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Authors: Liz Carlyle
Tags: Historical
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what you’re aboot. Now, go in there and sit yourself doon ’til I can ferret out the wee rascals and make ’em presentable.” On that parting comment, Nanna shoved open the schoolroom door and stalked away, her huge hips rolling laboriously beneath her gray skirts.
Cole entered the empty schoolroom, his footsteps echoing hollowly upon the bare wood floor. Once inside, he closed the door, then leaned back against it. Good Lord! Jonet Rowland had been worse than he had imagined, and she had shaken his control. Badly. For a long moment, he paused, eyes tightly closed, and turned his energy inward, seeking to quiet the outrage and hunger that had momentarily clouded his judgement. How unlike him it was to lose his temper so thoroughly. How disconcerting it was to lust after a woman he did not like. Devilish uncomfortable, too. And her behavior! Audacious was too mild a word. A lady would never have spoken such thoughts aloud, would never have referred so openly to tawdry gossip, and a lady most assuredly would not have moved through a room with such physical energy, dark eyes flashing and skirts swishing boldly.
He should have turned away from Lady Mercer the first time she tempted—no,
tormented
—him. Yes, he should simply have turned and walked out of her house. He still was not sure why he had not done precisely that. All he knew, and it was a fanciful thought indeed, was that something seemingly drew him to this place. And strangely enough, to her. Though in what way, and on what level, he could not say. But it was there, that vague sense of . . . of
urgency
. It nagged at him, creating hesitation where there should have been only swift certainty.
Eventually, Cole felt the tempest inside begin to ease, and he opened his eyes to see the late afternoon light spilling softly through the windows onto the wide oak planking of the floor. It was time to forget Jonet Rowland and her wicked, tempting ways and get on with the business at hand. He came away from the door and drifted aimlessly through the room, inhaling deeply the scent of dusty chalk and old bookbindings. They were familiar, somewhat soothing smells, which, by and large, brought back good memories. The latter half of his childhood had not been the happiest of times, but in the classroom, beneath the high ceilings and transom windows, Cole had finally found a sense of belonging after the death of his parents.
Casually, he hefted an atlas from its stand, balanced it over his palm, then began to aimlessly flip through it, seeing nothing. No—seeing the past. On the whole, he had despised Eton, it was true. He had hated the bleak living quarters, and despaired of the incessant shortages of warmth and food. The utter lack of supervision or compassion. And yet, he had survived. In part because of his sheer physical size. But mostly because his needs were simple. And because his mind was simple—not weak, but uncomplicated and ingenuous.
For as long as Cole could remember, he had never felt true enmity toward anyone or anything. Yes, he had despised much of what Eton
was
, but he could not remember ever having despised what it had
given
him, for it was only there, in the classrooms, that he had truly begun to excel. To develop the knowledge, the insight, and the selfconfidence which had been lacking, and which would finally set him free. For a moment, Cole let the more satisfying memories wash away the bad as he paced the length of the room in silence.
It was not a large chamber, but it was well lit, spotlessly clean, and amply stocked. Bookshelves covered one wall, a sturdy desk stood in one corner, and a narrow worktable filled the center. A long, leather sofa stretched beneath a pair of deep, lightly draped windows, which overlooked the front of the house. Yes, under normal circumstances, this was a place where he might have found some measure of happiness. Where he might have immersed himself in the satisfaction of his work and enjoyed the tutelage of two
Cole entered the empty schoolroom, his footsteps echoing hollowly upon the bare wood floor. Once inside, he closed the door, then leaned back against it. Good Lord! Jonet Rowland had been worse than he had imagined, and she had shaken his control. Badly. For a long moment, he paused, eyes tightly closed, and turned his energy inward, seeking to quiet the outrage and hunger that had momentarily clouded his judgement. How unlike him it was to lose his temper so thoroughly. How disconcerting it was to lust after a woman he did not like. Devilish uncomfortable, too. And her behavior! Audacious was too mild a word. A lady would never have spoken such thoughts aloud, would never have referred so openly to tawdry gossip, and a lady most assuredly would not have moved through a room with such physical energy, dark eyes flashing and skirts swishing boldly.
He should have turned away from Lady Mercer the first time she tempted—no,
tormented
—him. Yes, he should simply have turned and walked out of her house. He still was not sure why he had not done precisely that. All he knew, and it was a fanciful thought indeed, was that something seemingly drew him to this place. And strangely enough, to her. Though in what way, and on what level, he could not say. But it was there, that vague sense of . . . of
urgency
. It nagged at him, creating hesitation where there should have been only swift certainty.
Eventually, Cole felt the tempest inside begin to ease, and he opened his eyes to see the late afternoon light spilling softly through the windows onto the wide oak planking of the floor. It was time to forget Jonet Rowland and her wicked, tempting ways and get on with the business at hand. He came away from the door and drifted aimlessly through the room, inhaling deeply the scent of dusty chalk and old bookbindings. They were familiar, somewhat soothing smells, which, by and large, brought back good memories. The latter half of his childhood had not been the happiest of times, but in the classroom, beneath the high ceilings and transom windows, Cole had finally found a sense of belonging after the death of his parents.
Casually, he hefted an atlas from its stand, balanced it over his palm, then began to aimlessly flip through it, seeing nothing. No—seeing the past. On the whole, he had despised Eton, it was true. He had hated the bleak living quarters, and despaired of the incessant shortages of warmth and food. The utter lack of supervision or compassion. And yet, he had survived. In part because of his sheer physical size. But mostly because his needs were simple. And because his mind was simple—not weak, but uncomplicated and ingenuous.
For as long as Cole could remember, he had never felt true enmity toward anyone or anything. Yes, he had despised much of what Eton
was
, but he could not remember ever having despised what it had
given
him, for it was only there, in the classrooms, that he had truly begun to excel. To develop the knowledge, the insight, and the selfconfidence which had been lacking, and which would finally set him free. For a moment, Cole let the more satisfying memories wash away the bad as he paced the length of the room in silence.
It was not a large chamber, but it was well lit, spotlessly clean, and amply stocked. Bookshelves covered one wall, a sturdy desk stood in one corner, and a narrow worktable filled the center. A long, leather sofa stretched beneath a pair of deep, lightly draped windows, which overlooked the front of the house. Yes, under normal circumstances, this was a place where he might have found some measure of happiness. Where he might have immersed himself in the satisfaction of his work and enjoyed the tutelage of two
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