by Justine Cole
Insane with rage, she lunged at him, ready to thrust the knife into his mocking face. But her upraised arm presented an easy target. With one swift motion he grabbed her wrist and twisted it mercilessly. Yelping with pain, her hand involuntarily opened.
Incredulously she watched the knife arch through the air and then tumble downward. The clatter of metal on cobblestones signaled her defeat. With disbelief she stared at it, its shiny blade already dulled by the muddy raindrops.
Uproarious laughter shattered the moment. Noelle's eyes flew to Thomas. He was doubled over, tears of drunken merriment streaming down his red face.
"Half the bucks in London wouldn't dare cross you," he guffawed, gasping for air, "but this little strumpet, not weighing much more than seven stone, has the unmitigated gall to take you on all by herself." He slapped his knees, jovially. "What a great story this is going to make at Watier's."
Quinn flashed his companion a crooked smile as he tightened his grip on Noelle's arm. "Don't be so quick with your tales, Tom. I might be forced to share your experience. I'm sure everyone will enjoy hearing how she relieved you of your watch."
As he spoke he reached down and picked up the knife. Noelle wanted to weep with frustration and fury as she watched it disappear into his pocket.
"Aha! I daresay you're right." Thomas chuckled. "Still, it might be worth the embarrassment. How she went after you! She was just as determined to escape from you as you have been to escape all those unmarried females. You're two of a kind!"
'The devil we are!" Quinn retorted.
"Of course you are. You can't deny that. You're both totally unprincipled in your dealings with the opposite sex. You two deserve each other." Thomas smiled mischievously. "Now, she'd be a fitting bride for you."
"In a pig's eye, you bastard!" Quinn grinned, amused at his friend's baiting.
"I can see her now on your wedding day: a beautiful gown, a lovely bouquet, and a knife held between her teeth." They both roared with laughter. "And the father of the groom beaming with delight to see his only son and heir so well married."
Quinn's laughter froze. Slowly a look of cold calculation crossed his face, and with it, a tremor of fear and apprehension shot through Noelle.
"That's it," Quinn said, his voice barely above a whisper. "That's the answer. I'm going to marry her."
Noelle stared at him in stunned disbelief.
"You're what?" Thomas cried.
"Don't you see, Tom?" Quinn explained, his excitement growing. "It's the perfect answer. I'm going to many her."
"Are you insane?" Thomas shouted. "She's a whore!"
"Of course she is. That's the point." Still maintaining his iron grip on Noelle's thin arm, he slapped Thomas exuberantly across his shoulders with the other hand. "Picture Simon's face when I introduce him to my wife, the Copeland bride on whom he had pinned his hopes. It's the perfect revenge . . . for so many things."
A shadow crossed his features, and Noelle shuddered with dreadful premonition.
"By Jove, I think you're in earnest."
"Of course I am. Really, Tom," Quinn added with mock seriousness, "I'm disappointed in you. Marriage is no joking matter."
"Damn, man, it won't serve. You could have any of a dozen beauties. Why in the name of all that's holy do you want to stick yourself with a whore for a wife?"
"Use your head, Tom. If I married one of those blue bloods, I'd be gratifying Simon's fondest wish, and I have no intention of doing that or of spending the rest of my life shackled to one woman."
Thomas looked at Quinn blankly.
"Don't you understand, Tom? With this little trollop as my wife, I escape all of that. Look at her! Do you think Simon would chance anyone's discovering she's his daughter-in-law or give me an argument about packing her off?" He smiled sardonically. "I'll be legally married without the burden of a wife. And there'll be nothing Simon can do about it."
"Damnation, Quinn, don't be a fool!" Thomas exploded. "He would have the marriage annulled within a week."
"Yes"—Quinn hesitated thoughtfully—"that's a problem. The weak link in a perfect arrangement. The marriage has to be binding."
He turned to Noelle, distaste etched clearly on his face at the sight of her dirty neck and cropped hair, now releasing great, muddy droplets from the ends of the carrot strands. "I'm going to ask you a question, and God help you if you lie to me. I want the truth, do you understand?"
Noelle nodded mutely, but inside she was almost ill with the force of her anger and her fear. Why couldn't she fight this man? How had she let herself be drawn into this situation?
His eyes, dark and ominous, bored into her. "Are you diseased?"
She looked at him without comprehension.
"Diseased, girl! Do you have the French pox?"
Her face reddened with humiliation. She began to stutter an indignant denial, then stopped herself abruptly and gave him a wide, cunning smile. "Yes, sir, that I am. Cruelly diseased."
Before she knew what had happened he was shaking her viciously. "Don't toy with me. I demand the truth."
At the sight of the stubborn set of her jaw, he released her. "Never mind. You've already answered my question. She's not diseased, Tom, and, at least, her teeth are good, so, somehow, I'll consummate the marriage. Then Simon will have no way of annulling it without my consent. And you can be sure I'll never give him that."
Grinning, Thomas shook his head in disbelief and then grabbed Quinn's hand and began to pump it. "I'm on, old boy. Damnation! Of all the pranks we've pulled together, this one is the topper!"
Noelle stared at them incredulously. The American expected her to marry him, to give her body to him! She was livid with rage, directed as much at herself as it was at him. Enough of standing here like a ninnyhammer while he tried to take over her life!
"You bastard!" she shrieked. "Who the bloody 'ell do you think you are, telling me what to do. Nobody tells me anything, do you 'ear? And I wouldn't marry you if you was the friggin' King of England!"
Thomas looked at Quinn doubtfully. "Are you quite sure, old boy? I know it seems a good scheme, but I think it's only fair for me to point out that we're both rather drunk. Besides, she seems a bit—rough around the edges."
"Rough around the edges!" Quinn hooted with laughter. "Only you, Tom, could put it so tactfully. But the lady does seem to need some courting."
Taking Noelle firmly by the arm, he led her struggling form to the stoop of an apothecary shop closed for the night. "Sit here." Without giving her a chance to refuse, he pushed her down onto the step.
Although Noelle's fear was rapidly overcoming her anger, she was determined not to let him see how he intimidated her. Gathering her dignity about her like a suit of armor, she sat stiffly, almost primly. He hovered over her, resting one elegantly booted leg next to her skirts.
"Listen to me," he began, not ungently. "This marriage can only be to your advantage. I'll pay you well. All I'm asking from you is twenty-four hours of your time to go through the wedding ceremony and then spend the night performing your wifely duty." He lifted one eyebrow wryly. "You should be good at that."
Despite her fury at his effrontery, Noelle instinctively clung to the protective anonymity of the accent of the streets as she ranted at him through clenched teeth. "I won't do it, and I don't want yer bloody money. Nobody tells me wot to do, least of all someone like you!"
"What possible objection can you have?" Quinn was genuinely astonished by her refusal. He was offering her an opportunity that would change her whole life for the better. She would make more money with this one night's work than she'd ever dreamed possible.
But Noelle did not care if he offered her a royal fortune; the memories he brought back of the men who had used Daisy were too terrifying. No money, no comfort, no security, no luxuries, were worth submitting her body to this barbaric man.
"I don't 'ave to give you my reason. Yer nothin' to me, nothin', do you 'ear?" In final defiance she spat at him, hitting him full in t
he face.
As soon as she had done it she regretted her action. She could almost see the cold fury flowing through his body. Instinctively she braced herself, waiting for his attack.
His eyes raked her face mercilessly. "That was a mistake." Slowly and deliberately he removed his handkerchief and wiped off the spittle. "You no longer have any choice in the matter. Unless you want to be taken before the law for theft, you will do as I say."
"You can't make me." Her defiant words had a hollow ring.
"Oh? I think I can. Do you know what will be in store for you if I turn you over?"
Noelle's face paled. Those who made their living dishonestly feared the harshness of the English judicial system above all else.
"If you're lucky, it will be the gallows. If you're unlucky, transportation to Australia."
She drew in her breath sharply, her heart sinking at the thought of the stories she had heard of the convict ships.
As though reading her mind, he continued relentlessly, speaking of the men and women packed by the hundreds into the holds of the ships; of men turning into snarling animals and using the women freely. He talked of food, foul and filled with vermin; of the water, undrinkable; of disease running rampant—smallpox, dysentery, and cholera. For those who survived the trip, the nightmare was just beginning. The conditions at Botany Bay were harsh and inhumane, devastating to the human spirit.
Confident of her reaction, he waited patiently, watching the play of emotions on her face. Even Thomas was quiet, although visibly paler from Quinn's recitation of horrors.
Noelle's stomach pitched. He had her trapped. Her only hope lay in retrieving the knife he now held in his pocket. But you had your chance before, she reminded herself, for all the good it did you. Waving that blade and making threats won't work this time. This time you bloody well better be ready to kill him.
Noelle rose from the step. "You don't give me much choice, do you?" Although her words were those of capitulation, her look was defiant. "All right. I'll do wot you say."
Ignoring her eyes, which were blazing with hatred, Quinn turned to Thomas. "I'll need a special license tonight. Can you get it?"
"Special license?" Thomas puckered his forehead in thought and then snapped his fingers. "Yes. Yes, I believe I can."
"Also, I'll need a minister who won't ask too many questions. Know of anyone?"
"I've heard of a fellow. Not terribly respectable, mind you, but officially ordained."
"Good. Now we need a place to keep her while we make the arrangements."
"How about my parents' house? They're in the country, and the house is empty."
"And the servants?"
"They took everyone with them except the gardener, and he's off visiting his sister for the week. We can put her in the attic. It's at the back of the house where nothing can be noticed."
"Attic! I won't be locked up!"
"It sounds perfect." Quinn flashed Thomas a reckless grin as he gripped Noelle's bony wrist forcefully. "Come on, Tom. Let's be off."
Chapter Two
The Haymarket, linking Piccadilly with Trafalgar Square, was one of the most notorious locales of London's nightlife. Here, London's most fashionable citizens mingled with its least accepted. Curricles and tilburies barely missed the dust carts and brewers' drays that clattered down the street. Thieves, footpads, and pickpockets conjoined with the rich and powerful, each feeding off the other.
Prostitutes, gaily clad in ribboned and feathered bonnets, approached merchants' clerks and stonemasons. Although many of the women did not speak English, there was no language barrier in their trade; in rented rooms on the small streets near the Haymarket, they called out false endearments in French, Flemish, and German.
Barefoot children, some as young as six, clutched shoeblack boxes. Frequently they turned somersaults on the pavement as they scampered alongside carriages and cabs, trying to solicit customers.
Running patterers in greasy caps and patched breeches screamed scurrilous accounts of scandals and murders as they tried to hawk their penny papers. An enterprising urchin displaying "The Scarborough Tragedy" titillated bystanders with the highlights of the gallows confession of one Dempsey Tuttle, an unsavory baker who reputedly toasted his victims in a brick oven along with the day's batch of bread.
Quinn skillfully maneuvered the sporty phaeton through the evening traffic, finally pulling out of the carnival atmosphere of the Haymarket onto Regent Street. He and Thomas ignored Noelle as they debated the merits of the pair of matching grays Quinn had recently purchased.
Although it was the first time Noelle had ever ridden in a carriage, she barely noticed its fine appointments. Instead, she could not seem to take her eyes from the American's hands as they clasped the reins. They were broad and powerful with long fingers, squared at the tips. She thought of them as they had slid down her body, searching for the fateful watch; of the one moment they had cupped her breasts. What would it be like to be naked under those hands; to have them touching the rest of her body, exploring secret places?
She wanted to cry, scream, fling herself from the racing carriage, but sandwiched as she was between the two men, she could do none of these things. Instead, she turned her thoughts to her knife. She had to get it back! If he had only put it in the pocket nearest her instead of the opposite one.
The carriage had come to a quiet street lined with tall trees and elegant homes. Quinn turned into an alley that ran parallel to the street and stopped the rig behind one of the homes, its outline blurred by the dark and the evening's drizzle. He sprang out lightly and then held up his arms to Noelle, who glared at him defiantly and vaulted agilely over the side. He chuckled softly.
Noelle allowed herself to be led through a rear door and into a small room where several coats hung on wooden pegs. A pair of abandoned pattens lay on their side in a corner.
"Wait here while I get some light," Thomas instructed. He returned almost immediately, holding a brass candelabrum with three flaming candles. The flickering lights threw deep shadows on the planes of Quinn's chiseled features, giving him a diabolical look. The chilling illusion did not go unnoticed by Noelle. She shivered in spite of herself.
"This way." Thomas gestured toward a flight of narrow wooden stairs obviously used by the servants and led them to the attic landing. He stopped in front of a stout oak door and then unlocked it.
As the door swung open Noelle dimly perceived sloping ceilings and mysterious conformations. Thomas entered, and the light from the candelabrum fell on odd pieces of furniture, battered trunks, and dust-covered bundles.
Quinn pushed Noelle into the room, making no effort to enter himself. Panic, as relentless and uncontrollable as the forces of nature, overcame her. She stumbled over to Thomas, frantically clutching at his arm.
"Please don't leave me 'ere," she begged, her lips trembling.
Thomas, uncomfortable under her frightened gaze, looked away and mumbled, "Don't worry. We shan't be gone long, and this will keep you company until we return." He placed the candelabrum on a scarred desk top and rushed from the room, the sound of his footsteps fading into the darkness of the hall.
Raising her ravaged face, Noelle looked into the arrogant countenance she hated so much. He regarded her impersonally, his overpowering presence filling the doorway.
Even after the door had slammed, separating them, she could still feel his eyes boring into her. No longer rational, she threw herself at the door.
"No!" she screamed. "Don't do this to me!" Her frail fists beat futilely against the barrier. "Please, somebody help me!" It was useless. She rested her cheek against the door and sobbed. Her strength ebbing with her spirits, she slid into a crumpled heap at the base of the door.
It had happened. A man was threatening her, controlling her. Feeling the panic rising again in her throat, she jerked up from the floor.
"No!" she exploded. "I'm not going to let this happen to me."
She scanned the room. The candles had burned to
three sputtering stubs; she had to move quickly.
For the first time since she had entered the room, she felt a small stir of hope. Set high in the wall across from her was a small window. In one corner of the room a child's rocking chair with a broken seat lay on its side. She rushed to it, wrenching off one splintered rocker, then crossed to the window. Raising her arms high above her head, she thrust the rocker through the glass. Jagged pieces showered over her, one making a thin cut on her cheek, another embedding itself in the back of her hand. Ignoring her wounds, she looked about for something to stand on. Precious minutes elapsed as she struggled, trying to move some wooden crates. It wouldn't do; she couldn't budge them.
Straightening wearily, she noticed bookshelves lining the wall adjacent to the door. She hastened to the shelves and loaded her arms with the dusty volumes, stacking them underneath the window. When the pile reached her knees, she cautiously climbed on top. Avoiding the glass lying on the dusty sill, she peered out the window and took in great lungfuls of cool, crisp air.
The rooftop sloped sharply away from her, its edge disappearing into the bleak, silent night. She removed the last shreds of glass from the frame and tried to angle her shoulders through the opening, but it was too narrow to accommodate them. She climbed down off the pile of books and removed her bulky coat, but it did no good. No matter how she contorted her body, she couldn't get through the small window.
She screamed with frustration, then shouted into the darkness, "Help! Somebody help me! Is anybody there? Please!"
She waited, praying for any response. Again and again she screamed. The night mocked her with its silence.
Once more she lowered herself back into the attic room and sat on the pile of books she had stacked so hopefully. Quinn Copeland! He had caged her like an animal.
In a wild rage, she dashed across the room to the door and slammed it with her fists, cursing and sobbing. Abruptly she stopped and stared at the door. Then, her pulses racing, she bent over and peeked through the keyhole. A slow smile crept across her face.