The Copeland Bride

by Justine Cole

  The little weasel eyes glittered maliciously at her, and then

  Noelle watched, terror-stricken, as the cold steel slid between her breasts and sliced open the bodice of her gown. With a flick of the blade, he pushed aside the fabric and exposed first her right breast and then her left. His thick lips hung slack as his eyes fastened on her.

  "Would ya look at this, Geòrgie," he leered.

  Noelle whimpered as she felt the sharp tip of the knife trace the bottom curve of her breast, not yet breaking the skin but menacing in its purpose. The fat man circled the knife up to the top and then began a slow descent toward the coral tip.

  "I think this'll be a good spot, don't you, Geòrgie?"

  A scream tore from Noelle's throat as the point of the knife touched her nipple.

  There was the sound of racing footsteps, and Noelle found herself flung down as a dark figure threw himself at Geòrgie. Dimly Noelle saw the fat man abandon his struggling partner and scurry out of the alley. She wasted little thought on him, however, as Georgie's powerful fist caught her rescuer in the jaw and sent him staggering.

  She saw the powerful shoulders and lean thighs clearly outlined by the light from the street. A dreadful recognition filled her, and with trembling fingers she tightened the shawl that covered her head.

  Quinn quickly recovered from Georgie's blow and sidestepped just in time to avoid another. The men struggled silently, their faces indistinct in the dimness of the alley. Quinn was the taller of the two, lighter than Noelle's burly assailant but more agile. He delivered a series of savage blows, fighting with an intensity that his opponent coulcfnot match.

  Geòrgie was breathing heavily, his strength obviously flagging under the single-minded assault. With one last burst of energy, he pushed past his attacker and fled from the alley.

  Quinn approached her, his chest heaving from the exertion of the brawl. "Are you all right?" He loomed over her as she huddled down in the dirt.

  She was suddenly conscious of her uncovered breasts and pulled the edges of her cloak together, keeping her head down.

  "I'm fine," she murmured. "Thank yer for 'elpin' me."

  "Let me make certain they didn't hurt you." Quinn reached down and slipped a hand under her elbow. As he pulled her up, the dim light from the street fell fleetingly on her face.

  "It's you!" he exclaimed.

  She ducked back into the dark shadows of the alley so he could not see her clearly. Whom had he recognized? she wondered desperately. The pickpocket or Dorian Pope?

  "I won't hurt you," he said, mistaking her withdrawal for fear. "Christ! I don't even remember your name. It was different —French."

  He hadn't seen through her disguise! "Just call me 'Ighness, the same as everybody else." She lowered her pitch so that her normally husky voice sounded gruff.

  With the back of his knuckle, he wiped away a thin trail of blood that trickled from the corner of his mouth. "How long has it been since you've had a decent meal?"

  "I eats when I'm 'ungry."

  "Somehow I'd hoped you'd make better use of the money I left you, but you're no better off than you were."

  "I likes me gin too much," Noelle whined, as an idea, born of desperation, sprang into her mind. "Besides, there ain't much else left for me, thanks ter you. Geòrgie, 'e'd marry me all legal and proper if I wasn't already married." Inwardly Noelle winced at her choice of name, but it was the first one that had occurred to her.

  "Why do you want to marry him?"

  " 'Cause we're gonna 'ave a baby, ducks, that's why. 'E's a good bloke, 'e is. Wants to be a proper dad." With difficulty she let out a sly cackle. "Least it won't be a bastard. Geòrgie and me spent many a night laughin' over it. A rich bloke like you bein' the legal father of our baby."

  Noelle could not help feeling a flash of admiration for Quinn. He did not betray by so much as the flicker of an eyelid the dismay her news must be causing him.

  "And if you were not married to me, you would be able to marry your Geòrgie, is that right?"

  "Blimey, yes," Noelle managed, tensing for his response.

  "All right. I'll make a deal with you. I'll see what I can do about legally ending our marriage."

  It was all too easy. "And wot's my part of this deal?"

  "You'll make no claims on me, and you'll give me your word that you'll stay away from the gin shops."

  "The gin shops!" Noelle exclaimed, so startled by his strange demand that she could barely absorb the fact that her plan was working.

  "The stuff they sell around here is deadly. It has sulphuric acid in it. That's a poison. Highness; it'll hurt your baby."

  This was a side of Quinn Copeland she had never seen. She had no time to ponder it, however, for he was not finished with her.

  "Do I have your word?"

  "I wouldn't want to do nuthin what would 'urt me babe," she muttered. "And as fer the other, you're the last person I'd want anything from. I'll do wot yer say."

  "Good. Now, take this. See that you get some decent food." He thrust a wad of bank notes into her hand. "Buy some meat, fruit. None of this goes for gin, do you understand?"

  "I give you me word, didn't I?"

  "Where can I find you when I'm ready?"

  Noelle thought rapidly. "There's a man named Bardy. Yer can leave word with 'im." She gave him directions to the lodgings.

  Quinn began brushing away some of the muck that clung to his evening clothes. "If you'll excuse me, Highness, there's a fàro game waiting for me. Try to stay out of trouble."

  As suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone.

  Noelle rushed back to Northridge Square and was soon sinking down into the steaming water of the tub, closing her eyes as the soothing warmth eased the soreness from her back and arms. Outside her window, the wind howled, giving fierce warning of an impending storm; inside, everything was quiet. Noelle had the upper floors of the house to herself. Simon had gone to Birmingham for the week, the servants were asleep far below in their rooms, and Quinn's faro game would keep him until the early hours of the morning. She had the peace she needed to sort out all that had happened to her tonight.

  Working the fragrant soap into a lather, she laughed softly as she realized she was finally going to be free of her hateful marriage. Quinn's wealth would surely produce a speedy divorce and a secret one as well. He was no fool; he had quickly seen the advantage of ending the arrangement. Simon would still believe him married, but Quinn would have freed himself from any responsibility for a wife who could only cause him trouble.

  Thoughtfully she washed herself, wincing when her soapy fingers touched her arms. Faint purple marks were already beginning to appear. She reminded herself that if it had not been for Quinn's intervention, she would never have escaped so lightly. Although it did not even the score between them, she knew that she owed him a debt.

  A frown puckered her forehead as she slid deeper into the water, but it was already losing its comforting warmth. Sighing, she stood and stepped out of the tub. As she dried herself she resolved to repay him by being more pleasant. Now that she knew she would soon be free, she could afford to be friendlier.

  Pulling on a sheer beige dressing gown, she went to the mirror and began brushing her hair. Outside, the storm broke with a fury, and a faint crash sounded from the other end of the hallway. Setting down her brush, she slipped out of her room to investigate.

  The hallway was chilly after the cozy warmth of her bedroom, and she hurried along, sticking her head into the empty rooms as she passed. They were all closed tightly against the force of the storm. She hesitated when she reached Quinn's door, then turned the knob.

  A blast of wind struck her as she stepped into the empty room. The window opposite the bed was open, and rain was blowing in, soaking the draperies and the floor. Sidestepping a broken vase, Noelle dashed across the room, the chilling rain slashing against her body and soaking through her dressing gown. She pulled down on the window, but it refused to budge. Positioning herself direct
ly in front of it, she yanked with all her strength and pulled it shut just as a bolt of lightning flared in the sky.

  Stepping away from the window, she looked down at herself. She was drenched. Only her hair and the back of her gown were dry. Even her feet were squishing in a puddle of water. She grabbed a towel from Quinn's dressing room and mopped up the area around the window, finally spreading the towel over the wet floor. The maids could clean up the rest in the morning. All she wanted to do now was to return to her room, put on a dry gown, and slip into bed.

  A great clap of thunder rattled the window panes, and at the same moment, the door swung open, and Quinn stepped in. The dim light from the hallway lapped the room and then disappeared as he shut the door. She sucked in her breath sharply, the small sound like a gunshot in the quiet room.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked.

  Noelle breathed a silent prayer of gratitude that it was dark, and he could not see how thinly clad she was. "I—I heard a crash. The —the wind knocked over that vase. Your window was left open, and the rain blew in. I—I've been trying to clean up the water." When he did not respond, she continued her flustered explanation. "I didn't expect you home so early. It's barely midnight. I imagined your card game would keep you until much later."

  "How did you know I was playing cards?"

  Noelle laughed nervously. "Isn't that how you gentlemen always end your evenings?"

  "Not always."

  Slowly he advanced into the room. A flash of lightning from the window behind her momentarily illuminated his handsome face, and Noelle found something unexpected stir deep within her. The mocking smile she had come to expect was not there; his expression was less guarded, the harsh planes softened.

  "Excuse me. I must get back to my room." As she turned to slide past him her gown brushed against his hand.

  "You're wet."

  "The rain—I got soaked when I was closing the window."

  "Here, let me get you a towel. You're shivering."

  "No!" she exclaimed. And then more evenly, "I'll be all right. Really."

  Ignoring her, he pulled a small towel off the washstand and handed it to her. Noelle dabbed at herself and then, unexpectedly, Quinn lit the lamp. The room was flooded with light.

  She stood before him, the towel, barely larger than a man's handkerchief, clutched uselessly in her hand. The thin material of her gown was molded to her, revealing far more than it concealed. Wet gauze outlined her full breasts and clung to her lean flanks where the sweet, dark triangle was clearly visible to his exploring gaze.

  "Christ, you're beautiful," he said huskily, and it was as if there were a current radiating from him. Every part of her body that was touched by his slumberous gaze came alive with curious warmth.

  He took a step toward her, his eyes burning, and slipped his hand behind her neck. With his fingers, he plowed gentle furrows in her hair as he tipped her head up. His breath was hot and sweet, and then his lips possessed her. They were hard and seeking, igniting a flame within her. She felt her own lips part as his mouth became more demanding.

  His other hand caressed the small of her back, the fingers strong and healing as they lingered there for a moment and then traveled downward, finally cupping the pliant curve below. She moaned and turned her head from the relentless threat of his kiss, from the heat of his caress, but his lips patiently brushed the valley beneath her ear and then traveled down her neck, igniting tiny fires everywhere they touched.

  My God! What is happening to me? Planting her small fists on his chest, she summoned strength born of panic and pushed herself away from him. He released her, and she ran from the room as if all the demons in hell were at her heels.

  The next morning, her face was tired and drawn as she stepped into Constance's carriage, a gold barouche with soft jade-green upholstery. The calash top had been put down to take advantage of the day, which had been washed fine by the storm.

  "Really, Noelle, you must get more sleep. There are shadows under your eyes."

  "I was reading and lost track of the time," Noelle lied, taking a seat facing Constance.

  "I fear you are becoming a bluestocking," Constance chastised as the carriage pulled away from the house. "Did I tell you that I have invited Angela Welby and her daughter, Catherine, to accompany us today?"

  "Oh, Constance, you didn't! Catherine Welby is the most awful featherbrain."

  "Yes, isn't she. But her mother is a charming woman whom I see all too seldom."

  Half an hour later when the carriage entered Hyde Park, Noelle was forced to agree with Constance's assessment of Angela Welby. She was a woman of intelligence and humor who could not quite hide her distaste for the frivolities of her daughter.

  Catherine had no sooner arranged her skirts around her than she began questioning Noelle about Quinn. Which particular parties would he be attending during the next week? Was it true about the duel? Had the Baroness von Furst actually threatened suicide if he left her again? Noelle turned aside each question firmly, and Catherine soon lapsed into sullen silence, leaving Noelle free to join in the more stimulating conversation of Constance and Angela Welby.

  Patches of sunlight flickered pleasantly over the women as the carriage clipped around the perimeter of the park, passing under the October trees, which were awash with leaves of rust and gold. They nodded to acquaintances, chatted comfortably. Noelle felt some of the awful tension within her ease.

  "Dorian! Isn't that your cousin riding toward us?"

  The excitement in Catherine's shrill voice pierced the peace of the moment, and Noelle's heart made a sickening lurch. Not yet, she thought desperately, I'm not ready to face him. Please, let it be someone else.

  Reluctantly she looked toward the man approaching them astride a great ebony stallion. It was unmistakably Quinn. Noelle had never seen anyone dressed for riding as he was. Shunning the proper formal riding attire of the English, he was, instead, wearing a white shirt open at the neck, sleeves rolled just below his elbows, and dark brown trousers. Soft leather boots hugged his calves. He was coatless and hatless, sitting in an oversize saddle. It was outrageous, inappropriate, and infinitely attractive.

  "Mr. Copeland!" Catherine's hand shot up into the air. "Mr. Copeland!"

  "Don't shout so, Catherine," her mother said.

  But the admonition came too late. The driver stopped the carriage as Quinn reined in the powerful stallion and nodded to Constance and the Welby women. "Good morning, ladies." Then his eyes fell on Noelle, his expression inscrutable. Was he looking for some signal from her, an acknowledgment of what had passed between them? Or had he dismissed the entire incident as unimportant?

  Noelle willed herself to return his gaze unflinchingly, giving nothing away herself.

  "I see you have not given up your barbaric style of riding," Constance sniffed.

  "Sorry to offend you, Constance." He grinned. "But I'd feel ridiculous sitting on one of those handkerchiefs you people call saddles."

  "How can you object to it, Mrs. Peale?" Catherine cooed, tilting her parasol so that only the most flattering light fell on her face. "I think the saddle is beautiful."

  "It's a working saddle, Miss Welby. We Americans stole it from the vaqueros of Mexico." The stallion tossed his mane and pawed restlessly at the ground. Quinn patted the animal's massive neck, quieting him. "Easy, Pathkiller."

  "Pathkiller? Such an unusual name," Mrs. Welby offered.

  "It was the name of a great Indian chief."

  Catherine had no intention of letting the conversation get away from her. "You're obviously a fine judge of horses, Mr. Copeland. He is a magnificent animal. Perhaps you might be interested in seeing my new mare. I hope I don't sound immodest if I tell you she is truly exceptional."

  Noelle watched to see how Quinn would react to Catherine's transparent maneuvering, but he merely smiled politely.

  "I look forward to it." He turned to Noelle. "Would you care to join us, cousin?"

  "I wouldn't think of in
truding on your outing," Noelle replied evenly.

  Catherine quickly jumped in. "Poor Dorian. And we would so love to have had you. You did not know, Mr. Copeland, that she does not ride?"

  "No, I didn't. We've never had an opportunity to discuss any of my cousin's shortcomings, Miss Welby, only her talents." This time his expression erased any doubt Noelle might have had. Quinn had not forgotten last night any more than she had.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Damn it, Simon thought as he took a swallow of weak coffee, why can't the British made a good, strong cup of coffee? It was one of the few disadvantages of living in England.

  He leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out under his desk and gazing with satisfaction at the warm wood and leather of his library. He felt at home here in Northridge Square and over the past few months had come to understand that he did not want to return to Cape Crosse. He would miss the luxuries of English life, his clubs, the slower pace of the London office. Perhaps it was true that America was still a young man's land. And now, with Quinn located, there was no reason why Simon should have to return permanently to Cape Crosse.

  He pulled out his pipe and thoughtfully packed the tobacco in the bowl, tamping it lightly with his index finger. A slow smile of satisfaction crept across his face. He had waited long enough for events to unfold by themselves. Now it was time to give the pot a small stir.

  Quinn, dark hair still tousled from sleep, was tucking his unbuttoned shirt into fine-ribbed black corduroy trousers when he entered the library. "What the hell do you want so early in the morning? Tomkins said it was important."

  "Another late night?"

  Quinn yawned in response and slouched down into the leather chair at the front corner of Simon's desk.

  "Women or cards?"

  "Both, as a matter of fact." He rubbed one hand over his unshaven cheek.

  "Coffee?"

  At Quinn's affirmative grunt, Simon poured him a cup of the weak brew from a silver pot. Quinn took a swallow and grimaced.