The Copeland Bride

by Justine Cole

  A moment later she heard the shot.

  Closing her eyes, she began to tremble as once again, she saw Greeley's face exploding over her. Later, when Quinn walked out of the trees, she felt as if she did not know him—a dangerous, bearded stranger, his eyes shadowed by the night, a rifle dangling from one hand, the reins of the horses from the other.

  "Did you have to kill him?" she asked listlessly.

  He tied the horses to a branch and walked over to his saddlebags. "What did you expect me to do?"

  "We could have taken him back. Let him stand trial."

  Pulling out a cheroot, he cupped his hands around the tip and lit it before he looked at her. "So he could escape from jail before they got around to hanging him? Is that what you wanted?"

  Silently she stared back through the trees and then she shook her head.

  "Mount up," he said. "There's a clearing a couple of miles from here where we can make camp for the rest of the night."

  Later, as he fashioned a shelter for her from pine branches, she asked him how he had found her. He responded brusquely, saying only that he had returned to Televea to learn she had been kidnapped and had been tracking her ever since.

  The winter sun was well up in the sky when she awakened the next morning. Despite everything that had happened, she had slept well. Even Greeley's face did not haunt her deep, dreamless sleep. Now she propped herself up on one elbow and looked at Quinn crouched by the fire, a tin cup in his hand. He had shaved since he had awakened, and his hair was still damp from washing. She drank in the lean line of his jaw, the bold flare of his nostrils, the eyes, deep and unfathomable. He was fierce and splendid. A feeling of happiness and something like peace spread through her at the sight of him so near.

  He looked over and smiled. "Afraid I'm fresh out of tea and scones. You're stuck with coffee this morning."

  Her mouth curved in response. "Coffee's fine."

  He brought her a steaming cup, his smile abruptly disappearing when his fingers brushed against hers. He pulled away quickly and went back to his place by the fire. Her brief happiness in the morning disappeared. "You should have awakened me," she said stiffly. "It must be ten o'clock by now."

  "You needed to sleep." He jerked his head toward the trees behind him. "There's a creek back there where you can wash. Dainty put a clean change of clothes for you in my saddlebags."

  She set her coffee down and, without looking at him, gathered the clothes and made her way to the creek. As she washed she barely noticed the sting of the cold water on her flesh. She dressed quickly in the fawn riding habit that Dainty had packed and then, more slowly, returned to their camp.

  Quinn was saddling Pathkiller. Although he had his back to her, he heard her approach. "We'll take it easy today," he said. "There's an inn about five hours ride from here where we can spend the night."

  The question could no longer remain unasked. "Why did you go back to Televea, Quinn?"

  For an instant his hands seemed to falter on the girth strap, and then he finished tightening it. "We'll stop every hour so you can rest. I know the owner of the inn. It's a clean place and the food is good."

  She touched the silver disk around her neck. "Tell me why, Quinn. I have to know why you returned."

  He brushed past her toward the other saddle that lay on the ground. "We'll talk about this later, Noelle. After we're back at Televea."

  If he had struck her, he could not have made his feelings more clear. The tears that had been steadily rising in her throat threatened to strangle her. With a low sob, she turned and fled into the trees, running mindlessly, numbed by her pain and her great sense of loss. She did not hear the footsteps racing after her, was barely conscious of his hands on her shoulders snatching her to him, of the roughness of his jacket against her cheek.

  "Highness, don't cry. Please don't cry," he whispered hoarsely. "Don't let me hurt you any more than I already have."

  She clenched her fists and pressed them against his chest. "Why didn't you send me away long ago instead of torturing me so?" she sobbed. "Is this your revenge? Making me fall in love with you and then tossing me away? Is this what your hatred of me has led you to?"

  "Hatred?" He pushed her back from him and gave her shoulders a shake. "My God, you're the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me. I love you more than I love my own life!"

  "Then why did you leave me?" she cried, barely comprehending the declaration she had waited so long to hear.

  "For God's sake, what was I going to say to you?" His lips curled brutally, and his next words were laden with mockery. "My dear wife, even though I took a whip to you in the stable and raped you, you must understand that I really love you!"

  "Yes!" she screamed. "Yes! That's exactly what you were supposed to say!"

  He dropped his hands from her shoulders and, with a savage curse, turned away from her. "Don't you understand? Even if you could forgive me, I could never forgive myself."

  Her tears were falling freely now. "Then why did you go back to Televea?"

  For a long time he said nothing. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and once again under control. "I went back because I had to see you one last time and make sure you were all right." He stared off into the distance. "Marry Wolf Brandt, Noelle. When he says he loves you, you'll be able to believe him."

  Noelle stood without moving. There was a terrible resignation about Quinn, a slump to his shoulders she had never seen before. Suddenly she realized it was not he who had his revenge, but she. She had finally done what she'd sworn to do so long ago. She had finally defeated him. How many times she had prayed to see him humbled. Now it had happened—and all she could think of was how awful it was and how much she loved him. There was nothing else—no satisfaction, no feeling of vindication, nothing but an overwhelming urge to erase that awful resignation.

  "I'm not going to listen to any more of your ridiculous self-pity!" she exclaimed, slashing at her tear-stained cheeks with the back of her hand. "You did a terrible thing to me. We've both done terrible things. But that's all in the past now. We have the rest of our lives. And if you think I'm going to marry Wolf, you're quite mistaken. I'm not a piece of property to be passed from one man to another. You're my husband, Quinn Copeland. Mine!"

  Slowly he turned. She took a step toward him and, instinctively, he reached out. Then his arm fell back to his side. "It's not that simple."

  "Yes it is." She closed the rest of the distance between them and, reaching up, cupped his cheek with her hand. "There's only one thing that's important, Quinn. Whether or not you love me."

  He turned his head and pressed his lips to the palm of the hand that caressed him. "You know I do. But—"

  "Shhh," she whispered, her eyes shining with the depth of her love for this splendid, stubborn man. "It's enough, my darling." Her breath caught in her throat as she saw some of the awful bleakness begin to lift from his face.

  "And what if I fail you again?" he asked.

  "You probably will." She smiled. "And I'll fail you. We're both imperfect creatures with too much pride. We'll have to learn to trust each other. It won't be easy."

  His voice was choked with emotion as he muttered, "You're the damndest woman."

  And then she was in his arms, caught in an embrace so full of love that everything else ceased to exist for them. They were alone in the world, two lovers joined at last.

  Together, they moved to the shelter of the pine boughs where they shed their clothing and lay together beneath the warm blankets. Slowly they began moving their hands and then their mouths, searching out smooth curves and moist hollows, hardness and softness.

  The cold January morning ceased to exist for them as they gave everything to each other—their bodies, their thoughts, their very breath. Climbing . . . passions racing rampant . . . they soared together until they were one.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Their child was born the following October. Whether he was conceived in rape or in the golden m
oments of their slow journey back to Televea, neither of them knew, but they both suspected that the violent night in the stable, which had changed everything for them, had also brought them their son. At Noelle's insistence, they named him Christopher Simon, combining Quinn's middle name with his father's first. Christopher had Quinn's black hair and high cheekbones and his mother's topaz eyes. He was a lively, sparkling child, and they gloried in him.

  Quinn traveled to Washington with Wasidan to plead the Cherokee cause, but to no avail. The removal of the Indians to the west went ahead as planned, and four thousand died in less than a year, nearly a quarter of the tribe. Disease, famine, exposure, and heartbreak killed them. Among the Cherokee, the awful journey from their ancestral home to the new land of Oklahoma came to be known as nunna-da-ul-tsun-yi, the trail on which they cried.

  Quinn grieved for his people, and his wife comforted him. Their love for each other was healing. Slowly the loneliness and sense of isolation that had been so much a part of both their lives dissolved. Only the subject of Simon stood between them—Noelle pressing Quinn to reconcile with his father, and Quinn steadfastly refusing.

  By the summer following Christopher's birth, Quinn's American clipper was finally on the stocks. Its keel had been laid, its frame fitted, and even though the exposed ribs were not yet ready to be planked, Quinn's daring new shape was already evident.

  That summer, they frequently went to the pond in the woods behind Televea, sometimes alone, sometimes taking nine-month- old Christopher and splashing with him in the cold, clear water.

  "Come on, Highness. Get in here before I pull you in!"

  When it was just the two of them, she would step naked into the water and swim to him, a flash of silver in the still pond. But when Christopher was along, she contented herself with slipping off her shoes and stockings, hiking up her skirts, and wading in. As her toes sank into the mud at the edge of the pond, she inevitably thought back to those long-ago days as a mudlark, digging her feet in the banks of the Thames for pieces of coal. How far she had come.

  When Christopher was with them, she loved sitting on the bank and watching as he and Quinn played naked in the water. Christopher, full of courage and squealing with delight, splashed furiously with his chubby arms and legs, confident that if the water came too near his nose, a strong set of arms would catch him up and hug him close. When he had played long enough, he arched back from his father's glistening, sun-bronzed chest and reached out for softer comfort.

  "All right, my friend," Quinn would chuckle, stepping from the water and handing Christopher over to his mother, "I know what you want, and I can't say I blame you."

  While she put Christopher to her breast, Quinn would slip on his pants and then sprawl beside her. With their bare feet, sun- darkened skin, and wet, tumbling hair, they looked more like a family of gypsies than the Copelands of Cape Crosse.

  They returned home from the pond one July afternoon with Christopher asleep on his father's shoulder. "It was a perfect day, wasn't it, darling?" Noelle said, bestowing Quinn with the shattering smile he'd so often envied others for receiving. Then she kissed him. Christopher awakened and protested. Setting him on the grass to play, they resumed their pleasant pastime, not hearing the carriage until it was nearly up to the house. Noelle reluctantly pulled away from her husband and stepped toward the front of the drive. "Who on earth can this be?"

  The carriage drew to a halt, and a groom jumped down to open the door. Noelle saw a small, embroidered slipper emerge, then the hem of a rose-colored gown and then Constance Peale Copeland herself. Her bouncing auburn curls were as thick and lustrous as ever, her emerald-green eyes as sparkling.

  "My darling, darling girl!" Flying into Noelle's arms, she brought the familiar fragrance of violets with her.

  "Constance!" As she hugged her, Noelle saw Simon step down from the carriage. Constance gave her another squeeze and then, chattering all the while, swept on to Quinn.

  Noelle looked up into Simon's blue eyes. He had not aged at all in the past two and a half years. If anything, he seemed more youthful.

  "Hello, Noelle."

  She sensed him holding back and remembered the strain between them those last months in London. It all seemed so foolish now. If it weren't for this man, she would have nothing. He was the only father she would ever know, and she loved him.

  She stretched out her arms. "Oh, Simon, I'm so glad to see you!"

  He swept her up then, pulling her feet off the ground and hugging her until she had to gasp for breath. He finally relinquished her with a kiss and went on to greet his son.

  Quinn was turned away from her, so Noelle could not read his expression, but she could tell by the rigid set of his back that nothing had changed.

  The moment between the two men did not last long, for Simon spotted Christopher sitting on the grass, a dandelion clutched in his grimy fist.

  "Will you look at this, Constance," he exclaimed. "Will you just look at this!"

  "Oh, my dear, he's perfect!"

  For Simon, the dream was complete. And Christopher, as if he sensed the importance of the occasion, ignored everyone except his grandfather. He held out the dandelion and, solemnly, Simon accepted it; then, kneeling down on the grass, he hugged the child to him.

  Christopher soon had enough of that and, accustomed to the delights of his father's pockets, began investigating his grandfather's. It was not long before he held Simon's gold pocket watch.

  Noelle turned to her husband, and her smile froze on her lips. He was standing off to the side, once again a stranger in his own family.

  She went to him at once. "Quinn?"

  It was as if she didn't exist. Staring at his father and Christopher, Quinn's eyes were bleak and hard, and she could read his thoughts as clearly as if he had spoken them aloud. His father had triumphed after all.

  Abruptly he turned to leave.

  She reached out for his arm. "Please don't go now," she whispered. "They've only just arrived."

  "I'll be back later."

  Simon stood up. "You going somewhere, Quinn?"

  "To the yard. I have to check on a few things before the men go home."

  Simon planted a swift kiss on Christopher's head. "I'll come with you."

  "Suit yourself."

  Without speaking, the two men walked toward the stables. Constance and Noelle exchanged a long; unhappy look.

  "Oh, dear," Constance sighed. "I confess I had hoped things would be improved by now. It was a foolish idea of mine, arriving here unannounced."

  "Don't be a peagoose!" Noelle said. "I can't think of anyone I'd rather see. Let me deposit this little ragamuffin in the nursery while you freshen up, and then we'll curl up with a pot of tea and have a nice, long chat."

  Constance smiled at her fondly. "I'd like nothing better."

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  "Damn him!" Quinn seethed as he slammed the bedroom door behind them.

  "I take it you're referring to Simon." Noelle sighed wearily.

  Dinner had been a catastrophe, and the strain was catching up with her. The fact that Quinn had appeared at all was, she suspected, only a mark of his affection for Constance, for he had treated his father with thinly veiled contempt and turned his full attention to his stepmother. Noelle had tried to compensate for his rudeness by entertaining Simon with stories of his grandson, but she knew by the sadness in his eyes that he saw through her efforts.

  "He has no business being here!" Quinn jerked off his coat and threw it down on the bed. "Did you see him out there this afternoon, gloating over Christopher as if he were personally responsible."

  Noelle's laugh was bitter. "He was, ducks."

  "Are you trying to be funny?"

  She was immediately contrite. "I'm sorry. Of course not. I'm just tired, that's all."

  He stalked into the dressing room, the chasm between them widening. While he was gone Noelle removed her gown and petticoats and slipped on a gold silk robe. She was sitting in front of h
er dressing table taking down her hair when he returned, still dressed in his trousers with his white shirt open to the waist.

  "I want him out of the house tomorrow."

  He was spoiling for a fight. Noelle picked up her hairbrush and began jerking it through her hair. "And Constance? Would you like me to throw her out, too?"

  "Just whose side are you on, anyway?"

  She gritted her teeth. "I'm on your side."

  "It certainly didn't seem that way at dinner tonight."

  "What are you implying?"

  His eyes raked her with their old arrogance. "You're my wife. I expect your loyalty."

  "Loyalty! Why don't you say what you mean? You want me to be as rude to Simon as you are. You don't want loyalty, Quinn. You want obedience!"

  "Put it however you like."

  She slammed her hairbrush down on the dressing table. "You go to hell!"

  In two long strides he was at her, pulling her up from the dressing table by her arms, his fingers biting deep into her flesh. The planes of his face were stark and furious.

  "Quinn!"

  He froze, horrified by his own anger.

  She threw her arms around his neck. "My darling. Oh, my dear, dear darling. I'm so sorry."

  He clutched her to his chest, she who was more precious to him than life itself. "Don't. Please don't. It's me. I'm the one. God, I'm sorry. I had so much anger inside me when I came upstairs, I was deliberately goading you into an argument."

  Noelle's voice was barely audible. "I love you, Quinn. You're more important to me than anything."

  "I've got the devil's own temper, Highness, but I never thought I'd see the day again when I'd turn it on you."

  She drew back her head and looked up at him unhappily. "Quinn, I have to tell you something."

  "From the expression on your face, I don't think I'm going to like it much."

  "No, you're not." Her eyes were deeply troubled. "I love Simon. I can't help it, and I won't pretend with you about it. In a strange way, he and Constance gave birth to me, at least as I am now, and I love them both."