The Copeland Bride

by Justine Cole

  He tugged off his boots and sprawled, fully clothed, across the bed. Within seconds he was asleep.

  Noelle wandered restlessly about the cottage. To her distress, she saw that it was well-stocked with provisions, as if Quinn were planning a lengthy stay. A large, flat cheese rested on a shelf; two fresh loaves of bread wrapped in clean white cloths were beside it. There were bottles, of wine, a basket of eggs, bins full of vegetables and fruit, flour, sugar, and spices.

  She sat down in a comfortable armchair and tried to think clearly. Quinn was right. It would be suicide to try to escape over the moors. Following the road the carriage had taken to bring them here was equally foolish, since there was no village nearby.

  Besides, even if there were, no one was going to shelter a wife from her legal husband.

  Her husband. The sight of him asleep on the bed brought back the painful memory of that long-ago night in the inn when he had claimed her. She remembered the awful pain of it. How did married women survive that brutal assault night after night? How would she survive it?

  The fire was warming the room, and Noelle leaned back in her chair and unfastened her cloak. She was so tired. If she could just shut her eyes for a moment, perhaps something would come to her. . . .

  She awakened to sounds of movement in the cottage. Through half-parted lids, she saw Quinn walking toward her, tucking a clean white shirt into a pair of fawn-colored trousers. An empty hip bath, its tin sides still wet from his bath, sat in front of the fireplace. He looked down at her, buttoning his shirt as he spoke.

  "Are you hungry?"

  The sight of him, freshly bathed, banished her drowsiness, and she nodded. "What time is it?"

  "Almost midnight."

  Midnight! She'd been asleep for hours! Longingly she looked toward the empty tub. She was filthy. If only there were some privacy in this cottage so she could have a bath herself.

  From a brick oven set in the side of the fireplace, Quinn pulled out an iron pot and carried it over to the table where two places had been laid. There was already a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread sitting in the middle.

  "Come eat," he said flatly. "The old woman left a pot of stew for us. Tomorrow I'll catch some trout if the mist has lifted."

  The delicious fragrance coming from the stewpot drew Noelle to the table. As she sat, Quinn filled her glass with a deep red burgundy. The stew was excellent, with hearty chunks of lamb and vegetables in a thick gravy.

  While Noelle ate she found herself unobtrusively studying Quinn. How different he was from the gluttons who gorged themselves at the fashionable dinner tables of London—extolling, with full mouths, the merits of every dish; swilling wine, one glass after another; stuffing rich desserts into already overstuffed gullets.

  Food obviously meant little to Quinn. Now he ate sparingly, and when he was done, he pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, watching her.

  Noelle took a few more bites, and then, her appetite gone, put down her fork. "What about Constance and Simon? They'll be frantic with worry."

  "I left a note. Not that I care whether Simon worries or not, but I didn't want Constance upset. She's fond of you. Damned if I know why."

  He poured himself another glass of wine and took a slow sip. "I'm curious. Just what did you blackmail Simon with to make him go along with this scheme of yours? Was it only for money, or did you threaten to expose our marriage to his friends?"

  Noelle's jaw dropped. "Blackmail Simon?" she gasped. "Is that what you think?"

  "You don't expect me to believe this was his idea, do you?" Quinn sneered. "The man who was obsessed with having his son marry only the most well-bred of women?"

  "You surely don't think it was mine?" exclaimed Noelle.

  "That's exactly what I think."

  "Well, you're wrong. It was Simon's idea from the beginning."

  Quinn laughed, a bitter sound that had no vestige of merriment. "You're a little liar. I've seen Simon's books, and for the past two years he's been paying you quite generously."

  "But that wasn't blackmail money," Noelle argued desperately. "That was my salary as his hostess."

  "You can call it a salary if you want, Highness, but the rest of the world calls it blackmail." He took a final swallow of wine and then rose contemptuously from the table. "It's obvious you wanted to take Simon for everything you could and then disappear. But I spoiled your plan, didn't I, Highness, by coming back."

  Noelle was furious at the unfairness of it but could see no way to defend herself. For the first time she realized he was still calling her "Highness." It was as if Dorian Pope had never existed, and he saw her now only as the scheming London pickpocket who had entrapped him. That knowledge frightened her more than anything else. Although Quinn had often been insolent to her when he thought she was Dorian Pope, he had never actually hurt her. The same could not be said of his encounters with Highness.

  She realized that he was preparing a bath for her in the tin tub in front of the fireplace. The steam rose, warm and welcoming, as he added a pot of hot water. Noelle took a deep, steadying sip of wine.

  "I am quite capable of pouring my own bath water," she said icily.

  With one quirked eyebrow, he dismissed her comment and returned to his task. When he was done, he lit a cheroot and sprawled into one of the chairs near the tub, stretching his long legs out in front of him. The cheroot clenched in the corner of his mouth, he lazily undid his front shirt buttons, revealing the strange disk gleaming silver against the thick mat of dark hair on his chest.

  "I think it's time we started our honeymoon, don't you, Highness?"

  Her mouth was dry, but she met his gaze unflinchingly. "My name is Noelle."

  He expelled a thin stream of smoke. "Well, Noelle," he sneered, "get over here and take off your clothes for your husband. You need a bath."

  "I don't intend to bathe in front of you, Quinn."

  "Why not? You've done it before."

  "Yes. And my memories of it are not pleasant." With as much dignity as she could manage, she said, "I would like you to go outside."

  "I'm sure you would. Now get out of that dress."

  Something inside of Noelle snapped, and she jumped up. "I won't undress in front of you just because you tell me to. If you want this dress off me, you'll have to rip it off like you did before."

  Quinn didn't respond, and his very composure sparked her even more. "Well? Go ahead! You're stronger than I am. I can't stop you! Go ahead and rip it off like the filthy savage that you are!"

  His eyes turned into black flints with the force of his rage, and he sprang from his chair. Frightened by the wild look on his face, Noelle gripped the edge of the table in front of her.

  But he did not come toward her. Instead, he turned on his heels and walked over to the foot of the bed, where his coat lay smoothly folded.

  Noelle had won! He was going outside, and she would have the privacy she demanded. Not daring to let him see her gloat, she picked up her wineglass and drank, closing her eyes with a silent sigh of satisfaction.

  When she opened them, she was staring into the barrel of a silver pistol.

  He held it lightly in his hand, pointed directly at her. "I don't have to rip off your dress after all, do I, Highness?"

  Noelle flicked the tip of her tongue across her dry lips, her eyes glued to the gun as, slowly, she lowered the glass to her side. "You—you wouldn't really use that . . ." she muttered shakily.

  In answer, there was a deafening report, and the wineglass exploded into a thousand razor-edged slivers.

  "Now, strip!"

  His voice was as lethal as the pistol he held, and Noelle knew, unmistakably, that she had lost another battle. Stiffly she walked over to the fireplace and, with her back to Quinn, began to unbutton her dress.

  He put one boot up on the low chest at the foot of the bed, the arm holding the gun resting easily on his bent knee. "Turn around so I can watch you."

  Slowly she did as he said.

>   When Quinn saw her stricken face, he felt a hollowness in the pit of his stomach. God damn her! Why did she make him feel as if he were the one in the wrong?

  He silently cursed himself for pulling the gun on her, even though it was no longer loaded. It had been a stupid thing to do, and he should never have let her taunting infuriate him so.

  Damn it! None of this would have happened if she hadn't deceived him. Standing there, clutching that ridiculous green dress together with her fingers, playing the frightened virgin when she'd undoubtedly shared her favors with half the men in London. Perhaps even his own father.

  "Get on with it," he barked, gesturing toward the dress with the barrel of his gun.

  She slipped the garment down over her petticoats.

  "Throw everything in the fire."

  "But I don't have anything else to wear."

  "Do as I say. I don't want any reminders."

  The smell of scorched cloth filled the cottage as the flames consumed the emerald-green dress. Noelle pulled off her petticoats, and they joined the blaze. Only her chemise was left. With her hair hanging loosely about her shoulders, she slowly lowered the straps of the torn chemise and, finally, the garment itself.

  She stood naked in front of him.

  Quinn had been with his first woman when he was fifteen, and since then there had been so many he had lost count. But never had he seen a body as perfect as hers, a body he wanted more to possess.

  She made no attempt to cover her nakedness, but letting her arms hang loosely at her sides, she lifted her head proudly and met his gaze. "May I get into the bath now?" she asked, her quiet dignity making him ashamed.

  He nodded his head abruptly. He'd gotten what he wanted, but the victory was empty. As she slid into the steaming water he angrily pitched his gun down on the bed and, with a muttered oath, strode from the cottage, leaving her alone with her bath.

  Noelle was asleep when he finally returned, tired and cold from his self-imposed exile. He lit a small stub of candle and, in spite of his sour mood, chuckled softly when he saw his pistol lying on the floor, well imagining her fury when she discovered the gun was empty. The little hellion had undoubtedly torn the cottage apart looking for the ammunition he had wisely hidden away in the stable. She probably didn't know the first thing about firing a gun, but that wouldn't stop her. Nothing, he knew, would give her more satisfaction than drilling a bullet into his heart.

  With a frown, he sat down on the side of the bed and pulled off his damp leather boots; then he lifted the quilt and looked at her sleeping form. Although her shoulders were bare, the rest of her was tightly wrapped in a brown wool blanket that she was clutching together at her breast.

  He grunted with annoyance. Even in her sleep, she was trying to guard herself against him, trying to play the innocent. What a bitch she was—a dangerous, beautiful bitch.

  You can sleep well for now. Highness, he thought, as he blew out the candle and climbed in next to her. Things went your way tonight. But from now on I make the rules. If I want you, I'll take you. And, if I don't—well, that's my decision, too. He turned his back on her and fell asleep.

  When Noelle awakened the next morning, the cottage was empty. Perhaps he hadn't come back! She quickly sat up in bed, only to have her hopes dashed by the cheerfully crackling fire on the grate. Listlessly swinging her bare feet over the edge of the bed, she stood, the blanket still wrapped around her like a warm brown cocoon. It was then that she saw the imprint of a head in the center of the pillow next to hers.

  She stared down in disbelief. He had spent the night in bed with her! Turning her back on the bed, she went to the fire and knelt down on the braided rug in front of the comforting flames. Once again she was struck by the unpredictability of the man to whom she was so unwillingly married. When she had railed at him, he had threatened to rape her; when she had defied him, he had forced her to shed her clothes at gunpoint. Yet in the end, he had not touched her. Every time she lost her temper, he got the best of her. It was only when she held herself aloof that she seemed to have an edge.

  She bit at her lip thoughtfully. If she could curb her temper, she might be able to—not control him, for he was too barbaric to be controlled—perhaps hold him off. Yes, that was her best hope. Like a knight donning armor, she would assume an air of chilling politeness.

  A small voice inside her warned that her volatile nature could not be so easily bridled, but Noelle refused to listen and turned her thoughts, instead, to finding something to wear. In an old walnut bureau, she discovered the neatly folded contents of Quinn's valise but nothing else. Her forage in the chest at the bottom of the bed was more fruitful. Beneath blankets sprinkled with dried lavender, she found some stockings, a boy's jacket and cap, and a flannel nightgown, much too large for her slim figure but certainly more comfortable than the blanket she had wrapped herself in last night. There were also two pairs of small, buff-colored breeches.

  Noelle tried on each pair. They fit her like a second skin, comfortable but molding to every curve and hollow much more intimately than she wished.

  The chest refused to yield up a shirt, however, and Noelle was forced to take out one of Quinn's. If only he had left me my chemise, she thought, as she slipped the soft white shirt on over her bare skin. Even though she was tall, it fell almost to her knees. After rolling the long sleeves up to her elbows, she gathered the hem of the shirt around her waist and then tied the points into a knot at the front.

  Through the window, Noelle could see that the mist had lifted, and the day was fine. Anxious to explore, she washed quickly and brushed the tangles from her hair. Since she had no pins to put it up, she thrust the honey strands under the cap she had found and was just picking up the dark brown jacket when Quinn walked in, carrying a pair of trout.

  The corners of his mouth twitched as he took in her garb, his eyes lingering on the breeches that revealed only too well her womanliness. "Well, boy," he mocked, "what have you done with the viper-tongued wench who was here when I left? Never mind. I'd rather not know. I'll just count myself lucky that she's gone and I have a stout lad like you to gut these trout." With that he slapped the fish in Noelle's hands and turned his back to her as he took off his coat.

  Noelle stood fuming, a fish in each hand, her resolve to keep her temper in check forgotten. Viper-tongued wench, indeed!

  The first trout caught Quinn on the back of his neck, the second glanced off his shoulder.

  "Why, you little bitch!" he bellowed, spinning around and charging her like an enraged bull.

  Noelle felt herself being lifted up and then thrown on the bed behind her. Her hair swarmed around her face, blinding her as the cap flew off. Before she could comprehend what was happening, Quinn had tossed her across his knees and was slamming his open palm down hard on her buttocks.

  The breeches offered little protection as he landed one determined blow after another on her dainty rear. She flailed wildly, shrieking every curse she had ever heard and a few she invented on the spur of the moment. Finally, as her buttocks burned with searing, red-hot pain, she fastened her teeth into the back of his calf and bit down with all her might.

  With an angry howl, he threw her back on the bed and pinned her down with his weight. "You still haven't learned your lesson, have you, Highness?" he panted. "I'm afraid there's only one way I'll tame you."

  As her eyes blazed murderous golden hatred at him, he was acutely conscious of her breasts, unfettered beneath the thin white fabric of his own shirt. Tantalizingly they pressed into his chest, and he felt his lust growing, urging him to claim his wife at last.

  With one jerk, he split open the white shirt to the knot at her waist, laying bare her heaving breasts.

  The nostrils of his bold nose flared.

  With a scream of rage, Noelle tried to pull herself from him, but he caught a great handful of her hair and twisted it through his fingers, rendering her immobile.

  "Animal!" she shrieked. "You're a filthy, rutting animal. A fou
l —" Quinn silenced her vitriol with his lips, but there was no tenderness in the way he pillaged her mouth. He took his own time with his savage kiss, and only when his lips and tongue were satisfied, did he go about the business of pulling the breeches from her writhing legs. When it was done, he reached down and grasped one slim leg, ready to wrench it apart from the other so he could expose her woman's core. Then he heard a sob, more animal than human.

  At the sight of her eyes, wild with fear, his stomach lurched with self-disgust. It had been a game to him, but she was clearly terrified. Instinctively he let go of her hair and pushed himself back from her, but she did not seem to notice his withdrawal.

  "Please," she sobbed, oblivious to her nakedness. "I'll do anything you say. Don't rape me. Please." Over and over, wildly, sometimes incoherently, she begged him to spare her.

  Finally his proud wife had been brought low, but the taste of it was sour in his mouth.

  He stalked the moor for hours. My God, she was poison! At one moment, all fire—pulling knives from under her skirts and spewing profanities with breathtaking ease. Then, like quicksilver, she became an ice maiden—beautiful and distant, impeccably correct. And finally, the terrified creature who had begged him for mercy.

  With a black scowl, he decided to return her to London as soon as possible. He would deposit her on Simon's doorstep and then leave for New York as he had planned. He had clearly misjudged her sexual experience, and there was no sense in wasting his time with her when the world was full of easier prey; women eager to spread their thighs for him—boringly, predictably.

  But he wasn't ready to send her back. She'd gotten into his blood, and he had to sample her before he could be free of her. For a moment he considered returning to the cottage and finishing what he had started. The hell with her pleas! He had always been patently selfish in his relationships with women, and he saw no reason to make an exception of her. Then he rejected the idea, not so much because it was distasteful, but more because it damaged his pride. Since when did he have to rape a woman to satisfy the ache in his loins! He wanted to feel her trembling under him, not with fear but with passion.