His Blackmailed Bride

by Sandra Marton

  ‘You’re wearing my ring.’

  His voice had a quality that reminded her of grey summer skies on a northern lake. Paige nodded.

  ‘Yes.’

  The silence seemed to hang between them. Then, eyes still on Quinn’s, she put her hands to her head and lifted her hair from her shoulders. She heard the sharp intake of his breath and then he reached behind her and unclasped the chain on which the ruby hung. His hand brushed her breasts as the ring tumbled into his palm, and his fingers closed tightly around it.

  ‘Place the ring on Miss Gardiner’s finger,’ the judge said, ‘and repeat after me. With this ring…’

  Somehow, she managed to smile through the obligatory congratulations. Jim kissed her cheek, the judge shook her hand, and then, finally, she and Quinn were alone, speeding down the roadway to Kennedy Airport. Paige looked down at her hand, at the ruby that seemed to flame on her finger.

  She was Quinn Fowler’s wife, she thought dully. His wife.

  She slipped the ring from her finger and held it out to him, as if the act would undo the vows he had forced her to take. His eyes moved swiftly from the road to her open palm and the blood-red stone.

  ‘What am I supposed to do with that?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s your ring. I thought you’d want it back.’

  ‘Keep it,’ he said gruffly. ‘It has no meaning to me any more.’

  Angry tears filled her eyes. God, how he hated her! She wanted to throw the ring at him—but something within her, nameless and only half glimpsed, stopped her. Her hands trembled as she looped the gold chain through the ring and hung it around her neck.

  They said nothing more until they were settled in the first-class lounge at the airport. Quinn asked for a telephone and then turned to Paige.

  ‘We have some calls to make,’ he said. ‘Can you manage to say the right things, or must I write a script for you?’

  She looked at him. ‘Calls? To whom?’

  ‘To our families. Mine and yours. And Alan.’

  His arrogance stunned her. ‘Alan?’ she repeated, her voice registering disbelief. ‘But what will you say to him?’

  Quinn’s mouth curled in a tight smile. ‘It’s what he says to me that matters, Paige. Don’t worry—I’ll handle it.’

  She gave him a cool look. ‘I don’t care if you handle it or not, Quinn. It’s Alan I’m concerned about. He’s bound to be hurting after what’s happened.’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘It was going to happen anyway, Paige. The first story you gave me was that you weren’t going ahead with the wedding.’ His voice was soft, his sarcasm thinly veiled. ‘Or was I mistaken?’

  ‘But that’s different. Changing my mind isn’t the same as… as this.’

  Quinn shrugged. ‘I don’t want Alan turning up on my doorstep,’ he said roughly. ‘I’d rather get everything settled now.’

  She curled deeper into the leather couch, watching as he dialled, waiting for the explosion from the other end. But, when it came, it wasn’t what she’d expected. She could tell, from Quinn’s side of the conversation, that his parents were more upset by what their guests might have thought than by the emotional toll of the day’s events on either of their sons. Quinn spoke to them politely but not defensively. He apologised for any embarrassment he might have caused them, explaining that what had happened between Paige and himself was inevitable. It was as if the subject under discussion involved a breach of etiquette, but nothing more than that.

  When he asked to speak with Alan, Paige rose to her feet abruptly. But his hand caught hers and he pulled her back to sit beside him.

  ‘Please,’ she whispered, her face pale. ‘I don’t want to hear…’

  His hand imprisoned hers, holding her by his side. Tears rose in her eyes as she listened to Quinn’s explanation. His words were carefully chosen, surprisingly gentle, belying the pressure of his fingers on her wrist. She could see that it pained him to hurt his brother. After a long while, he nodded, and his eyes fastened on hers. The pressure on her wrist began to ease.

  ‘Yes,’ he said quietly, ‘I’ll tell her. I will, Alan. Of course I will. Thank you, Alan. Goodbye.’

  She watched him while he hung up the phone. ‘Quinn? Is Alan—is he all right?’

  A muscle knotted in his jaw. ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘Is he…’ Her voice broke. ‘Does he hate me very much?’

  He looked at her, and a strange smile touched his mouth. ‘No,’ he said after a while, ‘he doesn’t hate you. He said—he said he wants us both to be happy.’

  Paige’s eyes filled with sudden tears. She hadn’t loved Alan—but Alan had claimed to love her.

  ‘He must have said more than that…’

  Quinn reached out and brushed her tears away with his hand. ‘What the hell did you expect him to say?’ His voice was gruff, in strange contrast to the gentleness of his touch. ‘What’s the matter, Paige? Were you hoping he’d come after you?’

  She shook her head. ‘I only meant…’

  ‘He told me to love you and take care of you. He…’ His eyes raked hers, and she saw a darkness in the blue-green depths. ‘He’s hurt,’ he said tersely, looking away from her. ‘But it’s better now than later.’

  ‘All of this is my fault,’ Paige sobbed. ‘If only I…’

  ‘If only you and your father hadn’t got greedy,’ Quinn said roughly. ‘You have five minutes until we board. If you want to call your parents, do it now.’

  Her hand shook as she dialled. But her mother was wonderful, laughing through her tears, reminding Paige that it had been she who’d advised her to follow her heart.

  ‘Just be happy, dear,’ she said, and Paige swallowed hard and assured her that she was.

  Talking to her father was more difficult. She didn’t know what to say, and the telephone line hummed in silence. Finally, without planning to say it, she whispered, ‘Daddy?’

  The word from her childhood surprised her.

  ‘You caught us all off guard, Paige,’ he said.

  His voice held a false heartiness. She gripped the phone more tightly and said again, ‘Daddy? Quinn… Quinn knows. He knows everything.’

  His breath whistled in her ear. ‘Yes, all right,’ he mumbled. ‘Tell him—tell him it won’t happen again. I’ll make it right.’

  It was such a raw admission of guilt that it rendered her speechless. She hung up the phone and looked at Quinn blankly.

  ‘You—you were right about my father,’ she whispered. ‘He—he…’

  The look on his face stunned her into silence. ‘Stop it,’ he growled, his face so close to hers that she felt his breath on her cheek. ‘That act won’t cut any ice, remember? You could have gone on fooling Alan until you’d wrung him dry, but I know the real you. Don’t you ever forget it.’

  A chill raced up her spine. She looked into Quinn’s eyes and thought again of a predatory animal. His hand on her wrist, the look on his face, the possessiveness in the way he spoke—all were reminders of the fact that he held her captive.

  ‘I won’t forget anything,’ she said bitterly. ‘Believe me, Quinn, I’ll remember everything you’ve done to me.’

  He laughed as his eyes moved over her with slow insolence. ‘You certainly will, sweet Juliet.’

  There was no mistaking his meaning. She felt her cheeks flame with heat. Angry words crowded her throat, but she swallowed past them and turned from him in silence. She knew there was no sense answering him. He would only twist whatever she said and use it to his advantage. Her best defence—her only defence—was silence.

  But keeping still became difficult as departure time neared. Quinn had volunteered no information about London, his home, or what he expected of her. Questions tumbled through her mind, but she asked none of them. She was sure that doing so would be a mistake; Quinn might see how frightened she really was—and she was determined never to give him that advantage.

  In the narrow confines of the Concorde, the strange, empty darkness of the sky view
ed through the window, the sense of being on a spaceship rather than a plane, underscored the surrealistic quality of the last few hours. She felt as if she were surrendering the life she’d known to the inky blackness of the night. She glanced at Quinn, silent and tight-lipped beside her, and she felt a sudden, swirling excitement.

  What if things had gone differently? What if he really had fallen in love with her and asked her to run away with him? What if…

  If, if, if. There was no point to playing that kind of game. And yet, Paige found herself stealing another look at the man beside her, remembering the things he’d whispered to her the night they’d met, the way he’d kissed her, the feel of his arms around her. If only time were a wheel, she thought suddenly, and you could turn it back. If only she’d met Quinn before she’d met Alan…

  Quinn turned towards her and she looked away quickly. It wouldn’t have mattered when they met. What she’d felt in Quinn’s arms wasn’t love. He would have asked her to go to bed with him, not to run away and marry him. That was the irony in all this, wasn’t it? That he’d married her only because he believed she’d behaved like a tramp.

  Her thoughts flashed nervously to what awaited her in London. She knew he owned a business there. Did he live in a hotel suite? He seemed the sort of man who might prefer that kind of impersonal setting. A furnished flat, perhaps. Yes, she thought, that was probably where he lived, and she let her mind drift, imagining some efficient but coldly decorated suite of rooms bearing no imprint of the man who lived in them.

  London lay dark and silent when they landed. During the taxi ride from the airport, Paige leaned her forehead against the window. England, she thought, waiting to feel something. But she was numb with weariness. The taxi finally pulled up before a grey stone house. Quinn stepped to the pavement and held his hand out to her.

  ‘Your new home, Paige.’ Cold amusement darkened his eyes. ‘I hope it meets with your approval.’

  She ignored his hand and moved past him, trying to think of some rejoinder that would mask the terror within her. But no words came, and her mouth went dry. She heard Quinn speak her name, and then his arms closed around her.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she murmured, but he’d already swung her into his arms.

  ‘Like hell you are,’ he growled, holding her close to him as he strode up the steps to the house.

  The door swung open, and Quinn’s housekeeper stared at them from the entranceway.

  ‘Say “hello” to my wife, Norah,’ he muttered as he marched past her.

  The housekeeper bustled after them, wide-eyed with shock, offering coffee or tea, or something more celebratory, but Quinn headed straight for the curving staircase that rose to the next floor.

  ‘Thank you, Norah, but Mrs Fowler’s had a long day. I think what she needs most is sleep.’

  Paige wanted to protest, to tell him she was capable of walking up the stairs on her own, but his arms were warm and strangely comforting. It was easier to clasp her hands around his neck and lay her face against his chest. By the time he shouldered open the door to a room at the end of the hall, her lashes lay heavy against her cheeks.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said softly, and she felt herself sinking into the soft embrace of a wide bed.

  There was the brush of his fingers at her throat, the whisper of silk, and then her jacket was off her shoulders, her blouse unbuttoned to the cleft between her breasts. Quinn muttered something, and his fingers stilled. His hand lay unmoving on her breast.

  Was it a dream, or did she hear her own voice whisper his name? Was there the brush of firm lips against hers? Was there a memory of heated skin? Did she hear a husky voice whisper, ‘You’ll be all right, Juliet?’

  Yes, it was a dream. It had to be. The only reality, Paige thought as she fell into a dark spiral of exhaustion, was that Quinn had carried her off against her will.

  He was her husband, and this was the England that had once known armoured knights and moated castles. But those days were long gone.

  You might still be able to carry a woman off. Quinn had proved that. But you could never force her to belong to you. That would always remain the same.

  CHAPTER SIX

  DRESSED in her bridal gown, Paige walked slowly down a twisting corridor. Doors, closed against her for ever, watched her with blinded eyes. A man appeared far ahead. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and she moved towards him. He turned and made an impatient gesture. She began to walk more quickly, but it didn’t seem to matter. The corridor grew ever longer, ever more twisted, until it was enclosed by high walls. The man was gone and Paige was alone in this strange place of shadows and darkness. Fear wrapped her in clammy embrace. Suddenly, there was a noise ahead, a tapping from behind the wall. Someone was there, someone who would help her…

  ‘Mrs Fowler?’

  Paige whimpered softly, still trapped in the tangled dream. There was a voice calling to her, but it was a strange voice.

  The tapping came again. ‘Mrs Fowler? Are you awake, ma’am? Mr Fowler said to tell you breakfast is ready.’

  Mrs Fowler… Paige’s eyes flew open. ‘Alan?’ she whispered.

  The door swung open. A slender woman holding a silver tray stepped hesitantly into the darkened room.

  ‘It’s Norah, ma’am. I’ve brought you some coffee.’ The woman put the tray on the bedside table and then cleared her throat. ‘Are you feeling better, Mrs Fowler? Shall I get you some aspirin or…’

  ‘Norah?’ Paige repeated, her voice still rough with sleep.

  The woman nodded. ‘The housekeeper, ma’am.’ Her eyes glinted with concern. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Fowler?’

  Paige moistened her lips with her tongue. ‘Yes, I’m fine. I just…’ Memory returned with a rush. Mrs Fowler. That was who she was. But she wasn’t Alan’s wife, she was Quinn’s.

  She sat up slowly and ran her hands through her hair. She felt light-headed, almost as if she’d had too much to drink. It was jet lag, she thought, the result of concentrating yesterday afternoon and evening into a four-hour flight on the Concorde from New York. And it was something more, it was the way her life had changed in the last hours.

  Norah was saying something about it being a lovely day. Paige looked up and smiled tentatively.

  ‘I’m sorry, Norah. I seem to be a bit foggy. What time did you say it was?’

  ‘Just past eight, ma’am.’

  Paige put her hands to her head. ‘Morning or evening?’ she asked with a little laugh.

  Norah smiled. ‘Morning, ma’am. Would you like me to run a bath for you?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  The woman nodded. ‘I’ve set breakfast in the library. I hope that meets with your approval.’

  After all that had happened to her, the thought that anyone should even wonder about her approval made Paige laugh. The housekeeper’s brows rose.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Mrs Fowler? Perhaps I should send Mr Fowler to you.’

  ‘No,’ Paige said sharply, and then she took a breath. ‘No, thank you, Norah,’ she said carefully. ‘I’m fine.’ She smiled as she tossed back the covers. ‘A cup of coffee is…’

  Her words tumbled to a halt as she glanced down at herself. She was dressed in a nightgown, one of the lace ones her mother had bought for her trousseau. But when… ? And who… ? She had a swift, heart-stopping memory of strong, tanned hands brushing against her skin, undoing the buttons of her blouse. But there was nothing after that image.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  Paige drew a breath. ‘Just tell my—tell Mr Fowler I’ll be down in a few minutes. I’m just going to unpack.’

  The housekeeper shook her head. ‘I’ll do that while you’re at breakfast, ma’am. I’d have done it last night, after Mr Fowler sent me upstairs to help you into your nightgown. But he said not to disturb you, so…’

  Paige laughed shakily. ‘You mean you… Thanks, Norah. I’m not usually so helpless.’

  The woman smiled pleasantly. ‘You weren’t helples
s at all, Mrs Fowler. You were just exhausted. And who wouldn’t be, after such an exciting day? It’s so romantic.’ Paige, who had swung her legs to the floor and was pouring a cup of coffee, glanced up.

  ‘Romantic?’

  ‘Your elopement, ma’am. Who would have thought Mr Fowler would come home with a bride?’

  A flush swept across Paige’s cheeks. ‘Indeed,’ she said, forcing a smile through stiff lips, ‘who would have thought?’

  The artificial smile fell from her face as the door closed. Exciting, she thought bitterly. Romantic. Oh, yes, that was what everyone thought. No one dreamed that she’d come to this London house unwillingly, more a captive than a bride. Quinn had arranged for the world to see them as lovers, caught in a passion beyond their control, and he’d done a damned good job. The Fowlers believed it, her parents believed it—and Alan believed it. Only she and Quinn knew the ugly truth.

  Paige put down her cup and walked to the window. Heavy curtains covered it, and she drew them aside and looked out into the sunlit street. London, she thought, watching the unfamiliar scene below. The house was on a quiet mews—Mayfair, Quinn had told the taxi driver who’d brought them from the airport. Under other circumstances, she would have been dancing with excitement, delighted by the charm of the cobblestone street, the narrow Edwardian houses, and the cars that drove on the wrong side of the road.

  She let the curtain fall into place again. The street below only emphasised her feeling of displacement. She was in a strange country and she knew no one. There was only Quinn. It was as if the clock had been turned back four or five centuries and he had ridden in on a prancing stallion and stolen her away. She was his hostage.

  Paige drew a deep breath as she began to dress. It was time to face Quinn and set the rules for her new life. There would be ‘compensations’, he’d said, a million years ago when he’d taken her from the Fowler house. She hadn’t answered him then; she’d been too stunned by everything that was happening. But she would answer him now. She would tell him that there were limits to what he could demand of her. She might be his prisoner, but she would never be his slave.