thank you,” she said softly, then pulled her gaze from his and took up her sewing once more. With quick, precise motions, her needle began to dart in and out, then drawtaut the thread, time and again. As with most of Jonet Rowland, her hands appeared superficially delicate, but Cole could sense the tremendous strength contained within them.
    For a time, he was content to simply watch her, and she seemed equally content to let him do so. It was an unusual level of familiarity between two people who were so vastly different from one another; who did not even like one another, but who had quite obviously decided to bow to the dictates of civility and pretend. As if she felt his eyes upon her task, Lady Mercer’s gaze caught his for a moment, and she smiled. “Satan finds some mischief for idle hands to do,” she quoted, as if an explanation were expected. “Is that not what the Bible teaches?”
    Cole shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “The Bible does caution us that sloth is an insidious vice, ma’am. But I believe those particular words belong to Mr. Watts.”
    “Indeed?” She looked at him a little strangely. “How astute you are, sir. And who is Mr. Watts?”
    “A theologian, ma’am. And a writer of hymns.”
    “Ah, yes! I am persuaded you are right,” she replied, drawing taut her final stitch. Then, with sharp white teeth, she bit her thread neatly in two and set down her work. “Now, do you mean to tell me, Cole, just what it is about my children which concerns you? I have, of course, my own worries.”
    Cole felt the heat of her steady blue eyes on his face. It was a good question, and yet he hesitated. He had seen her children, he had felt their vulnerability. But how could he explain it? How could he share with this woman things he had never shared with anyone—not even the one person with whom he should have shared all things? He had no wish to lay bare his own soul to Lady Mercer, a woman who, by some accounts, had none herself. Cole was not sure he believed that, but he simply could not bring himself to explain to her the truth; that he had once been afraid and fatherless, and that he would forever understand a child’s sense of terror and loss. And as to his other concerns—the scent of danger, that prickling sensation which crept down his spine at odd moments—how could he account for what was mostly a soldier’s instinct?
    Only last night had he begun to lend words, and perhaps some small amount of logic, to those feelings himself. Good God, he would scare Lady Mercer out of her wits. Or she might simply accuse him of attempting to frighten her. Or she might think him mad. Perhaps he was. Where
was
the danger? To
whom
was it directed? He had no notion. Perhaps he was merely suffering from the residual stress of battle. It had been months, he