The Copeland Bride

by Justine Cole

  As she passed Quinn's door he emerged from his room, dressed in a dark gray coat and trousers.

  "Good morning, Mr. Copeland."

  "Mrs. Debs." he nodded.

  "Will you be gone the rest of the day, sir? We'd like to do your room today if it won't inconvenience you."

  Before he could respond, the shrill voice of the maid called out from the adjoining hallway. "Mrs. Debs! Look what I found in the bottom of Miss Pope's armoire, right behind her slippers. Whatever do you think—"

  Abruptly she stopped speaking as she rounded the corner and saw Quinn. "Ex-excuse me, sir." She bobbed a curtsy, the cumbersome bundle she carried in her arms making the movement awkward.

  Quinn stared at the rough, dark cloth that held the parcel. It looked like a cloak. There was something so familiar . . . He felt a tensing along his spine.

  "I'll take that."

  The bewildered maid stared at him without moving.

  "There now, girl, didn't you hear Mr. Copeland?" Mrs. Debs said briskly, although she was as mystified as the maid.

  The girl quickly handed him the bundle.

  "Come along now. You've work waiting for you. We'll do your room this afternoon, Mr. Copeland, if that's satisfactory."

  He nodded distractedly, and the two women left him.

  Once in his room, he set the bundle on his bed. For a moment he looked down on it, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. Then with a yank he sent the contents tumbling across the bed. As he had suspected, the dark cloth covering the parcel was a cloak. But the other objects, lying in disarray in front of him, bore mute damning witness to his enormous stupidity.

  He saw the shawl with clumps of orange hair sewn to one edge and the small ceramic apothecary pots. But it was the tawdry gown of emerald-green satin that brought a curse to his lips. Tattered black lace at the neck, a jagged seam across the bodice and down the front—the dress was indelibly printed in his memory. As he picked it up in his clenched fist something fell from the pocket, landing with a soft clink at the toe of his polished boot. It was a thin, gold wedding band. The blistering fury that possessed him was like a living entity coursing through his blood.

  Dorian Pope and Highness, the Soho pickpocket, were the same woman! The same conniving little bitch!

  Enraged, he threw down the gown and stalked the perimeters of the room. One deception after another! Lie upon lie! From the moment he had met her at the ball when she had let him believe that she was Simon's mistress, he had been manipulated just as if he were a puppet. And his own father had been a partner to her plotting!

  After the ball, the deceptions had been more subtle. Her breasts pushing against him when they danced. The wet negligee that had molded so seductively to her body. The way she had teased him with her kiss. Her hair, molten honey in the candlelight as they dined. All of it was a lie.

  Quinn's rage fed upon itself like a fire burning out of control in a drought-stricken forest. How she must have laughed each time she inflamed him and then fled.

  He remembered the night he had rescued her in the Soho alley. She had spewed out one lie after another, and he had believed her. Pitied her.

  God damn it! He was a blind fool! Dorian Pope had played him . . . Dorian Pope had . . . No, that wasn't right. It wasn't her name. The drunken night he had married her, there had been another name. It was French . . . Quinn reached into the corners of his memory. Noelle. Noelle Dorian.

  He looked down at the wedding ring still on the floor where it had fallen and then picked it up, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. As he gazed at it he realized with blinding clarity how desperate she was to gain her freedom from him. The elaborate masquerade. The way she had cunningly maneuvered him into offering to dissolve their marriage. It all testified to her desperation.

  And with that knowledge, Quinn had his weapon to punish her.

  The beautiful Dorian Pope was his wife. And, as his wife, she was his possession, subject to him in everything.

  Her body was his property to do with as he pleased.

  He let the ring fall back into his hand and closed his fist tightly around it; his mouth twisted mercilessly. Within minutes he had put everything except the wedding band back into the bundle and, slipping into her bedroom, returned it to the bottom of her armoire.

  Now, to claim what was his. . . .

  A shimmering white moon threw shadows over the garden as Noelle slipped out the back door. Dinner was over, Simon had sealed himself in the library, and she could finally steal away to check the urn for a message from Bardy. A paisley shawl draped over her shoulders, she hurried down the moonlit path toward the gate, her thin slippers soundless on the bricks. She shivered as she passed by the clump of oaks, remembering her encounter with Quinn the night before. Once again her luck had held. If it would just stay with her until she got her papers.

  Outside the garden wall, all was quiet. She reached under the blanket of ivy, and her hands embraced the cold stone. Inside the urn was a piece of folded paper. Pulse racing, she extracted the note and tilted it toward the generous moonlight.

  Highness,

  Our business will be concluded tonight. Be at the Boar's Head Inn off Gough Square at 11:00. My carriage will meet you.

  Q.C.C.

  Eleven o'clock! It was well past nine now, and Gough Square was at least an hour's walk. If only she had been able to look in the urn sooner.

  She rushed back into the house, pausing for a moment to compose herself before she knocked on the library door.

  "Come in."

  Simon was working at his desk, neat stacks of papers arranged on each side of him.

  "I just wanted to say good night, Simon."

  He looked up and smiled fondly at her. "Going to bed already?"

  "I'm tired. I didn't sleep well last night." That part, at least, was true.

  "You do look a little pale. Why don't you sleep late tomorrow? I don't want you to get sick."

  Noelle agreed and then, after bidding Simon good night, raced to her room, dismissed her maid, and locked the door. She frowned as she pulled the bundle from the bottom of her armoire. Several pairs of slippers were on their sides. The maids must have been cleaning. She had to be more careful, find another hiding place.

  And then she smiled. After tonight, she could burn these clothes she detested. She thought of the vow the emerald gown represented, her vow to avenge herself on Quinn Copeland. Now the thought of revenge seemed like a child's fantasy. For the moment all that was important was to be free of him. Tonight was a time of endings; tomorrow, new beginnings.

  A sharp pain was piercing her side when she reached Gough Square, a few minutes past eleven. She found the inn at the entrance of a narrow lane that opened off the north side of the square. Its sign, carved in the shape of a boar's head with twin tusks jutting from its snout, creaked on rusty hinges as it swayed in the chill breeze. To her dismay, there was no carriage waiting.

  She paced back and forth in front of the inn, the hospitable sounds from within making her uneasy. Despite the dirt smeared on her face, with her eyes rimmed in kohl and her cheeks covered with rouge, she was sure to be accosted by one of the inn's patrons if she had to wait much longer. She pulled the dark cloak more tightly around her and then with a sigh of relief saw a large black carriage pull up.

  The driver looked down at her. "Are yer waitin' for Mr. Copeland?"

  Noelle nodded and, without giving him a chance to hop down from his seat, opened the door herself and stepped into the empty interior. The carriage moved out into the square.

  Leaning her head back against the seat, Noelle pulled open one of the silk curtains and stared out unseeingly. Her body ached with exhaustion; so little sleep last night and then her furious race against the clock to arrive here by eleven o'clock. If only she were not so tired; more alert for this final, all-important encounter.

  Not until the carriage turned north on Tottenham Court Road did Noelle begin to feel uneasy. Where were they going? For the fi
rst time she wondered why Quinn had not met her himself at the Boar's Head Inn. Why had he not just handed her the papers and been on his way? She realized that in her haste after she had found the note, she had abandoned her customary caution, had not stopped to consider any of the implications of the message.

  By now she was thoroughly alarmed. They had cleared the northern edge of the city, and the driver still showed no signs of slackening his pace. She pounded the palms of her hands on the barrier that separated them. The only response was the crack of the whip and the furious pounding of the horses' hooves on the macadam highway.

  Trappei inside the carriage as it raced through the stygian night, Noelle fought to control her panic. She forced herself to think rationally. There was really no way she could have been found out. If Quinn had guessed her identity in the garden, he would never have let her go so easily. And she had not seen him since, so there was nothing she could have done today to give herself away.

  For a moment her furious speculations turned to Simon. Could he possibly have told Quinn the truth? But Simon was still in bed when she had returned from her shopping this morning, and Quinn had already left the house.

  Looking for some clue, she mentally reviewed everything that had passed between them since their reunion at the ball, but there seemed to be no rational explanation for what was happening. That terrified her more than anything else.

  Then it occurred to her that he might be deliberately frightening her. He was showing her how easily he could have her abducted. This must be his way of making certain she understood what the consequences would be if she tried to blackmail him. Of course! That was it! He was trying to insure himself against Highness's larcenous ways.

  Noelle felt somewhat calmer, but by the time another hour had passed and they still had not stopped, she was almost frantic. An image of the slippers turned over on their sides in her wardrobe flashed in her mind just as the carriage drew to a jarring halt.

  She waited for the sound of Quinn's firm, booted stride, but heard only the shuffling steps of the coachman as he came round to open the door. For an instant she hesitated, but the thought of spending another moment alone with her torturous speculations was more than she could bear.

  Ignoring his outstretched hand, she jumped down and looked around her. They were at the side of a deserted road, the flickering carriage lamps too dim to penetrate the dense forest that surrounded them. Pyramidal forms of fir and pine were dwarfed by the leafless skeletons of beech, alder, and oak; their trunks, obsidian columns, primitive sentinels that seemed to warn against any human invasion.

  Noelle glanced nervously toward the coachman, who was tending the horses. Shoulders hunched, he hummed tunelessly as if the sound might ward off lurking spirits. Once again her eyes scanned the night forest. Suddenly she saw a distant sulphurous glow as a lantern was lit. There was someone in the forest, well back from the road among the trees.

  Noelle turned to the coachman. "Where's Mr. Copeland?"

  "Me orders was to bring yer 'ere." With that scant bit of information, he climbed back up on his box, settled himself comfortably, and then tipped his hat down over his eyes.

  For the first time Noelle noticed what might once have been a path. Narrow and overgrown, it led roughly in the direction of the light. She seemed to have no other choice but to follow it. Hesitatingly she stepped into the forest, the knife strapped to her leg her only comfort.

  A branch yanked at her shawl, and she quickly pulled it more tightly beneath her chin before her own hair could tumble out. The footing on the path was treacherous. She stumbled, skinning the heel of her hand as she tried to catch herself. An owl flew in front of her, and she let out a small gasp. Noelle was a creature of the city, and the night forest was as foreign to her as a distant planet.

  Still, she kept pushing herself toward the light. The light meant her papers, her freedom.

  After what seemed an eternity, she stepped into a small clearing. The lantern she had been following was swaying from the branch of a stunted beech. As it moved it cast grotesque shadows over the barren area. Tied to a tree was Pathkiller, Quinn's ebony stallion. His owner was nowhere in evidence.

  Suppressing her fear, Noelle moved out into the middle of the clearing.

  "Welcome, Highness." His voice was low and menacing in the eerie stillness of the night.

  Noelle whirled around as he stepped off the same path she had just traveled, almost as if he had first lit the lantern and then circled back to follow her.

  He walked toward her, dressed all in black, a cheroot clenched between his white teeth. The swaying lantern cast jagged scars across his hard, reckless features, and a tremor of primitive fear clutched at Noelle. This was not the man who had rescued her in the alley or the dinner companion who had charmed her over Simon's table. This was a stranger-—ruthless, unpredictable, and deadly. As he spoke his lips barely moved.

  "Sorry I can't offer you a drink, but I'm fresh out of gin."

  Summoning her courage, Noelle spat out at him. "Why did you 'ave me brought way out 'ere in the middle of nowhere?"

  "Because I wanted to. And I always do what I want."

  His hand shot out like a striking serpent and grabbed her arm, pulling her toward the lantern's glow. Noelle struggled against him, turning her head away from the condemning light.

  "You're a little hellcat, aren't you?" He chuckled unmercifully at her efforts to free herself from him as he dragged her underneath the lantern. Clasping her chin in his rough hand, he turned it inexorably toward the light. When the full glow fell on her face, he held it still, tightening his hand around her small chin as if he planned to crush the bone. Then, without warning, he let her go.

  With the unique courage of a survivor, Noelle lashed out at him. "What the bloody 'ell do ya think yer doin'?"

  "Just getting a better look at you. Highness. So I can remember you." The glowing ember at the end of the cheroot cast a bloody shadow over his relentless mouth.

  "All right. Yer've 'ad yer fun. Now 'and over me papers."

  With excruciating slowness, he withdrew a piece of folded paper from an inside pocket. "Is this what you want?"

  "Yes," she snapped. Her hand hastily reached out for the document.

  "Not so fast," his taut lips admonished as he pulled the paper back, out of her reach. And then, incredibly, he took the cheroot from his mouth and brushed one corner of the precious document with its glowing tip. Tiny tongues of flame lapped its edge.

  "No!" It was an animal cry, primitive and heart-rending**'

  He dropped the burning paper and then ground it into ash with the heel of his boot.

  "No!" Noelle threw herself at him, pounding his massive chest with her small fists. "Why?" she screamed.

  He pushed her away from him as easily as he might a small child. "Let's just say I've reconsidered."

  "You've what?" she gasped in outrage, the macabre glow of the lantern carving skeletal hollows in her face.

  "I've decided we're going to stay married, Highness. For a while anyway."

  "But yer don't want ter be married ter me," she cried desperately. "Yer too good fer the likes of me. I'm nothin' but a gin-soaked pickpocket."

  "Oh, I wouldn't call you that." Slowly his hand reached for her face.

  Dear God, no, she begged silently, motionless with fear.

  Deliberately his finger traced her eyebrows, the familiar tilt of her nose, the side of her cheek. Terror was etched in her golden eyes as she stood frozen under his touch.

  "No, I wouldn't call you that at all." His voice rose dangerously. "I'd call you a sly . . . conniving . . . greedy . . . little bitch!"

  With one savage jerk, he pulled her shawl from her head. Like spilled honey, her hair cascaded over her shoulders. Quinn grabbed her by the arms and shook her roughly. Her cloak came undone and fell to the ground. Once again she stood before him in the emerald dress.

  The unleashed fury of his voice sliced into the night. "Just how long did you think
you and Simon could make a fool of me?"

  "I wasn't trying to make a fool of you," she sobbed desperately, looking into eyes as intense as a prowling beast.

  "Then just what were you trying to do—Noelle?"

  At the sound of her real name on his sneering lips, panic stole her reason, and she began a deadly struggle.

  Within seconds he had pinned her arms behind her back. "You're my wife, and I'm claiming what is mine. I own you!"

  "No!" she screamed as she broke free of his grasp and ran, her hair streaming out behind her.

  Hurling himself through the air like a springing panther, he grabbed at her knees, pulling her feet out from under her. They both fell to the ground. He rolled her over on her back and held her down, using one knee to separate her legs. Then, with an expert hand, he reached under the skirt of her emerald gown and began his exploration. She felt his hand climb up her calf and flailed her legs wildly. She fought like a wild animal, tearing at his shoulders and neck with her nails, biting at anything that came near her mouth.

  Then she felt his weight ease itself from her body. He rose slowly, a bloody scratch marring his rugged cheek. Noelle lay still on the hard ground, her bare thighs exposed where the skirt of her gown had been pushed up. Huge and forbidding, his legs outspread, he stood over her. One of his hands rested on his hip, the other held the Object of his search, Noelle's knife.

  "You didn't really think I'd forget, did you?" he jeered contemptuously.

  Noelle rose painfully and stood before him. Even the cheap dress and garishly applied cosmetics could not hide her wild beauty, and for a moment he considered taking her right there in the clearing.

  Her chest was still heaving from the exertion of their struggle, but she pushed her shoulders back and lifted her chin haughtily. "What are you going to do with me?"

  "Now, that's an interesting question, Mrs. Copeland."

  She flinched as if he had struck her. "Don't call me that."

  "Why not? It's your name." He advanced on her and, through clenched teeth, growled, "You're my wife, and I don't intend to let you forget it so easily this time."