by Justine Cole
"How d'ya do there, missy?" she chirped with a crisp Irish brogue. "It's such a fine mornin' for a change." Her bright blue eyes darted around the room. "Oh, ya haven't even opened the curtains. Here, let me do it for ya." Setting the tray down, she bustled to the windows. "I've been given me orders to get you fed and ready to leave with that handsome Mr. Copeland."
Noelle drew in her breath audibly. The woman looked at her more closely, taking in the dark bruises on her arms and her woebegone expression. What was a man like Mr. Copeland doing with a poor creature like this? Inexplicably she felt her sympathies rise for the pathetic young girl and decided to do her best to cheer her up.
"Me name's Brigid O'Shea. Now, sit right here and eat, missy, while I tidy up."
Noelle felt some of her tension slip away as she viewed with wonder the tempting array of food put before her. There was a wicker basket heaped with warm buns and a bowl of porridge topped with spoonfuls of golden honey. A flowered pitcher was filled to the brim with cream. There was a mound of butter and a steaming mug of hot chocolate, foamy on the top. She hadn't eaten since hours before her fateful meeting with the American, and that had been poor fare, a withered apple and a slice of stale bread. She began gulping great mouthfuls of food as though she were afraid it would be snatched from her.
"My, my, dearie, y'are hungry, ain't y a ?"
Embarrassed, Noelle began to eat more slowly, savoring each bite.
"I used ta eat like a bird meself when I was younger." Brigid chuckled to herself, indicating her well-padded figure. "To look at me now, you'd never believe it, would ya? Oh, the way the men looked at me, all waitin' for a chance to spend some time with me. It was flatterin', but it wasn't easy, mind ya. Most of them was lookin' for nothin' more than a little fun, if ya take my meanin'."
The kindly woman noticed the tight, stricken look that crossed Noelle's features. Could she possibly be dim-witted, unaware of what a wealthy and powerful protector she had? Brigid began to strip the bed efficiently.
" 'Course they weren't nothin' compared to your rich Mr. Copeland. Aye! To be young again. I'd give up all me fond memories just to spend a night with that handsome man."
Noelle groaned almost imperceptibly just as Brigid threw off the last cover and revealed the stained sheet. The plump Irishwoman eyed the drops of blood with surprise. Aye, so that's how it was, she thought, and here I was thinkin' she was a common whore, may the saints forgive me.
She knelt down beside Noelle, who was sitting vacant-eyed in her chair, and clasped the girl's thin hands in her own plump ones. "Had a bad time of it, did ya?"
Noelle looked into the friendly blue eyes and nodded dumbly. "It was horrible." Suddenly she straightened in her chair and clutched her new friend's hands tightly. "Please, Brigid, help me get away before he gets back. Just get me some clothes to put on and show me the back way out."
Brigid disengaged her hands from Noelle's grasp and began stroking her abused orange hair gently. "What on earth could ya be thinkin' of," she scolded. "Use your head, girl. He's not one to cross. He'd find you in no time if he wanted to, and then you'd be worse off than y'are right now."
"It isn't possible for me to be any worse off than I am now!" Noelle exclaimed.
"Now, calm yourself, dearie, and listen to me." Brigid crossed to a bundle she had dropped when she entered the room.
Unwrapping it, she gingerly pulled out a petticoat, the torn dress, and a small sewing kit. "Mr. Copeland gave orders you're to be sewn back in this dress."
Noelle opened her mouth to protest.
"Would you rather him be walkin' in on you like this with nothin' but that towel wrapped around yer naked body?" Brigid clucked in exasperation. "Though why he should want you sewn into this filthy rag is more than I can say." She pulled away the towel and helped Noelle into the petticoat, then draped the distasteful garment over Noelle's body. She began pinning and stitching. "Yer all bones, child. Look at yer ribs! Though it has to be said that you've a fine bosom."
Noelle turned obediently as Brigid stitched. She felt warmed by her motherly concern; it had been so long since anyone had cared about her or fussed over her. Brigid finally finished and stepped back to observe her handiwork.
Unexpectedly the door banged open and Quinn strode into the room. Noelle whirled around in her chair. He was dressed impeccably in a pearl-gray morning coat with matching trousers. His handsome face was drawn and tired, its harsh planes strongly etched. He regarded her dispassionately, then turned to Brigid.
"Did you feed her?"
"Aye, that I did, sir." Brigid gestured toward the breakfast tray. Only two buns and a bit of porridge were left on it. "Half starved, she was," she sniffed, shooting Quinn a disapproving scowl.
Quinn grinned back at her good-naturedly. "I'll feed her more often. In the meantime, take this with you when you go." He nodded toward the tray, dismissing her.
Noelle watched him. Once again he was acting as though she weren't in the room. The turbulent emotions she had felt the night before were gone. Instead, she was filled with an icy hatred so intense, it consumed her.
"Just a minute." Her voice was cold and steady. She walked purposefully over to Quinn and held out her hand. "I want a guinea."
He raised one dark eyebrow questioningly, but then, with a disinterested shrug, placed a shiny guinea in her hand.
Noelle took it to Brigid and pressed it on her. "Here, take this. I was in need of a friend."
"Why, thank you, miss."
Two could play the game of humiliation. "It's 'missus.' I'm Noelle Copeland, Mrs. Quinn Copeland."
The Irishwoman's apple cheeks paled at Noelle's disclosure. A hundred questions sprang to her lips only to remain unasked. For once the loquacious Brigid was without words.
"Y-yes, ma'am. Thank—thank ya, ma'am." She bobbed an awkward curtsy, her mobcap flopping comically on her curls, and fled from the chamber, closing the door behind her.
Noelle squared her small shoulders and turned to face the American.
Pantherlike, he crossed the room toward her, never taking his eyes from hers. "If you think you can humiliate me, you're wrong. However, you can provoke me, and that would be unwise. You are to flaunt this marriage to no one without my permission, do you understand?"
With every inch of her being, Noelle yearned to slap his arrogant face, to fling herself at him and claw out those unfeeling eyes. But she hadn't the courage, and she hated herself for her cowardice.
"You should have told me, you know." Incredibly she saw pity etched across his chiseled features. "I wouldn't have been so rough. It's not my habit to rape virgins."
"And if I told you, would you 'ave believed me?" She spoke bitterly, knowing the answer even before the question had passed her pale lips. "Of course you wouldn't 'ave . . . so you just take yer pity and shove it up yer arse."
Ignoring her, he withdrew a small white jar from the pocket of his coat and unscrewed the lid to reveal scarlet rouge. Dipping his finger in the pot, he slashed it across her cheeks and smeared it over her lips.
He began to chuckle infuriatingly. "There, now you look like the girl I married."
Chapter Four
The late morning sun shone brightly on the gleaming white door and the ornate lion's head knocker that adorned it. Lifting it, Quinn rapped sharply. Noelle was overawed as she gazed at the brick exterior of the stately London town house that graced fashionable Northridge Square. The door opened, revealing a thin, elderly man dressed in spotless livery. His sparse white eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly at the improbable pair on the doorstep.
"Good morning, Tomkins," Quinn said, ushering Noelle inside.
She was entranced. Her eyes drank in the splendor of the foyer with its glossy black marble floor. Sunlight streamed in through two tall windows and splashed the polished brass wall sconces and the graceful daffodil-yellow settee that rested along one ivory wall.
"Good morning, Mr. Copeland," Tomkins said stiffly.
"Is my father
in?"
"In the library, sir." The butler hesitated briefly, then glanced significantly at Noelle. "Do you wish me to announce you?"
"No, I think I'll surprise him." Quinn grinned.
Tomkins inclined his head slightly. "Very well, sir." His back rigid with disapproval, he disappeared noiselessly down the hallway.
Quinn led Noelle into a small anteroom. "Wait for me here. I'll be back shortly." He pulled a key from the inside of the door. "You know it wouldn't be any use to try to escape, don't you? This time I won't be stupid enough to leave the key in the other side of the door."
"You don't really think a locked door would keep me 'ere if I made up my mind to leave, do you, Quinn?" she sneered, using his first name deliberately, spitting it out of her mouth as if it were venom.
He ignored her bravado. "You mean you're not going to try to escape the minute my back is turned? Forgive me if I don't believe you, but honesty is not one of your more sterling qualities. You have no one but yourself to blame for last night. You weren't even an honest whore, were you?"
"Honesty," she said flatly. "What do you know about honesty? More money than you can spend. Never 'ad to worry about a place to sleep fer the night or an empty stomach. It's easy fer you to be able to talk about honesty. You're rich enough to afford it."
"You shouldn't have been so quick to judge me. I might have surprised you."
He closed the door, turned the key in the lock, and headed for the library, where the confrontation he had been anticipating for so long waited for him.
Simon Copeland sat at the massive desk, a large ledger bound in tan calf open in front of him. However, he wasn't really concentrating on the rows of figures that stretched in neat columns down the page. Instead, he was wondering how the shipyard in Cape Crosse was operating in his absence. Once again he was grateful that he had been wise enough twenty-four years ago to choose that small Georgia town on Providence Sound as the location of Copeland and Peale's American shipyard.
He remembered how the older and more experienced shipbuilders had scoffed at him. They warned him that a location thirty-five miles south of Savannah was too isolated, that he would have to depend on slaves because skilled labor would be impossible to come by. But Simon had no intention of building a shipyard on human misery. Instead, he traveled to New York and Boston, where he scoured the shipyards owned by some of the same men who had laughed at him.
There, Simon found freed slaves and experienced craftsmen, many of them immigrants from the shipyards of Scotland and Holland, family men who were disillusioned with the crowded conditions of cities and wanted something better for their children. Simon told them about Cape Crosse with its schoolhouse and three churches. He told them of the new white frame houses that were sitting empty, waiting for families to fill them. And, since they loved ships, he also told them of the kinds of vessels he and Benjamin Peale planned to build. Simon Copeland found his workers.
He remembered how delighted Ben had been at his first sight of Cape Crosse. Damn, he missed him! Simon's fingers fondly stroked the carved walnut as he thought of his former partner sitting at this same desk. Simon was a meticulous man, but he smiled as he recalled Ben's chaotic work habits: rumpled papers scattered haphazardly across the polished top, books strewn about this same room, contracts representing hundreds of pounds stuffed into an empty ale mug on the mantel. Perhaps it was just as well that he and Ben had had an ocean separating them; it was probably the secret of their successful partnership. Since the early years, they had seldom seen each other. Still, it had pleased Simon as he sat in his orderly office in Cape Crosse to think of Benjamin here, running the British branch of the company amidst the cheery chaos that always surrounded him.
Since Ben had died eight months ago, Simon had increasingly come to realize how much he had relied on his partner's good sense. It wasn't happenstance that Simon had purchased the Peales' Northridge Square town house. Benjamin's widow, Constance, who now owned half the company, had decided to remain at her country estate in Sussex during her year of deep mourning. Since she only planned to visit London infrequently as her business affairs dictated, she had sold the elegant Northridge Square home to Simon and purchased a smaller house nearby. He had been here four months now, and it probably would be twice that long before he could return to Cape Crosse. Somehow it had comforted Simon to be here among Benjamin's things as he sorted out the affairs of the English shipyard.
If only he could turn the Cape Crosse yard over to Quinn and stay in England himself. Somehow he had hoped . . .
He frowned, his dark brows almost meeting in the middle. Damnation! He was going to have to do something about his son. Almost twenty-eight and still as wild as he'd been as a boy.
Quinn knew all there was to know about building ships; he understood the intricacies of running Copeland and Peale. How could he be so impractical with all his talk of experimentation? He wanted to sink thousands of dollars into the development of a totally new hull shape. Copeland and Peale was a conservative shipbuilder, not some shoddy organization that would fall in with any foolhardy scheme.
Perhaps it had been a mistake to summon Quinn from Cape Crosse three months before. His son had now managed to swing Constance over to his side. That could present a problem, since she still controlled half the company. Why isn't Quinn like other men's sons, Simon thought bitterly—obedient, respectful of his father?
His thoughts were interrupted as the study door flew open and the subject of his ruminations strode in. At first glance the resemblance between the two men was striking; however, a closer scrutiny revealed that the likeness was more of manner than physical appearance.
At fifty, Simon's dark hair was threaded with silver, but he was still a handsome man, broad-shouldered and muscular with biting blue eyes. Quinn was the larger and darker of the two. His cheekbones were higher and more defined, but the two men had the same strong brow and bold nose.
"Don't you ever knock?" Simon grumbled.
Quinn lit a thin cheroot and crossed to the fireplace. "There's no need for us to stand on ceremony, is there, Simon?" He leaned gracefully against the marble mantel and crossed one booted ankle over the other.
"So"—Simon regarded his tall, handsome son critically—"the prodigal son returns. Don't you think it was a bit extravagant to take private rooms for yourself when you could have stayed here?"
This was an old argument between them. Over the years Quinn had prudently invested his wages. He had long been financially independent of his father, a fact that galled Simon.
"It's my money, Simon, as you well know. Besides, don't you think that would be rather hypocritical, considering all of our differences?"
"Our differences, as you call them, are of your making, not mine," the older man barked angrily.
"Our differences, Simon, started before I was old enough to cause them."
Simon gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white, and glared at his son. Their eyes locked in silent combat, punctuated only by the ticking of the gilded clock on the mantel. Abruptly Simon slumped back in his chair, impatiently running his fingers through his black hair.
"If I had known you were coming, I would have made arrangements for Constance to be here," he said gruffly. "I know how you enjoy her company."
At the thought of Constance, Quinn relaxed. He crossed to a leather chair angled near the walnut desk. "The fair Constance. Now, there's a woman!" He settled himself comfortably in the chair and looked significantly at his father. "She's bright, vibrant."
"Bright? How can you say that? She's the most featherbrained woman I've ever met, and she insists on meddling in company affairs."
Quinn regarded his father evenly. "She's half owner of Copeland and Peale now, as well as being an admirable woman. Don't be so quick to dismiss her opinions. She may be flighty, but she's not stupid."
"She's a meddler and knows nothing of the business!" Simon exclaimed, rising from his chair and stalking across the room.
&nb
sp; "She was married to your partner for twenty-one years," Quinn reminded him.
"Yes, and Ben paid too much attention to her crazy ideas."
"Which crazy ideas?" Quinn asked coolly. "Building a totally new hull?" He walked to the fireplace and flicked the ash from his cheroot onto the grate. "You're a fool, Simon. You know the rumors about the work at Smith and Damon in New York."
"A fool, am I!" Simon shot back. "Damn it, Quinn, we've been through this a hundred times. A ship without her breadth well forward in the beam will founder. A shipbuilder doesn't go against the natural order of things, and you only have to look at nature to see the error of your concept. There's hardly a species of fish that isn't largest near the head, forward of its center."
"Fish are fish, Simon, and ships are ships. Fish exist in only one element, the sea. And at the depths they swim, the sea is calm. Ships must contend with two elements, wind and sea, and they're both unpredictable. You're so wrong, Simon," Quinn said, his eyes glittering harshly, "but then you always have believed in your own infallibility."
Simon looked at his son sadly, then walked over to the desk and settled himself again in the chair. He spoke softly. "Can't we stop this endless bickering?"