The Copeland Bride

by Justine Cole

  Purposefully crossing to the pile of books, she ripped a page from a large volume. She spotted a thin quill lying on the floor next to the broken desk. Taking them both to the door, she lowered herself to her knees and slid the paper underneath, carefully aligning it with the knob. Barely breathing, she gingerly poked the quill through the keyhole. Only when she heard a faint plop from the other side did she let out her breath. Cautiously she pulled the paper back into the room. A large brass key rested on top.

  She let out a whoop of joy and pressed the key to her lips. With trembling hands she fit it into the lock and turned it. The tumbler clicked. Free at last, Noelle flung open the door triumphantly.

  He stood indolently on the other side, his dark eyes crinkling with amusement. "Very clever," he drawled. "I underestimated you."

  Wordlessly he led her down the narrow stairs and out of the house. Instead of the open phaeton, there was an enclosed carriage waiting for them in the dark alley. A driver, his bulky form muffled in a cloak, spoke softly to the patient horses.

  The interior of the carriage was empty. She clutched her hands tightly, the torn fingernails biting into her palms. Where was Thomas? she wondered. The door of the carriage shut firmly, and

  Quinn settled himself beside her. She slid to the end of the seat, putting as much distance between them as possible. Quinn did not seem to notice. With unseeing, haunted eyes he stared out the window of the coach.

  Noelle shivered with cold; she had left her cloak in the attic room, and her thin dress offered little protection against the night chill. Now she would give anything to be back in the room from which she had struggled so hard to escape. Although it had been her prison, the small attic room had also been her sanctuary, her last bastion of hope of escape. And now she was alone with this savage stranger who was intent on controlling her destiny.

  Involuntarily Noelle's hand stroked the soft black leather of the seat. She had never seen anything as grand as this carriage. Red silk curtains trimmed in black fringe hung at the windows. Outside were shiny brass lanterns, sparkling with the rain that clung to them. She peered into the night beyond, but the streets were unfamiliar. An idea was beginning to take shape in her mind.

  She turned to the American and smiled shyly. "I'm right sorry I been causin' ya so much trouble."

  For a moment he looked at her blankly, as though he had forgotten she was there. "Oh? Why this sudden change of heart?"

  "Well"—she was thoughtful—"I could say it's because yer a 'andsome devil, and I've taken a fancy to ya, but yer'd never believe that, would ya, ducks?" She looked at him guilelessly. "The truth is, I been thinkin' 'bout that money yer said ya was gonna give ter me. 'Ow much would ya be thinkin' about, if ya don't mind me askin'?"

  "How much do you think you're worth?"

  "It's 'ard ter say." She regarded him levelly, coyly patting her hair, which was now stiff with dried mud. "Some 'as said I'm worth a king's ransom, but I don't know as I'd go that far."

  "How modest of you," he replied, his tone clearly signaling his disinterest.

  There was a slight tremble to her voice. "Maybe the best thing ter do would be ter give ya a sample of what I've got ter offer." She lowered her eyes, looking at him through her lashes. "Then ya could judge fer yerself. Work from experience, so ter speak."

  He leaned lazily into the corner of the carriage, making no move to touch her.

  Gathering her courage, she slid over to him and tilted her shoulders forward, revealing more of her bosom. As she smiled in poor imitation of a temptress, she slid her arms slowly around his shoulders, then tilted her head back and pressed her lips to his. They were hard and dry, and he instinctively recoiled from her kiss.

  Summoning up her wits, she pushed her body against his, moving her fingers over his neck and back, simulating passion. Gradually she led her hands to the pocket where he had placed the dagger. It was empty! With growing alarm, she slid her hands over his chest. The knife was gone! Furious, she pushed herself away from him.

  His eyes were ruthless. "You didn't think I'd be stupid enough to keep it, did you? Your knife is lying in a gutter in Soho. I underestimated you once. I'm not going to do it again."

  With all her force, she swung at the arrogant face. He drew back, his head barely avoiding her flying fist, and imprisoned her wrist, cruelly twisting her arm behind her back. Grabbing her jaw with his free hand, he pulled her face toward his.

  "I've had enough! One more episode like this and I will personally turn you over to the law. Do you understand me?"

  Noelle mutely nodded her head in defeat. He released her, and they rode the rest of the way in silence, bitter resentment churning inside her.

  The minister was a tall, angular man with ferret eyes and an oily smile. Noelle knew immediately that she could expect no help from him; he had obviously been well paid to do his part. He picked up a tattered Bible and inquired the name of the bride.

  Thomas looked blankly at Quinn, realizing they'd never bothered to find out her name. Quinn turned to the despondent young girl next to him. She was suddenly aware of three sets of eyes watching her, waiting for her response.

  "Noelle Dorian," she mumbled.

  Quinn smiled crookedly at the absurdity of the pitiful street creature with the elegant French name while Thomas snorted loudly, then attempted to conceal his rudeness with a cough.

  Noelle's cheeks burned. They were laughing at her! God, how she hated them both.

  The marriage ceremony passed in a blur. Noelle was conscious of nothing except a dark stain on the cracked wall behind the minister's head. It reminded her of a rat sitting on its haunches. Reality leaped back at her when the American took her hand and slipped a thin gold band onto her finger.

  Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the night air fresh and crisp. Waiting for them were the carriage and Thomas's curricle. "I say, Quinn, you two can't go off without letting me drink to your happiness. Sorry I forgot the crystal." Producing a bottle of brandy from the floor of his rig, he saluted Quinn with it and grinned broadly. "May your time together be short and your revenge sweet." He took a swig and then passed the bottle to Quinn, who drank deeply.

  Quinn turned to Noelle and regarded his bride with the detached, impersonal air she had come to expect. "Will you have a drink?" he inquired.

  "I'd die of thirst before I'd drink with you," she sneered defiantly.

  "Suit yourself." He dismissed her indifferently and turned to Thomas. "I'll accept this excellent brandy as your wedding present, Tom. I'm going to need it tonight much more than you."

  Quinn mutely guided Noelle to their carriage. As they pulled out of the narrow street she heard a clock toll the single hour—a death knell for her old life. Noelle Dorian had been replaced by Noelle Copeland. She should be elated by her good fortune; Daisy would have rejoiced to have had such luck. Instead, she felt debased, used, terrified of the savage man to whom she was now so permanently joined. And this hellish night was not finished with her yet.

  Her thin fingers clutched her skirts convulsively as her ears rang with the remembered sounds of her mother's pitiful cries and the obscene noises of the men who had writhed over her. This was the fate in store for her, and she knew he would have no mercy.

  The appearance of the mismatched pair at Quinn's respectable lodgings did not go unnoticed. The venerable patrons of the tap room stared incredulously at the tall, dashing American escorting the filthy creature in an emerald satin dress.

  Ignoring their stunned expressions, Quinn strode purposefully to the innkeeper, never loosening his grip on Noelle's arm. "Hastings, I'm going to my room, and I want plenty of hot water sent up immediately."

  "Certainly, sir," the robust Hastings responded in hushed tones, "but if I may say so, sir, this young . . . lady, sir, is . . . well, sir . . ."He sputtered with embarrassment, unwilling to offend his wealthy American lodger but determined to have his say. "She's not the sort who is normally welcomed in establishments such as this." He spread his
plump arms. "Mr. Copeland, what you do for pleasure is none of my business, of course, but—"

  "You're absolutely right, Hastings; it's none of your business. Now, send up the water."

  Quinn turned on his heel and led Noelle upstairs to his room. He opened the door and, none too gently, pushed her in.

  In the corner of the comfortably furnished room was a small carved chest with several decanters and glasses of different sizes and shapes. After filling one of the larger tumblers to the brim with the contents of Thomas's wedding present, Quinn shed his outer garments and settled himself comfortably in a large upholstered wing chair pulled up near a warm, crackling fire.

  Noelle huddled, forgotten, across the room. She watched him. The snowy white of his shirt and cravat contrasted sharply with the ebony of his hair, his velvet waistcoat, and his gleaming leather boots. The dark eyes that stared into the flames were tortured. He drank steadily. What devils haunted this man who was now her husband?

  A sharp knock at the door shattered the silence of the room. With pantherlike grace, he rose from the chair and opened it to admit two work-weary maids carrying steaming buckets of hot water. With practiced efficiency, they set up a large hip bath on the hearth. Darting curious looks at the unlikely couple, they left the room reluctantly, their giggles clearly audible as they disappeared down the hallway.

  Quinn locked the door behind them. With a calculating look at his unwilling bride, he placed the key atop a mahogany armoire.

  Noelle's eyes traveled to the bath steaming in its shiny copper tub. How long she had dreamed of luxury such as this: immersing herself in the warm water, scouring the grime of poverty from her skin with scented soap, wrapping herself in a fluffy white towel. But not here; not like this.

  "Take off your clothes." He stood next to her, not bothering to conceal his distaste for her appearance.

  She realized he had no intention of leaving the room. Involuntarily her eyes went to the most imposing piece of furniture in the chamber, the large bed already turned down for the night. Desperation giving her courage, Noelle seethed at him.

  "Go to 'ell, you bastard. I'm not taking any more from you!" Her eyes flashed angrily. "Send me to Australia. I'd rather take my chances there than 'ere with you."

  Ruthlessly he grabbed her slender shoulders, his voice a snarl. "Listen to me; I'm only going to say this once. For reasons your pitiful little mind can't even begin to understand, I've married you, and I'm going to make sure this marriage can't be annulled. As much as you revolt me, I'm going to consummate it. But first you're going to get into that tub and wash before your filthy body completely unmans me."

  "I will not! Get your 'ands off me!" She beat her fists against his massive chest.

  "All right. If this is the way you want it . . ."He grabbed the low neck of her tawdry emerald gown and pulled violently, sending the buttons flying throughout the room. She clutched at the dress, but not before the material had fallen from her shoulders, exposing her naked body to the waist. Quinn's eyes widened perceptibly as he saw her young, swelling breasts. Lovely rounded globes tipped in coral, they thrust proudly from her thin body.

  "You are full of surprises, aren't you?"

  Desperately she clutched at her torn dress, pulling the material back over her breasts.

  "Don't play the coy virgin with me." He jerked the dress from her body, taking the rest of her chemise and her single bedraggled petticoat with it.

  As she stood naked before his open scrutiny, the torn garments in a pool around her ankles, her pride deserted her. "Please don't do this to me," she begged, her voice shaking with fear. "I'm not what you think. Let me go."

  His voice was low and determined. "Get into the bath."

  His order was meant to be obeyed. At least the bath would hide her from his assessing eyes. She turned her back on him, and, with what little dignity she could muster, walked to the bath and slid into its soothing warmth.

  Quinn removed his velvet waistcoat and untied his cravat. After refilling his glass, he settled himself in the wing chair by the fire, his long legs stretched casually before him. He watched her through impersonal eyes as he unbuttoned his shirt. Hanging from a thin leather thong, a small disk of beaten silver rested against his bronzed chest.

  She was scrubbing roughly, her fingers digging into her scalp as she shampooed her short carrot thatch. Meticulously washing each part of herself, she kept as much of her body as possible hidden under the water. When she was done, she began again more slowly, trying to steal precious minutes.

  As Quinn watched her bathe he felt no heat in his blood, no tightening in his loins. If anything, the emaciated features that the rough scrubbing revealed were even more unattractive now than when they had been hidden under the garish cosmetics.

  He drained his glass and poured another. Alcohol had never before prevented him from performing; perhaps it would fog his brain enough so he could carry through this distasteful task. He rose from the chair and turned down the room's one lamp. Now only the fire provided light. The silver disk on his chest glittered orange like a malevolent eye. He walked toward the tub and picked up the towel, tossing it where she could not reach it.

  "Get up."

  She looked up at him, her eyes mutely pleading, her lips slightly parted. Frozen with fear, she could not move.

  He was beside her in one long stride, pulling her out of the tub. Abruptly he released her and stepped back, taking in the generous spheres of her breasts as they glistened golden in the fire's flames. His eyes dropped to the curly triangle between her legs. Finally he felt himself hardening, and he quickly shed his clothes. Not willing to risk losing his desire, he kept his eyes away from her face and on her nude body, its thinness mercifully obscured by the room's dim light.

  Noelle's heart thumped painfully at the sight of him naked in front of her. His broad chest and arms were well-muscled, his flanks narrow. Against her will, her eyes fastened on his manhood, jutting enormous and threatening from the curly black hair beneath his flat stomach. Her heart pounded as the awful memories came flooding back. Like a cornered animal, she backed away from him, her fear hanging tangibly in the room.

  But he was past noticing. Fueled by the liquor he had been steadily consuming since early evening, his lust was single- minded. He stalked her slowly, his eyes on the twin globes of her breasts. She backed into a wall and then could go no farther.

  Fingers like steel bit into her arms as he dragged her to the bed and lowered his body onto hers. She struggled wildly, finding a strength she did not know she possessed. But it was futile. Easily capturing both her fragile wrists in one of his powerful hands, he pinned them to the bed above her head, and then he cupped one round breast, running his thumb back and forth over the tip. Noelle's teeth bit into her bottom lip, drawing blood; at that moment she would have welcomed death. However, her humiliation was just beginning.

  With one powerful knee, he forced her legs apart, brutally exposing her soft, virginal petals to his scrutiny. But it was no tender lover who gazed down on her. It was a man driven by devils and obsessed with some mysterious revenge. She felt his hardness press against her opening. He trust himself inside her, brutally ripping her maiden's veil as she screamed with heart-rending agony.

  "Good Christ!" he murmured hoarsely.

  But it was too late. Passion overrode his reason. He thrust more and more deeply until he exploded within her.

  Chapter Three

  The smells were what finally awakened her—they assaulted her senses. The hand near her face was perfumed with honeysuckle from the soap she had used; the crisp aroma of starched sheets mingled with a woodsy tang from the smoldering ashes of the previous night's fire. There was something else, too: a faint masculine scent of leather and tobacco.

  Noelle's eyes snapped open. She was alone. The memories of the previous night thundered over her. Resting a thin, bruised arm across her eyes, she attempted to ward them off; however, even that small movement made her wince with pain, and
so she lay motionless, staring at the ceiling.

  All of Noelle's years of desperate poverty had not been able to defeat her. Peddlers, whores, thieves, ragged street urchins, they all called her "Highness," in part to bait her, since she was different from them, but also with grudging respect for her self-sufficiency. She knew instinctively that that was behind her now. In one night the American had conquered her. He had not only violated her body, he had violated her spirit. He was wild, uncivilized. None of her experiences had prepared her for anyone like him, and she found herself with no resources to use against him.

  Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. Harshly she brushed them away and slowly raised herself from the great bed, cropped ends of carrot hair sticking to her damp cheeks. Mechanically she pulled the covers up over the bed, hiding the small bloodstain that marred the white sheet. She walked painfully to the mahogany washstand and surveyed herself with detachment in its oval mirror.

  She looked like a corpse. The bruises on her arms stood out vividly against her unhealthily waxen skin. Her orange hair, although clean, was matted in frizzled clumps about her head. She ran her fingers through it, ignoring the carved tortoiseshell brushes that had been tossed carelessly on the washstand's top. Finally her eyes fastened on the insides of her thighs, stained with his spilled seed, the physical evidence of the American's violation of her body. With trembling hands, she grabbed the white china water pitcher and emptied its contents into the matching bowl. The tepid water splashed over the mahogany surface and ran off onto the floor. She ignored it, absorbed in a brutal scrubbing of her painfully thin body. Her clothing had disappeared, so she wrapped her nakedness with the large, soft bath towel unused from the night before.

  Just as she finished there was a light tapping on the door, followed by a click. The door swung open, admitting a buxom little dumpling of a woman carrying a heavy tray. Fading ginger curls sprinkled with gray peeked from under an oversized mobcap. The mouth-watering aroma of warm bread and hot chocolate accompanied her into the room.