The Copeland Bride

by Justine Cole

  With that he picked her up and slung her across his shoulder, heading back toward the carriage. She pounded her fists against his back, but he did not break his stride. With one hand, he opened the carriage door and then, leaning over, dumped her unceremoniously inside.

  "I think it's time we had a long, overdue honeymoon, don't you?"

  With a curt nod to the coachman, he stepped back and watched the carriage start down the road. Noelle's screams hung like discarded memories under the leafless trees.

  When all was finally still, Quinn walked back to the clearing. Picking up her cloak, he mounted his horse, and with a quick tap of his heels he took off to join the speeding carriage on its long trip northward.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  For the next two days, they traveled as if the devil were at their heels, stopping only for food and to change horses and drivers. At a prosperous coaching inn near St. Albans, Quinn arranged to have his stallion brought on at a more leisurely pace, and for the rest of the trip he sat on top of the carriage with the coachman. He frequently took the reins himself, driving at such a breakneck pace that several of the coachmen made solemn vows never again to hire themselves out to an American. He seldom slept, and when he did, it was only for an hour or two.

  Inside the carriage, Noelle spent the night and the next day staring blankly out the window. She did not see the towns they passed through or the changing landscape. She saw only Quinn's face as he raged at her, "You're my wife . . . I own you!"

  When he opened the carriage door and tossed in her cloak with a parcel of food, she did not look at him. The cloak lay where he had thrown it even though her lips were tinged blue with cold; the food went untasted. She was permitted to leave the carriage each time they stopped to change horses, but even the lively scenes in the inn yards failed to catch her attention. Her mind refused to consider the future. She did not let herself think about their destination or what would happen when they reached it.

  On her second night in the carriage, she finally slept. At dawn, she awakened, bruised and aching, but once again with a clear mind. She had been incredibly stupid not to have fled from Simon's house the moment Quinn had returned. Stupider still to have ignored the warning of the slippers. But it was useless to waste time berating herself. She had to form a plan!

  At dusk, they stopped at the Rose and Crown, a ramshackle inn with broken shutters at the windows. Quinn opened the door of the carriage. His face was seamed with weariness and marred by the scab from her scratch, but his eyes were as alertly chilling as always.

  "Get down. We're going to eat here."

  "I'm not hungry," Noelle sneered.

  In a flash he had roped his arm around her waist and jerked her to the ground. "Next time, don't argue."

  She smoldered with resentment as they entered the dingy inn. He walked into a large room at the side, but Noelle stayed back in the shadows of the hallway and watched him. Inconspicuously he took a seat at the end of one of the trestled tables that ran perpendicular to a soot-darkened fireplace.

  With the exception of an old crone who was waiting on the tables, the room was filled with men—laborers, poor farmers from the district, and one group of men so rough and ill-kempt that it was impossible to believe they labored at any honest trade.

  Noelle took stock of her appearance. She had wiped some of the rouge from her cheeks with a petticoat ruffle and run her fingers through her hair to tidy it, but she knew that with her hair still undone and the emerald dress sticking out under the edge of her cloak, she hardly looked respectable. Still, this might be her last chance to escape.

  Taking a deep breath, she framed herself in the doorway, straightened her spine, and in her most measured tones addressed the group. "Pray you, could someone come to my aid?"

  The innkeeper eyed her suspiciously as he set down a heavy trencher bearing a juicy joint of mutton. He was a man of stolid disposition with a limited intelligence that had no tolerance for contradictions. To him, things must always be as they seemed, and a woman who spoke like a lady and looked like a goddess but wore the clothes of a trollop did not fit into his scheme of things. He did not dare disrespect, but neither did he accord her the solicitude he reserved for the few members of the Quality who were forced to patronize his inn.

  "Wot seems to be the problem, missy?"

  "I fear I am in the most dire of straits." From the corner of her eye, Noelle could see Quinn watching her, amusement flickering in his eyes. He wouldn't be laughing for long, she thought with satisfaction.

  Helplessly she pressed her fingers to her cheek. "I have been abducted," she cried, her voice quivering dramatically. "Stolen from my parents' house by an unprincipled rogue who intends to compromise me." The room was filled with some sympathetic mutterings, and Noelle pressed home her advantage. "My father, knowing his vile reputation, refused him permission to court me. Now he has taken his revenge." She allowed a tear to trickle down her cheek.

  One of the men, a farmer by his clothing, rose from his table and walked toward her. "I got a daughter not much older'n you. I'd kill any man who played fast and loose with her."

  "Aye! Only a spawn o' Satan would pull such a scurvy trick," offered another.

  Noelle nodded her head and wiped away the tear with her littlest finger.

  "Hold!" the innkeeper cried as he eyed her skeptically. "I want to know wot a lady like you claim to be is doin' dressed in clothes such as those?"

  There was a low muttering, and a few heads nodded in agreement. Then the room fell silent, everyone waiting for her response.

  Noelle's inventive mind went dry. She saw Quinn fold his arms across his chest and lift a dark, expectant brow. In desperation, she pressed her hands to her heart.

  "Oh, please, kind sir. I beg of you not to press me. The explanation is so humiliating, so sordid, I could not bear the shame of revealing it. Let it suffice that I barely escaped with my virtue. Oh, if only my dear father were here to help me!" With that she buried her face in her hands and began to sob so heart-rendingly that only she heard the soft chuckle coming from across the room.

  The mood of the patrons turned threatening.

  " 'Ere, now, don't be bullyin' 'er." A man in a gray smock punched an accusing finger toward the innkeeper.

  "Yer as bad as the scum wot carried 'er off!" shouted another.

  "Aye! By the cross of blessed Jesus, you're a hard man, Hadfield."

  As a dozen men roared their displeasure the innkeeper beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen.

  Noelle gave them a teary smile. "You've all been so kind." And, then, with a small sob, "I'll never forgive myself for endangering you as I have!"

  "Wot's this?" the man in the smock said. "And 'ow could you 'ave put a room full of grown men in danger."

  "Oh. sir, even twice as many men would be no match for the one who has stolen me. I mean no offense, but he is a man of immense cunning and almost superhuman strength."

  The men at the tables visibly bristled with offense at her words, and the ill-kempt group of ruffians who had thus far remained silent rose as if one body. Noelle saw that Quinn was no longer smiling but was regarding her with wary respect. Satisfaction welled inside her as she drove home her final shaft.

  "What a fool I was to put you all in the path of the American's wrath!"

  It was as if the room exploded.

  "American!"

  " 'E's a bloody Yankee!"

  "Curse the bastard!"

  "By God, no one will ever say a dozen God-fearing Englishmen weren't no match for one scurvy American!"

  "We'll show 'im?"

  "By the time we've finished with 'im, 'e won't be carryin' off any more innocent young girls!" snorted a bearded man with a cast in one eye.

  "Aye!"

  "Let's at 'im!"

  The group of ruffians moved toward her. "Where is the blackguard?"

  At the blood gleam in their eyes, Noelle hesitated.

  "I'm right here."

  He was the only man
in the room still sitting. Slowly he got up from the table and then inclined his head slightly toward the astonished patrons.

  Finally the bearded man detached himself from the group. "I think you'd better come outside with us, Yankee."

  "I'd be glad to," Quinn replied coolly, "but let me introduce myself first. I am Quinn Copeland, and this lady is Highness—one of the most famous whores in London."

  Noelle gasped in outrage.

  "What kind of greenhorns do you think we are?" one man shouted.

  "Aye. We're not as easily taken in as that!"

  Quinn planted one foot casually on the bench in front of him and picked up his tankard of ale. "I don't blame you for being skeptical. Highness has been deceiving men since she was eighteen."

  "Eighteen! She can't be more than that now."

  Quinn looked at them solemnly. "The lady is thirty years old. Remarkable, isn't it?" He gestured offhandedly toward her with his tankard. "Of course, it's much easier to tell by her body than her face."

  A dozen sets of eyes turned to study her, and Noelle felt herself going pale with rage. "It's a lie!" she shouted.

  But the men weren't so certain, and Noelle saw their suspicion. Lifting her head high, she blazed at Quinn, "You are a scoundrel, sir. First you ruin my young sister, and now you ruin me."

  "Very good, Highness, but it won't work," Quinn drawled. "These men are much too shrewd to be taken in by your lies."

  The man in the gray smock stepped forward. "Suppose you let us decide that for ourselves and tell us what yer doin' with 'er."

  "All right. Although I admit I'd rather keep my foolishness private."

  Quinn threw some coins down on the table. "A round of ale for everyone."

  The innkeeper crept cautiously from the kitchen, and he and the old crone began refilling the men's mugs. Noelle watched with growing trepidation as Quinn stepped over to the fireplace and leaned an arm on the mantelpiece.

  "Two nights ago I was in a tavern in London. Highness approached me, and we agreed on a price. Let me tell you, gentlemen, she was worth every farthing." He grinned toward the outraged Noelle. "As I was getting ready to leave for York the next day and had too much of your good English ale under my beli, I invited her to come with me. She said I would have to pay her ten pounds to make the trip. Like a fool I agreed.

  "Once we were past London, she told me ten pounds wasn't enough, and I'd have to pay her more. We argued until this evening, when she swore that I must pay her twenty-five pounds or she would make me regret the day I was born. Twenty-five pounds," Quinn growled, well knowing that these men had never seen so much money at one time in their lives. "What is there between a woman's legs that is worth twenty-five pounds? I refused, of course, and now she's making good her threat. So you see, gentlemen, what a stupid fool I have been to be taken in so easily by a woman."

  Noelle could see he had the sympathies of some of the men, but others still looked doubtful.

  One of the farmers looked toward her. "What do you have to say to this, miss?"

  Once again she permitted a small tear to escape. "I have been gently reared, sir. I don't know the art of protecting myself against such black lies."

  The man in the gray smock approached her. "You tell us yer still a virgin?"

  Noelle swallowed hard. "Yes."

  "Let 'er prove it, I say. Get the midwife. She will tell us if the girl's maidenhead is still in place. Then we'll know if she is speaking the truth."

  Noelle shrank back in dismay as the men applauded the suggestion by banging their empty tankards loudly on the wooden tables.

  "I don't think that will be necessary. Do you, Highness?" Quinn said softly.

  Miserably Noelle shook her head.

  There were muffled growls and curses as the mood of the men turned ugly. Too many of them had known the treachery of whores, and they did not like being taken in again.

  The bearded man grabbed at Noelle's cloak and yanked it off. "Leave 'er with us, Yankee. We'll teach 'er some manners!"

  Fear clutched at her as she saw several more of the rough- looking men advancing toward her.

  "Aye. She'll 'ave a bit more respect for men when we've done with 'er."

  "Won't be so quick with 'er tricks next time."

  Quinn laughed easily and walked through the men until he stood directly behind Noelle. With one arm, he caught her body in a band of steel; her shoulders were pressed back into his hard chest.

  "I'm tempted to take advantage of your offer, but to be truthful, I have my own score to settle with her." With that he pushed his hand inside the bodice of her dress and began fondling her bare breast.

  Noelle wanted to die from humiliation as his thumb touched her nipple, and the leering men cheered him on. She tried to pull away, but the arm around her was unyielding.

  "That's the way, Yankee."

  "Aye. She'll hum a different tune when ya 'ave 'er on 'er back."

  Noelle pressed her eyes shut against Quinn's rough, debasing caress. His harsh laughter rang in her ears. The men's comments became coarser, their suggestions more obscene. Finally Quinn removed his hand and slapped her on the rear. "If you'll excuse me now, gentlemen, I feel the urge to finish what I've started."

  There were more ribald cheers. Then Noelle felt her cloak once again settle over her shoulders and a powerful grasp steer her from the room.

  As the night air brushed against her face Noelle sensed the change in Quinn. He dragged her over the broken cobbles of the courtyard with menacing purpose, the easy, laughing indolence of the taproom gone.

  "You damned little fool. You almost got yourself raped and me killed with your stupid tricks."

  She spun to face him, an angry retort ready, but the savage fury etched on his face stopped her. His lips were rimmed white with rage; a muscle twitched in the corner of his cheek.

  "You still haven't learned, have you? You're not going to get away from me until I'm finished with you." With iron talons he caught her shoulders and gave her one vicious shake. "If you ever try anything like that again, by God, I'll thrash you within an inch of your life."

  He hurled her into the carriage and slammed the door shut with such force that the entire body shook on its springs. Noelle heard him climb to the top, and then the carriage lurched forward so suddenly that she was thrown to the floor. Pulling herself back up on the seat, she clutched furiously at the strap that hung near the door.

  She had no doubt from the breakneck pace at which they were traveling that Quinn was holding the reins, but never had he driven so recklessly, letting the wheels come within inches of the deep ditches that ran along each side of the road, violently careening around curves until she was certain he would kill them all. Finally he let up on the pace, not because he cared about her comfort, she thought bitterly, but only to spare the horses.

  As her wheel-born prison carried her relentlessly northward, she began to cry in earnest—at first in angry frustration over the failure of her escape and, finally, from fear of what lay ahead for her.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  By afternoon of the next day, Noelle guessed that they were somewhere in the northern part of Yorkshire. Puffy clouds like smoky pillows raced across the windswept sky. They had long since left the highway behind them for a sparsely traveled dirt track barely wide enough for the carriage to pass. The landscape was more desolate than anything Noelle had ever seen, with endless stretches of moorland and rocky slopes where only a few desperate trees clung to the windswept surfaces. It was a harsh, forbidding land, and they seemed to be its only inhabitants.

  A chill drizzle was falling from the leadened skies when the carriage finally stopped. Unable to bear another moment inside, Noelle opened the door and stepped down into a world where the air was raw and pungent, and every sound was muffled by thick gray mist and the vast emptiness of the moors stretching in front of her. Facing out on the moorland, like ancient gnarled warriors, was a line of bleak hills. Jagged rocky scars marred the lower slopes; the
upper slopes were obscured by the mist.

  At first she did not see the small cottage, it was so much a part of the rocky crag that rose like a gray monolith behind it. No vines softened its rough stone exterior, no trees draped over the thatched roof. This, then, was their destination.

  A whip cracked. Noelle whirled around just in time to see the coachman turn the carriage around and then disappear down the same road they had just climbed. She stood alone with Quinn.

  Ignoring her, he picked up his valise and disappeared through the door of the cottage. She stood uncertainly outside, cold and desperately unhappy. A gust of wind, still raw from the North Sea, lifted up her cloak and snapped it behind her. The knife edge of the blast cut through to her skin. Reluctantly she walked to the cottage and stepped inside.

  To her consternation, she saw that the interior was only one room. Although it was plain, it was clean and more comfortable than the primitive exterior had led her to expect. Braided rugs were strewn across the planked floor, pewter plates rested on a shelf; there was a cupboard, a table of rough-hewn pine, several comfortable chairs, and a large bed covered with a quilted spread.

  Quinn was hunched in front of the fireplace, lighting the coal that rested on the grate.

  "Shut the door," he barked.

  Noelle gave it an angry shove with her foot, and the door slammed with a satisfying bang. Quinn did not seem to notice. She walked over to one of the cottage's three windows and stared out. It was empty and frightening.

  He came up behind her and wearily rubbed the dark stubble that covered his jaw. "You won't be able to see anything until the mist lifts, and that won't be before morning, if then. Sometimes it hangs on for days."

  "For days," Noelle exclaimed, knowing she could never get away until it cleared. "But that's impossible!"

  Quinn sighed. "I think we'd better get a few things straight, Highness. Whether the mist lifts now or next week doesn't concern you, because you're not going anywhere. There isn't a village for thirty miles, and the only other person around is the old woman who takes care of this place. You can run off any time you like, but the chances are you'll die out on those moors, because I'm not going to chase you. My horse won't be here for another day, and besides, I'm too damned tired. Now, you do what you want. I'm going to bed."