by Justine Cole
The minister's voice echoed resonantly within the walls of the small wooden church as he made the sign of the cross on the tiny forehead of the baby nestled comfortably in Noelle's arms. Lydia Mae smiled toothlessly at her new godmother, and Noelle hugged her in return. She was a beautiful baby, and at the moment, Noelle wished without reservation that she were hers. She looked up at Quinn standing next to her and saw that his face had softened. Their eyes caught, and for a brief moment, there was a union between them.
It was then that Noelle knew what she would do.
A hot afternoon rain began to fall as they made their way back to Televea, and the inside of the closed carriage was stifling. Noelle fanned herself with her gloves and thought about what she would say as she watched little rivulets of rainwater sweat down the window beside her. They rode in silence until the carriage turned into the driveway leading to Televea.
"She's a beautiful baby, isn't she?" Noelle made her voice as casual as she could.
"Yes, she is."
"I've never seen anyone as happy as Emily and Julian."
"They've waited a long time for that child."
Noelle stared straight ahead. "Have you ever thought about having children?"
"I've thought about it."
When he said nothing more, Noelle knew this would be even more difficult than she had imagined. Surely he understood. Why did he have to make it so hard for her?
"Yes! I—I suppose most people have thought about it," she faltered.
His eyes, cold and demanding, caught her. "Highness, what are you trying to say?"
Noelle's tongue flicked out over her dry lips. "Only that— This afternoon when I was holding the baby, I—I realized I was being very unfair to you. We've been married for two years. Of course, we don't have an ordinary marriage, but still—it would be cruel of me to deny you children."
As suddenly as it had started, the rain stopped, leaving the air even heavier than before and the atmosphere in the carriage more oppressive.
"So. Once again you're prepared to do your duty."
"No! Not—not duty exactly. It's just that . . ." She tried to hide her confusion. "I think it's time we had a child."
Abruptly the carriage stopped. "You do, now." The contempt in each word was so unexpected that she recoiled.
"It—it really doesn't make any difference," she said miserably, wishing she had never started this. "Just forget—"
"No. No! Put in your order!" He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her toward him, beginning to shake her slowly and methodically. "Do you want a boy? A girl? Fair? Dark? Tell me what you want!"
"Stop it!" she screamed, covering her ears against his taunting.
He pulled her hands away and jerked her to within inches of his face. "I won't stud you, Highness!"
The carriage came to a halt, and with a cry of humiliation, Noelle yanked herself away from him and jumped out, stumbling as she ran toward the house.
Quinn stepped to the ground more slowly, watching her with tortured eyes as she disappeared inside. He knew he had never wanted her as much as he did at that moment, but his anger and the sheer force of his will kept him rooted to the spot. She would come to him honestly, or she would not come at all. There would be no more excuses, only her own admission that she wanted him.
Despite the heat, Noelle shut all the windows in her bedroom and pulled the draperies closed until only a thin shaft of light penetrated the dim room from one window where the draperies did not quite meet at the center. Overcome with hatred and humiliation, she could think of nothing except sealing herself away from him, from the servants, from everyone, even herself.
Her dress was damp with perspiration, torn at the hem where she had caught it when she leaped from the carriage, and she pulled it off along with her petticoats, leaving them all in a crumpled heap on the floor. Her hair came undone as she was undressing, and it clung to her damp body and curled in moist tendrils at her hairline. Clad only in her thinnest chemise, she threw herself on the bed and cried. The temperature in the room rose with the final force of the afternoon heat.
When she could cry no more, she rolled over onto her back and threw her forearm over her burning eyes, trying to shut out her mortification as she repeated the scene in the carriage over and over in her mind. The room gradually darkened, but evening provided no relief from the heat now trapped inside.
It was nighttime when a knock sounded at her door. Noelle lay silently. When the knocking continued, growing firmer and more insistent, she snatched a porcelain vase from the table next to her bed and hurled it at the door. The footsteps quickly retreated.
The interruption opened her wound once again, and shame and the suffocating heat of the room choked her until she could barely breathe. She lay motionless, arms at her sides, sweat trickling down between her breasts, drawing one conscious breath after another. A mosquito landed on her bare leg, but she didn't bother to brush it away even when she felt the sting of it drawing out her blood.
The door in the adjoining room opened and then shut. She heard the sound of his movements, water splashing, and, finally, the creak of the bedsprings. Dragging herself from her bed, she began to pace the room, her chemise so wet that it was transparent, her hair tangled honey falling to her waist over glistening shoulders.
Six steps in one direction. Eight in the other. She was almost demented from her hunger for him, her need to have him and still keep her pride. Back and forth. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . One step after another.
Dear God, her desperate thoughts raged, he has driven me to the brink of insanity, poisoned me, but I must have him. I must have his fingers burning into my flesh. My hands on him, kneading muscles like steel. Touching him. Tasting him.
Propelled by a force stronger than her pride, she found the doorknob that separated them twisting in her hands. The moonlight streamed in the open windows of his room, and the fresh air was cold against her wet flesh. He propped himself up on one elbow and watched her come toward him, the sheet that covered his bare chest slipping down to his waist.
She stood at the foot of the bed in a shaft of moonlight so he could see her clearly, so there would be no misunderstanding. Her fingers tugged at the thin blue ribbon that held the bodice of her chemise together. As it came undone in her hands she locked her eyes with his and opened the garment slowly until she had unveiled the gleaming mounds of her breasts to him. Only then did she bend over and peel the damp chemise off.
Even when she was naked, she did not move, did not try to hide from the burning eyes that branded her flesh. Instead, she reached to the back of her neck and, with both of her hands, lifted the weight of her hair high so that nothing was hidden from his gaze.
His nostrils flared, and she felt a flash of triumph. Let him reject me now, her hatred cried.
With her hands still holding up her hair, she walked toward him with the slow seductiveness of Eve and then set one knee up on the side of the bed. "I want you," she said huskily.
With a dark moan, he reached out toward her, but she evaded him. Now it would be on her terms. Slowly she leaned across his chest, lowering herself until her burning nipples were pressed against his cool flesh. Thrusting her fingers roughly into his thick black hair, she clamped his mouth to hers, plunging her tongue between his teeth.
With only her instincts to guide her, she made love to him so agonizingly, so expertly, that when she was done, he could only crush her to him, unable to bear the thought of having her steal away from his side.
That night, she dreamed that her bed was on the side of a vast, rocky hill where low-flying curlews swooped toward her, their wings batting at her face, flying closer and closer until, one by one, they tangled themselves in the wild mass of her hair. She jerked awake to find Quinn's arm pinning her down as he slept, his fingers painfully entwined in the strands of her hair.
With a slow sigh, Noelle released the tension of her nightmare. As her breath warmed his cheek Quinn stirred. His hand re
leased its grip on her hair and slid down her body, cupping itself around one of her breasts. She felt him grow rigid against her leg, and then she was conscious of little else as she gave herself up to the sensations he was arousing.
It was much later when Noelle pulled herself from bed. She smelled of sweat and sex, and all she could think of was getting away from the piercing eyes that watched her so intently and sinking into the tub she had heard Grace filling in the next room.
As if he were reading her thoughts, he climbed out beside her and tilted her chin up. "Ever take a bath with a man before?"
"I certainly have not," she flared, presenting a picture of offended dignity so incongruous with her wild abandonment in bed that Quinn laughed and scooped her into his arms.
"We'll have to do something about that."
She told him his behavior was odious and demanded that he put her down that very instant, but he ignored her half-hearted struggles and lowered them both into the water.
It was a big tub, but it hadn't been designed to hold two people, especially when one of them was as large as Quinn. He draped a dripping calf over the side and watched with amusement as, avoiding his eyes, she lathered a washcloth and began efficiently scrubbing herself.
"You're missing the point, Highness." He grinned, taking the soapy cloth from her and setting it aside. He lathered his own hands and washed her that way, lingering so long on the most sensitive parts of her body that, with a gasp, she finally grabbed the soap away and began to wash him.
She studied his body with open fascination as she slid her hands over him—the rippling muscles, the faint white marks along each side of his spine where his skin had stretched taut when he had grown too quickly as a boy, a jagged scar on his calf.
Not long after they had finished washing each other, they found themselves on Noelle's bed, their bodies leaving a wet imprint on her pale blue bedspread as they satisfied each other in a fashion as old as time.
It was nearly noon when Quinn propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down at her.
"Are you sure the shipyard won't fall apart without you?" she teased.
But he didn't smile. With a question in her eyes, she reached up toward his cheek. Gently he stopped her hand. "Which way is it going to be, Highness?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that from now on, you'll either be in my bed every night as my wife, or you'll stay the hell away from me. You can't have it both ways anymore."
"I'll think about it," she snapped, even though she knew what her answer would be.
"Do that. You have until tonight."
Chafing at his arrogance, she watched him get out of bed and walk to the door that connected the two rooms. "Quinn."
He turned.
"If I do decide to share your bed, don't think anything else has changed between us!" It was her pride speaking, and she immediately regretted her words.
"That's fine with me, Highness. We both know how we feel about each other. Nothing that happens between us in bed, no matter how good, is likely to change that."
His words proved to be too prophetic. At night, they were like two bodies with one mind, joining together with total abandon —nothing held back, nothing feared. But during the day, the hostilities between them escalated. The memories of past betrayals were too fresh.
Although neither would admit it, both were afraid of the terrible attraction that drew them together. They were increasingly cruel to each other, sometimes even trading caustic jibes in the presence of the servants. As the summer ended, their lovemaking grew more violent. It was as if it were a sickness that had spread out of control, advancing beyond their bodies to devour their minds.
Chapter Thirty-five
In September, the activity at the shipyard returned to normal, and Noelle began spending more time there, although she never searched out her husband, and for his part, he ignored her presence. One day she stepped into Quinn's office to shed the short jacket she had worn over her riding skirt, for the day had grown warm. Tossing it on a chair, she noticed a new wooden half mode! sitting on his desk. She picked it up and, as she ran her fingers along the smooth line of the hull, she felt a spark of excitement. The shape was sleeker than anything she had ever seen, its bow leaner and its breadth much further back than was customary. She knew that a half model was the first step toward building a ship. If Quinn had made a model, he must be getting ready to start.
"What the hell are you doing in here! Put that down!"
She jumped and the model slipped from her hand and fell to the floor, knocking out the pins that held it together and sending the wooden layers scattering. It was a simple matter to reassemble it, but Quinn clenched his fist in anger, his eyes turning the color of gun metal. He hated the constriction he felt in his guts whenever he came upon her unexpectedly. Why the hell couldn't she stay home where she belonged—out of his way, out of his life, out of everything except his bed!
"God damn it! Look what you've done! You have no right to be in here!"
"I have every right to be in here, and don't you forget it," she stormed, so hurt by his attitude that she paid little heed to what she was saying even though she realized he was dangerously angry. "I may not own as much of this company as you do, but I own part of it, and I want to know why you didn't tell me you were getting ready to build this ship!"
Her attack was so audacious that for a moment he was speechless. Finally he choked, "Are you seriously suggesting that Ï should be accountable to you!"
Noelle saw she had cornered herself and looked for a graceful way out. "I—I didn't say you were accountable, but I do think you should have kept me informed, especially about something as important as this ship."
"Why, you presumptuous little bitch! I'll keep you informed all right!"
With a shove, he sent her tumbling back into a chair and then, hovering over her, set his foot up on the seat beside her, heedless of the muddy print it was leaving on her skirt. "In the next three years I'm going to build the fastest sailing ship the China Seas have ever seen, and no one is going to stop me. Now, is there anything else you want to know?"
"When do you start building her?"
Quinn felt a glimmer of reluctant admiration at her refusal to back down. "We begin lofting the plans this month." He took his foot off the chair and jerked his head toward the door. "Now, if that's all, I suggest you get yourself home, where you belong."
Angrily Noelle shot up from the chair. "Home and into bed, isn't that what you mean?"
"You said it, not me. But then, I guess you're the best judge of your own character."
"You bastard!" She drew back her arm to slap him, but this time he saw the blow coming and grabbed her wrist, twisting it behind her back.
"By God, if you hit me again, I'll beat you within an inch of your life! I mean it, Noelle. Don't push me any further!"
When he let her go, she stomped from the room and then deliberately spent an hour watching the men sheathe the hull of a sloop with copper before she permitted herself to leave.
That night, their lovemaking was more frenzied than ever as Quinn brought her to one shattering climax after another, but when it was over and they had each moved to separate sides of the bed, she felt hollow and unfulfilled. She was so tired of fighting him! Would it always be this way between them? Their rage disguised as pleasure; their lovemaking full of anger because both of them hated the weakness that was driving them together. A tear slid soundlessly from the corner of her eyes onto the pillow.
"Would you like to hear about the ship, Highness?" Quinn's voice was so low that for a moment Noelle thought she was imagining it.
"If you'd like to tell me," she said softly.
"I'm going to call her an American clipper."
"Clipper. It's a good word. I like it."
"She'll be big—seven hundred and fifty tons—and full rigged. There'll be no gilt on her, no ornament, nothing to distract from that long, thin hull."
He spoke on into the nigh
t of his plans, his hopes, and even his worry that Wolf Brandt, the man who had commissioned her, might not be able to find a crew when she was finally ready to go to sea. Sailors, he told her, were deeply superstitious, and a ship so radically different in design from any they had ever seen would invoke their most primitive fears.
"Does Mr. Brandt understand this?" she asked.
"Yes. But when you meet him, you'll see that he's a man who likes to take risks. If he can man her, he knows she'll make him a fortune."
"Quinn?"
"Hmm?"
"If you don't want me at the shipyard anymore, I won't come."
Incredibly he slid his arm under her and gently drew her to his shoulder. "The men like having you there. They think you bring us good luck."
"And what about you?"
It might have been his chin that brushed across the top of her head, but suddenly, Noelle wanted to believe that it was his lips.
"Go to sleep, Highness."
His voice was so gentle that her heart constricted and, in that instant, Noelle knew that she loved him. The unexpectedness of it staggered her. She squeezed her eyes shut and, willing her body to lie still within the strong circle of his arms, tried to tell herself it was an illusion, but the truth was written so clearly inside her that she couldn't deny it. She loved him, had loved him for a long time.
When did it happen? Was it as long ago as that storm-ridden night in Yorkshire when he had pulled her from Ravensdale Tarn and then made love to her, or since they had come to Televea? Had it happened in the passion of their lovemaking or in quieter moments as he had spoken of his Indian heritage or described his ships?
