by Justine Cole
She had been exploring the clearing for some time, humming tunelessly to herself and wandering around the ruins of an old cabin before she realized she was not alone. Her first thought was of Baker. As the icy, prickly warning of danger shot down her spine, she was conscious of how well the dense overgrowth had shut out the strength of the late afternoon sunlight and of how far she had strayed from her tethered mare.
Still humming softly, she bent over and adjusted her riding boot as if there were something wrong with the heel and, at the same time, slowly extracted her knife from the other boot. Sliding it into her pocket, she began casually making her way toward her horse.
She still had some distance to go when a twig cracked ominously close to her. She began to run, darting around the back of a clump of cypress in a rapid change of direction designed to lose her pursuer. She wove through the trees as agilely as she had once run through the twisting streets of London. But she was city bred, and she had not counted on the small roots growing loosely above the surface of the sandy loam; roots thin, but strong, and ready to snare the leather toe of a riding boot.
The side of her hip hit first. Just before the rest of her body slammed against the ground, she felt her hair snag on the jagged crown of a severed tree trunk. Turning to free herself, she sucked in her breath. There, planted firmly on the ground next to her, was a pair of moccasins.
Her heart hammering, she pulled herself up, first noting the buckskin leggings and then the rifle slung across the front of a tuniclike homespun shirt before her eyes fell on his face. All that Quinn had told her about the Indians adopting the ways of the white men fled from her mind as soon as she saw the series of concentric circles tattooed on one broad cheek and the silver disks hanging from his ears. He looked surprised at the knife she thrust toward him.
"Don't come near me!" she shouted, beginning to back away toward her mare.
But he didn't heed her warning. As she saw him prepare to spring she jerked her body to the right. He had already made the leap in the direction of her movement before he realized she had tricked him. Flipping the knife over into her left hand and pulling herself back, she caught him on his side with the blade, just below the bottom rib.
It was only a glancing blow. The Indian looked down at his side, more startled than hurt at the crimson stain spreading slowly on the side of his tunic.
"You've drawn blood," he said. "A woman."
It was somehow startling to hear English words come from his mouth, even though she already knew many of the Indians spoke English.
"You threatened me!" She kept the knife blade pointed toward him. "Why were you spying on me?"
"You were running toward the swamp."
Cautiously she lowered her knife, still holding it firmly in her fist but beginning to feel foolish. Something in his straightforward gaze told her he was speaking the truth, that he had been trying to protect her, and it was merely her prejudice that had made her assume she was being attacked.
"I am Wasidan. And you are the white woman Kalanu has married."
Kalanu? Did he mean Quinn? "I'm Noelle Copeland" was all she said.
"Yes. Get your horse. I will lead you back to Televea. You should not have come in this direction; the swamps are dangerous."
Quinn raced toward the woods, his face a thundercloud as he dug his heels into his stallion's already lathered flanks. He'd been a fool to leave orders as if he thought she would obey them. How could a stable boy keep a leash on her when he hadn't been able to do it himself? At least the boy had had the sense to send for him. Quinn would not let himself think about what would happen if he were too late.
He had barely entered the trees before he saw them coming toward him, Wasidan in the lead, riding a biscuit-colored mare, and Noelle following on her chestnut. The relief that coursed through him was quickly replaced by an anger that he struggled to set aside as his old friend spotted him and raised an arm in greeting.
"Kalanu, my friend. It is good to see you."
"And you, Wasidan. It has been too long."
They clasped hands as their horses drew alongside each other. It was then that Quinn noticed the red stain on Wasidan's tunic.
"You've been hurt."
"It's only a scratch. Your woman is as fierce as the wolf."
Quinn's eyes, hard and cold, flickered over her. With a tug on the reins, she swung past the two men and headed toward the stable. She had handed her horse over to the groom and was walking back to the house when he caught up with her, his fingers digging into her arm.
"I'm not done with you yet," he growled through tight lips. "I'll see you inside after I've spoken with Wasidan."
She stepped from the tub and patted herself dry before she wrapped her wet hair with the towel Grace handed her. Quinn had still not returned to the house, even though she had waited downstairs for over an hour before she came to her senses and marched furiously to her room. What was she doing cooling her heels like a kitchen maid? He could just wait for her!
Even the hot tub water could not soothe away her anger. This time he had gone too far. His arrogance had actually put her life in danger! He should have told her it was swampland behind the house instead of issuing those mindless orders to the groom.
She slipped a mauve silk robe over her still damp body and pulled the sash tight around her waist. "The blue muslin will do for tonight, Grace."
Suddenly the front door slammed with a vengeance. Only Quinn could enter a house so violently. Noelle instructed Grace to tell him she would be downstairs presently, but the girl's hand had barely touched the knob before the door was thrown open.
"Go downstairs," he ordered the startled maid.
"She stays right here. You can go down and wait until I'm dressed."
He jerked his head toward the door. "Get out of here, Grace." Nervously the girl did as she was ordered.
"What in the hell did you think you were doing?"
His jaw was taut and his lips barely moved as he challenged her. Dimly he realized that his anger was out of proportion to her deed, but he couldn't forgive her for the fear she had sent racing like poison through his veins when he had discovered she was in danger.
"Can't you follow simple instructions? Do you always have to defy me?"
Noelle's eyes flashed golden currents of belligerence even as one part of her registered how achingly handsome he was—head thrown back, legs spread wide apart, hands resting in fists on his hips.
"How dare you come in here accusing me! I don't follow orders that have no explanation."
"I don't need to give you any explanations."
"By not telling me that was swampland, you put my life in jeopardy."
"You put your own life in jeopardy and the life of my friend with your damned knife!"
"Your friend," she scoffed. "That savage attacked me!" This was not only unfair, but untrue, and Noelle knew it. Still, she did not take back what she had said, because she saw the words had fallen on him like the lash of a whip. A terrible excitement built within her at the dangerous narrowing of his eyes. Propelled by loneliness, by a bedroom door whose latch was never tested, by an unspeakable yearning for something more than distant politeness from this man, she deliberately pressed him.
"You sicken me with your talk of how persecuted the Indians have been. If this is a sample of what happens when they live near the white man, I think the government is right to move them all away." Lifting her chin, she walked toward him with measured steps, calculating her words as she went. "They're filthy savages, Quinn, no matter how you try to disguise it. They're a threat to every white woman who strays farther than her front porch."
"So, the little guttersnipe who cheated and lied her way out of the slums is now judging other people!"
"People!" she jeered, her moist lips trembling with the danger and excitement of what she was doing. "They're animals!"
"Are we, now?"
Her breath caught in her throat. "What are you saying?"
"If I'd r
ealized it was so important to you, I'd have told you long ago that I'm Cherokee, but, frankly, it didn't occur to me."
"I don't believe you!" It was a lie. She did believe! Amanda's portrait had already told her the truth, had already warned her of the madness of inciting him.
"You don't want to believe me because you're afraid."
"I'm not afraid!"
"You should be," he sneered, his mouth thinning into an ugly line of contempt. "You've heard what Indians do to white women."
Jerking the towel from her head, he entangled his bruising hands in her mass of damp hair. "Does it frighten you now, Highness, having a savage so close to your beautiful hair? Can you taste the fear in the back of your mouth like cold metal against your tongue?"
He twisted his fingers around the long piece of silken hair growing from her crown and yanked on it until her eyes teared with pain. "This is where the Cherokee takes a scalp. Only this place. Sometimes the victim even lives to tell about it."
"Get your hands off me," Noelle cried out.
"It's too late for that."
Dropping her hair, he pushed her back against the wall and split the fragile silk of her robe. The fabric fell to her waist, where the knotted sash kept it from going farther. His eyes raked her nakedness, then he slid his hands roughly down her neck, past her shoulders to her breasts.
"Look at my hands on you. See how white your flesh is against mine. Even your nipples aren't as dark as my skin."
She shuddered as she looked down at his massive dark hands and watched the calloused palms knead her tender tips.
"It's not just the sun that has stained my skin. It's the blood of the Cherokee."
She swung out at him with her fists and began spitting out inflamed, exciting oaths until his mouth clamped down hard on hers, and he parted her lips with a tongue that was unwilling to please but eager to punish. Like a vixen, Noelle bit down. When he jerked back from her, his eyes black with fury, she ran, knowing that no matter how swiftly she fled, he would catch her.
He tore off the sash of her robe when he spun her around, and the fabric snared her ankles, sending her naked body sprawling to the floor. Before she could bring herself up, he deliberately stepped down on her hair, moving his leather boot close to her scalp. Pinned down with her cheek pressed into the carpet, she listened helplessly as he removed his clothing above her. He had told her she should be frightened of him, and now, too late, she was.
He moved his foot. His arm grasped her around the waist and hurled her to the bed. She thrashed helplessly under him while he foraged her mouth in a crushing assault filled with the passion of rage and tasting of the blood she had drawn when she bit him. His legs pried hers open, and then he reared back and poised himself to enter her. As she felt him ready to ram his anger deep within her, tears clouded her vision. How ugly this had become, this wild assault she had led him to.
Closing her eyes, she turned her head to the side and braced herself for the searing pain of an entry for which she was not yet ready. He was suddenly still, and the room echoed with the sound of their ragged breathing. Instead of the brutal invasion that she feared, his hands found her breasts, and her tears began to dry as, despite her fear, the coral buds hardened under his rough caress. She felt his touch slide down her sides and brush through the soft, tight triangle at the juncture of her thighs. Then she moaned as he invaded her with his touch, testing her desire in the only way he could trust.
His lips began teasing her nipples, then biting them, bringing her such agonizing pleasure that she thought she would go mad. His mouth moved on to her smooth belly, her thighs, cutting into the tender skin, biting and sucking at her flesh. She cried out his name as, intimately, he violated her with the wrath of his tongue.
He brought her to the brink of fulfillment and then pulled away, leaving an aching void that yearned to be filled. Their eyes clashed —locking, hating, wanting. Imperiously she arched her hips, and he drove himself into her with all the remaining force of his anger. Wrapping her legs tight about him, she strained against his body, pulling him down and parting her lips so she could taste the rugged planes of his face with her tongue and teeth. She was barely conscious when she sobbed her fulfillment, and he shuddered convulsively within her.
Later, when he sat up and dropped his legs over the side of her bed, she reached out a restraining hand and touched his arm. "Quinn, I didn't mean what I said earlier," she whispered miserably. "I've guessed for some time that you were Indian from Amanda's portrait and the silver disk you wear. I'm sorry. I deliberately goaded you. It was wrong of me."
Without a word, he disappeared into the dressing room.
Noelle fell back on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. What devils had driven her to that desperate madness? It had been insanity to incite him as she had. Suddenly she began to shiver. Turning on her side, she drew up her knees.
From his bedroom, Quinn heard her moan. He rushed in to find her huddled in a tight ball under the covers. Her hair was a tangled mass, and he carefully brushed it back from her ravaged face, then he eased the blankets from her body. He sickened as he looked down.
"My God, Highness." His voice was ragged. "Look what I've done to you."
Even as he tucked the covers back around her, he couldn't erase the memory of the bruises that were already marring her beautiful flesh. "I should never have brought you here. We're poisoning each other."
She turned her face into the pillow and began to sob. He slid his arms under her and gently carried her in her blanket cocoon to a chair, where he held her in his lap and stroked her hair. After a while, he began speaking softly to calm her, first talking about everyday things and then telling her stories of his boyhood. He spoke of treasure hunts, of teasing Emily and taking his lessons with Julian, of Amanda climbing trees with him, fishing, teaching him to track and use a bow and arrow, of everything except the feelings churning inside him.
It was as much the gentle closeness of him as it was his words that quieted Noelle. "I wish I'd known your mother," she finally murmured into his damp shirtfront.
"She would have liked you, Highness." He smiled. "She liked unconventional women."
"Will you tell me about her, Quinn? Really tell me this time."
"What would you like to know?"
Everything! she wanted to say. Everything that has been hidden away from me, that has made you a bitter, driven man. But instead she only asked, "How did she and Simon meet?"
Quinn was quiet for so long that she didn't think he was going to answer her question, but she was wrong. His answer, however, left her stunned.
"Simon bought her."
"Oh, no!" She began to tremble again.
Carefully Quinn eased her down into the chair and disappeared through the dressing room. He returned with a glass of brandy, which he held up to her lips. When she had taken several swallows and was steadier, he moved to a wing chair across from her. Stretching his legs out in front of him and sipping from the remaining brandy, he told her the story of Simon and Amanda, all of which he had not learned himself until after his mother's death.
Quinn explained that Amanda's father was a white trapper, her mother a pureblood Cherokee. She was raised in her mother's village near the Georgia-Tennessee border. Her parents died within a short time of each other when she was fifteen, and her father's brother, a miserly man named Carter Slade, came for her. He took her to his farm near Augusta, where he worked her from dawn until long after dark.
One evening, Simon appeared at the Slade farm, leading a lame horse. He asked for shelter and, for a price, Slade agreed. That night, Slade saw Simon watching his niece, and when she left the room, he asked if he wanted to buy her.
At first, Simon had laughed. It was illegal; Cherokees hadn't been sold into slavery since they had fought with the British during the Revolutionary War. But Slade insisted that as a Cherokee, Amanda would honor any agreement a member of her family made.
And so, Simon Copeland, a man who didn't b
elieve in slavery, a man who had never owned a slave, bought Amanda Slade for five hundred dollars.
Simon never knew what Amanda felt when she learned she had been sold, but as Slade had predicted, her honor demanded that she keep the infamous agreement. And so, the next morning, she turned her back on the past and went off with the handsome stranger who now owned her.
Even then, Simon wasn't an impulsive man. He was horrified at what he had done and didn't permit himself to touch her, yet each day he grew more fascinated with her. It was Amanda who finally went to him, giving her love freely, asking for nothing.
"It was a bittersweet moment when Simon realized how much he loved her in return. He was an ambitious man who had planned to make an advantageous marriage, and Amanda had neither money nor background to recommend her. To make matters worse, even though her father was white, she considered herself Cherokee.
"Quinn, none of what you've told me explains your bitterness toward Simon. Even if he did buy her, he took your mother away from a horrible life. From what Emily told me, he was a wonderful father to you, a loving husband—"
"Oh, he was a loving husband, all right!" Quinn exclaimed bitterly. "Everyone in Cape Crosse will tell you that. And a wonderful father. If you press them, even my friends will tell you I've been an ungrateful son to have turned against him. Christ! If I've heard once about Simon taking me everywhere with him on that bay of his, I've heard it a thousand times."
"Then why?" Noelle's eyes pleaded with him to finally tell her the truth, but when she saw the pain etching itself so deeply across his features, she almost wished she had kept her peace.