The Copeland Bride

Chapter Fourteen

Noelle arrived in London with Constance during the last week of August. A year and a half had passed since the morning Quinn had delivered her to this same house. Now, she was elegantly gowned in apricot velvet. Her shining hair, which fell below her shoulders when she brushed it, was swept up into a flattering arrangement of small braids and soft curls. Even though there was no longer any resemblance between the carrot-thatched pickpocket and the beautiful young woman who stepped so gracefully from the carriage, the house on Northridge Square still overwhelmed her.

Northridge Square was, in fact, not a square at all but a small rectangle with ten houses forming the perimeter, two at each of the shorter ends of the rectangle and three on the longer sides. There was a park in the center with carefully groomed shade trees and a granite pedestal holding a bust of Lord Nelson.

Simon's residence rested in a direct line with the hero of Trafalgar's bronzed gaze. Built of red brick, it was an imposing house, both larger and grander than the one in Sussex. It had high-ceilinged rooms, massive fireplaces, and a set of twin staircases that curved up from each side of the black marble foyer.

One of the first things Noelle did after she was settled was to take out one of the coins she had been so carefully hoarding and slip away from Northridge Square. Tilting her head far enough forward so that the rim of her bonnet obscured her face, she walked rapidly eastward until the homes of the wealthy gave way to poorer dwellings. She had not gone far before she came upon an old costermonger peddling a barrow overflowing with shabby clothing. In rapid succession she bought a black, closely woven shawl, a threadbare cloak, and a pair of worn boots. A quick stop at an apothecary's, then a wigmaker's, and her purchases were complete.

When she returned home, she let herself quietly in through the back garden and stealthily climbed the stairs to her room, where she hid her purchases in the back of her armoire.

Determined to earn the generous salary Simon was paying her, Noelle swallowed her apprehension and set about her new duties as his hostess with all the confidence she could muster. She learned the routine of the household as well as the names of all the servants-from Tomkins, the forbidding butler, and Mrs. Debs, the housekeeper, to Norah, the kitchen maid.

As she explored the house she discovered behind the dining room a small parlor that Constance had rather fancifully decorated some years before in shades of peach and powder blue. There was a set of bookshelves and a sunny bay window with an upholstered window seat, originally bright peach but now faded into softer tones. The room was warm and comfortable, and Noelle immediately appropriated it as her own, adding a small pigeonholed desk.

There Constance showed her how to set up an inventory with the housekeeper, go over menus with the cook, and issue and respond to invitations, all tasks that Noelle immediately detested. To console herself, she hung a fern in the bay window and then added a comfortable pillow so she could curl up and read.

Unfortunately she had little time for literature, as Constance and Simon were both insistent that she begin to be seen socially. It was a mark of Simon's determination to have her accepted by his peers that he reluctantly left his desk several afternoons a week to accompany the women on their rounds. He felt amply rewarded for his sacrifice when he learned that wagers were being laid at several of the most exclusive clubs in London, and Simon Copeland's niece was an odds-on favorite to be the surprise hit of the social season. He was less pleased, however, to observe the collection of young dandies in his drawing room growing by the day.

For her part, Noelle was waiting impatiently for another chance to slip from the house. One chilly afternoon almost a month after her arrival, Simon and Constance were both required at the Copeland and Peale offices to sign a new contract. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Noelle pleaded a headache and informed Tomkins that she was not to be disturbed for the rest of the afternoon.

Locking herself in her room, she took off her crisp muslin dress and fine petticoats and carefully hung them away. From beneath a pile of chemises, she drew out her knife and tied it securely around her calf with the strips of material she had saved. Then she pulled her secret purchases from the bottom of the armoire. With the briefest hesitation, she took out her old emerald gown and slipped it on, shuddering at the terrible memories it brought back.

Her next task took considerably longer. With a pair of silver scissors, she snipped away at the section of fake hair she had purchased at the wigmakers. It was not quite the ugly shade of orange she remembered, but it was close enough. Then using a needle and thread, she sewed the ends of the tufts of hair to the edge nearest the center of the black shawl, settling the shawl around her face several times to adjust the strands. When she was finally satisfied, she tucked her own honey tresses securely out of sight and knotted the shawl under her chin so only the artificial strands of hair protruded, uneven and frizzled. As a final step she pulled on the worn pair of boots and smeared the scarlet rouge that she had purchased from the apothecary across her cheeks and rimmed her eyes in kohl.

Noelle surveyed herself in the mirror. What she saw did not completely satisfy her. She would have to rub some dirt on her face to disguise her healthy complexion; then if the light were dim enough and luck was with her, she could still pass as Highness. Her chances were made better, she knew, by the fact that the one she was going to see was almost blind.

Noelle wrapped only five coins in her handkerchief-too many questions would be asked if she appeared with more-and, throwing the threadbare old cloak over her shoulders, opened her window.

She had chosen a bedroom at the back of the house, although Constance had chided her at the time. "It's such a little room, Noelle. The curtains are old, and it needs repainting. Why not take the pretty yellow room at the front?"

But Noelle had argued that the bedroom in the back would be quieter. After the peace of Sussex, she declared, the front of the house would be too noisy with carriages rattling by all night. Constance pointed out quite logically that Northridge Square was very quiet, and it was not likely there would be many carriages to disturb her sleep, but Noelle remained adamant.

The truth of the matter was that she had spotted a network of sturdy vines growing up around the bedroom's back window. The vines, many as thick as her arms, were shielded from casual view by a dense clump of oaks. She would be able to come and go at will with no one to see her unorthodox stairway.

Opening the window, she slung one slim leg over the sill and caught the toe of her boot in the crook of a vine. Cautiously she tested it. It held her weight. Gingerly easing out the other foot, she began a careful descent.

The vines proved to be as sturdy as they looked, and she was soon on the ground, where she rubbed some dirt on her face and hands and then let herself out the garden gate and into the network of back streets that skirted the prosperous environs of Northridge Square.

Less than two kilometers away in distance, but a universe away in reality, Noelle found herself at the entrance of a fetid alleyway in Soho. The passage was so narrow and the buildings set so closely together that only on the brightest of days did a few feeble rays of sunlight penetrate the dark, mildewed cavern.

As she stepped into the alley the odors of the past attacked her: the smells of decay, hopelessness, and human excreta. There was another odor that caused the bile to rise in her throat, one vilely familiar to the poor. It was the purification of human flesh, a corpse waiting until the pennies were borrowed or stolen so it could finally be buried. In the cesspools of Soho, Whitechapel, Seven Dials, and Drury Lane the dead were sometimes to be envied; they had escaped the hellish eternity of living.

Noelle pulled the bottom of her shawl across her nose and went on to the end of the alleyway. Peering through what at one time had been a door but was now merely a gaping hole with uneven boards and some crude sacking nailed over it, Noelle looked into the common room that had housed her for many years after Daisy's death.

Filthy straw covered with rags lay in piles along the seeping walls. In two corners of the room were ragged mattresses for the boarders who could afford the extra tuppence a week rent. The room was empty except for a misshapen lump huddled near the apathetic fire.

Noelle gingerly pulled aside the sacking and stepped down into the room. "Bardy?"

"Oos 'at, now?" he called out threateningly.

Dread enveloped her like a shroud as she walked closer to the feeble flicker of the fire. It felt as if she had never escaped.

"It's me, Bardy."

" 'Ighness," the old man cackled. "Blimey! I knowed yer'd be back. There's them that says yer got nabbed, but I tole 'em ya was too peevy a cove fer that. Where yer been?"

She shrugged evasively. "Lots of places, Bardy. I'm up on my luck."

"I'm 'appy fer yer, lass, but the tykes missed yer, they did. With yer gone, there weren't nobody cared 'bout 'em."

"There was you, Bardy."

"Lord love ya, and wot can an old man like me wot's 'alf blind do?"

"You can take this. I'm sorry it's been so long since I could bring you anything." She pressed the coins into his hand. "See that they get what they need. I'll bring more when I can."

He inspected the coins before they disappeared into the ragged folds of his coat. "Yer've got a soft 'eart, 'Ighness. Always did."

"I have to go now, Bardy. I'll be back soon. Buy yourself something, will you? A purple muffler to keep your bones warm."

Noelle heard Bardy's cackle as she slipped hurriedly out of the room and into the alley. She tried to tell herself she was rushing to get back before she was discovered, but she knew she was really fleeing the children. She had to be away before they returned. It had been nearly two years; many of the familiar faces she remembered would be gone, claimed by either death or the law. As for the few remaining, the very fact that they had survived was evidence that they would have changed past recognition. Worse, still, would be the new faces, each one a reminder of the thousands of other abandoned children.

As Noelle sped through the streets of Soho she was surprised to discover that she was crying. Abruptly she dashed away the tears with the back of her hand.

Slowing her steps, she tried to decide what she would do next. She could throw caution to the winds and bring the rest of the money with her on her next trip. There was enough for Bardy to lay in a supply of food and buy clothing and bedding for the children. But she dismissed the idea; it would be dangerous for him to have so much money at once. No. she would just have to bring a few coins with her each time and make more frequent trips, even if it meant traveling at night.

She must also save more of her money. What she had now would only last a few months if the children were to get what they needed. Although Simon insisted she be well dressed, he wouldn't notice if she had five pairs of gloves instead of seven or a refurbished bonnet rather than a new one.

Noelle slipped into the garden at Northridge Square with renewed determination, refusing to admit what she knew-that her mission was ultimately futile, her coins too few, the children too many.

The following week the painters finished in the elegant little dollhouse Constance had purchased near St. James's Square, and she moved in. Although they still saw each other daily, Noelle missed living under the same roof with the woman she had come to depend on for advice and friendship. She consoled herself with the fact that it was now easier for her to slip away and made two more successful trips into Soho. Being able to help the children in however small a way lifted her spirits, so that when Simon announced he would hold a ball in Noelle's honor, she was able to enter into the preparations with a much lighter heart.

Chapter Fifteen

Simon heard a rustle coming from above him and looked up just in time to see Noelle sweep around the curve of the staircase into his view. Her long shining hair was swept up into an artfully arranged composition of soft curls wreathed with fresh ivory rosebuds, archetypes of the silken ones that gathered the hem of her gown into graceful scallops to reveal a filmy underskirt. Only a few honey tendrils had been permitted to escape the charming coif. These fell at her temples and in front of her dainty earlobes, each of which held a single pearl, her only jewelry. Encircling her slim throat was an ivory velvet ribbon fastened at the center with a white rosebud. Beneath the rosebud, the twin mounds of her full breasts swelled, enticingly accented by the lace that edged the bodice of the ball gown. All cream and ivory, she was both virginal and sensual, still the most exquisite woman Simon had ever seen.

For the first time since he had announced to Constance his intention of holding a ball to present Noelle formally, he regretted his decision. She was so breathtakingly beautiful, every man attending would covet her. If she were to fall in love with one of them, he would have no one to blame but himself.

"I thought this was to be a ball, not a funeral. How can you look so solemn, Simon? Is there something about my appearance that displeases you?" She smiled mischievously up at him through thick, dark lashes.

"You little scamp," Simon growled. "You know damned well that you've never looked more beautiful. It seems to me you're trying to weasel a compliment."

"You're absolutely right." Noelle giggled and turned in a graceful pirouette, swirling alabaster against the black marble of the foyer. "Did you ever see anything as exquisite as this gown? It could even make an old stick look beautiful."

Simon's eyes strayed briefly to the lovely breasts rising from their lacy nest. "No one could ever confuse you with a stick."

Disturbed, Constance watched them from the doorway of the ballroom, where she had been supervising the final preparations. Simon was no more immune to Noelle's beauty than any other man. It seemed that all women were destined to fade into insignificance beside her, especially one to whom he had been as unfailingly polite as herself. She yearned for their old relationship, having him growl at her, call her Connie.

"Constance, you look magnificent!" Noelle cried as she spotted her friend. "Look at her, Simon. There's not another woman in London who could carry off that gown."

Constance was wearing layers of fuchsia silk. The vibrant color of the garment should have clashed with her flaming locks but somehow didn't.

"The two of you together look like dessert." Simon laughed admiringly. "Raspberries and Devonshire cream."

"Faith, Simon, I did not realize you had so poetic a nature."

"You know that every shipbuilder has to be a poet at heart, Constance. How else could he build beautiful ships?"

A knock resounded at the front door, and Simon's guests began to arrive. Noelle stood next to him for almost an hour as he welcomed each one warmly and then presented her. Some she had already met, but most were strangers anxious to judge for themselves if the rumors they had heard of Dorian Pope's beauty were overstated. It was obvious from the open admiration written on the faces of the men that they did not find the gossips had exaggerated. As for the women, those content with their own lives silently wished her well. The others scrutinized her minutely and, unable to find fault, whispered to each other that, for all her beauty, it was a pity she was said to be so high-spirited. Too lively a manner was unbecoming in one so young.

The ballroom was dazzling. Hundreds of crystal prisms suspended from three magnificent chandeliers shone down on the polished floor and gilded moldings of the room. Set in gleaming brass pots, clusters of potted palms rustled gently in the cool October breeze from the open doors, their vivid green fronds challenging the white walls behind. Backless brocade sofas of the

First Empire were placed strategically along the sides of the room, inviting the grandly coififed and elegantly appareled to lean against their rolled pillows and chat, expound, reminisce in comfort.

As soon as Noelle entered she felt the intoxicating tension of the room. Tonight she was going to dance, laugh, be gay, with no thought of anything but the present. A great burst of joyous laughter escaped her as Simon caught her in his arms and whirled her into the first dance.

The evening sped by. She flew from one set of masculine arms to another. The men, some famous, some talented, some ordinary, all vied for her attention. She smiled enchantingly at each one, laughed at his stories, and forgot him the instant another partner claimed her. Only the patterns of the dance mattered. The blood of kings rushed through her veins. Life was suddenly wonderful.

Simon watched her. She was a temptress, the Lorelei ensnaring with her dancing instead of her singing. Suddenly he found himself wanting to forget she was his son's wife.

He approached her just as Lord Alfred Haverby took her arm to lead her to the floor. "I believe you promised me this dance, Dorian. Did you forget?" asked Simon.

Although Noelle knew she had done no such thing, she excused herself prettily and went to Simon. "Thank you for rescuing me," she whispered as soon as Lord Haverby was out of earshot. "I fear his lordship is in his cups. He reeks of port."

"Purely medicinal. His mother is a nasty old curmudgeon who rules him with an iron fist. She still calls him 'Sonny.' "

Noelle laughed. Then the music started, and she forgot the unfortunate Lord Haverby as she and Simon began to dance. The tune was a spirited polka. With each bar, its speed increased until, finally, the pace was frenzied. She twirled faster and faster, the room and its occupants becoming a blur. Faces sped by, their features indistinguishable. Colors blended one into the other. Each beat pounded louder, faster. She turned, she swirled, she flew. Lighter. Quicker. Higher.

The music climaxed with a thundering crescendo, and she and Simon fell, exhausted, into each other's arms. The other dancers began to leave the floor, but Noelle and Simon did not move. Then she thought she felt the faint brush of his lips against her temple. Startled, her eyes flew up, but they never reached his, for, over his shoulder, she saw watching them the face that had haunted her nightmares for so long!

If possible, he was more dangerously handsome than she remembered. His jet-black hair was longer than it had been, casually tousled, a front lock falling carelessly across his forehead. His jaw, square and proud, was hard, masculine. As he surveyed her a lazy speculative grin played at the corners of his mouth, emphasizing the firm planes of his face. But it was the reckless glitter of his eyes that chilled her. Those eyes saw through mere flesh; they could sear the soul. Did they recognize her as the ragged little pickpocket he had married?

As Noelle stiffened in his arms Simon released her and followed the direction of her horrified gaze until his eyes, too, came to rest on his son.

"Quinn," he said softly.

Alone on the ballroom floor, the three of them were caught in a motionless tableau, frozen sculptures entombed in time.

Then, slowly, Quinn started toward them, his carelessly open tailcoat revealing an elegant evening waistcoat of black cut velvet. He moved with a barbaric swagger, self-disciplined yet ruthless, and, as he approached, his eyes raked Noelle.

The insolence of his inspection sent angry flames coursing through her blood. How dare he look at her like that!

Every nerve, every fiber of her slim body went taut as fury drove out her fear, and an astonishing rush of anticipation filled her. It was as if everything she had learned, absorbed, performed, up until this moment of time had all been to prepare her to do battle with this man.

Confidence surged through her. She would choose every word, every glance with expert care. She had been given the weapons she needed to fight him, and she was determined to emerge the victor.

Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her chin. Their eyes locked, and the recoil from the joining was palpable in the air.

He stopped in front of her and then, unexpectedly, took her hand to kiss, turning it over at the last instant so that it was the soft palm that met his lips. "Your beauty has not been exaggerated."

"Nor has your arrogance," she replied coolly, keeping her anger at the audaciousness of his gesture well in check as she firmly removed her hand from his intimate grasp.

A crooked smile of appreciation crossed his features before he turned his attention to his father. "You're looking well, Simon."

His American drawl was stronger than his father's, somehow alien.

"So you've come back."

"Don't worry. It's not permanent. I'm on my way back to America. I stopped by to meet my new cousin."

Noelle did not miss his slight, ironic emphasis on the last word. Constance had told her Simon had no brother, so Quinn knew she was a fraud. But did he know her true identity? Her heart was thudding painfully in her chest, but she forced herself to remain composed as, once again, she came under his scrutiny.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your niece?"

Noelle spoke before Simon had a chance to comply. "I am Dorian Pope, Mr. Copeland." She waited to see if he would react to the name "Dorian." When he didn't, she went on more confidently, "Surely there is no need for a formal introduction between cousins?"

Brazenly she had challenged him to dispute her claim. She held her breath, waiting for his response.

"I agree. Formality between cousins does seem unnecessary." And then, with feigned innocence, "Let's make a bargain right now to have an intimate relationship."

She clenched her fist in the fold of her gown at his arrogance. All the loathing she had ever felt for him magnified. Still, years of painful self-discipline kept her voice even.

"I am afraid it would be most inappropriate for us to make such a pact. After all, we are not related by blood, since your uncle was merely my stepfather."

Arching his eyebrow, he awarded her an unspoken touché. "I'd forgotten that. Kind of you to remind me."

At that moment Constance descended on them in a flutter of fuchsia ruffles. "You horrid boy! How utterly impossible of you not to have told us you were coming. Will you never observe the most elementary conventions of polite society? I vow, I'm surprised you even bothered to arrive in evening dress." Although her manner was affectionate, Noelle could sense the tension behind her words.

Quinn hugged her warmly. "You never give up on me, do you, Constance? You're still hellbent on turning me into an English gentleman."

"A futile task, I fear," she replied spiritedly. At that moment the orchestra began to play a waltz. "I beg the three of you to move off the ballroom floor. You're fueling the tongues of every gossip in London."

"Then let's not leave them disappointed."

To Noelle's dismay she found Quinn's strong arm clasped around her waist, drawing her hard against his body. The contact was searing. Nightmare memories engulfed her as she fought for control. He led her into the first steps of the waltz, the corded muscles of his thighs burning through her gown. She tried to back away from him, but he was unyielding, the steely band of his arm perversely drawing her closer until her breasts were pressed hard against his chest. Insolently he looked down on her, his eyes fondling the tender mounds of flesh as they strained upward, threatening to break free from the chastity of the lacy bodice. Then, with a twisted smile, he released her to the proper distance as suddenly as he had claimed her. Noelle stumbled; only his strong grasp saved her from falling. Quickly she recovered, once again forcing herself to match his steps.

He was a superb dancer, moving with a lethal gracefulness that belied his size. For a moment she permitted herself the luxury of forgetting who he was, allowing him to twirl her expertly about the floor. Those close by stopped dancing to watch as they glided by; he, the quintessence of maleness, she of womanliness.

Cool feathers of air brushed against her bare skin. Too late, she realized he had led her out into the deserted garden. He stopped moving but did not release her. Instead, with one hand, he pulled an ivory rosebud from her hair and brazenly slipped it into the enticing valley between her breasts.

Just as she reached to pluck out the offending bloom and hurl it in his face, he said softly, "Suppose you tell me what this masquerade is all about."

A shiver of fear crept up her backbone. He had recognized her!

"Masquerade?" she murmured as guilelessly as she could manage, trying to give herself time to think.

Abruptly he let her go. "Don't play the innocent. I have nothing against Simon bedding you, but why is he being so underhanded about it? Other respectable men live openly with their mistresses."

Noelle's thoughts whirled. How stupid of her not to have realized he would interpret her presence in the crudest way possible! She chafed at this additional humiliation.

Then the coolly logical part of her mind took command. No matter how insulting, it was infinitely better for him to think as he did than discover the truth-that she was his wife, owned by him, his chattel. Her mind refused to dwell on even the possibility of so monstrous a thing happening. She would swallow the insult while she made her plans.

"How would you know what respectable men do, Mr. Copeland? I understand from your father that you are a black sheep."

She was disappointed that her shaft did not find its mark. Instead of being offended, amusement showed itself in his wicked grin.

"You understand correctly, madam. What else has my father told you about me?"

Noelle shrugged carelessly. "I vow I don't remember. In truth, I paid little attention; the subject did not interest me."

"And what does interest you, Miss Pope?"

"Almost everything, Mr. Copeland. That is why it is so unusual for me to be as bored as I am at this moment."

With that she turned on her heels and swept back toward the ballroom.

Quinn chuckled as her skirts disappeared through the doorway. She was a spitfire, and a beautiful one at that. A woman like that was wasted on Simon. For a moment the thought of taking her away from his father flashed through his mind, but then he dismissed it. The less he had to do with Simon, the better off he would be.

He walked over to the wall that surrounded the terrace and rested his hands on the stone balustrade while he looked out over the dying garden, where only a few hardy flowers still bloomed in beds scattered with fallen leaves. The muscles in his face tightened. Why the hell had he come back? To anger Simon? Goad him?

When he'd walked out of his father's library almost two years before, revenge had been sweet in his mouth, and he'd sworn to himself that he would never return. Like a nomad, he'd traveled from one shipyard to the next-Amsterdam, Copenhagen, Glasgow-shunning the leather insulated offices to work as a laborer.

Using his strong hands, he had hammered and planed the hulls, resisting the force inside him that yearned to smash the plump shells and reshape them; make them faster, sleeker. He rigged spars and stitched sails, living off what he earned while his fortune lay untouched in a London bank. He'd driven himself until his hands were hard and calloused, until his muscles were taut bands of steel.

And now he'd returned.

Part of it was curiosity. The stories of a beautiful young cousin had met his ears as soon as he reached London. But Quinn knew it was more than that. Contemptuous of his own weakness, he smashed his fist down on the stone balustrade, not even flinching at the bone-crushing impact.

He had wanted to see his father.

Noelle was circling the edge of the floor when Simon spotted her. Catching her by the arm, he drew her out into the back hallway.

"Are you all right?" he asked concernedly.

Angrily Noelle shook off his hand. "Isn't it a little late for that?"

Simon looked faintly reproachful. "I know you're upset, Noelle, but you must realize that he was bound to return eventually."

"And I depended on your protection if he did," she snapped.

"You have my protection."

"Oh? I wish I'd been confident of that when he dragged me into the garden."

"He could hardly harm you in the garden. There were a hundred people nearby."

"I don't believe you have even the faintest idea what your son is capable of doing." She dipped her finger into the bodice of her gown, pulling out the bruised rosebud and flinging it angrily on the floor. "Do you know he believes I am your mistress?"

Simon's brows lifted in surprise. "My mistress? Surely you denied it."

"Of course I didn't deny it. He knows I can't be your niece. There is no other way I can explain my presence here. Simon, you must promise me that you will let him keep believing as he does."

Thoughtfully Simon nudged the fallen rosebud with the polished toe of his shoe.

"Promise me," she insisted.

"All right," he concluded, "if it will make you feel better, I promise. Now, let's go back in before we're missed."

"One more thing." Stubbornly Noelle set her jaw. "I want the marriage dissolved now. It must be done quickly, before he discovers who I am."

Impatiently Simon thrust his fingers through his hair. "Noelle, we've been through all this before. You know how complex it is."

"I don't care!"

"You're being totally unreasonable."

"Simon, I'm warning you," she hissed, "you'd bloody well better find a way or I'll tend to that precious son of yours myself, and I'll use a knife."

Her skirt crackled angrily as she whirled away from him.

Simon considered his next move. Somehow he would have to placate Noelle. He dismissed her threat to harm Quinn as a bluff. Women did not kill in cold blood, even a woman like Noelle. No, what really worried him was that damnable pride of hers; it made her unpredictable.

And then there was Quinn. His son consumed women. Impersonally, dispassionately, he used them and then carelessly tossed them aside. To him all of them were expendable because they were so easily replaced. It was obvious that Noelle had intrigued him, but interest was not enough. Noelle's unattainability was the key. Quinn always wanted what he couldn't have, and for now, Simon would make certain that he couldn't have Dorian Pope!

Simon found Quinn in the foyer, his cloak draped across his arm.

"Quinn," he called out with false heartiness. "You can't leave so soon. We haven't had a chance to talk."

"Spare me your camaraderie, Simon. I'm in no mood for a lecture on my behavior the last time we were together. By the way, how is my bride?"

"I saw that she was taken care of," Simon replied evenly. "Come into the library. I have some excellent brandy hidden away. We can have a drink while you tell me where you've been and what your plans are."

"I can tell you everything you want to know standing right here," Quinn said flatly.

The smile faded from Simon's face. "All right. Where the hell have you been for almost two years?"

"I've been traveling. Studying your competition. Now I'm on my way to New York." Quinn paused, knowing how his next words would incense his father. "I've received an offer from Smith and Damon."

With great effort, Simon checked his anger. He'd be damned if Copeland and Peale's fiercest competitor would get his only son!

"They're certainly a fine outfit," he said evenly. "Still, I think you might be happier if you chose to return to Copeland and Peale. I've come to realize I was shortsighted about your experiments. I am now prepared to give you total freedom to carry on your research."

Quinn's eyes were hooded. So, Simon was prepared to swallow his pride to get him back. "I've already accepted Smith and Damon's offer. I leave for New York next month."

"Copeland and Peale is in your blood. Quinn. You're deluding yourself if you think you can turn your back on it." Simon held up a hand before Quinn could respond. "Don't give me an answer now. Just think about it."

"I've made up my mind," Quinn replied brusquely as he pulled on his cloak. Then, as one hand reached for the doorknob, he remembered the enticing young woman he had first seen sheltered in his father's arms.

"By the way, you still have excellent taste in women, Simon. Although I would have thought you'd have preferred someone a little older."

"We are well suited," Simon replied carefully.

"Where did you find her?"

Simon clasped his hands behind his back, his voice as cold as he could manage. "That is none of your business."

Leaning back casually against the door, Quinn did not bother to hide his amusement. "You look like a jealous bulldog guarding his favorite bone."

"Call it what you will, there is something I want you to understand very clearly. Dorian Pope is special. And she's mine."

Quinn gave his father a lazy smile. "We'll see."

With that he went out the door, releasing the gentle strains of the orchestra to the night air.

Chapter Sixteen

The day after the ball brought with it a heavy, chilling fog, so Noelle's new maid, a cheerful girl named Alice, put out a warm frock of pale blue cashmere for her mistress. Noelle had not fallen asleep until dawn, and now, even though it was nearly noon, she felt drained. Pushing back the bedroom curtain, she leaned her cheek against the cold window pane and stared out across the dreary garden. In every swirling ribbon of fog, she saw Quinn's granite-hard face, sleekly carved, infinitely threatening.

The muffled sound of furniture being moved recalled her to her duties. Simon would have left for the office by now. Although the staff was well supervised by Tomkins, she should at least look in; then she would call on Constance. She had been lucky to find the opportunity last night to pull Constance aside long enough to tell her what had transpired with Quinn, but there had been no time for discussion. Today she needed a stiff dose of Constance's good sense.

Noelle draped a fringed shawl printed with salmon roses around the shoulders of her dress and left her room just as the echo of the lion's head door knocker sounded from below. She smiled to herself. So, Constance's curiosity had gotten the best of her; she wasn't going to wait until Noelle called. The knocker sounded again, more persistently this time. Charles must be in the storeroom at the back of the house, Noelle decided as she tripped down the stairs. Smiling broadly, she flung open the door.

Quinn stood on the other side. He looked much as he had the first time she had seen him: massive shoulders straining the seams of his cloak, crystals of rainwater clinging to his raven hair, eyes the color of black onyx mirroring his amusement.

"Somehow I hadn't expected such a warm welcome, cousin. Not that I'm complaining, mind you."

Noelle realized that the smile she had intended for Constance had frozen on her face. "Your father is not here," she snapped. "I suggest you visit him at his office."

As though she hadn't spoken, he gently pushed past her into the foyer. For the first time Noelle noticed with alarm that he was carrying twin valises.

"I'll see him when he gets back." Setting the valises on the black marble floor, he shrugged off his wet cloak to reveal a well cut brown coat, pale buff trousers, and a buff waistcoat fastened with gold buttons. His dark brown neckcloth was intricately tied, but he wore it, and all his clothing, with a careless elegance that clearly signaled his indifference to fashion.

"I'm afraid it won't be possible for you to wait. He is seldom back before six."

"Fine. I'll see him then." With that Quinn picked up his valises and began mounting the stairs.

Panic propelling her, Noelle flew to the bottom of the stairway. "Surely you don't think for a moment that you will stay here."

Stopping in mid-stride, Quinn looked down at her. "As a matter of fact, that's exactly what I think."

"He doesn't want you here."

"Did he tell you that?"

"Not in so many words, but his feelings about you are certainly clear."

"Miss Pope, my father will like nothing better than having me back under his roof. Now, unless you want to end up looking foolish, I suggest you keep that pretty little nose of yours out of my business." With an easy grace, he disappeared around the curve of the staircase.

Gathering her skirts in her hand, Noelle tore after him. She reached the upstairs hallway just as he disappeared into one of the front bedrooms. For an instant she faltered, but the threat of having him living in the same house pushed her on.

She entered just as he set his valises on the bed. Although she had only been in the room once before when she initially explored the house, she remembered it well. All brown and tan, it was a large masculine room dominated by the massive headboard of the bed, gruesomely carved in the shape of a wild-eyed dragon. The enormous head jutted up from the center of the headboard, mahogany thunderbolts flaring from its great nostrils. The figure was overpowering, frightening, and she could not help noting the similarity between the mythical beast and the man whose presence now filled the room.

Shaking off the uncomfortable comparison, she eyed him levelly. "Mr. Copeland, I do not appreciate your patronizing attitude. It is very much my business who stays here. As your father's hostess, I run his household."

"I'm impressed with your efficiency, cousin." A crooked smile curled his mobile mouth. "Are you as conscientious about your other duties?"

She tilted her chin. "I have always subscribed to the belief that any job worth doing is worth doing well." There, she thought, let him make of that what he would!

"I agree. We have something in common."

"We have nothing in common. Now, it will be much easier on us all if you leave."

"I've never been very interested in doing what's easy. I find I like challenges better." Folding his arms, he leaned back against the wall, silently daring her to push him further.

"You don't seem to understand, Mr. Copeland." Noelle's voice was as crisp as footsteps on dried leaves. "You are not welcome in this house."

Marching to the bed, she pulled off a valise. Resolutely she hauled the heavy case to the doorway and set it outside in the hall. Then she went back for the other. When both cases were moved, she planted one hand on her slim hip and glared at him. "Now, if you will be so kind as to leave."

"Cousin, I can see you and I are going to have to come to an understanding." As he uncurled his long frame she took an instinctive step backward, only to feel her spine press up against the bedroom wall. In three easy strides he was in front of her, his legs brushing against her skirt. He lifted his hand and splayed it on the wall next to her head, his thumb just brushing against her hair. Looking down at her, he spoke softly in the lazy drawl she had come to dread.

"I'm staying right here in this house until I decide I'm ready to leave. Even though the landlady likes to pry into things that aren't her business, I happen to like the room. Now, if you're not out of here in thirty seconds, I'll know it's because you want to stay. In that case, I plan to lock this door, strip off your pretty blue dress, and tumble you right on that bed."

Noelle's cheeks flamed in outrage. "You wouldn't dare."

"I'd dare all right, cousin. As a matter of fact, I'm just hoping you'll test me."

With a murderous glare, Noelle jerked past him and marched angrily away. He retrieved his valises from the hallway. As he set them back on the bed he heard the echo of a door slamming at the other end of the house, and he grinned.

Despite her prissy manner, she was a spirited little vixen, and she had stirred him more than he cared to admit. She was also upsetting all of his plans. Just yesterday he had sworn to keep his distance from Simon. Now here he was, a guest in his father's house. It was instinct rather than logic that drove him here today, but he was not going to rest easy until he found out more about the beautiful Dorian Pope.

In her bedroom, Noelle paced the floor, trying to release some of her pent-up rage. He was insufferable, and he was dangerous. Reaching into the bundle at the back of her wardrobe, she cupped her hand reassuringly around the hilt of her knife. Quinn Copeland was going to discover he could only push her so far.

Yanking the bell cord, she summoned Alice and ordered a carriage brought round at once. She needed to talk to Constance now more than ever. Donning a deep blue pelisse and a bonnet trimmed with velvet bows of the same color, she hurried downstairs as quickly as she could, knowing the carriage would not be ready yet but unwilling to spend another moment in the house. The sight of Quinn's cloak lying proprietarily across the settee in the hallway sent fresh spasms of anger racing through her.

Damn him! She yanked open the front door and blindly flung herself out only to crash head-on into a man who had been standing on the other side. Caught off-balance, he toppled backward, his head thumping dully against the metal railing. He lay very still at the bottom of the steps, his body turned to one side. Noelle sucked in her breath in alarm and raced down. Kneeling on the pavement, she bent over the man.

It was Thomas Sully, Quinn's partner in her abduction!

His beaver hat had rolled off to reveal the unruly sandy hair she remembered so well, but his boyish face was paler now, the plump cheeks drained of color. For a moment she was afraid she had killed him, but then he stirred. Carefully she lifted his head and cradled it in her lap. His eyes flickered feebly, shut, and then opened wider as he took in the lovely face that hovered over him. Wonder showed in them but no recognition.

"I'm frightfully sorry," he gulped. "I'm such a clumsy oaf. Did I hurt you?"

Under other circumstances his misplaced apology would have sent Noelle into a paroxysm of laughter, but she was too relieved even to smile. "Don't try to talk."

"Simply dreadful of me to cause you such a fright." He wet his lips nervously, the color rising in his cheeks.

"Please. It's I who should apologize. I'm the one who knocked you down."

"No, I won't hear of it. I stumbled… woolgathering. Horrible habit. Are you sure I didn't hurt you? I could never forgive myself."

"Please, no more apologies. I'm perfectly all right, really. Can you stand?"

"Oh, yes, I'm sure I can."

"Then let me help you inside." She dropped an arm behind his shoulders and braced him as he sat upright.

Quinn's voice coming from the doorway startled them both. "I look forward to hearing the two of you explain this."

Dismayed, Noelle gazed upward to see the mocking grin that was becoming so unpleasantly familiar. "I was about to send for a physician," she said coolly, trying to make it evident by her tone that she wanted no further assistance from him.

"No need for that," Tom replied, feeling his head as he stood upright. "I'm feeling better already. Your kindness has worked wonders, Miss…?"

"Forgive me," said Quinn, coming down the steps. "The two of you haven't been properly introduced." To her chagrin, Noelle felt him slip a proprietary arm around her waist. "I want you to meet Tom Sully, a good friend and one of the few Englishmen I can tolerate. Tom, Dorian Pope-my cousin."

"Delighted, Miss Pope. Can you ever forgive me for causing you such a fright?"

"Of course she forgives you," Quinn interrupted. "Dorian has survived many a tumble. Haven't you, cousin?"

Noelle's cheeks burned at his lazy taunt. She tried to pull herself away, only to be drawn closer, her cheek brushing against the wool of his coat, her hip sensing his thigh. "Let's say no more about it, Mr. Sully," she finally managed. "Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have an engagement." Her magnificent eyes challenged Quinn to delay her any longer. With a slight bow, he released her, and she stepped quickly aside. "It has been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Sully."

"Do you have to go so soon?" Thomas's boyish face was crestfallen. "I mean… that is to say… of course you must go. I wouldn't think of delaying you. However… would it be terribly presumptuous of me on such short acquaintance to invite you to the opera next Saturday? With your uncle's permission, of course. It's The Marriage of Figaro."

"Saturday, you say?" Noelle stalled as she tried to think of a polite excuse. He was so friendly and guileless, so obviously smitten with her that she knew it would be kinder to refuse his invitation than to encourage him.

"Impossible, Tom." Quinn folded his long frame into a chair. "My cousin is busy that night. She has an engagement with Simon."

Noelle's delicately arched eyebrow shot upward at this blatant lie. "I fear you misunderstood, cousin. My uncle and I have no engagement that night. I should be delighted to attend with you, Mr. Sully. Absolutely nothing could keep me away."

"Smashing! I'll call at eight."

"I shall look forward to it." The carriage drew to the curb. Quinn took her arm and led her to the vehicle. When they could no longer be overheard, Noelle snapped, "Mr. Copeland, your interference is intolerable."

"Since we're so closely related, don't you think you should call me Quinn?"

"I don't think I should have to call you anything. Don't you understand? I want you to leave me alone."

"I was beginning to get that idea. What I don't understand is why."

Noelle yearned to scream the full measure of her loathing at him, but she satisfied herself with a more restrained indictment. "Because I dislike you, Mr. Copeland. I find you arrogant, overbearing, and insolent."

"In addition to being beautiful, you're an excellent judge of character, cousin." With a polite nod of dismissal, he held the carriage door open for her, and Noelle set off for Constance's new residence on St. James's Park.

Constance was still in her dressing gown when Noelle burst into the sitting room.

"He is detestable! I have never met anyone I despise more." One of the blue velvet ribbons on her bonnet came off in her fingers as she yanked angrily at the bow under her chin.

"Faith! What has he done to set you off?"

Restlessly pacing the room, Noelle recounted all that had happened since Quinn had appeared at the ball. "I just hope I can have the satisfaction of being present when Simon boots him out of the house," she finally concluded.

Constance swung her slippered feet over the side of the lavender chaise and then walked toward the window, where she stopped to inspect a fern sitting on a plaster column. "I would not count on Simon evicting Quinn," she finally said carefully. "You will only be disappointed."

Noelle stopped her pacing and stared incredulously at Constance. "Surely you don't imagine that Simon will let him stay?"

"I'm certain of it. Quinn is his son."

"But, Constance, they detest each other. Quinn has been a dreadful son."

"Simon has not been the best of fathers."

"You sound as though you are defending Quinn!" Noelle exclaimed.

"I am not defending him, nor will I chastise him. Noelle, I have the deepest affection for you. Surely you know that."

"Why do I have the suspicion I'm going to hear something I shan't like?" Noelle said dryly.

"Because you're an uncommonly perceptive young woman. However, at the moment you're behaving like a peagoose. Simon won't remain in England forever. What will you do when he leaves? Go to America with him? Stay here and try to make your own way?"

"I don't know, Constance. If you are right about Simon permitting Quinn to remain in the house, I will consider leaving immediately and finding other employment."

"Nonsense! He has been supporting you for almost two years on the understanding that you would repay him by serving as his hostess. Can you have forgotten that?"

"Of course I haven't. I would repay him from my wages."

"Very noble, my dear, and very, very silly. At best you would find a position in a shop or as a governess. In truth, it doesn't bear thinking on. You'd not make enough to live, let alone have sufficient funds to repay your debt."

At the truth of Constance's words, Noelle slumped dejectedly down on the settee. "Nothing at all has changed. I'm still trapped between the two of them. Constance, what happened to make them hate each other so much?"

"I wish I could enlighten you, but I have only the vaguest notion, and that is purely conjecture. Benjamin knew, but he refused to discuss it other than to say it involved Simon's wife. When she died, he felt it best to let the matter die with her."

"Only it didn't die, did it?"

Constance went to Noelle and sat beside her, speaking gently. "Noelle, in truth, you must consider assuming your proper place as Quinn's wife."

"Constance, I cannot believe this of you." She sprang up angrily. "How can you even suggest such a thing?"

"Because I am a practical woman. Faith! Don't look at me so. It's time you opened your eyes. Quinn is very wealthy. As his wife, you would never again have to trouble yourself about anything."

"I don't want his money!"

"Noelle, you must listen to me. Quinn is not an ordinary man, nor is he an ordinary shipbuilder. He has vision. There is a brilliant future in store for him. As his wife, you can share in that success."

Observing the stubborn set of Noelle's chin, Constance sighed. "At least consider it. Not for him and not for Simon but for yourself."

Noelle could see the compassion in Constance's face and knew that she was speaking from her heart. "I wish I could do as you say, Constance, if for no other reason than to please you. But I would rather live the rest of my life as a pickpocket in Soho than spend a day as his wife."

Several hours later Noelle walked from the gray stone building that housed the London offices of Copeland and Peale. The rain that had been falling steadily since noon had stopped, although the day was still gray and cloudy. Across the street, she spotted Fisby's Tea Room and remembered she had had nothing to eat since the night before. She stepped toward the curb just as one of the maroon and black mail coaches, not yet dry from the day's showers, shot by, its rear wheels sending a jet of dirty water over the front of her pelisse. The day that had started out so badly was drawing to an even grimmer conclusion.

Stabbing dourly at the stains with her handkerchief, Noelle thought how right Constance had been when she had warned her that Simon would not send Quinn from the house. Constance had even predicted his words.

"He is my son," Simon had said. Then, when Noelle had pressed him about the divorce, he had again put her off with vague promises.

"A plank of wood ter 'elp yer cross the street, mum?" Two dirty ragamuffins, a boy and a girl, stood at her side, carrying a long board. Noelle's mind slid back in time to two other children who had carried a board on rainy days and looked for wealthy customers to help across streets.

"Thank you," she said, managing a smile. When she was across the street, she pressed a shilling on the surprised urchins. "Buy yourselves a kidney pie and some gingerbread." The little boy thanked her and even managed an awkward bow before the two scampered off.

Noelle chose an inconspicuous table in the rear of the tea room and soon had a sliver of lemon tart and a steaming cup of tea in front of her. She took a slow sip and pondered the mystery of the animosity between Quinn and Simon. What had happened to make Quinn hate his father so? She rubbed her temples wearily.

"Did you know Quinn is back?"

Noelle's eyes shot to the adjoining table, where two women were seating themselves. All that she could see of the one who had spoken was the back of a well-cut silk pelisse. It was the other woman who held Noelle's attention. In her early thirties, she was extravagantly beautiful with hair as black as a raven's wing and a small mole clinging seductively near the corner of her left eye.

"How do you know that Quinn is in London?" she asked with smoldering excitement, the trace of a foreign accent lending a mysterious allure to her voice.

"I saw him riding in Rotten Row not more than two hours ago."

"Was he alone?" The black-haired beauty tried to make her question seem unimportant, but the tension around her skillfully rouged mouth betrayed her.

"Oh, Anna!" The other woman pronounced the name with a soft "a." "Surely you are not going to be as foolish about him now as you were the last time he was in London."

"It is not foolishness! He obsesses me."

"You and half the other women in London."

"But he doesn't come back to other women as he comes back to me."

"Why does he have this hold on you, Anna? We've both been with many other men. None, perhaps, quite as handsome but, still…"

"Because he is exciting, dangerous." Anna lowered her voice, but the words were still audible to Noelle. "I want him, but he will not be owned. He is immune to all the tricks that a woman uses. If I pout, he laughs. If I rage at him, he is indifferent."

"And in bed?" The other woman leaned forward in her seat. "How is he in bed?"

Anna's eyes clouded, and her lips parted seductively as she stared unseeingly past her companion. "Like no other. He makes hard, desperate love to me, and I forget everything else. The next time, I vow that I will hold back, make him plead with me. But I know I am lying to myself. He touches me, my strength disappears, and I give him everything."

Noelle could listen to no more. She did not even bother to count the coins she threw down on the table, so desperate was she to escape overhearing any more of the woman's repugnant confidences.

Much to Noelle's relief, Quinn was not present for supper that night, nor did she hear him return to the house, although it was well past midnight before she turned down her light.

Chapter Seventeen

"Miss Catherine Welby to see you, ma'am."

"Whatever for?" Noelle wondered aloud as she glanced at the clock on her desk. It was barely ten o'clock, hardly an appropriate hour for a caller to present herself, especially one who had been as consistently unfriendly as Catherine Welby.

"Show her to the drawing room, Tomkins. And I suppose you had better send in tea."

As the butler closed the door behind him, Noelle reluctantly set aside the stack of invitations she had been answering and banged the lid of the desk shut, rattling a china shepherdess perched on the top. Normally a job she detested, the task had today provided her with an excuse to seal herself away in her parlor until lunch. By that time, she calculated that Quinn would have left the house, and she would have avoided, at least for the morning, another encounter with him.

The heels of her slippers clattered noisily when they hit the marble of the foyer. Automatically she muffled her steps. He had barely been in the house for twenty-four hours, and she already felt like a prisoner.

Smoothing her dress, she entered the drawing room. "Miss Welby, how nice to see you."

"Do call me Catherine, and I shall, of course, call you Dorian," her caller bubbled effusively as she patted the place next to her invitingly. Noelle sat reluctantly, putting as wide a distance between them as the limited dimensions of the settee and common politeness would permit.

"I just know we shall be the best of friends, Dorian. We have so much in common." She then began chronicling the most recent of her social activities.

Noelle barely listened as she tried to puzzle out the motive behind the unexpected call. She and Catherine Welby had attended several of the same functions; however, they were hardly friends. The fluffy little blonde had barely spoken a dozen words to her, and those had been begrudging.

"I beg your pardon?" Noelle returned her attention to her unwelcome caller, aware that she had missed something.

"I asked if you would like to ride with me in the park next week."

'"I'm sorry, but I don't ride."

"You don't ride?" Miss Welby's astonishment could not have been greater if her hostess had just announced her escape from a Turkish seraglio.

"I was raised in India, you know." Noelle adopted a faintly superior air, as if that should explain everything.

"Oh? Quite so."

There was a brief pause, and then Miss Welby plunged into an account of a new riding habit she was having made, describing each tuck and trim in painstaking detail. Noelle was suppressing a yawn with the utmost difficulty when tea arrived.

"Tell me something about yourself," Miss Welby commanded as she took up her cup.

"There's little to tell. My parents died in India several years ago and my uncle has graciously offered me his home."

"So sad to lose your parents. But how lucky you are to have such a kind uncle."

"Yes, he has been wonderful to me."

Miss Welby's saucer eyes, as innocently clear as a cloistered nun's, peeked over the rim of her cup. "And had you met your dashing cousin before you arrived in England?"

"No, we had never met."

"What a surprise he must have been to you."

"You can't imagine," Noelle responded dryly.

Footsteps were faintly audible in the foyer, and Miss Welby's eyes slid covertly to the door. When the steps continued down the hallway, she could not quite conceal her disappointment.

"Is your cousin an early riser?"

"I am afraid I do not know him well enough to be familiar with his personal habits."

"Miss Cynthia Rowland to see you, ma'am."

Tomkins had barely finished announcing her when Miss Rowland swept into the room, her ribbons fluttering. "Dorian, I had a simply marvelous time the other night. You must persuade your uncle to have another ball soon. Now, tell me about your cousin. Is it true he killed a man in a duel and fled from America to escape being arrested? One hears such stories about him."

Noelle took a deep breath and tried to suppress her annoyance. These silly girls were using her to get a glimpse of Quinn! Was there to be no end to the complications he brought into her life?

"Miss Priscilla Fargate and Miss Cecily Lambreth-Smythe, ma'am." Tomkins's expression was one of faint bewilderment.

By the end of the morning, Noelle had received six female callers. When the last had finally been shown out, her head was throbbing, and her temper was frayed. Storming out of the drawing room, she found Quinn standing in the foyer, speaking with Tomkins.

Noelle marched up to the butler and planted her hand on her hip, pointedly ignoring Quinn. "Tomkins, if any more unmarried ladies come to call, you are to put them in the drawing room and summon Mr. Copeland to receive them. I am no longer at home."

With that she shot Quinn a chafing glare and stalked down the hallway to her parlor.

To Noelle's relief, for the next few days she saw little of Quinn. He was gone much of the time and did not return to take his meals with them. However, life in Northridge Square did not settle back into its familiar pattern. There was a vague feeling of dysphoria -of lives shifted from a comfortable fulcrum and not yet rebalanced. Simon was particularly attentive to her, bringing her small gifts, taking her riding in his carriage, teaching her to play backgammon and vingt-et-un. But, as he volunteered nothing about her divorce other than vague, dismissive references, their relationship was strained.

For his part, Simon was not a happy man. The dream of a spring afternoon in Sussex, of Constance, warm and responsive beneath him, was never far from his mind. Now they saw each other only in the company of others, and Constance's unfailing courtesy was like a knife stabbing away at him.

And then there was Noelle. He was experiencing vague pangs of conscience about manipulating her in his determination to see her in place as Quinn's wife.

But the dream of a Copeland dynasty governed him, and as was his habit, he subjugated his emotions. Sensing Quinn's interest in Noelle, he set aside his plan to force the marriage. If it became necessary, he could still arrange for their abduction and then announce to society that they had eloped. But for now he was content to let events follow their own course.

The gaslights of Covent Garden flooded their box as Act Two of The Marriage of Figaro romped to its high-spirited conclusion. Thomas fixed Noelle with a worshiping gaze. "Are you enjoying the performance, Miss Pope?"

"Very much."

"I think the soprano who is singing Susanna is especially fine, don't you?"

"Yes, she is very appealing."

"I cannot tell you when I have enjoyed an evening more."

"The performance is certainly an excellent one, Mr. Sully."

"I was not referring to the opera."

Reaching over, Thomas covered the back of her hand with his own. "Miss Pope, I must tell you that-"

"Tom. old chap, I told Basil it was you." Two uniformed members of the Light Dragoons arranged themselves on each side of Noelle, demanding an introduction. Much to Thomas's annoyance, they did not leave until the interval was over.

As the curtain rose on Act Three Noelle caught sight of Quinn in a box one tier below. He was listening attentively to a woman whose face was in shadow. A slim hand rested possessively on his thigh. When the woman turned her head, Noelle saw that it was Anna, the raven-haired beauty of the tea room. Leaning forward, she whispered intimately in his ear.

Noeiie listened to the rest of the opera with concentrated attention but would have been hard pressed had she been asked to describe it. She applauded vigorously at the end and agreed with Thomas that it had been an exceptional production. He had just settled her cape around her shoulders when he spotted Quinn and waved to him. "So the baroness is in London," he chuckled.

"Baroness?" Noelle inquired offhandedly as they stepped out of the box.

"Anna von Furst, one of the most beautiful women in London and also one of the wealthiest. She and Quinn have been friends for some time."

His pause before "friends" was barely perceptible, but Noelle did not miss it. "And what of the baron?"

"He seems to keep to his schloss in Bavaria. Suffers from dyspepsia or some such. Anyway, one seldom sees him."

It was almost dawn before Noelle fell asleep that night, and she still had not heard Quinn's footsteps coming up the stairs.

Chapter Eighteen

Noelle hurried through the Haymarket, an eddy of light reflecting off the skirt of her emerald dress às she passed under a gas streetlamp. This was her first visit to Soho since the day she had attended the opera with Thomas Sully, and that had been over a week before. She had intended to be safely back in her bedroom long before this, her face cleaned of its camouflage of dirt and cosmetics and her clothing once again tucked away in the back of her wardrobe, but one of the children had fallen and punctured her thigh with a jagged piece of wood, so Noelle had stayed to remove it and comfort the child. Now she was uneasily aware of the throngs of people pushing about her, ready to supply the nocturnal vices the Haymarket offered so abundantly. She thought of her warm bed, a hot bath. Ahead of her the crowd was thinning out. Her steps quickened, and she sighed with relief. It would not be much longer.

It was then that she saw him. He was much too far away for her to make out his features, but she knew instinctively that it was Quinn. He was stopped before a group of children who were turning somersaults and walking on their hands in the hopes of earning their dinner. She watched as he flicked his hand toward the children and knew by the way the urchins began to scamper about that he had thrown them a handful of coins. She froze, waiting to see what he would do next. To her consternation, he began to amble in her direction.

Desperately she glanced about her for a place to hide and then remembered she had passed by an alley only moments before. Quickly retracing her steps, she slipped into the dark mouth of the alley and pressed herself against the wall. She would wait here until he passed.

"Wot are yer doin' 'ere, me lovely? This is no place ter find customers."

Fingers as plump as sausages fastened around Noelle's arm, and she spun around to look into small weasel eyes cushioned in pillows of fat.

" 'Ow 'bout warmin' me bed tonight?"

"Take yer bloody 'ands off me," Noelle growled, the accent of the streets natural to her as she marshaled her defenses to combat this additional danger. She tried to pull away, but the fingers only bit deeper into her flesh.

" 'Ere, now, 'at's not bein' very friendly." From the pocket of a gaudy plaid waistcoat draped with chains and stained with the noisome remnants of past meals, he pulled out a folded bank note, holding it up between his first two fingers.

"There's more where this come from if you an' me get on."

"I ain't interested." Noelle nodded her head in the direction of two prostitutes passing the entrance of the alley. "Take yer business over to them, why don't yer?"

"Because I've taken a fancy ter you."

With that he jerked at her arm, dragging her farther back into the darkness. Noelle doubled up the fist of her free hand and swung at his jaw, barely feeling the bone, cushioned as it was by a thick layer of fat. He let out a soft grunt and then swung at the side of her head with his open palm. The blow momentarily stunned her.

"So, yer likes it rough, do yer? Yer'II get plenty of that where yer goin'."

Noelle shook her head to clear it, dimly aware of the crowds milling near the entrance of the alley who were oblivious to the drama being played out so close to them. She knew she must act. Abruptly she let her knees buckle, and as she dropped she slipped her free hand under her skirt and pulled out the knife that was strapped to her calf. Before her abductor could react, she thrust it upward and pointed its tip at his throat. He dropped her other arm, fear flickering in his eyes as he felt the deadly point touching his flesh.

"You scum," she spat out. "Next time you'd better think twice afore y a put yer 'ands on a woman wot says no." With a flick of her knife, she lightly scored the length of a fatty fold. A line appeared like a piece of red string around his neck.

"Yer cut me," he whimpered, his great jowls quivering.

"Yer lucky I didn't kill ya."

She backed away from him, thankful that her long skirts hid the trembling in her knees. The past two years had changed her more than she had realized, and the sight of the blood she had deliberately drawn sickened her. "Now get out of my sight," she ordered.

A fist unexpectedly darted out from behind her, slashing down agonizingly on her wrist and sending her knife flying. Great hands grabbed her arms and pinioned them behind her while a knee crashed into the small of her back. Blinding pain tore through her body.

"Not so fast there," her unseen assailant growled. "I don't like the way yer been treatin' me friend."

"Wot took yer so long, Geòrgie. Like to kill me, she did." The fat man rubbed the back of his hand along the bloody line encircling his neck. "Look wot the bitch did ter me." He held up the crimson smear.

"I should of killed ya," Noelle hissed.

Again, the knee slammed into her back. Despite herself, she screamed as searing shafts of agony raced through her body. The viselike grip on her arms tightened cruelly until she felt as if her shoulders were pulling from their sockets.

"Any more from you, and I'll snap yer back in two." The voice of the man called Geòrgie rumbled threateningly in her ear. "Let's get 'er to the boat. She's the last of the lot. We'll make a pretty penny from this night's work."

Noelle tried to focus through the pain. These men were white slavers! They were members of one of the gangs who prowled the streets of London, looking for young girls to ship to the most infamous brothels of Europe, brothels where no desire was too perverted, and the most twisted of appetites could be satisfied.

The fat man leaned over and picked up her knife from the ground. "Not so fast, Geòrgie. I got a score to settle with this one."

With the handle of the knife clenched in his fist, he held up the shiny blade inches from Noelle's horrified gaze.

"I'm gonna carve me initials in that pretty face of yers."

" 'Ere now, don't be markin' up 'er face. We'll lose money on 'er. Do it someplace wot won't show as much."

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 directly 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 intruding 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.

"Why the hell can't this high-priced staff of yours learn to make coffee?"

"Because they don't want to."

Quinn set down his cup, abruptly putting an end to small talk. "Why did you send for me?"

"To give you this." A sheaf of papers slid across the polished walnut top. "It's a contract negotiating your return to Copeland and Peale."

Uninterestedly Quinn picked up the papers, barely glancing at the top page before he flipped the contract down on the desk. "Not interested."

Simon was not particularly surprised by Quinn's refusal, but he continued to press. "Take some time. Look over the contract. If there's something you don't like, make a counter proposal. You'll never get an offer like this from anyone else."

"I'll take my chances. Now, if that's all you wanted from me, I think I'll go back to bed." Quinn began to uncurl his lean frame from the chair.

"Wait!" It was time for the second part of his plan.

"What else, Simon?"

"I want you to stay out of the house tonight."

"Any particular reason?"

"I have a dinner engagement. Strictly business, so Dorian is remaining at home. I think it will be best for everyone if you spend the evening with your baroness. From what I understand, it shouldn't be much of a sacrifice."

"Why are you so anxious to get rid of me, Simon?"

Simon's pipe had gone out. As he relit it the smell of fine Virginia tobacco permeated the room. "Dorian has taken a strong disliking to you. I don't like to see her unhappy."

"She certainly has you by the leading strings, hasn't she?" Quinn drawled. "You're making a fool of yourself, Simon."

"Why don't you be honest," Simon said, cupping the warm pipe bowl in his hand. "You're fascinated with Dorian. A little hard on the pride, isn't it, when a beautiful young woman chooses the father over the son."

"Why are you baiting me?"

"Because I want you to face facts. Everything in this world can't be as you want it to be, and every woman in this world isn't yours for the taking."

Quinn's voice was heavy with sarcasm as he rose to leave. "I'll store that away with all your other fatherly advice."

When the door closed, Simon smiled to himself. He felt quite certain that Miss Dorian Pope would not be dining alone that evening.

It was already dusk when Noelle eased herself through the window and back into her bedroom. She hurried to make certain her door was still locked and then went to the nightstand and lit the lamp, casting cozy shadows about the room. Unfastening her dark cloak and shawl, she uttered a small sigh of relief. With each venture into Soho, she was challenging her luck, and she knew it. But this afternoon's trip had been worth the risk ten times over.

With trembling fingers, she pulled out a crisp piece of folded stationery from the pocket of her emerald dress and once again treated her eyes to the message that had been waiting for her at Bardy's:Highness,

The matter of which we spoke is progressing smoothly. I will be leaving for America soon and will contact you before I go regarding final arrangements.

Q.C.C.

Noelle laughed, mercurial quicksilver shimmering in the empty room. Finally she was going to be free, the fetters of the marriage that shackled her, broken. A vast ocean would separate her from the man to whom she was now so dangerously bound. She stripped off her pickpocket's disguise and pushed it to the bottom of her armoire; then, standing in her camisole, she reluctantly tore the note into three even strips and tossed ihem in the fire. The flames licked at the pieces and then devoured them.

Seating herself in front of her mirror, she shook out her hair and giggled at the reflection that laughed back at her. Dirt, kohl, and rouge covered every part of her skin. She dabbed at the mess with a thick lotion smelling of heliotrope and then went to the washstand and scrubbed her face. Only when all traces of Highness had disappeared did she ring for Alice to bring her bath.

As she waited she thought about Simon, and her pleasure was tempered with caution. Despite his claims to the contrary, she was convinced that he had made no effort to help her end her marriage. Common sense told her to keep her news hidden from him until she had the final papers in her hand. Then, when Quinn was well on his way to America, she would tell Simon of her clandestine trips into Soho, her meeting with his son, and the termination of the marriage. Of one thing she was certain: Simon was going to be less than pleased with the news.

She bathed quickly, slipped into her undergarments, and asked Alice to pull out her new gown of shamrock green. It was more formal than the dresses she usually wore when she and Simon dined alone, but she felt like celebrating, and the gown was especially flattering, its vivid color making her eyes even more lustrous.

Alice brushed her hair until it shone and then, impulsively, Noelle caught it in a snood of fine gold mesh in the style of the Middle Ages. The Gothic illusion was completed when Alice settled the gown over Noelle's head. With a deep V plunging at the neckline and an unusual fullness in the fabric at the front, she was hauntingly medieval.

There was a knock at the door, and Alice returned with the disappointing news that Simon would be unable to dine at home tonight. Sighing over her wasted efforts, Noelle slipped out of her bedroom.

Quinn looked up as she rounded the curve of the stairway. She had not yet caught sight of him, and he watched with admiration as she moved gracefully down the steps.

She was a beautiful enigma. For someone who lived off the pleasures of the flesh, she seemed strangely innocent, even chaste. Somehow he could not imagine her lying in Simon's arms, yet it was not at all difficult to imagine her in his own. He remembered the stormy night when he had found her in his bedroom-how she had trembled under his embrace; his sense of the sweetness of her kiss, and its inexperience.

She saw him just as she stepped down onto the marble floor. The guarded look she always assumed when he was near settled over her.

"What are you doing here?" Her eyes flickered over his impeccable evening attire.

"Waiting to escort you to the dinner table."

"Dinner? You don't take your meals with us."

"Not a very polite house guest, am I? Let me see if I can make up for it." His smile was relaxed, free of mockery, as he offered her his arm.

She hesitated; then, not wishing to appear ridiculous, slipped her small hand into the crook of his elbow. Her body stiffened as they entered the dining room, and she saw the two places set, one at the head of the table where Simon customarily sat and the other, her place, at his right.

"Afraid to have dinner alone with me?" He dropped down into Simon's chair.

"Of course I'm not," she snapped. "Why should I be afraid?"

"You tell me."

"Really, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Then sit down," he said mildly.

There was no way she could refuse without making herself look foolish. With studied nonchalance, she took her place next to him. Quinn picked up the bottle of light Portuguese rosé and filled first her glass and then his own.

"Truce?" he questioned as he lifted his long-stemmed goblet.

There was a disarming boyish charm about him that Noelle had never seen, and she found herself nodding in response and picking up her own glass.

"Here's to the mysterious and beautiful Dorian Pope." He brushed his glass against hers and then took a slow sip.

Discomfited, Noelle lowered her eyes.

"Is it true that you can't ride a horse?"

She shrugged. "I never had the opportunity to learn." Not giving him the chance to question her further, she turned the conversation away from herself. "Tell me about your mount. I've never seen such a horse."

"Magnificent, isn't he? He was bred on a farm not far from Cape Crosse. I bought him when he was a colt."

A maid appeared with a steaming tureen of shrimp chowder that she ladled into small bowls and set before them.

Noelle dipped her spoon into the thick soup. "I thought sailors were notoriously poor horsemen. That doesn't seem to be true in your case."

"Is that actually a compliment, cousin?"

At Quinn's teasing tone, Noelle opened her mouth to give him a scathing set-down, but he lifted his hand, palm outstretched. "Pull back your claws. I apologize."

His grin was so engaging that, against her will, Noelle smiled back.

"I build ships; I don't sail them. The pleasure for me is in the creation-conceiving the idea, making what I build not only seaworthy but fast and sleek. I give birth to a ship, then, when it's launched, let it go so I can create another one." Abruptly self-conscious, Quinn stopped and fingered the stem of his wineglass.

His self-consciousness triggered her own, and she lowered her gaze. Her eyes caught on his bronzed hands. They were large and work-roughened, so unlike the pampered white hands of the London dandies. The tips of his square fingers bore scars where tools had come too close or moved too fast. These were the hands of a man who labored, and they were as hard and unyielding as the materials he used to build his ships.

The maid replaced their soup with tender fillets of turbot. As Noelle raised her fork she realized, uncomfortably, what an act of intimacy it was to eat with another person. The feeling was reinforced as one course followed another: a lobster salad, truffled potatoes, quenelles of pheasant. Their lips opened to receive the food and sip the wine; a knife slipped into a soft morsel and then withdrew; fingers rubbed the stout handles of the silver. The room was mellow with candlelight and their healthy young appetites. A curious languor was stealing over her.

Quinn motioned for the plates to be removed. Silently they watched as the table was cleared and an artfully arranged platter of hothouse fruit was placed between them. Tomkins brought in three decanters on a silver tray: one each of claret, port, and sherry. He positioned them to Quinn's left.

"Anything else, sir?"

"Nothing, Tomkins. We won't need you again."

"Very well, sir." The butler nodded to the maid, and they both left the room, pulling the door firmly shut behind them.

"Sherry?"

"Please."

The amber liquid was delicious on her tongue, and she savored it for a moment before she swallowed.

Whether it was the evening itself or her unconscious sensuality as she held the wine in her mouth, Quinn could not say, but he felt himself hardening with desire as he watched her. His eyes slipped down to the deep V of her bodice, tantalizingly revealing the swells of her breasts.

Their eyes locked dangerously, and then Noelle came to her senses.

"It's-it's time I retired."

"Running away again?" he asked softly.

"No, of course not. I-I'm just tired. Excuse me."

She willed herself to walk slowly to the door, across the marble foyer, up one step, up the next…

"Cousin?"

She spun around to see him leaning against the dining room door frame.

"Sleep well."

Despite the evening's chill, her body was burning when she reached her room. Without bothering to light the lamp, she threw off her garments and then, standing naked, freed her hair from the golden snood. The moonlight streamed in through the windows, touching her hair with silver.

She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. Her body had changed so much. Fuller, more shapely. It was a woman's body, the flesh soft and supple to the touch. Her eyes held onto the reflection, and she moved closer, stopping in front of the mirror. She was conscious of the sensuous brush of her hair across her naked skin and tilted her head to the side, watching a lock fall forward and curl over the top of her breast.

Thoughtfully she lifted her hands and brushed the palms gently back and forth across the coral tips. The sensation sent small, pleasant ripples through her as she stood, dreamily, her eyes closed, her mouth parted slightly. The heat she had felt all evening rose further within her. There was a tightness between her legs-a tingling, a craving for something… A face swept across the back of her closed lids-bold and strong with eyes of shimmering black onyx.

She jerked her hands away from her breasts, as though the tender nipples were burning coals searing the flesh of her palms. Her stomach lurched sickeningly at her wantonness. Hastily «he yanked a heavy flannel gown over her head and then, ashamed, buried herself in the covers of her small bed.

For the next few days Noelle managed to avoid Quinn. She attended a concert with Simon, had tea with Constance, and turned down a proposal of marriage from a wealthy young viscount with a receding chin and a disagreeable habit of sucking noisily on his front teeth. When Simon came down with a head cold and took to his room, Noelle grabbed the opportunity to make a trip into Soho.

Once again she was unable to make it back before dark, even though she had run most of the way. But this was the last time she would tease fate, she thought with satisfaction. Her dangerous pilgrimages were over.

Leaning against the trunk of the oak at the back corner of the house, she tried to catch her breath before she attempted the climb up to her bedroom window. While she rested she reviewed the simple plan she had conceived to send money to the children without returning to Soho herself.

Under a blanket of ivy just on the other side of the garden wall, she had discovered an old stone urn with a broken base. It lay on its side, its recess deep, dark, and private-a perfect hiding place. Once a week Noelle planned to put whatever money she could spare into the urn. She had instructed Bardy to send one of the children to fetch it under cover of night. She had also charged him to have her papers delivered to the urn as soon as he received them. Noelle smiled at the thought of her precious papers, knowing she would be unable to keep herself from checking the urn each evening, even though it was really too early to expect them.

As her breath came easier she moved through the clump of oaks toward her makeshift vine ladder. A twig snapped. Instinctively she pressed her spine flat against the nearest tree and waited, all her street-wise senses alert, cautioning her that she was not alone in the night garden.

She thought quickly. Her head was covered with a shawl, and the dark cloak hid her emerald dress. It was probably only a servant out for air; the odds were in her favor that she had not been seen.

Suddenly the garden came alive with the crash of footsteps and a rush of motion. From nowhere, a dark form flew through the air and slammed against her with such force that she was thrown from her feet and sent sprawling, facedown, on the ground.

The impact knocked the breath from her body, and for a moment, her mind refused to function. Finally, with her forearm, she managed to push her chest a few inches off the ground and roll painfully to her side.

Quinn stood over her,

"What the hell are you doing here?" he raged, his eyes afire.

"Comin' ter see ya," Noelle managed, quickly determining that her only hope was to brazen it out with him. "Fine thing it is, knockin' a body off 'er feet." Painfully she pulled herself up, thankful for the inky shadows that concealed her face. Then, as an afterthought, she added, "And me, with a bun in the oven."

Quinn was immediately concerned and started toward her. "Sorry, Highness, but I thought you were a prowler."

"Don't come no closer." Noelle held up her hands to keep him at bay. "The babe's not 'urt, and I don't fancy another brush with yer. Like ta kill me, yer did with yer scurvy trick."

Quinn suppressed a smile. She was a feisty thing, ready to take on the world.

"All right, Highness. Now, tell me why you've come."

"Musta been balmy in me 'ead for even thinkin' of it," she improvised. "Don't yer be suspectin' I 'ad a drop in, neither. Been stayin' away from the gin, just like yer axed me. But Geòrgie, 'e read yer note ter me, and I made up me mind it would only be proper ter thank ya." She sniffed disdainfully. "If I'd a knowed wot was waitin' fer me, I'd a spared meself the trouble."

"How did you know where to find me?"

"I remembered the 'ouse from afore, when yer brung me 'ere."

Quinn did not bother to hide his suspicion. "That was almost two years ago, Highness."

"I got a good memory, I do." She stuck her small chin in the air in a gesture that was curiously familiar to Quinn although he could not place it.

"I weren't plannin' ter come ter the front door, yer know. I ain't stupid. I was just gonna wait round till yer come out. Anyways, thank yer fer 'elpin' me, and I'll be goin' now."

She turned from him and began walking toward the back gate, expecting at any moment to feel his powerful hand on her arm, spinning her around to face him. When she reached the alley, she could hardly believe her luck. He had accepted her story! She picked up her skirts and began to run, not stopping until she was far from Northridge Square.

For some time Quinn stood in the garden, smoking one cheroot, and then another. Like Noelle, he was a creature of instinct. And now his instincts were telling him that something was drastically wrong. If he could only put his finger on what it was…

Chilled to the bone, Noelle huddled in the back alleys of Mayfair for over an hour. Only then did she permit herself to slip back into the garden and climb the vine to the welcome asylum of her bedroom.

Chapter Twenty

The plump breasts of Mrs. Debs, Simon's housekeeper, jiggled like warm puddings as she bustled through the upstairs hallway, making certain the house was being cleaned to her satisfaction. Every spring and every fall, without fail, her vendetta against dirt reached heroic proportions. She ordered carpets taken up, windows washed, drawers straightened, and cupboards cleared. The house was waxed and polished till it shone. No cobweb was safe, no dust mote protected from her keen eye.

As she passed Quinn's door he emerged from his room, dressed in a dark gray coat and trousers.

"Good morning, Mr. Copeland."

"Mrs. Debs." he nodded.

"Will you be gone the rest of the day, sir? We'd like to do your room today if it won't inconvenience you."

Before he could respond, the shrill voice of the maid called out from the adjoining hallway. "Mrs. Debs! Look what I found in the bottom of Miss Pope's armoire, right behind her slippers. Whatever do you think-"

Abruptly she stopped speaking as she rounded the corner and saw Quinn. "Ex-excuse me, sir." She bobbed a curtsy, the cumbersome bundle she carried in her arms making the movement awkward.

Quinn stared at the rough, dark cloth that held the parcel. It looked like a cloak. There was something so familiar… He felt a tensing along his spine.

"I'll take that."

The bewildered maid stared at him without moving.

"There now, girl, didn't you hear Mr. Copeland?" Mrs. Debs said briskly, although she was as mystified as the maid.

The girl quickly handed him the bundle.

"Come along now. You've work waiting for you. We'll do your room this afternoon, Mr. Copeland, if that's satisfactory."

He nodded distractedly, and the two women left him.

Once in his room, he set the bundle on his bed. For a moment he looked down on it, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. Then with a yank he sent the contents tumbling across the bed. As he had suspected, the dark cloth covering the parcel was a cloak. But the other objects, lying in disarray in front of him, bore mute damning witness to his enormous stupidity.

He saw the shawl with clumps of orange hair sewn to one edge and the small ceramic apothecary pots. But it was the tawdry gown of emerald-green satin that brought a curse to his lips. Tattered black lace at the neck, a jagged seam across the bodice and down the front-the dress was indelibly printed in his memory. As he picked it up in his clenched fist something fell from the pocket, landing with a soft clink at the toe of his polished boot. It was a thin, gold wedding band. The blistering fury that possessed him was like a living entity coursing through his blood.

Dorian Pope and Highness, the Soho pickpocket, were the same woman! The same conniving little bitch!

Enraged, he threw down the gown and stalked the perimeters of the room. One deception after another! Lie upon lie! From the moment he had met her at the ball when she had let him believe that she was Simon's mistress, he had been manipulated just as if he were a puppet. And his own father had been a partner to her plotting!

After the ball, the deceptions had been more subtle. Her breasts pushing against him when they danced. The wet negligee that had molded so seductively to her body. The way she had teased him with her kiss. Her hair, molten honey in the candlelight as they dined. All of it was a lie.

Quinn's rage fed upon itself like a fire burning out of control in a drought-stricken forest. How she must have laughed each time she inflamed him and then fled.

He remembered the night he had rescued her in the Soho alley. She had spewed out one lie after another, and he had believed her. Pitied her.

God damn it! He was a blind fool! Dorian Pope had played him… Dorian Pope had… No, that wasn't right. It wasn't her name. The drunken night he had married her, there had been another name. It was French… Quinn reached into the corners of his memory. Noelle. Noelle Dorian.

He looked down at the wedding ring still on the floor where it had fallen and then picked it up, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. As he gazed at it he realized with blinding clarity how desperate she was to gain her freedom from him. The elaborate masquerade. The way she had cunningly maneuvered him into offering to dissolve their marriage. It all testified to her desperation.

And with that knowledge, Quinn had his weapon to punish her.

The beautiful Dorian Pope was his wife. And, as his wife, she was his possession, subject to him in everything.

Her body was his property to do with as he pleased.

He let the ring fall back into his hand and closed his fist tightly around it; his mouth twisted mercilessly. Within minutes he had put everything except the wedding band back into the bundle and, slipping into her bedroom, returned it to the bottom of her armoire.

Now, to claim what was his…

A shimmering white moon threw shadows over the garden as Noelle slipped out the back door. Dinner was over, Simon had sealed himself in the library, and she could finally steal away to check the urn for a message from Bardy. A paisley shawl draped over her shoulders, she hurried down the moonlit path toward the gate, her thin slippers soundless on the bricks. She shivered as she passed by the clump of oaks, remembering her encounter with Quinn the night before. Once again her luck had held. If it would just stay with her until she got her papers.

Outside the garden wall, all was quiet. She reached under the blanket of ivy, and her hands embraced the cold stone. Inside the urn was a piece of folded paper. Pulse racing, she extracted the note and tilted it toward the generous moonlight.

Highness,

Our business will be concluded tonight. Be at the Boar's Head Inn off Gough Square at 11:00. My carriage will meet you.

Q.C.C.

Eleven o'clock! It was well past nine now, and Gough Square was at least an hour's walk. If only she had been able to look in the urn sooner.

She rushed back into the house, pausing for a moment to compose herself before she knocked on the library door.

"Come in."

Simon was working at his desk, neat stacks of papers arranged on each side of him.

"I just wanted to say good night, Simon."

He looked up and smiled fondly at her. "Going to bed already?"

"I'm tired. I didn't sleep well last night." That part, at least, was true.

"You do look a little pale. Why don't you sleep late tomorrow? I don't want you to get sick."

Noelle agreed and then, after bidding Simon good night, raced to her room, dismissed her maid, and locked the door. She frowned as she pulled the bundle from the bottom of her armoire. Several pairs of slippers were on their sides. The maids must have been cleaning. She had to be more careful, find another hiding place.

And then she smiled. After tonight, she could burn these clothes she detested. She thought of the vow the emerald gown represented, her vow to avenge herself on Quinn Copeland. Now the thought of revenge seemed like a child's fantasy. For the moment all that was important was to be free of him. Tonight was a time of endings; tomorrow, new beginnings.

A sharp pain was piercing her side when she reached Gough Square, a few minutes past eleven. She found the inn at the entrance of a narrow lane that opened off the north side of the square. Its sign, carved in the shape of a boar's head with twin tusks jutting from its snout, creaked on rusty hinges as it swayed in the chill breeze. To her dismay, there was no carriage waiting.

She paced back and forth in front of the inn, the hospitable sounds from within making her uneasy. Despite the dirt smeared on her face, with her eyes rimmed in kohl and her cheeks covered with rouge, she was sure to be accosted by one of the inn's patrons if she had to wait much longer. She pulled the dark cloak more tightly around her and then with a sigh of relief saw a large black carriage pull up.

The driver looked down at her. "Are yer waitin' for Mr. Copeland?"

Noelle nodded and, without giving him a chance to hop down from his seat, opened the door herself and stepped into the empty interior. The carriage moved out into the square.

Leaning her head back against the seat, Noelle pulled open one of the silk curtains and stared out unseeingly. Her body ached with exhaustion; so little sleep last night and then her furious race against the clock to arrive here by eleven o'clock. If only she were not so tired; more alert for this final, all-important encounter.

Not until the carriage turned north on Tottenham Court Road did Noelle begin to feel uneasy. Where were they going? For the first time she wondered why Quinn had not met her himself at the Boar's Head Inn. Why had he not just handed her the papers and been on his way? She realized that in her haste after she had found the note, she had abandoned her customary caution, had not stopped to consider any of the implications of the message.

By now she was thoroughly alarmed. They had cleared the northern edge of the city, and the driver still showed no signs of slackening his pace. She pounded the palms of her hands on the barrier that separated them. The only response was the crack of the whip and the furious pounding of the horses' hooves on the macadam highway.

Trappei inside the carriage as it raced through the stygian night, Noelle fought to control her panic. She forced herself to think rationally. There was really no way she could have been found out. If Quinn had guessed her identity in the garden, he would never have let her go so easily. And she had not seen him since, so there was nothing she could have done today to give herself away.

For a moment her furious speculations turned to Simon. Could he possibly have told Quinn the truth? But Simon was still in bed when she had returned from her shopping this morning, and Quinn had already left the house.

Looking for some clue, she mentally reviewed everything that had passed between them since their reunion at the ball, but there seemed to be no rational explanation for what was happening. That terrified her more than anything else.

Then it occurred to her that he might be deliberately frightening her. He was showing her how easily he could have her abducted. This must be his way of making certain she understood what the consequences would be if she tried to blackmail him. Of course! That was it! He was trying to insure himself against Highness's larcenous ways.

Noelle felt somewhat calmer, but by the time another hour had passed and they still had not stopped, she was almost frantic. An image of the slippers turned over on their sides in her wardrobe flashed in her mind just as the carriage drew to a jarring halt.

She waited for the sound of Quinn's firm, booted stride, but heard only the shuffling steps of the coachman as he came round to open the door. For an instant she hesitated, but the thought of spending another moment alone with her torturous speculations was more than she could bear.

Ignoring his outstretched hand, she jumped down and looked around her. They were at the side of a deserted road, the flickering carriage lamps too dim to penetrate the dense forest that surrounded them. Pyramidal forms of fir and pine were dwarfed by the leafless skeletons of beech, alder, and oak; their trunks, obsidian columns, primitive sentinels that seemed to warn against any human invasion.

Noelle glanced nervously toward the coachman, who was tending the horses. Shoulders hunched, he hummed tunelessly as if the sound might ward off lurking spirits. Once again her eyes scanned the night forest. Suddenly she saw a distant sulphurous glow as a lantern was lit. There was someone in the forest, well back from the road among the trees.

Noelle turned to the coachman. "Where's Mr. Copeland?"

"Me orders was to bring yer 'ere." With that scant bit of information, he climbed back up on his box, settled himself comfortably, and then tipped his hat down over his eyes.

For the first time Noelle noticed what might once have been a path. Narrow and overgrown, it led roughly in the direction of the light. She seemed to have no other choice but to follow it. Hesitatingly she stepped into the forest, the knife strapped to her leg her only comfort.

A branch yanked at her shawl, and she quickly pulled it more tightly beneath her chin before her own hair could tumble out. The footing on the path was treacherous. She stumbled, skinning the heel of her hand as she tried to catch herself. An owl flew in front of her, and she let out a small gasp. Noelle was a creature of the city, and the night forest was as foreign to her as a distant planet.

Still, she kept pushing herself toward the light. The light meant her papers, her freedom.

After what seemed an eternity, she stepped into a small clearing. The lantern she had been following was swaying from the branch of a stunted beech. As it moved it cast grotesque shadows over the barren area. Tied to a tree was Pathkiller, Quinn's ebony stallion. His owner was nowhere in evidence.

Suppressing her fear, Noelle moved out into the middle of the clearing.

"Welcome, Highness." His voice was low and menacing in the eerie stillness of the night.

Noelle whirled around as he stepped off the same path she had just traveled, almost as if he had first lit the lantern and then circled back to follow her.

He walked toward her, dressed all in black, a cheroot clenched between his white teeth. The swaying lantern cast jagged scars across his hard, reckless features, and a tremor of primitive fear clutched at Noelle. This was not the man who had rescued her in the alley or the dinner companion who had charmed her over Simon's table. This was a stranger-ruthless, unpredictable, and deadly. As he spoke his lips barely moved.

"Sorry I can't offer you a drink, but I'm fresh out of gin."

Summoning her courage, Noelle spat out at him. "Why did you 'ave me brought way out 'ere in the middle of nowhere?"

"Because I wanted to. And I always do what I want."

His hand shot out like a striking serpent and grabbed her arm, pulling her toward the lantern's glow. Noelle struggled against him, turning her head away from the condemning light.

"You're a little hellcat, aren't you?" He chuckled unmercifully at her efforts to free herself from him as he dragged her underneath the lantern. Clasping her chin in his rough hand, he turned it inexorably toward the light. When the full glow fell on her face, he held it still, tightening his hand around her small chin as if he planned to crush the bone. Then, without warning, he let her go.

With the unique courage of a survivor, Noelle lashed out at him. "What the bloody 'ell do ya think yer doin'?"

"Just getting a better look at you. Highness. So I can remember you." The glowing ember at the end of the cheroot cast a bloody shadow over his relentless mouth.

"All right. Yer've 'ad yer fun. Now 'and over me papers."

With excruciating slowness, he withdrew a piece of folded paper from an inside pocket. "Is this what you want?"

"Yes," she snapped. Her hand hastily reached out for the document.

"Not so fast," his taut lips admonished as he pulled the paper back, out of her reach. And then, incredibly, he took the cheroot from his mouth and brushed one corner of the precious document with its glowing tip. Tiny tongues of flame lapped its edge.

"No!" It was an animal cry, primitive and heart-rending**'

He dropped the burning paper and then ground it into ash with the heel of his boot.

"No!" Noelle threw herself at him, pounding his massive chest with her small fists. "Why?" she screamed.

He pushed her away from him as easily as he might a small child. "Let's just say I've reconsidered."

"You've what?" she gasped in outrage, the macabre glow of the lantern carving skeletal hollows in her face.

"I've decided we're going to stay married, Highness. For a while anyway."

"But yer don't want ter be married ter me," she cried desperately. "Yer too good fer the likes of me. I'm nothin' but a gin-soaked pickpocket."

"Oh, I wouldn't call you that." Slowly his hand reached for her face.

Dear God, no, she begged silently, motionless with fear.

Deliberately his finger traced her eyebrows, the familiar tilt of her nose, the side of her cheek. Terror was etched in her golden eyes as she stood frozen under his touch.

"No, I wouldn't call you that at all." His voice rose dangerously. "I'd call you a sly… conniving… greedy… little bitch!"

With one savage jerk, he pulled her shawl from her head. Like spilled honey, her hair cascaded over her shoulders. Quinn grabbed her by the arms and shook her roughly. Her cloak came undone and fell to the ground. Once again she stood before him in the emerald dress.

The unleashed fury of his voice sliced into the night. "Just how long did you think you and Simon could make a fool of me?"

"I wasn't trying to make a fool of you," she sobbed desperately, looking into eyes as intense as a prowling beast.

"Then just what were you trying to do-Noelle?"

At the sound of her real name on his sneering lips, panic stole her reason, and she began a deadly struggle.

Within seconds he had pinned her arms behind her back. "You're my wife, and I'm claiming what is mine. I own you!"

"No!" she screamed as she broke free of his grasp and ran, her hair streaming out behind her.

Hurling himself through the air like a springing panther, he grabbed at her knees, pulling her feet out from under her. They both fell to the ground. He rolled her over on her back and held her down, using one knee to separate her legs. Then, with an expert hand, he reached under the skirt of her emerald gown and began his exploration. She felt his hand climb up her calf and flailed her legs wildly. She fought like a wild animal, tearing at his shoulders and neck with her nails, biting at anything that came near her mouth.

Then she felt his weight ease itself from her body. He rose slowly, a bloody scratch marring his rugged cheek. Noelle lay still on the hard ground, her bare thighs exposed where the skirt of her gown had been pushed up. Huge and forbidding, his legs outspread, he stood over her. One of his hands rested on his hip, the other held the Object of his search, Noelle's knife.

"You didn't really think I'd forget, did you?" he jeered contemptuously.

Noelle rose painfully and stood before him. Even the cheap dress and garishly applied cosmetics could not hide her wild beauty, and for a moment he considered taking her right there in the clearing.

Her chest was still heaving from the exertion of their struggle, but she pushed her shoulders back and lifted her chin haughtily. "What are you going to do with me?"

"Now, that's an interesting question, Mrs. Copeland."

She flinched as if he had struck her. "Don't call me that."

"Why not? It's your name." He advanced on her and, through clenched teeth, growled, "You're my wife, and I don't intend to let you forget it so easily this time."

With that he picked her up and slung her across his shoulder, heading back toward the carriage. She pounded her fists against his back, but he did not break his stride. With one hand, he opened the carriage door and then, leaning over, dumped her unceremoniously inside.

"I think it's time we had a long, overdue honeymoon, don't you?"

With a curt nod to the coachman, he stepped back and watched the carriage start down the road. Noelle's screams hung like discarded memories under the leafless trees.

When all was finally still, Quinn walked back to the clearing. Picking up her cloak, he mounted his horse, and with a quick tap of his heels he took off to join the speeding carriage on its long trip northward.

Chapter Twenty-one

For the next two days, they traveled as if the devil were at their heels, stopping only for food and to change horses and drivers. At a prosperous coaching inn near St. Albans, Quinn arranged to have his stallion brought on at a more leisurely pace, and for the rest of the trip he sat on top of the carriage with the coachman. He frequently took the reins himself, driving at such a breakneck pace that several of the coachmen made solemn vows never again to hire themselves out to an American. He seldom slept, and when he did, it was only for an hour or two.

Inside the carriage, Noelle spent the night and the next day staring blankly out the window. She did not see the towns they passed through or the changing landscape. She saw only Quinn's face as he raged at her, "You're my wife… I own you!"

When he opened the carriage door and tossed in her cloak with a parcel of food, she did not look at him. The cloak lay where he had thrown it even though her lips were tinged blue with cold; the food went untasted. She was permitted to leave the carriage each time they stopped to change horses, but even the lively scenes in the inn yards failed to catch her attention. Her mind refused to consider the future. She did not let herself think about their destination or what would happen when they reached it.

On her second night in the carriage, she finally slept. At dawn, she awakened, bruised and aching, but once again with a clear mind. She had been incredibly stupid not to have fled from Simon's house the moment Quinn had returned. Stupider still to have ignored the warning of the slippers. But it was useless to waste time berating herself. She had to form a plan!

At dusk, they stopped at the Rose and Crown, a ramshackle inn with broken shutters at the windows. Quinn opened the door of the carriage. His face was seamed with weariness and marred by the scab from her scratch, but his eyes were as alertly chilling as always.

"Get down. We're going to eat here."

"I'm not hungry," Noelle sneered.

In a flash he had roped his arm around her waist and jerked her to the ground. "Next time, don't argue."

She smoldered with resentment as they entered the dingy inn. He walked into a large room at the side, but Noelle stayed back in the shadows of the hallway and watched him. Inconspicuously he took a seat at the end of one of the trestled tables that ran perpendicular to a soot-darkened fireplace.

With the exception of an old crone who was waiting on the tables, the room was filled with men-laborers, poor farmers from the district, and one group of men so rough and ill-kempt that it was impossible to believe they labored at any honest trade.

Noelle took stock of her appearance. She had wiped some of the rouge from her cheeks with a petticoat ruffle and run her fingers through her hair to tidy it, but she knew that with her hair still undone and the emerald dress sticking out under the edge of her cloak, she hardly looked respectable. Still, this might be her last chance to escape.

Taking a deep breath, she framed herself in the doorway, straightened her spine, and in her most measured tones addressed the group. "Pray you, could someone come to my aid?"

The innkeeper eyed her suspiciously as he set down a heavy trencher bearing a juicy joint of mutton. He was a man of stolid disposition with a limited intelligence that had no tolerance for contradictions. To him, things must always be as they seemed, and a woman who spoke like a lady and looked like a goddess but wore the clothes of a trollop did not fit into his scheme of things. He did not dare disrespect, but neither did he accord her the solicitude he reserved for the few members of the Quality who were forced to patronize his inn.

"Wot seems to be the problem, missy?"

"I fear I am in the most dire of straits." From the corner of her eye, Noelle could see Quinn watching her, amusement flickering in his eyes. He wouldn't be laughing for long, she thought with satisfaction.

Helplessly she pressed her fingers to her cheek. "I have been abducted," she cried, her voice quivering dramatically. "Stolen from my parents' house by an unprincipled rogue who intends to compromise me." The room was filled with some sympathetic mutterings, and Noelle pressed home her advantage. "My father, knowing his vile reputation, refused him permission to court me. Now he has taken his revenge." She allowed a tear to trickle down her cheek.

One of the men, a farmer by his clothing, rose from his table and walked toward her. "I got a daughter not much older'n you. I'd kill any man who played fast and loose with her."

"Aye! Only a spawn o' Satan would pull such a scurvy trick," offered another.

Noelle nodded her head and wiped away the tear with her littlest finger.

"Hold!" the innkeeper cried as he eyed her skeptically. "I want to know wot a lady like you claim to be is doin' dressed in clothes such as those?"

There was a low muttering, and a few heads nodded in agreement. Then the room fell silent, everyone waiting for her response.

Noelle's inventive mind went dry. She saw Quinn fold his arms across his chest and lift a dark, expectant brow. In desperation, she pressed her hands to her heart.

"Oh, please, kind sir. I beg of you not to press me. The explanation is so humiliating, so sordid, I could not bear the shame of revealing it. Let it suffice that I barely escaped with my virtue. Oh, if only my dear father were here to help me!" With that she buried her face in her hands and began to sob so heart-rendingly that only she heard the soft chuckle coming from across the room.

The mood of the patrons turned threatening.

" 'Ere, now, don't be bullyin' 'er." A man in a gray smock punched an accusing finger toward the innkeeper.

"Yer as bad as the scum wot carried 'er off!" shouted another.

"Aye! By the cross of blessed Jesus, you're a hard man, Hadfield."

As a dozen men roared their displeasure the innkeeper beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen.

Noelle gave them a teary smile. "You've all been so kind." And, then, with a small sob, "I'll never forgive myself for endangering you as I have!"

"Wot's this?" the man in the smock said. "And 'ow could you 'ave put a room full of grown men in danger."

"Oh. sir, even twice as many men would be no match for the one who has stolen me. I mean no offense, but he is a man of immense cunning and almost superhuman strength."

The men at the tables visibly bristled with offense at her words, and the ill-kempt group of ruffians who had thus far remained silent rose as if one body. Noelle saw that Quinn was no longer smiling but was regarding her with wary respect. Satisfaction welled inside her as she drove home her final shaft.

"What a fool I was to put you all in the path of the American's wrath!"

It was as if the room exploded.

"American!"

" 'E's a bloody Yankee!"

"Curse the bastard!"

"By God, no one will ever say a dozen God-fearing Englishmen weren't no match for one scurvy American!"

"We'll show 'im?"

"By the time we've finished with 'im, 'e won't be carryin' off any more innocent young girls!" snorted a bearded man with a cast in one eye.

"Aye!"

"Let's at 'im!"

The group of ruffians moved toward her. "Where is the blackguard?"

At the blood gleam in their eyes, Noelle hesitated.

"I'm right here."

He was the only man in the room still sitting. Slowly he got up from the table and then inclined his head slightly toward the astonished patrons.

Finally the bearded man detached himself from the group. "I think you'd better come outside with us, Yankee."

"I'd be glad to," Quinn replied coolly, "but let me introduce myself first. I am Quinn Copeland, and this lady is Highness-one of the most famous whores in London."

Noelle gasped in outrage.

"What kind of greenhorns do you think we are?" one man shouted.

"Aye. We're not as easily taken in as that!"

Quinn planted one foot casually on the bench in front of him and picked up his tankard of ale. "I don't blame you for being skeptical. Highness has been deceiving men since she was eighteen."

"Eighteen! She can't be more than that now."

Quinn looked at them solemnly. "The lady is thirty years old. Remarkable, isn't it?" He gestured offhandedly toward her with his tankard. "Of course, it's much easier to tell by her body than her face."

A dozen sets of eyes turned to study her, and Noelle felt herself going pale with rage. "It's a lie!" she shouted.

But the men weren't so certain, and Noelle saw their suspicion. Lifting her head high, she blazed at Quinn, "You are a scoundrel, sir. First you ruin my young sister, and now you ruin me."

"Very good, Highness, but it won't work," Quinn drawled. "These men are much too shrewd to be taken in by your lies."

The man in the gray smock stepped forward. "Suppose you let us decide that for ourselves and tell us what yer doin' with 'er."

"All right. Although I admit I'd rather keep my foolishness private."

Quinn threw some coins down on the table. "A round of ale for everyone."

The innkeeper crept cautiously from the kitchen, and he and the old crone began refilling the men's mugs. Noelle watched with growing trepidation as Quinn stepped over to the fireplace and leaned an arm on the mantelpiece.

"Two nights ago I was in a tavern in London. Highness approached me, and we agreed on a price. Let me tell you, gentlemen, she was worth every farthing." He grinned toward the outraged Noelle. "As I was getting ready to leave for York the next day and had too much of your good English ale under my beli, I invited her to come with me. She said I would have to pay her ten pounds to make the trip. Like a fool I agreed.

"Once we were past London, she told me ten pounds wasn't enough, and I'd have to pay her more. We argued until this evening, when she swore that I must pay her twenty-five pounds or she would make me regret the day I was born. Twenty-five pounds," Quinn growled, well knowing that these men had never seen so much money at one time in their lives. "What is there between a woman's legs that is worth twenty-five pounds? I refused, of course, and now she's making good her threat. So you see, gentlemen, what a stupid fool I have been to be taken in so easily by a woman."

Noelle could see he had the sympathies of some of the men, but others still looked doubtful.

One of the farmers looked toward her. "What do you have to say to this, miss?"

Once again she permitted a small tear to escape. "I have been gently reared, sir. I don't know the art of protecting myself against such black lies."

The man in the gray smock approached her. "You tell us yer still a virgin?"

Noelle swallowed hard. "Yes."

"Let 'er prove it, I say. Get the midwife. She will tell us if the girl's maidenhead is still in place. Then we'll know if she is speaking the truth."

Noelle shrank back in dismay as the men applauded the suggestion by banging their empty tankards loudly on the wooden tables.

"I don't think that will be necessary. Do you, Highness?" Quinn said softly.

Miserably Noelle shook her head.

There were muffled growls and curses as the mood of the men turned ugly. Too many of them had known the treachery of whores, and they did not like being taken in again.

The bearded man grabbed at Noelle's cloak and yanked it off. "Leave 'er with us, Yankee. We'll teach 'er some manners!"

Fear clutched at her as she saw several more of the rough- looking men advancing toward her.

"Aye. She'll 'ave a bit more respect for men when we've done with 'er."

"Won't be so quick with 'er tricks next time."

Quinn laughed easily and walked through the men until he stood directly behind Noelle. With one arm, he caught her body in a band of steel; her shoulders were pressed back into his hard chest.

"I'm tempted to take advantage of your offer, but to be truthful, I have my own score to settle with her." With that he pushed his hand inside the bodice of her dress and began fondling her bare breast.

Noelle wanted to die from humiliation as his thumb touched her nipple, and the leering men cheered him on. She tried to pull away, but the arm around her was unyielding.

"That's the way, Yankee."

"Aye. She'll hum a different tune when ya 'ave 'er on 'er back."

Noelle pressed her eyes shut against Quinn's rough, debasing caress. His harsh laughter rang in her ears. The men's comments became coarser, their suggestions more obscene. Finally Quinn removed his hand and slapped her on the rear. "If you'll excuse me now, gentlemen, I feel the urge to finish what I've started."

There were more ribald cheers. Then Noelle felt her cloak once again settle over her shoulders and a powerful grasp steer her from the room.

As the night air brushed against her face Noelle sensed the change in Quinn. He dragged her over the broken cobbles of the courtyard with menacing purpose, the easy, laughing indolence of the taproom gone.

"You damned little fool. You almost got yourself raped and me killed with your stupid tricks."

She spun to face him, an angry retort ready, but the savage fury etched on his face stopped her. His lips were rimmed white with rage; a muscle twitched in the corner of his cheek.

"You still haven't learned, have you? You're not going to get away from me until I'm finished with you." With iron talons he caught her shoulders and gave her one vicious shake. "If you ever try anything like that again, by God, I'll thrash you within an inch of your life."

He hurled her into the carriage and slammed the door shut with such force that the entire body shook on its springs. Noelle heard him climb to the top, and then the carriage lurched forward so suddenly that she was thrown to the floor. Pulling herself back up on the seat, she clutched furiously at the strap that hung near the door.

She had no doubt from the breakneck pace at which they were traveling that Quinn was holding the reins, but never had he driven so recklessly, letting the wheels come within inches of the deep ditches that ran along each side of the road, violently careening around curves until she was certain he would kill them all. Finally he let up on the pace, not because he cared about her comfort, she thought bitterly, but only to spare the horses.

As her wheel-born prison carried her relentlessly northward, she began to cry in earnest-at first in angry frustration over the failure of her escape and, finally, from fear of what lay ahead for her.

Chapter Twenty-two

By afternoon of the next day, Noelle guessed that they were somewhere in the northern part of Yorkshire. Puffy clouds like smoky pillows raced across the windswept sky. They had long since left the highway behind them for a sparsely traveled dirt track barely wide enough for the carriage to pass. The landscape was more desolate than anything Noelle had ever seen, with endless stretches of moorland and rocky slopes where only a few desperate trees clung to the windswept surfaces. It was a harsh, forbidding land, and they seemed to be its only inhabitants.

A chill drizzle was falling from the leadened skies when the carriage finally stopped. Unable to bear another moment inside, Noelle opened the door and stepped down into a world where the air was raw and pungent, and every sound was muffled by thick gray mist and the vast emptiness of the moors stretching in front of her. Facing out on the moorland, like ancient gnarled warriors, was a line of bleak hills. Jagged rocky scars marred the lower slopes; the upper slopes were obscured by the mist.

At first she did not see the small cottage, it was so much a part of the rocky crag that rose like a gray monolith behind it. No vines softened its rough stone exterior, no trees draped over the thatched roof. This, then, was their destination.

A whip cracked. Noelle whirled around just in time to see the coachman turn the carriage around and then disappear down the same road they had just climbed. She stood alone with Quinn.

Ignoring her, he picked up his valise and disappeared through the door of the cottage. She stood uncertainly outside, cold and desperately unhappy. A gust of wind, still raw from the North Sea, lifted up her cloak and snapped it behind her. The knife edge of the blast cut through to her skin. Reluctantly she walked to the cottage and stepped inside.

To her consternation, she saw that the interior was only one room. Although it was plain, it was clean and more comfortable than the primitive exterior had led her to expect. Braided rugs were strewn across the planked floor, pewter plates rested on a shelf; there was a cupboard, a table of rough-hewn pine, several comfortable chairs, and a large bed covered with a quilted spread.

Quinn was hunched in front of the fireplace, lighting the coal that rested on the grate.

"Shut the door," he barked.

Noelle gave it an angry shove with her foot, and the door slammed with a satisfying bang. Quinn did not seem to notice. She walked over to one of the cottage's three windows and stared out. It was empty and frightening.

He came up behind her and wearily rubbed the dark stubble that covered his jaw. "You won't be able to see anything until the mist lifts, and that won't be before morning, if then. Sometimes it hangs on for days."

"For days," Noelle exclaimed, knowing she could never get away until it cleared. "But that's impossible!"

Quinn sighed. "I think we'd better get a few things straight, Highness. Whether the mist lifts now or next week doesn't concern you, because you're not going anywhere. There isn't a village for thirty miles, and the only other person around is the old woman who takes care of this place. You can run off any time you like, but the chances are you'll die out on those moors, because I'm not going to chase you. My horse won't be here for another day, and besides, I'm too damned tired. Now, you do what you want. I'm going to bed."

He tugged off his boots and sprawled, fully clothed, across the bed. Within seconds he was asleep.

Noelle wandered restlessly about the cottage. To her distress, she saw that it was well-stocked with provisions, as if Quinn were planning a lengthy stay. A large, flat cheese rested on a shelf; two fresh loaves of bread wrapped in clean white cloths were beside it. There were bottles, of wine, a basket of eggs, bins full of vegetables and fruit, flour, sugar, and spices.

She sat down in a comfortable armchair and tried to think clearly. Quinn was right. It would be suicide to try to escape over the moors. Following the road the carriage had taken to bring them here was equally foolish, since there was no village nearby.

Besides, even if there were, no one was going to shelter a wife from her legal husband.

Her husband. The sight of him asleep on the bed brought back the painful memory of that long-ago night in the inn when he had claimed her. She remembered the awful pain of it. How did married women survive that brutal assault night after night? How would she survive it?

The fire was warming the room, and Noelle leaned back in her chair and unfastened her cloak. She was so tired. If she could just shut her eyes for a moment, perhaps something would come to her…

She awakened to sounds of movement in the cottage. Through half-parted lids, she saw Quinn walking toward her, tucking a clean white shirt into a pair of fawn-colored trousers. An empty hip bath, its tin sides still wet from his bath, sat in front of the fireplace. He looked down at her, buttoning his shirt as he spoke.

"Are you hungry?"

The sight of him, freshly bathed, banished her drowsiness, and she nodded. "What time is it?"

"Almost midnight."

Midnight! She'd been asleep for hours! Longingly she looked toward the empty tub. She was filthy. If only there were some privacy in this cottage so she could have a bath herself.

From a brick oven set in the side of the fireplace, Quinn pulled out an iron pot and carried it over to the table where two places had been laid. There was already a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread sitting in the middle.

"Come eat," he said flatly. "The old woman left a pot of stew for us. Tomorrow I'll catch some trout if the mist has lifted."

The delicious fragrance coming from the stewpot drew Noelle to the table. As she sat, Quinn filled her glass with a deep red burgundy. The stew was excellent, with hearty chunks of lamb and vegetables in a thick gravy.

While Noelle ate she found herself unobtrusively studying Quinn. How different he was from the gluttons who gorged themselves at the fashionable dinner tables of London-extolling, with full mouths, the merits of every dish; swilling wine, one glass after another; stuffing rich desserts into already overstuffed gullets.

Food obviously meant little to Quinn. Now he ate sparingly, and when he was done, he pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, watching her.

Noelle took a few more bites, and then, her appetite gone, put down her fork. "What about Constance and Simon? They'll be frantic with worry."

"I left a note. Not that I care whether Simon worries or not, but I didn't want Constance upset. She's fond of you. Damned if I know why."

He poured himself another glass of wine and took a slow sip. "I'm curious. Just what did you blackmail Simon with to make him go along with this scheme of yours? Was it only for money, or did you threaten to expose our marriage to his friends?"

Noelle's jaw dropped. "Blackmail Simon?" she gasped. "Is that what you think?"

"You don't expect me to believe this was his idea, do you?" Quinn sneered. "The man who was obsessed with having his son marry only the most well-bred of women?"

"You surely don't think it was mine?" exclaimed Noelle.

"That's exactly what I think."

"Well, you're wrong. It was Simon's idea from the beginning."

Quinn laughed, a bitter sound that had no vestige of merriment. "You're a little liar. I've seen Simon's books, and for the past two years he's been paying you quite generously."

"But that wasn't blackmail money," Noelle argued desperately. "That was my salary as his hostess."

"You can call it a salary if you want, Highness, but the rest of the world calls it blackmail." He took a final swallow of wine and then rose contemptuously from the table. "It's obvious you wanted to take Simon for everything you could and then disappear. But I spoiled your plan, didn't I, Highness, by coming back."

Noelle was furious at the unfairness of it but could see no way to defend herself. For the first time she realized he was still calling her "Highness." It was as if Dorian Pope had never existed, and he saw her now only as the scheming London pickpocket who had entrapped him. That knowledge frightened her more than anything else. Although Quinn had often been insolent to her when he thought she was Dorian Pope, he had never actually hurt her. The same could not be said of his encounters with Highness.

She realized that he was preparing a bath for her in the tin tub in front of the fireplace. The steam rose, warm and welcoming, as he added a pot of hot water. Noelle took a deep, steadying sip of wine.

"I am quite capable of pouring my own bath water," she said icily.

With one quirked eyebrow, he dismissed her comment and returned to his task. When he was done, he lit a cheroot and sprawled into one of the chairs near the tub, stretching his long legs out in front of him. The cheroot clenched in the corner of his mouth, he lazily undid his front shirt buttons, revealing the strange disk gleaming silver against the thick mat of dark hair on his chest.

"I think it's time we started our honeymoon, don't you, Highness?"

Her mouth was dry, but she met his gaze unflinchingly. "My name is Noelle."

He expelled a thin stream of smoke. "Well, Noelle," he sneered, "get over here and take off your clothes for your husband. You need a bath."

"I don't intend to bathe in front of you, Quinn."

"Why not? You've done it before."

"Yes. And my memories of it are not pleasant." With as much dignity as she could manage, she said, "I would like you to go outside."

"I'm sure you would. Now get out of that dress."

Something inside of Noelle snapped, and she jumped up. "I won't undress in front of you just because you tell me to. If you want this dress off me, you'll have to rip it off like you did before."

Quinn didn't respond, and his very composure sparked her even more. "Well? Go ahead! You're stronger than I am. I can't stop you! Go ahead and rip it off like the filthy savage that you are!"

His eyes turned into black flints with the force of his rage, and he sprang from his chair. Frightened by the wild look on his face, Noelle gripped the edge of the table in front of her.

But he did not come toward her. Instead, he turned on his heels and walked over to the foot of the bed, where his coat lay smoothly folded.

Noelle had won! He was going outside, and she would have the privacy she demanded. Not daring to let him see her gloat, she picked up her wineglass and drank, closing her eyes with a silent sigh of satisfaction.

When she opened them, she was staring into the barrel of a silver pistol.

He held it lightly in his hand, pointed directly at her. "I don't have to rip off your dress after all, do I, Highness?"

Noelle flicked the tip of her tongue across her dry lips, her eyes glued to the gun as, slowly, she lowered the glass to her side. "You-you wouldn't really use that…" she muttered shakily.

In answer, there was a deafening report, and the wineglass exploded into a thousand razor-edged slivers.

"Now, strip!"

His voice was as lethal as the pistol he held, and Noelle knew, unmistakably, that she had lost another battle. Stiffly she walked over to the fireplace and, with her back to Quinn, began to unbutton her dress.

He put one boot up on the low chest at the foot of the bed, the arm holding the gun resting easily on his bent knee. "Turn around so I can watch you."

Slowly she did as he said.

When Quinn saw her stricken face, he felt a hollowness in the pit of his stomach. God damn her! Why did she make him feel as if he were the one in the wrong?

He silently cursed himself for pulling the gun on her, even though it was no longer loaded. It had been a stupid thing to do, and he should never have let her taunting infuriate him so.

Damn it! None of this would have happened if she hadn't deceived him. Standing there, clutching that ridiculous green dress together with her fingers, playing the frightened virgin when she'd undoubtedly shared her favors with half the men in London. Perhaps even his own father.

"Get on with it," he barked, gesturing toward the dress with the barrel of his gun.

She slipped the garment down over her petticoats.

"Throw everything in the fire."

"But I don't have anything else to wear."

"Do as I say. I don't want any reminders."

The smell of scorched cloth filled the cottage as the flames consumed the emerald-green dress. Noelle pulled off her petticoats, and they joined the blaze. Only her chemise was left. With her hair hanging loosely about her shoulders, she slowly lowered the straps of the torn chemise and, finally, the garment itself.

She stood naked in front of him.

Quinn had been with his first woman when he was fifteen, and since then there had been so many he had lost count. But never had he seen a body as perfect as hers, a body he wanted more to possess.

She made no attempt to cover her nakedness, but letting her arms hang loosely at her sides, she lifted her head proudly and met his gaze. "May I get into the bath now?" she asked, her quiet dignity making him ashamed.

He nodded his head abruptly. He'd gotten what he wanted, but the victory was empty. As she slid into the steaming water he angrily pitched his gun down on the bed and, with a muttered oath, strode from the cottage, leaving her alone with her bath.

Noelle was asleep when he finally returned, tired and cold from his self-imposed exile. He lit a small stub of candle and, in spite of his sour mood, chuckled softly when he saw his pistol lying on the floor, well imagining her fury when she discovered the gun was empty. The little hellion had undoubtedly torn the cottage apart looking for the ammunition he had wisely hidden away in the stable. She probably didn't know the first thing about firing a gun, but that wouldn't stop her. Nothing, he knew, would give her more satisfaction than drilling a bullet into his heart.

With a frown, he sat down on the side of the bed and pulled off his damp leather boots; then he lifted the quilt and looked at her sleeping form. Although her shoulders were bare, the rest of her was tightly wrapped in a brown wool blanket that she was clutching together at her breast.

He grunted with annoyance. Even in her sleep, she was trying to guard herself against him, trying to play the innocent. What a bitch she was-a dangerous, beautiful bitch.

You can sleep well for now. Highness, he thought, as he blew out the candle and climbed in next to her. Things went your way tonight. But from now on I make the rules. If I want you, I'll take you. And, if I don't-well, that's my decision, too. He turned his back on her and fell asleep.

When Noelle awakened the next morning, the cottage was empty. Perhaps he hadn't come back! She quickly sat up in bed, only to have her hopes dashed by the cheerfully crackling fire on the grate. Listlessly swinging her bare feet over the edge of the bed, she stood, the blanket still wrapped around her like a warm brown cocoon. It was then that she saw the imprint of a head in the center of the pillow next to hers.

She stared down in disbelief. He had spent the night in bed with her! Turning her back on the bed, she went to the fire and knelt down on the braided rug in front of the comforting flames. Once again she was struck by the unpredictability of the man to whom she was so unwillingly married. When she had railed at him, he had threatened to rape her; when she had defied him, he had forced her to shed her clothes at gunpoint. Yet in the end, he had not touched her. Every time she lost her temper, he got the best of her. It was only when she held herself aloof that she seemed to have an edge.

She bit at her lip thoughtfully. If she could curb her temper, she might be able to-not control him, for he was too barbaric to be controlled-perhaps hold him off. Yes, that was her best hope. Like a knight donning armor, she would assume an air of chilling politeness.

A small voice inside her warned that her volatile nature could not be so easily bridled, but Noelle refused to listen and turned her thoughts, instead, to finding something to wear. In an old walnut bureau, she discovered the neatly folded contents of Quinn's valise but nothing else. Her forage in the chest at the bottom of the bed was more fruitful. Beneath blankets sprinkled with dried lavender, she found some stockings, a boy's jacket and cap, and a flannel nightgown, much too large for her slim figure but certainly more comfortable than the blanket she had wrapped herself in last night. There were also two pairs of small, buff-colored breeches.

Noelle tried on each pair. They fit her like a second skin, comfortable but molding to every curve and hollow much more intimately than she wished.

The chest refused to yield up a shirt, however, and Noelle was forced to take out one of Quinn's. If only he had left me my chemise, she thought, as she slipped the soft white shirt on over her bare skin. Even though she was tall, it fell almost to her knees. After rolling the long sleeves up to her elbows, she gathered the hem of the shirt around her waist and then tied the points into a knot at the front.

Through the window, Noelle could see that the mist had lifted, and the day was fine. Anxious to explore, she washed quickly and brushed the tangles from her hair. Since she had no pins to put it up, she thrust the honey strands under the cap she had found and was just picking up the dark brown jacket when Quinn walked in, carrying a pair of trout.

The corners of his mouth twitched as he took in her garb, his eyes lingering on the breeches that revealed only too well her womanliness. "Well, boy," he mocked, "what have you done with the viper-tongued wench who was here when I left? Never mind. I'd rather not know. I'll just count myself lucky that she's gone and I have a stout lad like you to gut these trout." With that he slapped the fish in Noelle's hands and turned his back to her as he took off his coat.

Noelle stood fuming, a fish in each hand, her resolve to keep her temper in check forgotten. Viper-tongued wench, indeed!

The first trout caught Quinn on the back of his neck, the second glanced off his shoulder.

"Why, you little bitch!" he bellowed, spinning around and charging her like an enraged bull.

Noelle felt herself being lifted up and then thrown on the bed behind her. Her hair swarmed around her face, blinding her as the cap flew off. Before she could comprehend what was happening, Quinn had tossed her across his knees and was slamming his open palm down hard on her buttocks.

The breeches offered little protection as he landed one determined blow after another on her dainty rear. She flailed wildly, shrieking every curse she had ever heard and a few she invented on the spur of the moment. Finally, as her buttocks burned with searing, red-hot pain, she fastened her teeth into the back of his calf and bit down with all her might.

With an angry howl, he threw her back on the bed and pinned her down with his weight. "You still haven't learned your lesson, have you, Highness?" he panted. "I'm afraid there's only one way I'll tame you."

As her eyes blazed murderous golden hatred at him, he was acutely conscious of her breasts, unfettered beneath the thin white fabric of his own shirt. Tantalizingly they pressed into his chest, and he felt his lust growing, urging him to claim his wife at last.

With one jerk, he split open the white shirt to the knot at her waist, laying bare her heaving breasts.

The nostrils of his bold nose flared.

With a scream of rage, Noelle tried to pull herself from him, but he caught a great handful of her hair and twisted it through his fingers, rendering her immobile.

"Animal!" she shrieked. "You're a filthy, rutting animal. A foul -" Quinn silenced her vitriol with his lips, but there was no tenderness in the way he pillaged her mouth. He took his own time with his savage kiss, and only when his lips and tongue were satisfied, did he go about the business of pulling the breeches from her writhing legs. When it was done, he reached down and grasped one slim leg, ready to wrench it apart from the other so he could expose her woman's core. Then he heard a sob, more animal than human.

At the sight of her eyes, wild with fear, his stomach lurched with self-disgust. It had been a game to him, but she was clearly terrified. Instinctively he let go of her hair and pushed himself back from her, but she did not seem to notice his withdrawal.

"Please," she sobbed, oblivious to her nakedness. "I'll do anything you say. Don't rape me. Please." Over and over, wildly, sometimes incoherently, she begged him to spare her.

Finally his proud wife had been brought low, but the taste of it was sour in his mouth.

He stalked the moor for hours. My God, she was poison! At one moment, all fire-pulling knives from under her skirts and spewing profanities with breathtaking ease. Then, like quicksilver, she became an ice maiden-beautiful and distant, impeccably correct. And finally, the terrified creature who had begged him for mercy.

With a black scowl, he decided to return her to London as soon as possible. He would deposit her on Simon's doorstep and then leave for New York as he had planned. He had clearly misjudged her sexual experience, and there was no sense in wasting his time with her when the world was full of easier prey; women eager to spread their thighs for him-boringly, predictably.

But he wasn't ready to send her back. She'd gotten into his blood, and he had to sample her before he could be free of her. For a moment he considered returning to the cottage and finishing what he had started. The hell with her pleas! He had always been patently selfish in his relationships with women, and he saw no reason to make an exception of her. Then he rejected the idea, not so much because it was distasteful, but more because it damaged his pride. Since when did he have to rape a woman to satisfy the ache in his loins! He wanted to feel her trembling under him, not with fear but with passion.

It was then that he decided to employ the charm he possessed in abundance but seldom made the effort to use. A seduction would be amusing. He'd bring her, willing and eager, to his bed. Then the spell would be broken, and he could dispose of her as easily as he had all the others!

Quinn threw back his head and laughed, his white teeth flashing in the sun.

The brush of cold air on her bare thighs brought Noelle back to the present, and she realized she was alone. Once again she had been spared, but the knowledge brought her no satisfaction. Slowly, she pulled herself up, lethargically fastening the few remaining buttons on her shirt as she remembered how she had humiliated herself… begged him… made him take pity on her.

Dear God, why couldn't she have borne his assault silently, with some measure of dignity! What a coward she had become, unable to bear what countless other women had been enduring since time began.

She looked down at her breeches turned wrong side out on the floor and wished with all her heart that he had not spared her. This way, his revenge was complete. By witnessing her with her spirit broken, without the courage to endure his intimacy, he had finally conquered her.

She pulled on her breeches, wincing as the fabric cupped her tender buttocks, and went outside. Climbing the steep hillside behind the cottage, she was too miserable to enjoy the freedom of moving with legs unencumbered by petticoats and full skirts. When she reached the top, she stopped to catch her breath and looked down. The cottage seemed even more isolated today than it had yesterday, although lit by the rare autumn sunshine, the barren moors had an awesome beauty. In the distance, she could see Quinn's figure stalking the black earth as if he were its master, no doubt reliving the way she had humiliated herself, reveling in her cowardice.

Then she knew without question what she must do if she were ever to be able to live with herself again, and with that knowledge an icy crust encapsulated her heart.

Despite her resolve, it was not until some time after she had seen Quinn return to the cottage that she could bring herself to enter. He was seated at the table, enjoying one of the trout that had figured so prominently in her downfall, and he politely invited Noelle to join him.

Warily she eyed the hard wooden seat of the chair and quietly refused.

"Not hungry?" he asked innocently as he saw her small hand steal unobtrusively to her abused backside.

She shook her head. "Perhaps later."

Reaching for the loaf of bread on the table, he tore off two chunks and placed a large piece of fish between the slices. He rose from the table unexpectedly and came to her, steering her toward the door. "Come on."

She nibbled on the sandwich while they walked along a path that ran off from one side of the cottage. He chatted easily, as if nothing had ever happened between them, telling her how he had found the cottage and of the old woman who maintained it for him. Despite herself, she listened, amazed that this charming man who was conversing so entertainingly was the same one who had tried to ravish her.

Just as she finished the last bite of her meal, she saw a lake ahead, so small that its far edge was easily visible. It lay even with the plane of the moor, its surface gray and smooth, reflecting the darkening sky and a lone twisted tree growing near its shore.

"Ravensdale Tarn," Quinn told her. "Those are gulls' nests in the rushes on the edge."

"It's beautiful. So still. I didn't know there were lakes on the moors."

"There aren't many. This is one of the most dangerous because it's so deep, and you can't see it until you're right on top of it. At night or when it's misty, the lake is completely invisible. A lot of sheep have been drowned in this water. Even a few men."

Noelle looked at him sharply. Was this his way of warning her not to try to run away from him? But his expression told her nothing, and she eased herself down onto the spongy turf.

Drawing her knees under her chin, she spoke quietly. "I have something I want to tell you." Each word crept painfully out of her solemnly set mouth. "I have decided I'm ready to become your wife." There, she had said it. There was no backing off now.

But he seemed not to have heard her. He only stared out across the fiat expanse of water, his forearm resting against the twisted tree trunk, and watched as a gull circled the edge of the lake before gracefully landing near its nest.

Finally he turned to her dispassionately. "What's that supposed to mean-'become my wife'?"

Damn him! He wasn't going to make this easy for her!

"It means that, for the present, I am prepared to…to fulfill all of my obligations."

"Are you, now?" he mocked, returning his attention to the lake.

"Yes," she declared, with a toss of her honey mane. "I'm no coward, Quinn Copeland, despite what happened today. And I intend to prove it to you."

His voice was steeped in sarcasm. "And am I supposed to be grateful for this act of bravery on your part?"

Whatever else he was ready to say was cut short by the sound of a man's voice calling faintly in the distance.

"Come on, Highness. I have a surprise for you."

An old man was unloading Quinn's heavy saddle and another smaller one from the back of a wooden cart that stood near the cottage. Tied behind the cart were two horses-Pathkiller, Quinn's magnificent stallion, and a small chestnut mare. Noelle stopped where she was and took in the beautiful animal. As if aware she was under inspection, the mare turned her head toward Noelle and returned the appraisal with warm, liquid eyes. Then, satisfied with what she saw, she pricked up her ears in friendly salute.

As a child, Noelle had sometimes collected a few pennies by standing on the curb and holding horses for the gentry, but other than that, her contact with animals had been unpleasantly limited to rats or the vicious stray dogs that roamed in packs through the alleys of London. Now she fell hopelessly in love with the beautiful animal that stood in front of her.

The horse whinnied softly, as if impatient for her to come near, and Noelle closed the distance between them. Tentatively she reached up and slid a hand down the mare's warm, silky nose, enchanted with the intelligence she perceived in the animal's expression. As if in response, the mare gave Noelle's shoulder a gentle nudge.

She was so captivated by the horse that she didn't notice Quinn coming up behind her.

"It looks like you've made a friend."

Noelle stroked the dark chestnut mane. "What's her name?"

"That's up to you. She's yours."

Thunderstruck, she stared at him.

He turned to untie the horses. "Don't worry. I'm not expecting gratitude. I won't have a wife who can't ride."

She was torn between the desire to fling the unsolicited gift in his face and the knowledge that she couldn't bring herself to part with this beautiful horse. Then the cart clattered its way down the lane.

With the reins of both animals in his hand, Quinn watched the warring emotions so clearly raging on Noelle's face.

"I'll have to shoot her if you don't take her. Nobody else would be stupid enough to buy that bag of bones."

"Shoot her!" Noelle choked. "Are you blind? She's the most beautiful-" The devils dancing mischievously in his eyes stopped her before she went further. She planted her hands on her slim hips and gave him a withering glare.

"Not only is your sense of humor misplaced, it is decidedly macabre."

"Whatever you say, Highness." He grinned. "Now, let's get these horses bedded down."

They led the animals to the tiny stone stable behind the cottage, where Quinn put them into separate stalls, each of which held a bale of straw. He showed her how to rub down the chestnut and then went to tend Pathkiller.

Noelle listened uneasily as the ferocious stallion kicked an iron hoof against the thin wooden partition that divided the stalls. The stallion was a magnificent animal, but she couldn't imagine going into a stall alone with him.

"Give her some oats before you leave," Quinn called over to her. "Tomorrow you're going to have your first riding lesson."

So he was going to teach her to ride. A throb of excitement shot through her at the thought of sitting on the back of this beautiful horse.

"I'm going to call you Chestnut Lady," she whispered as she rested her cheek against the animal's sleek neck, "and I'll learn to ride you like the wind."

A scene of quiet domesticity greeted Quinn when he entered the cottage that night after having checked the horses. The lamps were glowing warmly, and a crackling fire cast cozy pumpkin-colored shadows about the room. At the center of the tranquil scene was Noelle, laboriously sewing on the buttons that Quinn had ripped from her shirt that morning. The ends of her hair, still damp from the quick bath she had taken while he was in the stable, curled over the modest bodice of the flannel nightgown she had found in the chest. She looked like little more than a child with her bare feet tucked under the folds of the voluminous nightgown and her forehead knitted in concentration.

Only the slight trembling in her fingers gave away her agitation. So, Quinn thought, she's planning to go through with it. He jerked his coat off and flung it over the back of a chair.

The last button secured, Noelle reluctantly set aside the shirt and, keeping her eyes averted from Quinn, drained the half-empty wineglass sitting next to her. It was her fourth glass, and she was feeling definitely light-headed. Still, she needed whatever courage the bottle could offer if she were to keep her resolve. The wine was young and raw, and as it slid down her throat she shivered. Looking for something else to do, she spotted a plate that had fallen over on the shelf and straightened it, almost knocking another over in the process. Afterward she folded her shirt, returned the needle and thread to the chest where she had found them, and then brushed her hair. When her scalp was tingling from the force of the brush and her hair crackling around her head, she finally stopped and meticulously secured it in a long, loose braid.

The pungency of Quinn's cheroot filtered through the room, and Noelle poured another glass, despite the fact that her head was now floating and her fingertips growing numb. Taking a deep swallow, she closed her eyes in a silent, intense prayer to a God whose existence she had so often questioned in poverty and then forgotten in prosperity. Please, she prayed, give me the strength to go through with this. I have to prove to him and to myself that I'm not a coward. Don't let me be humiliated again.

The room seemed to tilt as she willed her feet to move to the bed. She slid in, encased in her flannel cocoon. Don't let yourself think about it, she admonished. Don't look at him. Just shut your eyes and imagine you're somewhere else. She pulled the quilt up to her chin and clenched its top edge between her fingers to keep the room from moving.

"I'm ready now," she managed, her tongue cumbersome from the alcohol.

Whatever she had expected, it was not the sardonic bark of amusement coming from across the room.

"Save your sacrifice, Highness. I'm going to sleep in the stable, I prefer women who enjoy lovemaking, not one who has to fortify herself with a bottle of wine before she has the courage to get into bed."

Noelle tried unsuccessfully to raise herself up on one arm. "I have pl-plenty of courage. Don't have to fortify myself to find it. Said I would do my duty." The words would have been more defiant if they had not been slurred.

Quinn walked over to the bed and looked down on her. "Your 'duty' doesn't interest me. I don't take unwilling women, but I'll be damned if I'll put myself to the test by sleeping next to you at night."

"Since when have you developed scru-scruples?"

"It doesn't have anything to do with scruples. I just don't have a talent for rape."

"That's not how I remember it from our wedding night!"

"That was different, and you know it."

"Why? Because you thought I was a whore?" A large, wine- induced tear slid from the corner of her eye as she remembered her mother. "Whores are people, too. They have feelings."

"Oh, for Christ's sake! Go to sleep." He pulled his coat back on and headed for the door. "And don't wear that damned braid to bed anymore."

Dimly aware that she was not thinking clearly, she pulled herself up with as much dignity as she could manage. "If you don't like it, husband, then I shall take it out immediately."

With great difficulty, she put her feet over the side of the bed and stood, her stomach queasy at the sudden movement. "Whatever you say, I'll do. You're my lord, my master. Wives must please their husbands, mustn't be cowards." She stumbled across the room toward him, unbraiding the single plait with clumsy fingers as she moved.

Her stomach lurched, and she realized with horror that she was going to be sick. In that instant, Quinn picked her up and carried her outside. By the time the spasms overcame her, he was holding her head over the back of a clump of bracken. When her stomach was finally empty, he carried her back into the house and put her to bed. Then he left her.

Noelle lay wakeful for some time. The embarrassment she would normally have felt at being sick in his presence was somewhat tempered by her realization that he intended to leave her alone. She had made her gesture; he had refused it. Now she could live with herself. Her eyes began to feel heavy, and when she finally fell asleep, it was in the middle of the bed, her arms stretched luxuriously above her head.

Chapter Twenty-three

"Wake up, Highness. That scurvy little mare of yours is ready to be ridden." Quinn's voice was bright with good humor. "Put on your breeches and let's get started."

"No," Noelle moaned as she brought a limp palm to her forehead, trying to soothe away the throbbing reminder of last night's wine. "Not today. Maybe tomorrow."

"Out of that bed before I drag you out!"

Painfully she inched her eyes to narrow golden slits and saw him standing at the foot of the bed. A lazy smile parted his lips, but the determination in his eyes made it clear that he would do as he threatened if she defied him.

With a protracted groan, she rose from the bed and staggered toward her clothes. She pulled her breeches on under her nightgown and then, as Quinn turned his back to go to the fire, hastily took off the enveloping garment and slipped into her shirt. After she had finished a bitter cup of coffee he thrust into her hand, she felt somewhat better. For the first time she noticed a package on the table. "What's this?"

"Open it and see."

Inside was a pair of riding boots, the same warm, chestnutbrown as the mare he had given her yesterday. Noelle stroked the soft, pliable leather regretfully. "I know your gift is kindly intended, but I won't accept any more presents from you."

If she expected him to be upset by her refusal, she was disappointed. "My intentions weren't kind at all. Just practical. Or were you planning to ride in those silly slippers? Now, be outside in five minutes. I'll bring your horse around."

Five minutes later, conspicuously clad in her new boots, a sullen Noelle was waiting in front of the cottage. Her foul mood vanished, however, as soon as her mare came into sight.

She extracted an apple from her pocket. "Good moming, Chestnut Lady. Pretty Chestnut."

"Hold it out with your palm flat," Quinn told her. "Otherwise, she might take a few fingers with it."

Noelle did not bother to inform him that an animal with Chestnut's obvious intelligence was perfectly capable of distinguishing between fruit and fingers.

"When you're back in London, showing yourself off in Rotten Row, you'll undoubtedly insist on riding sidesaddle like the rest of the foolish women there, but here you'll ride astride," Quinn declared as he checked the girth and lowered the stirrups. "Riding sidesaddle is the easiest way there is for a woman to break her neck. It's a stupid custom."

Privately Noelle was delighted, but her capitulation in the matter of the riding boots made her perverse. "No gentleman would actually expect a lady to straddle a horse."

"You're probably right. But since I'm not a gentleman, I expect you to do more than sit on her back like a pretty ornament. Unless you ride astride, you'll never really feel the power of the animal or know the excitement of control."

He looked down at her wryly. "Or are you afraid you won't be able to manage her?"

Noelle's small nostrils flared defiantly. "Teach me to ride your way. Then ask me if I'm afraid."

By early afternoon, when Quinn finally called a halt to her lesson, she was making confident circles around the cottage with her spine straight, stomach tucked in, and arms close to her sides. Noelle was quick to point out that the formal riding style he insisted she adopt was markedly different from his own easy slouch in the saddle.

"Americans ride differently," was the only explanation he offered, but she suspected that he was as capable of riding in the English manner as the best horseman in London.

Their time together was markedly free of strain. Quinn patiently explained each new step and willingly answered all the questions her fertile mind produced. He was unfailingly charming as well as generous in his praise of her accomplishments, and Noelle, lulled by his amiability and basking in the approval of so demanding a teacher, wondered if she had misjudged him.

Before Quinn fell asleep that night he thought back over their day together. For some time now he had been aware of her intelligence, but it was not until today as they had eaten lunch at the edge of the tarn that he had taken the time to probe its dimensions. What he had discovered amazed him.

In a short period of time, she had acquired an education that was vastly superior to that which most women acquired over the course of a lifetime. He knew of only one other female with such intellectual scope, and, in Noelle's remarkable education, he detected the fine hand of Constance Peale.

He frowned and shifted in the straw. It had been somehow easier to think of his wife as an unscrupulous pickpocket than as a beautiful woman whose intelligence would do credit to a man.

After four days of lessons, Quinn declared that Noelle was ready for a longer excursion and they set off after breakfast. Noelle tucked her hair under the boy's cap she had found and unaware of Quinn's assessing gaze, swung a slender leg expertly across the saddle.

They set out across the moor, through stretches of bracken and gorse, across shallow becks strewn with water-smoothed rocks. Noelle, the child of London's crowded slums, reveled in the untenanted vastness of it. Throughout the morning, she found herself laughing, partly from the sheer joy of being outside on Chestnut's back but, just as often, from a story Quinn told or a joke he made. Once again she found herself letting down her guard and responding to his charm.

Toward noon, they came upon the ruins of an abandoned abbey. Their voices were hollow echoes as they dismounted and companionably explored the crumbling stones that, three hundred years before, had housed the pious enemies of Henry VIII.

Noelle stared at the one remaining upright wall with its six perfect Gothic arches empty against the sky. Captive to the mood of the place, she took off her cap and absentmindedly shook out her hair. As Quinn watched the honey strands catch the sunlight his resolve to have her on his own terms became indurate. He came up behind her. "You can almost hear the priests petitioning God for Anne Boleyn's damnation, can't you?"

"They were doomed anyway, I think. She was just the catalyst. Henry's pride wouldn't allow him to be subject to anyone, not even a pope." The breeze picked up the ends of her hair as she turned to him and added quietly, "But then, you understand all that better than I, don't you?"

He laughed, softening the hard line of his mouth. Since he had left London, he had not bothered to shave, and the beard which now covered his jaw made him look more the pirate than ever. She was once again struck by how ruggedly handsome he was.

"Poor Highness," he said softly. "Are you afraid I'll have you beheaded?" Eyes shimmering with desire that he made no effort to conceal, he picked up a silken curl and held it between his fingers.

It was as if a current ran from his hand along the strands of hair and into her mind, paralyzing it. She could not summon the will to pull her eyes from his. He brought up his palm and rested it possessively on her cheek, gently outlining the fine bone with a work-hardened fingertip. Slowly his hand moved, igniting whatever it touched-setting fire to the delicate line of her jaw, the slim column of her throat, and the little hollow at its base, warming the nape of her neck as he caught it in his caress. The delicious heat held her prisoner, and she offered no resistance when he pulled her toward him and lowered his hungry mouth to hers. Tremulously her lips opened and she received his tongue. The heat of him engulfed her. Fastening her arms around his shoulders, she surrendered to the power of his kiss.

Quinn triumphed in the nectar of her mouth and the surrendering softness of the supple body pressing into him. She was returning his fire with her own. Then, with a gentle pressure on her shoulders, he pulled away from her and brushed the hair back from her delicate face with his fingers.

"Let's finish our ride," he said softly.

Noelle's eyes clouded in confusion. Finally she stammered, "I -I'd like to ride by myself for a while."

Quinn hesitated. He did not like the idea of her riding alone. Although she was proving to be an exceptional horsewoman, she was still inexperienced. However, she was not a woman to be kept on a tight rein, so, with some misgivings, he acquiesced.

"Keep that line of cliffs in front of you and don't stay out too long. The mists come up fast."

Noelle nodded and mounted Chestnut, her vision blurred with unshed tears. Tapping the sides of her boots lightly into the mare's flanks, she left the abbey and her husband behind her.

Her mind and body were in turmoil as she flew across the hard earth. It seemed she didn't know herself at all anymore. The panic that clawed away at her at the very thought of a man's embrace was still as much a part of her as the air she breathed, but Quinn seemed capable of lulling that fear in her, of making her blood surge through her veins like wildfire, consuming everything in its path.

Why was it this man alone who was capable of making her forget all reason-a man so savage, so dangerous that every instinct warned her he would destroy her? The emptiness around her offered no answer to her agonizing questions.

She pushed her horse on, too absorbed in her misery to notice the plunge in temperature or the ominously darkening sky. Just as the cold, blanketing mist enveloped her, she snapped her head up and remembered, too late. Quinn's warning. She tugged on the reins, and horse and rider came to a stop in the swirling gray opaqueness.

Noelle looked around her, desperately trying to get her bearings. It seemed as if the cliffs had been on her right, or had she changed direction without being aware of it? Which way should she go now?

Sensing her rider's uncertainty, Chestnut laid back her ears and sidestepped nervously, the billowing clouds from her nostrils mingling with the misty swirls.

"Easy, girl. Easy. Let's try this way."

They set off, Noelle hunched over Chestnut's neck as they chiseled their way deeper into the mist. A freezing drizzle began to fall, and she prodded the reluctant mare on. The rain brought its own dangers, but perhaps it would clear away the mist so she could check her direction.

Before long the drizzle had soaked through her jacket and breeches to her skin, and she was shivering with the cold. Her fingers grasping the reins were stiff and numb, and she tried to flex them to restore their feeling. Desperately she peered into the thick, blanketing mist, but she could barely see Chestnut's nose, much less the cottage.

Then, with a blinding flash of lightning, the skies opened, and a driving rain assaulted them. Terrified by the noise, the mare threw her head down, jerking the reins from Noelle's stiff fingers. Frantically she grasped the wet mane just as a second bolt of lightning split the heavens. The gentle mare, stricken with terror, reared, pawing the rain-lashed air with slashing hooves, and then bolted with Noelle clinging desperately to her back.

The rain stung her cheeks with its force. Her wet hair slapped across her eyes as she futilely clawed for the reins. Then, in the blue phosphorescence of another jagged thunderbolt, Noelle saw, to her horror, that their blind groping had taken them to the very banks of Ravensdale Tarn. She barely had time to grab a breath before she was catapulted into the deep waters.

The slamming impact tore her from the mare's back, and the frigid water closed over her head. Wildly, she thrashed her arms, desperately clawing through the water's weight for the surface. Her head broke through, and she glimpsed her horse in front of her. With a heroic effort, she flailed at the water. Her frozen fingers brushed against Chestnut's leg but slipped off as the mare pulled away, instinctively swimming for the shoreline.

Again and again, the relentless waters towed her under. Arms numb with cold, she fought the inky blackness until she had no strength left. Then, as she surfaced for the last time, she gulped the air too greedily and, instead, sucked in the poisonous water.

A curious lassitude possessed her as the wall of water sealed itself for the last time over her head, and she plummeted down into the bowels of the tarn. As if in a fantasy, her body was no longer hers. She sensed her hair floating around her head like a corona around the sun. While her lungs burned, her body lost its weight.

She accepted the inevitability of death.

Something hard slammed into her ribs… jerked against her… hurting… angry… Pulling at her. Forcing her up. Breaking through into the cleansing air. Into the sanctified, life-giving air.

She was dragged to the bank of the tarn and held while her body rejected the water it had swallowed. Then she sank into unconsciousness.

Chapter Twenty-four

She was lying naked on her stomach. Everything was soft and safe. Hot, orange flames flickered on the other side of her eyelids. Bit by bit, part by part, an encompassing warmth was stealing the ice from her body.

Something soft, like a towel, slid along her naked spine. Up. Down. Along her arms, shoulders, down her spine again, across her hips, caressing each smooth buttock, stroking her long, slender legs.

So soft, so warm. The icy core inside her began to thaw as warm, warmer, each limb absorbed the delicious soft stroking.

Then, warm flesh, warmer than hers, cupped her shoulders and gently turned her so that her front was offered up. The textured softness brushed her face, her neck, then her chest. It circled the globes of her breasts, touched her nipples, then moved onto her flat stomach, kneading it with softness. Again, the warmer flesh touched her, this time on her thighs, moving one limb a fraction apart from the other so the softness could caress her thighs, knees, calves, every toe.

In her delicious warm languor, she lifted up one arm and then the other, delighting in their lightness, the way they responded to her wishes. She stretched them out above her head, arching her back like a contented cat in the hot summer sun.

Abruptly, cruelly, the stroking stopped. She muttered an incoherent sound, not really words, just a throaty, quiet protest. There was a soft chuckle, and then it was no longer the softness stroking her but warm breath, teasing her nipples into aching hardness; warm flesh rubbing the hollow cave of her stomach, brushing the soft fleece that marked her womanliness.

Then nothing.

Again she moaned, arching her back, seeking the warm flesh, protesting.

The soft chuckle. A blanket slid up over her nakedness. "Oh, no you don't. Highness. You'll have to open your eyes first. I want you awake when I make love to you."

His arm slid behind her bare shoulders, lifting them. A burning liquid hit her lips, her tongue. She coughed as it slid, molten, down her throat. He put her head back on the pillow, and her eyes opened.

Lying next to her, Quinn was propped up on one arm, his bare chest glowing bronze in the firelight. The towel with which he had dried her lay discarded in front of him. He took a slow sip from the remaining brandy and then gazed down at her, a lazy smile lurking at the corners of his mobile mouth.

"Welcome back."

Noelle turned her head to the side and looked around her. They were lying on a soft pallet in front of the fireplace. Quinn was naked; only his hips were covered by the corner of a blanket.

Memory washed over her-the storm, the tarn, her desperate struggle reaching for her horse's leg only to have it slip away…

"Is Chestnut safe?"she managed.

Xxx hell of a lot safer than you. That damned nag almost got you killed. That and my stupidity. I should never have let you go off alone." He shifted his weight and the curious silver disk he wore reflected the flames. "I tried to follow you, but I lost you in the mist. I knew you were headed roughly in the direction of the tarn. It was just luck that I got there in time."

"It was my own fault. You warned me, but I didn't pay attention to where I was going. And then the storm frightened Chestnut, and she bolted."

Quinn saw Noelle shiver. "Here, drink some more brandy."

Once again he raised her head. As he held the glass to her lips some of the liquid trickled out the side. She drank, and then he lowered her back to the pillow, enjoying the play of the firelight on her hair. A small amber droplet clung to the corner of her moist mouth. Slowly he lowered his head and captured it in his kiss.

Almost instantly he felt her stiffen under him. He pulled back, placing a quieting finger over her lips before she could voice her protest.

"Your time has run out, Highness," he said huskily. "I'm going to make love to you now."

Little golden pinpoints of fear flecked her eyes, and he could see by the way her fingers convulsed around the edge of the blanket that she had just realized she was naked and completely vulnerable to him.

Her eyes darted to the brandy bottle sitting a few feet away.

"Not this time. Tonight it will be just the two of us in this bed. A man and a woman who want each other."

"No," she whispered, "I-I don't want you."

With firelight dancing in his eyes, he eased the blanket from her clenched fist and slid it down to her feet. Then he touched her face and began lightly stroking away the fear-etched ridges. His mouth followed his fingers, and, finally, with gentle urgency, he claimed her parted lips.

Noelle breathed in the virile scent of him, tasted the hint of brandy on his tongue, felt the roughness of his beard against her cheek. She wanted to protest her nakedness, his invasion of her mouth, but the sweetness of it stole her words.

Then his mouth traveled from her lips to the curve of her shoulder. His hand crept up her naked side to her breast, thumbing delicious circles around the coral areola and then lightly brushing the tiny bud at the tip.

She moaned at the sensations that his touch generated and heard a muffled exclamation, low and deep in his throat. He lifted his head so that he was staring deeply into her eyes, promising with his own what was to follow. And then his mouth descended to a tender coral bud, tonguing it and then sucking deeply, teasing first one, then the other-relentlessly persistent until her head thrashed from side to side on the pillow.

Again the muffled exclamation, low and triumphant. Was it laughter? Passion?

His mouth possessed her once more. His hand moved down her body, brushing the silken fleece but not stopping this time, going on to touch private places. No need to part legs already open.

His body covered hers, and she accepted its weight, her traitorous arms locking around his shoulders. Her flesh was on fire, waiting, yearning, eager when his rigid manhood probed at the entrance of her secret core.

"Open your eyes," he commanded, his voice suddenly hard and ugly. "I want to see you when I take you."

Afraid he would stop if she disobeyed, she did as he ordered, opened her eyes and locked them with his. She hated him then as she saw his triumph. Hated herself more for having obeyed. He was not making love to her, he was conquering her. This was his revenge. It had all been a calculated seduction.

He laughed harshly. "I told you I'd claim what was mine." And then he filled her.

"No," she sobbed, wanting to fight him. But it was too late. He moved inside her slowly, relentlessly. Watching her. Boring her with his eyes and his manhood. She felt her body climbing, overcoming her will. She reached. Toward what? Ached. Release. Please. Whatever. Sweet, blessed.

The crescendo of her passion captured her and carried her to shattering, humiliating fulfillment. She was barely aware of his shudder as he finally allowed, himself his own hot, liquid release.

Long after he had moved her from their place in front of the fire to the bed and fallen asleep beside her, Noelle lay awake, shamed by her body's unrestrained response to someone she detested. The nagging fears about her own nature that she had tried so hard to dismiss had borne ugly, bitter fruit.

Quinn had forced her to acknowledge his complete domination of her body. He had threatened her at her most primitive level, and she hated him for it. Even more tragically, she hated her own healthy body.

The next morning when she slipped out of bed, she was careful not to touch him, knowing now that the slightest graze of skin upon skin might ignite a fire over which she would have no control. She washed and dressed quickly, dispassionately studying his sleeping form the whole time. He slept as aggressively as he lived, throwing the span of an arm over the place where she had been lying, angling his long frame across the bed to keep his feet from dangling off the end, encompassing the bed, making it his own just as he did everything else.

"Noelle?" A muscular forearm shaded his eyes from the gray light of morning.

She ignored him, viciously yanking on her boots.

"Highness, take off those damned clothes and get back into bed."

"Must you modify every noun with a profanity?" she sneered. "I realize you didn't have the benefits of a British education, but that's hardly an excuse for the limitations of your vocabulary."

Something resembling a snort came from the bedclothes. "You talk too much. Come over here."

"So you can maul me again? No, thank you."

He lifted himself up on one arm, the covers falling uncomfortably low at his waist. "So it's 'maul' now, is it? I don't remember having had to pry your legs apart."

She winced at his vulgarity but kept her voice coldly steady. "No, you didn't. And I'll never forgive myself for that."

He sighed with exasperation. "For God's sake, Noelle, you're a healthy woman. You enjoyed a good tumble in bed. There's nothing wrong with that. I made love to you, and you responded."

"No," she spat out. "You weren't making love to me; you were conquering me. Forcing me to acknowledge your superiority. Well, I don't acknowledge it!"

His laugh was soft and bitter. "Why, you little hypocrite! You regret having enjoyed it, don't you?" He rolled off the bed and grabbed the discarded towel, wrapping it around his hips as he advanced on her. "You would have liked it better if I had raped you. Then you could have been a victim."

"I was a victim! You took my choice away."

"You wanted it. The way I see it, you made your choice."

"No!" she exclaimed. "I couldn't help it. It was you! You…"

"I made you want it? Well, then, good," he drawled.

"There was nothing good about what you did to me."

Quinn studied her for a moment and then shrugged uninterestedly. "Have it your way." He sauntered over to the bureau and pulled out a clean shirt. "I need to get back to London. I'm leaving today, and I don't want you slowing me down. There'll be a carriage coming for you tomorrow."

Noelle was incredulous at his pronouncement. "This is all part of your pattern, isn't it? You take what you want from women and then discard them." She rushed over to him and grabbed his arm, her fingers biting into the thick tendons. "Well, there's a difference this time, because I yearn for nothing more than to be one of your discards!"

He flicked off her restraining fingers, and mockery flooded his eyes. "I wouldn't plan on it quite yet if I were you."

"Damn you!" Noelle raged. "What do you want from me?"

"You still don't understand, do you? You're mine, and I don't give up what I own unless it's on my terms."

Her face was engraved with bitterness. "These last few days, I thought I had misjudged you. Now I see how stupid I was." She fled from the cottage before he could see her tears.

Quinn stared at the open door. "Maybe I was the one who was stupid," he said softly.

When she returned to the cottage, he was gone. For the rest of that afternoon, Noelle attempted to ride out her anger on Chestnut Lady's sturdy back. With reckless abandon, she thundered across the moors, trying to forget her pain.

It began to rain late in the day, and she hurried back, unwilling to risk being caught again on the moors in a storm. The cottage was warm and dry, but it offered nothing in the way of diversion-no books, no pen and ink. Nothing to distract Noelle from her painful memory of Quinn, bringing her ecstasy such as she had never known, even as he sneered at her.

In the amber glow of a single candle, she lowered herself onto the bed, dropped her head into her arms, and wept.

A loud knocking startled her awake, and stiff with cold, she snapped up in bed, surprised to find sunlight flooding the room. The knocking sounded again. She stumbled to the door, her hand rifling through her mass of uncombed hair.

The coach Quinn had promised was waiting outside, the heads of its team of horses almost invisible behind the steaming clouds of their warm breath in the cold air. On the threshold of the cottage stood a spindly middle-aged woman whose sharp features clearly hallmarked an inquisitive nature.

"Mrs. Copeland?" she queried, taking in Noelle's unusual garb with equanimity.

"Yes."

"Ah, excellent. We have found you, then, with no difficulties." She pushed past Noelle into the cottage and deposited a small valise and several dress boxes on the table. "I'm Edwina Tipton. Your husband, dear Mr. Copeland, made my acquaintance through the rector of our parish and asked me to accompany you back to London."

"Oh?"

"He instructed me to tell you that your horse will be brought on by a groom. What a charming man!" she twittered, oblivious to the fire in Noelle's eyes. "I vow, you are certainly the luckiest of women to have such a husband, blessed not only with a most pleasing countenance but a sympathetic nature."

"I must ask you to enlighten me, Miss Tipton," Noelle said coldly. "How did you learn of my husband's sympathetic nature?"

The woman looked startled. "Why, when he told me of your condition, of course. Dear Mr. Copeland felt it necessary to confide in me. He gave me every assurance that your fits were only temporary and that under no circumstances was I to permit you to dwell on your current instability."

"Fits!" Noelle sputtered with outrage. "Why, that despicable…"

"Now, now, Mrs. Copeland. We mustn't upset ourself."

She pulled the lid off one of the boxes on the table. "Here, just look what I've brought you. We have a superb dressmaker, originally from London, of course. Dear Mr. Copeland purchased these clothes to replace those you destroyed during one of your little… spells." She did not seem to hear Noelle's muffled growl as she opened one box after another, extracting a hat, shoes, two dresses, even hairpins. "Unfortunate, of course, to have thrown your-entire trousseau on the fire, but, then, the more unpleasant aspect of matrimony is certain to produce some strange behavior in any sensitively reared bride."

Just at that moment, Miss Tipton pulled out undergarments so intimately revealing that even she blanched. She dropped them as if the very act of touching anything so seductive would compromise her.

For the first time in days Noelle smiled and then commented wickedly, "As you can clearly see, my husband has animal appetites."

But Miss Tipton was not so easily daunted. "Nonsense, my dear! Your husband is a wonderful man who cares for you. I'll fix some tea while you dress, and then we'll be off. I know it is your fondest wish to be reunited quickly with dear Mr. Copeland."

"It is my fondest wish, Miss Tipton, that dear Mr. Copeland's soul will rot in hell."

Other than a brief sympathetic glance, Noelle's companion ignored her remark and resumed her bright prattle, a practice she was to continue throughout the long journey back to London. When the outer limits of that city finally came into view, Noelle breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving, for she knew that another day of hearing about "dear Mr. Copeland" would have sent her leaping across the carriage to throttle her traveling companion.

Chapter Twenty-five

Simon was tired when he reached Northridge Square. He had been away for several days, trying to track down a rumor that the Royal Navy was preparing to commission three new frigates. It had been an unsatisfactory trip, aggravated by his worry about Noelle. Quinn's curt note, delivered by messenger the morning that they disappeared almost three weeks ago, had done little to relieve his anxiety. He knew his son too well to have any illusions about how Quinn would react to the deception.

The trip from which he was returning had come at an unfortunate time. There had been too many hours alone in his carriage with only his own thoughts for company, and he did not particularly like what he was finding out about himself.

"Good evening, sir," Tomkins said as he opened the front door for his employer. "I trust you had a pleasant journey."

"Damned unpleasant, as a matter of fact. Has there been any word from my son yet?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Copeland returned two days ago."

"He did, did he? I want to see him right away."

"Certainly, sir. He's in the drawing room."

Simon gave his hat and coat to Tomkins and went to find his son. As the door opened Quinn looked up lazily from the copy of the Evening Mail he was reading.

"Welcome back, Simon."

"Where's Noelle?"

"Not even a 'hello'?"

"Is she upstairs?"

Quinn set down his newspaper. "She's not here."

"Damn it, Quinn! Don't play games with me. If you've hurt her…"

"You'll what? Don't forget that she's my wife, Simon. Thanks to you I can do what I want with her."

With a sigh, Simon slumped down into a chair near the window.

"You don't like that, do you?" Quinn taunted. "It's what you wanted all along, but now that you have your victory, it doesn't mean much, does it?" He picked up a glass of brandy from the table next to his chair and swirled it slowly in his glass. When he spoke, his words were low and accusing. "Why is that, Simon? Is it because your feelings about your son's wife aren't fatherly at all? Was it really a deception when you both let me think she was your mistress, or had you been sleeping with her all along?"

"You bastard!" Simon exclaimed, leaping up from his chair. "You should know the answer to that better than anyone. After what you did to her the night you married her, she could barely stand to be in the same room with a man, let alone have one touch her."

"But I'll bet you tried, didn't you?" Quinn said, and even he did not know whether the bitterness in his voice was directed at himself or at his father.

"No, Quinn, I didn't."

The two men were silent for several minutes, and then Quinn spoke. "I'm afraid I did Noelle an injustice. I was too quick to blame this whole scheme on her. I can see that she didn't have to do much persuading to convince you to fall in with her ideas."

"I was the one who did the persuading, not she. It was my plan. Neither Noelle nor Constance wanted to go along with it."

Quinn laughed sardonically. "Constance, I'll believe. But it's useless to try to shield Noelle. I know her calculating nature too well."

"I'm beginning to realize you don't know her at all. In spite of the life she was leading, Noelle was a sensitive young girl when you found her, and she still is."

"Spare me your lectures, Simon, and pour yourself a brandy. I have something else to discuss with you."

"First tell me if Noelle is all right."

"For God's sake! You're acting as though I've murdered her! She's on her way back from Yorkshire now. She should arrive tomorrow."

Simon poured his brandy and sat down. "Were the two of you able to adjust yourselves to the situation?"

"That's none of your business," Quinn snapped.

Simon avoided meeting his eyes. "What else do you want to talk about? I'm tired. I want to go to bed."

"This won't take long." The trace of a smile touched his lips. "I've changed my mind about returning to Copeland and Peale."

"Are you serious?"

"I am if you accept my terms."

Simon understood his son too well, and now he knew the importance of treading carefully. "I believe I presented a proposal to you several weeks ago. That offer is still open."

"Not good enough," Quinn grinned. "If you want me back, you'll have to do better than that."

"Stop playing cat and mouse with me! Tell me what you want!"

Quinn went to a small desk in the corner of the room where he pulled out a sheaf of papers. "It's all in this contract."

He waited patiently while Simon read it through. When he was done, his lips were tight with anger.

"You're out of your mind! You know I'll never agree to two of these conditions."

"Which ones, Simon? There are a number of them."

"You know very well which ones I'm talking about. Giving you an equal partnership as well as total control of the Cape Crosse yard."

"Have it your way, Simon. I withdraw my proposal. It was everything or nothing." Quinn stood and turned toward the door.

"Sit down," Simon hissed. "At least give me the courtesy of letting me explain myself!"

Quinn looked down at Simon for a moment and then, with a shrug, lowered himself back into his chair.

"It is premature of you to expect an equal partnership with Constance and myself," he insisted, struggling to keep his voice level. "Eventually, of course, I'd planned to make you a full partner, but hardly now."

"The only way you were going to give me an equal partnership was in your will. You're a healthy man, Simon, and I don't intend to sit around waiting for you to die."

He leaned back in his chair and studied his father coolly. "But that's not what really sticks in your craw, is it? It's the idea of relinquishing control at Cape Crosse."

"I built that yard from nothing. Nothing!" Simon's fist slammed down on the table next to him. "Now it's one of the best operations in the world. I've already asked you to manage it. That should be enough."

"Simon, that shipyard can't function with both of us running it." All the mockery was gone from Quinn's voice. "You're a good businessman; I don't pretend to be your equal. But now you have to step aside and let me build our ships my way. In the next twenty years the China trade is going to become more important than anyone dreamed, but the richest prizes will only go to the fastest ships. We have to be ready."

"Even if I wanted to accept your offer, I couldn't. You forget that I have a partner."

Quinn's response was his revenge for the part Simon had played in his conspiracy with Noelle. "Constance has already signed."

Simon's hand shook as he flipped back through the pages of the document to the end. There it was in her fine copperplate – Constance Peale.

Neither man spoke. Finally Simon wearily rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers. He was growing tired of the struggle, of trying to shape events to suit himself. Now Quinn was paying him back in the same coin.

Slowly he finished his brandy. Quinn deserved his revenge; he'd earned it. Simon got up from the chair and took the contract to the desk. His hand was firm as he dipped the pen in the inkwell and put his signature on the line next to Constance's. He passed the document on.

"Don't underestimate yourself. It seems you're more of a businessman than either of us thought."

"I was playing with a stacked deck, Simon, and we both know it."

Long after Quinn had left, Simon sat in the drawing room, too drained to move. When he finally took his watch from his pocket, he saw it was nearly ten o'clock. Slowly he pulled himself up and started for his bedroom, his hand trailing wearily behind him on the banister. He was irritated when the door knocker sounded. Who could be calling this late?

Her beauty, as always, caught him unprepared. "Noelle!"

"Hello, Simon."

She was expensively outfitted in brown and cream velvet. She wore a spencer the color of warm mocha. The jacket was cut fashionably short, covering only the bodice of her gown. It was softly edged at the neck and wrists with beige mink. Fetchingly angled over one finely arched brow was a pert velvet toque whose mocha and cream plaid matched the skirt of her traveling dress.

As she stepped smartly past Simon her graceful carriage hid her dismay at seeing him so soon. She had a score to settle with him, but she had hoped to postpone it until she was rested.

The coachman appeared at the door and brought her valise into the foyer. "Will there be anything else, madam?"

"Please see that my companion reaches Ludgate Hill as soon as possible."

With a nod and a respectful bow, he left the house.

"I-we didn't expect you back tonight," Simon said uneasily. "I'm glad you're home, Noelle."

"I'm sure you are." Her voice was chill and distant. "You finally have what you've wanted all along, don't you?"

The footsteps of one of the servants approached them from the back hallway.

"Let's go in the drawing room, where we can talk."

"I'm tired, Simon. I want to go to bed now."

"Please, Noelle." He took her arm and rather forcefully guided her through the double doors into the drawing room. "I must speak with you before you get away from me."

"What can you possibly have to say to me after all that's happened?"

"That I'm sorry."

She pulled off each of her gloves with a crisp snap. "Oh, come now, Simon. You're no longer dealing with an innocent. How can you be sorry when you've planned so long for this moment?" Looking at him contemptuously, she tossed her gloves down onto the settee. "You've made me into the perfect wife, haven't you? Well-dressed, well-educated, possessed of all the social graces. Only the best for your son!"

"Try to understand. I was convinced the two of you would come to care for each other."

"Are you insane?" Something inside Noelle snapped, and the composure she had tried so hard to maintain crumbled. "I'm frightened of him! Can't you understand that? I always have been. He is wild and unpredictable. Your son is a savage!"

Simon winced as if she had slapped him, but her own suffering was so keen, she had no room in her heart for his. "You were going to tell him, weren't you? If he hadn't discovered who I was, you would have told him yourself!"

Simon's silence condemned him.

Her fisted hands shook in front of her with the force of her pain. "You promised you would protect me! Why? Why did you do this to me?"

Unable to bear the sight of her anguish, Simon turned his back on her and walked to the window, but her reflection stared back at him accusingly in the glass. "There's more, Noelle."

"What do you mean?"

As he spoke his finger traced the edge of the window pane that framed her image. "I announced your marriage to the papers last week."

"Oh, Simon, no!"

"It's created a scandal, of course. Everyone believes you've eloped. London's talking of nothing else. To make it worse, the daughter of a prominent banker tried to kill herself when she heard the news. Fortunately she wasn't successful. But she left a note that has made things more complicated than I ever imagined they would be. She accuses Quinn of promising to marry her. You're portrayed as a seductress. It's all very sordid."

Reluctantly Simon turned to face her. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for it to happen this way."

Noelle barely heard his words. "I will never forgive you for this."

She fled from the room. Now all she wanted was to be alone. Like a wounded animal, she needed to curl into a tight ball, shut out the rest of the world, and tend to her injuries. She was almost to the stairs when Tomkins's voice stopped her.

"Madam. Please forgive me for not having attended you when you arrived. We did not expect you until tomorrow, and I was preparing to retire."

"It's all right, Tomkins," she managed. "You had no way of knowing I would return early."

"Nevertheless, madam, let me apologize. I would also like to take this opportunity to extend to you the best wishes of the staff and myself on this most auspicious occasion."

Not trusting herself to speak, Noelle merely inclined her head.

"Your valise has already been taken to your new room. I'm sure you'll be relieved to know that Mrs. Debs personally supervised the transfer of all your clothing and personal effects. Mr. Copeland was most specific. He wanted everything ready before your arrival."

Something of what she was feeling must have shown itself on her face because the butler's expression became faintly puzzled.

"Tomkins?"

"Yes, madam."

"Which Mr. Copeland?"

"Why, your husband, of course, madam."

The dragon carved into the mahogany headboard of his bed seemed to laugh at her dismay. They had moved her entire armoire into his spacious room. Her underthings were stacked neatly in a chest in the dressing room; her hairbrushes leaned intimately against his. A crystal perfume vial stood next to a china shaving mug.

"You certainly don't look like a boy any longer, Highness."

Noelle jumped, twisting around at the sound of Quinn's voice. The well-groomed man in the immaculately cut gray suit seemed almost a stranger, so accustomed had she become to seeing him in an open shirt, faded trousers, and riding boots. Only the beard was a reminder of the man who had kept her imprisoned in the cottage in Yorkshire.

Quinn's thoughts were taking much the same course as he surveyed his elegantly coiffed and gowned wife. He took in the way her body filled the dress he had purchased, her breasts swelling beneath the creamy bodice as he had known they would, the tightly nipped waist-a gown well suited to his masculine taste. Still, he knew he was going to miss those breeches. His eyes traveled her body, remembering the hips and shapely backside hidden under the plaid skirt.

"I want my things moved back into my own room."

He chose to deliberately misinterpret her statement. "Why? Are you planning more trips down the vines?"

"How did you know about that?"

"It wasn't hard to figure out. The only thing I don't understand is why you kept going back. Somehow I don't think it was to pick pockets."

She hesitated. If she told him the truth, he would undoubtedly scoff at her. Still, what did she care what he thought? Defiantly she tossed her head. "I used to take money to some of the children."

The callous response she had expected did not come. "Tomorrow I'll arrange for a less dangerous way to send them money."

Once again he had thrown her off her stride. To hide her confusion, she stormed at him, stamping her foot and telling him not only that she refused to stay with him in this room, but that she would not remain in the same house with him! He said nothing, merely crossing his arms over his chest and listening to her.

The more Noelle raved, the more she knew she was hopelessly trapped. Only when she realized how ridiculous she sounded did she finally fall silent. As much as she detested Quinn, as much as he frightened her, returning to her old life terrified her more. These past two years had strengthened her mind and her body, but they had also weakened the primitive instincts that had ruled her existence on London's streets, and she was now certain she could no longer survive in the netherworld she had left behind. It seemed all her choices had been taken from her except one-being Quinn Copeland's wife.

There was amusement on his face, but it was not altogether unsympathetic. "The trouble is. Highness, you weren't born to this life. If you were, it would be easier for you to accept the idea of a marriage of convenience. It happens all the time to well brought up young ladies."

"I feel as if I've been bought."

"In a way, you have. But then, so have I."

She felt a dawning of hope at the bitterness in his words. "You were going to get a divorce!" she exclaimed. "Why not now?"

"It takes an act of Parliament to get a divorce in England."

"Then how-"

"How was I going to arrange it?" He looked at her levelly. "All records of our marriage were simply going to disappear."

"And now that Simon has announced it, that's impossible," Noelle slowly concluded.

Quinn didn't answer, and his very silence fueled her anger.

"You should have done it while there was still time!"

"Don't you think I haven't told myself the same thing a hundred times in the last few days!"

"And what about the scandal you've caught me in? Everyone believes we've eloped. A young woman almost died because of you!"

Quinn laughed harshly. "I met that particular woman once in my life, and it was in the presence of at least ten other people. I don't even remember what she looks like. But I'll tell you this about her -she had very active fantasies."

Noelle sighed and pressed the tips of her fingers to her eyelids. She had no idea whether he was telling the truth or not, and for the moment she was so weary from the long trip that she couldn't seem to bring herself to care.

When she opened her eyes, it was to watch Quinn pull something from the drawer of a small table next to the bed. He brought it to her, cupped in the palm of his hand.

It was a small, black velvet jeweler's box.

"Open it."

She removed the lid. Nestled in white satin were two rings. One was the simple gold wedding band she had hidden away so long ago in the pocket of her emerald dress. The other was the most superb ring she had ever seen, a magnificent topaz surrounded by rows of sparkling diamonds.

Quinn took the gold band from the box and placed it on her left hand. "This is for the sake of propriety." Then he slipped the mammoth topaz onto the same finger. "And this is in defiance of it!"

"I-I don't want to wear it," she faltered.

"All of London expects us to go into hiding, and I'll be damned if I intend to give them that satisfaction." His black eyes challenged her. "Now, what about you? Are you going to lock yourself away here, or do you want to fight them with me?"

Noelle's thoughts whirled. She had done nothing wrong, and she didn't care what any of them thought. She would go where she pleased! "I'll fight them." A faint smile curled her lips. "But on one condition."

"What's that?"

"You'll sleep on the daybed in the dressing room."

Quinn shrugged. "I'm too big to fit on it, but if you want to sleep there, go ahead. I'll take this bed."

Noelle had not expected it to be so easy, and she was instantly suspicious. "And do I have your promise that you won't molest me in any way?"

"Of course."

She looked at him distrustfully, and he grinned.

"The world is full of willing women, Highness. Unwilling ones are too much bother. Now, are you with me or not?"

Slowly Noelle nodded.

"Good! We begin tomorrow night. The Atterburys are giving a ball."

"Were we invited?"

"Of course not."

The trace of a frown furrowed Noelle's brow. "I hope Madame LaBlanc finished my new ball gown while I was gone. I don't want to have to wear anything white this time."

Quinn's laughter shattered the room.

"May I ask what you find so amusing?" Noelle said haughtily.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

Chapter Twenty-six

Despite his weariness, Simon slept little that night, and with the first pale light of the gray November dawn, he finally gave up the struggle and rang for his bath. It was barely eight o'clock when he found himself standing alone on the doorstep of Constance's town house. He had no business being there. Not only was it much too early to make a call, but the new boundaries of their relationship, although unspoken, were abundantly clear, and he was about to step over them. Still, he could no more have stayed away than he could have let himself starve to death. He had to see her.

The butler was incredulous over Simon's request. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Copeland, but I can hardly have her maid awaken her at this hour."

"If she doesn't, I will."

The servant's frosty tones bore clear witness to his disapproval. "Very well, sir. If you will wait in the drawing room, I will have Mrs. Peale made cognizant of your presence."

Simon had barely circled the room twice before Constance flew in. The emotions he had been keeping under such tight restraint threatened to break free at the sight of her small form clad in the barest wisp of a robe of silver and blue striped silk.

"What's happened, Simon? Is it Noelle? She's hurt?"

"No, no. She's fine. I'm sorry, Constance. I didn't mean to frighten you by arriving so early. It's just that-"

"You didn't mean to frighten me!" As she pushed herself forward her robe fluttered open to reveal an ice-blue negligee. "You have finally overstepped yourself, Simon! How dare you demand admittance to my house in the middle of the night. Bully my servant! Nearly send me into a spasm! I won't have it! Do you hear me, Simon Copeland? This time you have pushed me beyond my limit. I want you out of this house immediately." She pointed a shaking finger toward the door. "Do I make myself understood?"

In spite of himself, Simon grinned. Here was the Constance he knew so well. The thought of having her change back into a polite stranger was suddenly more than he could bear. With deliberate insolence he settled himself in a chair, crossed an ankle over his knee, and looked up at her.

"You'll have to throw me out."

Pain twisted inside Constance at Simon's familiar overbearing manner. He sat in front of her, so maddeningly arrogant, a mirror image of his son. The Copeland men! One of them seemed determined to ruin the person she looked upon as a daughter. The other was breaking her own heart.

Her voice quivered, but she did not lower her gaze. "Very well. If you insist on behaving like a ruffian, I shall be forced to treat you as such." She reached out toward the bell.

"I wouldn't advise it, Constance, unless you plan to call them all, because, I'm warning you, it will take more than one to throw me out."

There was a moment of silence, and then Constance's hand dropped back by her side.

"I have something to say, and I'm not leaving until I'm done." Simon cleared his throat, giving himself time to search for the right words, but they wouldn't arrange themselves in any proper order and so he chose the wrong ones.

"You shouldn't have signed Quinn's contract without consulting me," he snapped. "It was a clear violation of our partnership agreement."

"Fiddlesticks! I was well within my rights, and you know it."

"Legally, perhaps, but certainly not morally. You should have told me what you were planning."

"Very well, Simon, I stand corrected. I was remiss. Now, would you be so good as to leave."

"No, I won't!" In anger and frustration, he leaped up from the chair and went to her, towering over her tiny frame. "I don't give a damn about the contract! As a matter of fact, I'm glad you signed it. Quinn should have been made a partner years ago, but I was too stubborn to see to it. He's a better shipbuilder than either Ben or I ever dreamed of being!"

Imperiously he thrust his fingers back through the gray at his temples and into the darker hair behind. "Damn it, Connie! I've bungled everything so badly. You tried to warn me, but I wouldn't listen."

"Tell me what happened," she said softly as she took a seat on the settee, putting aside her own torment to deal with his.

"Noelle returned last night. I'd never imagined she would be so bitter." He slumped down into an oval-backed armchair across from Constance. "I don't know what happened between the two of them while they were gone, but it wasn't good."

"I'd gathered as much when Quinn came to see me. Your interview with him did not go well?"

"It was a disaster. Among other things, he accused me of having less than fatherly feelings toward Noelle."

Constance fingered the single pearl button at the neck of her robe. As much as she was afraid of the answer, she had to ask. "What are your feelings toward her?"

"She's my daughter." Simon did not miss the trace of skepticism on her face. "Oh, I won't lie to you, Connie. I'll admit I sometimes have had to remind myself of that, but it's only because she's so beautiful, so proud. I doubt that any man could completely resist her." He shook his head ruefully. "Any man, that is, except my son. I was so sure he'd fall in love with her! But he believes she engineered the whole scheme even though I told him I was the one responsible. Connie, I'm actually afraid for her. Now that their marriage has been revealed, I can't protect her from him. Quinn is ruthless with anyone who wrongs him. He doesn't know how to forgive."

"Simon, would you tell me what happened all those years ago between you and Quinn?" The question had been impulsive, but now that it was out, she did not attempt to withdraw it. "I don't mean to pry, but there's so much I don't understand."

Simon cupped the polished wooden curves of the chair arms with the palms of his hands and looked at Constance, sitting so serenely before him. Surprising what a restful woman she was, despite her flighty manner. Not always jumping about like so many females. It was peaceful being with her. Why had it taken him so long to realize how much he loved her and how much he wanted her love in return? Now she was asking him to peel away all his carefully acquired layers of self-protection and reveal the most shameful part of his life.

"I'd like some coffee."

It arrived so soon after Constance had summoned the maid that he concluded her well-trained staff had anticipated the request. He drank most of one cup before he began his story, and then he told her everything. Even after so long a time, the pain was still real and Simon's face was as pale as Constance's when he finally finished.

"I'm glad you told me," she said. "It's not a pretty story."

"Now you see that my son has much to forgive."

"Yes, he does. But I think I am not entirely wrong when I say you are no longer the same man."

"You're dealing with me too kindly, Connie. Especially in view of what I've done to Noelle."

"You're a businessman. You can't deny your own nature, Simon. You must, however, learn to temper it."

"It's not an easy lesson. I'm too accustomed to taking what I want without regard for the wishes of others." There was no mistaking his meaning, and the afternoon in Sussex was once more before them.

"That's why I really came to see you, Connie. I could no longer let that day stand between us. My behavior was inexcusable."

This was not at all what Constance had expected. "Your behavior?"

"Why, the way I made love to you. You're a woman of refinement and sensitivity. To have thrown you on the floor in the middle of the afternoon, taken you so abruptly-it was despicable of me."

The ice-blue negligee rustled softly as Constance rose from the settee. "Simon, let me make certain I understand. You are not apologizing for having made love to me, merely for the place and manner in which the act was performed."

"Well, yes, I suppose you could put it that way."

"And you were not repulsed that I gave myself to you so -freely?"

"Repulsed!" Simon shot up from his chair, finally comprehending how disastrously he had misread her. "I love you, you muddle-headed woman! Of course I wasn't repulsed!"

And then she was in his arms.

"Oh, my dear Simon! My dear, dear man! You may make love to me on the floor of the drawing room or in the attic or even atop the dining room table if you choose." The green eyes that looked up at him suddenly brimmed with tears. "Do you remember how Benjamin used to tease you about being the perfect husband for me? He must have realized then how ill-suited I would be for unmarried life. Since he knew I would outlive him, I believe he was trying to accustom you to the idea of taking his place."

"Did you just propose to me, Connie?" Simon teased gently.

"Why, yes, I suppose I did. Do you mind terribly?"

He ran his hand slowly down her back, feeling the small ridges of her spine through the thin blue and silver silk. "I don't mind at all."

A tremor passed through Constance's body. "Simon, did you not say that a woman of refinement and sensitivity should not be taken as abruptly as you did before?"

He buried his face in her fragrant hair. "That's what I said."

"Well, then," she whispered, "pray tell me how I should be taken."

Simon looked down at her. "Like this," he murmured as he drew her body against his and kissed her tenderly, searching her mouth for a desire that matched his own.

He was not disappointed.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Noelle tried to compose herself as she fastened her chemise and then slipped into the petticoats Alice handed her. In less than an hour she and Quinn would appear, uninvited, in Lady Atterbury's ballroom. She no longer held any illusions about what that would involve.

The anger that had been growing inside her since her trip to Madame LaBlanc's once again threatened to break through, and she drew a deep, steadying breath. That morning, she had avoided Quinn by closeting herself with Mrs. Debs and catching up on the business of the household. After lunch, restless and irritable from her confinement, she had decided to pick up the new ball gown herself at Madame LaBlanc's and at the same time order a riding habit so she would be properly outfitted when Chestnut Lady arrived. The thought of riding sidesaddle did not appeal to her, but she would just have to manage. In the meantime she would order the most elegant and expensive habit that Madame LaBlanc could fashion and have the bill sent to her husband as quickly as possible. Quinn was going to learn right away that everything in this farce of a marriage could not be on his terms!

As Noelle stepped from the carriage two young women with whom she was slightly acquainted came out of Madame LaBlanc's shop. Her own greeting went unspoken as they looked her full in the face and then deliberately turned their heads away without saying a word.

The message was abundantly clear. Mrs. Quinn Copeland was not to be recognized by London society.

Furious at the snub, Noelle issued explicit orders to Madame La Blanc concerning the construction of the riding habit. After scolding her for an action that would only aggravate the scandal, the dressmaker had laughed wickedly and promised that the garment, with the requested modifications, would be completed quickly.

A loud sneeze distracted Noelle from her thoughts. "I'll finish dressing myself, Alice. Go to bed now and don't wait up for me. After a good night's sleep, that cold of yours will be much better."

"Are you sure you can manage, ma'am?" Alice's question was punctuated by a noisy sniff.

"I'm sure." Noelle smiled. "Now, get along before you have me sneezing, too."

As the maid scurried gratefully from the room Noelle sat down at her dressing table and inspected her hair. Alice had followed her wishes exactly, and the result was just as she had intended. Shunning the dictates of fashion, her hair was drawn up into a chignon with only a few tawny curls at her temples and the nape of her neck to distract from the smooth line. It was a style that had been out of fashion for years, but Noelle did not care; it suited her rebellious mood to be different. Besides, the arrangement was flattering. As she dusted a light film of color over her pale cheekbones, the magnificent topaz ring caught the lamplight and winked its agreement.

Noelle looked over at her new gown of bronze satin laid out on the daybed. It was simple, and yet with its unusual color and cut, magnificent. The only real ornamentation on the gown was at the hem, where a design of velvet flowers in the same rusty hue as the dress fabric had been appliquéd. It was the bodice, however, that made the dress such a success. It was cut in a wide, plunging V from the center of the shoulders down to the waist. Filling in the vast, open area were several layers of light bronze gauze.

Thoughtfully Noelle got up from the dressing table, walked over to the gown, and fingered the sleek satin. With the memory of today's snub fresh in her mind, she impulsively unfastened her petticoats, slipped off the chemise that Madame LaBlanc had designed to go under the garment, and then refastened her petticoats, so she was naked from the waist up. Only then did she settle the gown over her head. Holding it together in the back with her fingers, she smiled at the effect. No one could actually see through the gauze, but still, the gesture had made her feel better. Now, could she fasten the long row of hooks in the back by herself?

"Need some help?" Quinn drawled, leaning with his accustomed arrogance against the doorjamb. His pirate's beard and tousled blue-black hair contrasted handsomely with his gleaming shirt and well-cut waistcoat of white Marseilles.

"Yes, please," Noelle replied stiffly. "Alice has a cold, and I sent her to bed."

Quinn stepped behind her. "It'll be my pleasure." Slowly his index finger slid down her bared spine. With a small shiver, Noelle put her hands at her sides and forced the fabric of the garment to meet at the back. Taking his time, Quinn worked his way up from the bottom, slipping each hook through its tiny velvet loop.

"You haven't lost your nerve, have you? Tonight won't be easy, you know."

"So I'm discovering." She told him about the incident at Madame LaBlanc's.

"Does their approval mean so much to you?"

"You don't know me at all, do you?" Unwittingly she had echoed Simon's very words to Quinn the night before. "I don't give a fig for their opinion, but I won't be able to rest until I make certain they understand just that."

"All right. Highness. If you want to shock them, you might as well make a job of it."

Before she could stop him, he had reached out and yanked the entire gauze insert from the front of her dress.

"Quinn!"

"Shut up and look at yourself!" Roughly he turned her to face the mirror. "You're the most beautiful woman in London. No one can take that away from you."

He was right. Never had she looked better, even though the gown was now scandalously revealing. The V in the bodice had been cut so wide that the inside curves of both her breasts were completely exposed. As she stared with dismay at her reflection something heavy and cold fell into the warm valley. It was a plain square-cut topaz suspended from a long gold chain.

Quinn chuckled as he fastened it. "In case they're so blind, they miss your assets, this will draw their attention back to their oversight."

Noelle opened her mouth to protest, but Quinn's words silenced her.

"Pick up your chin, Highness. With you in that dress and me at your side, they'll know for certain that neither of us gives a damn what they think!"

The ball in honor of Leora and Dabney Atterbury's twentieth wedding anniversary was well under way before Simon was able to claim Constance for a dance. Since his arrival, he had been subjected to a deadly combination of thinly veiled barbs and unsolicited advice, and the effort to keep himself in check was stretching his temper thin. Constance, in the meantime, was handling the situation far better than he-telling everyone within earshot how happy the match had made her and how satisfied Simon was that Quinn had chosen his own dear cousin to marry, reminding everyone that the new couple were not related by blood -in short, giving the whole scandalous affair at least a veneer of respectability.

"I don't know how you manage it so well, Connie," he growled as she slipped into the curve of his arm. "All I want to do is shove my fist in their smirking faces!"

"Of course you do, my darling. But that's because you're only slightly more civilized than a mountain goat."

Simon smiled softly down at her. "I didn't hear any complaints from you this afternoon."

"I lower my standards when I'm undressed," she whispered back.

They danced with great contentment for some time, secretly celebrating their discovery of each other. Although neither had put it into words, both were strangely reluctant to announce their future plans quite yet. Plenty of time later for wagging tongues to have their day, hanging the news out like so much laundry on a public clothesline. Speculating. "Her husband's barely been dead for two years, you know." For now, it was theirs alone.

As they left the dance floor one of those brief moments of silence that sometimes unaccountably falls on a large gathering came over the assemblage. The butler's sonorous voice inserted itself into the breach.

"Mr. and Mrs. Quinn Copeland."

As if in one body, the eyes of the guests turned to the doorway. No one spoke. No one moved.

The couple stood at the top of a trio of black marble stairs, Noelle to the side and slightly in front of Quinn. Proudly, even arrogantly, they stared down at their peers, by their imperiousness silently daring anyone to utter a word of censure. The glow from the chandelier caught Noelle's gown and turned it to molten bronze, then touched the topaz pendant and set it glittering wickedly on her bare flesh. There was a muffled exclamation as the gathering took in the gown that plunged to her waist and exposed the inner curves of her breasts, unmistakably accented by the golden stone.

Then Quinn lifted his hand. Lightly, possessively, he rested it on his wife's shoulder so there would be no misunderstanding. She was his.

To Noelle, it seemed they stood there forever. No one watching could suspect how her heart was racing, how much she longed to be anywhere except where she was.

Then Constance's voice rose above the stunned silence of the room. "Leora Atterbury, what a cunning creature you are, inviting these naughty newly weds. Not a person here guessed your surprise. I vow, it has quite made your ball! Ah, well, who can blame you for wanting to be the first to snag them. Dabney, how lucky you are to have such a clever wife. I'm positively green with envy for not thinking of it myself."

Leaving her host and hostess bewildered but pleased, she made her way to Noelle. "My dear, you will set a new fashion with that outrageously flattering gown. I'll wager there will be a dozen like it by this time next week. Now come along, both of you. I know Leora and Dabney will insist you lead the next set."

Constance's audaciousness proved to be more successful than even she had dared hope. In a closed society boredom was a greater enemy than scandal, and it was not long before the guests were vying for the attention of the notorious couple. Afterward, the women bestowed whispered dispensations on each other.

"Scandalous, of course. But really, what is one to do? After all, the Atterbury s did invite them."

There was only one guest who held back. Miserably he watched the bridegroom, and only when Quinn was finally alone, did he approach. They spoke quietly for a few minutes. Quinn laughed. The guest's manner became agitated. Finally he jerked himself away from Quinn and strode purposefully toward the bride.

"Miss Pope-that is, Mrs. Copeland, may I have the next dance?"

"Why, Mr. Sully!" Noelle smiled. "What a pleasant surprise. It's good to see a genuinely friendly face." And then she looked at him more closely. "Is something the matter?"

"I-please!" he blurted out. "Could we go somewhere to talk?"

"Why, yes, of course."

As he led her out through a side door and into a small anteroom, Noelle wondered what had made Tom Sully so distraught. She knew he had been attracted to her but was certain his feelings ran no deeper than infatuation, so he could hardly be too upset about the marriage. What, then?

She took a seat in a low-backed Windsor chair. "Suppose you tell me what is wrong."

He paced about the small room, stopped, looked at her, and his eyes fell to her breasts. He flushed and looked back up at her face, struggling to keep his gaze from dropping again. "It's so difficult. I -I cannot credit such an action. He has placed you in an impossible position."

"Who has?"

"Your husband!" He spat out the last word contemptuously, his plump cheeks shaking with anger. "I tried to talk with him earlier, but he told me to mind my own business. Said he knew what he was about. When I threatened to tell you myself, he only laughed. Dorian, please believe me. I'd as soon put a knife through my own heart as hurt you this way."

Noelle was becoming genuinely worried. "Tell me what this is all about. The longer you delay, the more you are alarming me."

"All right then, here it is." He nervously twisted a large silver signet ring as he spoke. "Almost two years ago, Quinn and I were on our way to meet Simon. It was late. We'd both been drinking rather more than usual, and we ended up wandering out of the Haymarket into a street-little more than an alley, really-where we were accosted by a pickpocket…"

Noelle listened with dismay to his story. How stupid of her not to have anticipated this. Of course Thomas was distraught. He believed Quinn was married to two women at the same time!

As he concluded, Thomas knelt down on one knee in front of her and took her hand in his. "Dorian, I wish I were not the one who had to tell you this, but you must understand-your marriage is neither legal nor binding."

"Thomas, I'm afraid you are mistaken. The marriage is, unfortunately, both legal and binding."

"Dash it!" he exclaimed. "I'm giving you the facts. You must believe me. It's the truth!"

Torn between laughter and tears at the awful irony of it, Noelle reached out her free hand and put it on his upper arm. "I knowed yer was speakin' the truth, ducks. I was there when it all 'appened."

Thomas's jaw went slack. He stared up at her, not even blinking, so dumbfounded was he by her revelation. Finally he closed his mouth, then opened it to speak, forgot what he was going to say, and closed it again.

"My God, Sully, you look like a salmon about to propose!"

Furiously Thomas dropped Noelle's hand and jumped up off his knee. "Devil take you! I've half a mind to call you out! Why didn't you tell me the truth instead of letting me make a bloody jackass of myself. You knew I would keep it quiet."

Quinn rambled into the room, smiling crookedly. "Sorry, Tom, but I couldn't resist. My little pickpocket's changed quite a bit, hasn't she?"

This was too much for Noelle. "I'm not your little pickpocket, and I think you've treated Mr. Sully abominably!"

As she swept from the room the topaz swung back and forth on her bare skin like an indignant pendulum. Little pickpocket, indeed! When she reached the ballroom, she rounded the corner too sharply and bumped up against the back of a pale pink dress.

"I'm sorry. How clumsy of me."

"Why, Dorian, what a surprise!" As she turned Catherine Welby's smile was sweet, but her saucer-blue eyes were cold. "You're in such demand this evening, I hadn't thought to have the opportunity to offer you my best wishes."

"Thank you, Miss Welby," Noelle responded politely while she glanced surreptitiously around her for a means of escape.

"I've already congratulated your husband, but perhaps it's really you who should be congratulated. Fancy stealing your own cousin right out from under our noses."

"In point of fact, we are not actually cousins." Determined to avoid an encounter that could only be unpleasant, Noelle began to move away, but Catherine had no intention of letting her go so easily.

"I must say, I admire your strength of character. I vow, I don't know another woman who would be able to endure public censure so calmly."

"The opinion of others means little to me."

"Come now, Dorian, you needn't pretend with me. We're friends, and as a friend, I must tell you that there has been some wicked talk."

"Oh?"

"The worst kind, I'm afraid." She lifted a plump white hand to shield her vindictive whisper. "It's rumored that you married so quickly because you are-enceinte!" Her eyes traveled to Noelle's slim waist. "Dreadful, isn't it? Naturally I have assured everyone it is untrue."

"How kind of you," Noelle said dangerously.

"Well, you know how cruel gossips are."

"Yes, Miss Welby, and I know who they are, too."

There was no mistaking Noelle's meaning, and the fixed smile faded from Catherine's face. Quinn Copeland was the most fascinating man she had ever met. It was infuriating enough that he hadn't returned her interest, but now, to see him wed to a nobody was more than she could bear.

"Just remember, Mrs. Copeland, it's one thing to catch a husband, but it's quite another to hold him." With a smirk, she pointedly nodded toward the ballroom floor.

Following her gaze, Noelle saw Quinn take a woman in his arms and lead her out for a waltz. It was the raven-haired Anna von Furst-drawn, haunted, and eerily beautiful. Unsmiling, the couple's eyes joined, and then Quinn and the baroness began wordlessly moving in the perfect rhythm of a man and a woman who know the responses of each other's bodies intimately.

Gradually Noelle realized others were watching her, waiting to see how she would react to the slight. Fixing a bright smile on her lips, she excused herself from Catherine and accepted an invitation to dance with a handsome young viscount of somewhat tarnished reputation. If Quinn did not care with whom he was seen, neither did she.

Not long after that the Baroness von Furst left the ball. Even so, Noelle did not see her husband again until midnight, when he appeared at her side to escort her into the dining room and then promptly turned his attentions to a ruddy-faced woolens manufacturer from Leeds. The tables were ladened with every possible delicacy, but Noelle ate sparingly, taking only a small portion of lobster salad and another glass of champagne.

"Will you save a dance for me?"

It was Simon, somewhat abashed, but still determined.

As Noelle looked up at him she realized her bitterness had been replaced by an emotion that was considerably more painful-an aching sense of betrayal. "I'm sorry, but I'm promised for the rest of the evening."

Simon seemed to have anticipated her refusal. He spoke so softly that no one standing nearby could overhear. "It's funny, isn't it, how people delude themselves. I thought I would be able to give you to my son without losing you myself."

Inexplicably Noelle's eyes filled with tears. "I wasn't yours to give, Simon."

He nodded, and then, before he left her side, he reached down and softly squeezed her hand.

The gesture made her infinitely sad. It was as if he were saying "You are my child, and I will always care for you no matter what has happened between us."

For the rest of the ball Noelle was never still. She rushed from one set of arms to another, drank glass after glass of champagne, and flirted outrageously. It made no difference who her partners were as long as she could keep dancing.

Quinn shunned the ballroom for the faro tables that had been set up in the library. It was not until he had won nearly three hundred pounds that he went to claim his wife.

She looked as though someone had just made love to her. Her laughing face was flushed from dancing, a lock of hair had escaped from her chignon and hung down behind her ear, and there was a sheen of moisture between her breasts. As Quinn watched, the mustachioed officer who was holding her let his hand slip from her waist to the top of her hip and leaned forward to whisper something in her ear.

Quinn made his way across the floor. "I'll dance with my wife now."

"See here, Copeland…" The officer thrust out his chin belligerently, but his words trailed off at the dangerous glitter in Quinn's eyes, and he hastily backed away.

Quinn scooped his wife into his arms, pulling her so close to him that he could feel the hammering of her heart through his shirtfront. In response to the handsome couple commanding the center of the floor, the bored musicians nodded conspiratorially at each other and deliberately began picking up the tempo of the music. At first it was so gradual that no one noticed, but then one couple after another began to feel the effects of the quickening pace and fell back. Finally the tempo was frenzied, and Noelle and Quinn danced alone.

They spun about the floor, their clothing flashing bronze and black. Her champagne laughter bubbled up at him. Eyes blazing with self-confidence, she dared him to keep up with her in this accomplishment at which she had now become the master. He tightened his grip in answer to her challenge.

She tossed her head, and her hair shook free from its confines, cascading about her shoulders. As they flew faster it spun wildly about her, slapping at Quinn's cheeks and stinging them like tiny whips. His body quickened with desire. The music came to a final crescendo, and he crushed a handful of untamed mane in his fist, pulling her head toward him and lowering his hard mouth to hers.

To Noelle, the kiss seemed part of the dance. Indeed, it was as violent as the music had been and as ragingly exciting. It was barbaric and so blatantly erotic that the onlookers were stunned.

Only Quinn heard the soft moan when he reluctantly unfastened his mouth from hers. She shuddered as some vestige of self- control returned to her. With a courtly bow, he picked up her hand and brought it respectfully to his lips, then led her from the floor.

On the way home in the carriage, Noelle fell victim to the early morning hour and the champagne that had so beclouded her judgment, and was asleep long before they reached Northridge Square. Quinn carried her into the house and, with his teeth grimly set, deposited her on the narrow daybed. As he left the dressing room he firmly shut the door between their rooms.

The next day all of London was gossiping about Quinn and Noelle and the passion that blazed so uncontrollably between them. They were said to have ravished each other in the center of the Atterburys' ballroom. Noelle publicly ignored the comments and privately swore to drink no more champagne. In the meantime she and Quinn were the rage of London. A party could not be considered a success without the Copelands in attendance.

The fashionable elite never seemed to tire of speculating about them. A few sharp eyes had noted that the glow was back in the Baroness von Furst's lovely cheeks. Others commented that although the Copelands were seen everywhere together, they seldom spoke. The mystery of it all was delicious.

As Constance had predicted, Noelle became a fashion trend setter. This fact was brought home after the Atterburys' affair when she and Quinn attended a ball in the Berkeley Square residence of Lord and Lady Whitney. Lady Whitney herself greeted them in a violet gown cut open to the waist. As Noelle stepped into the ballroom she quickly counted seven other dresses of different colors and fabric but with the same bare bodice.

The fashion followers were, in turn, inspecting Noelle's new gown with smug superiority. It was a simple black crepe completely covering her from neck to hem. There were sly whispers. The gown was well cut, certainly. The little pearl choker collar quite pretty. But, really, it was all so plain and unoriginal.

It was only as Noelle passed through them that the guests saw the dress had no back. The smooth line of her spine, the contour of her shoulder blades, the glowing ivory of her skin, had all been daringly exposed to a point several inches below her temptingly slender waist.

From that time on, there was a line of carriages at the door of Madame LaBlanc's establishment. The new customers were graciously accommodated by Madame's ever-increasing number of assistants while the sly Frenchwoman reserved her considerable creative energies for the woman who was making her the most important dressmaker in London. Noelle Copeland was an original in both spirit and fashion, and Renée LaBlanc was going to make certain her client would not be outdone.

Noelle was not the only one being imitated. All over the city, young gallants were growing beards and clenching thin cheroots between their teeth. It was a pitiful imitation, however, for no matter how hard they tried, none of them could match the swaggering self-assurance of Quinn Copeland. They were all left feeling slightly foolish when, just as their beards reached a respectable length, Quinn shaved his off. One afternoon the couple appeared in Hyde Park. She was leading her pretty chestnut mare, he his ebony stallion. It was only when she mounted that the onlookers saw that the full skirt of her royal-blue riding habit had been cunningly split at the center, forming two side legs. From that day on, Noelle Copeland rode astride.

The weeks passed. No sooner had the gossip from one episode died down than another reared its tantalizing head. There was even a rumor that Quinn Copeland was supporting a group of urchins in one of London's most disreputable tenements. Drawing rooms buzzed, dinner tables sparkled. Never in recent memory had a season been so entertaining.

In Northridge Square, however, things were not quite so gay. Except in public, Quinn and Noelle saw little of each other. Most nights he would escort her home only to leave her at the door. In the morning Noelle would awaken to find the covers on his bed undisturbed. He made no attempt to explain his absences, and she asked no questions about them.

There was one matter, however, about which she did question him, and that was the future. Surely he did not intend their farcical marriage to go on much longer? But no matter how hard she pressed, he refused to commit himself. She could not understand his perversity, especially since she was certain that he chafed to be away from Northridge Square and all that life there entailed.

Something else puzzled her. Last October, shortly after Quinn had reappeared in her life, Simon had told her that his son had accepted a position with a firm of shipbuilders in New York City. If that were true, what was holding him here now? And why had he and Simon, despite the animosity between them, been closeting themselves in the library with ledgers and stacks of files?

She still had not mended her tattered relationship with her father-in-law, so she could not ask him about Quinn's plans. There was always Constance, but Noelle found one excuse after another to postpone discussing the problem with her. Finally she admitted to herself that she was afraid of what she might hear, for there was always the horrifying possibility that Quinn was actually planning to take her with him.

In December, Simon left for the continent, and Noelle found herself missing his booming orders to the servants, the way his laughter filled the house when his friends came to call, and, unreasonably, the sense of security his presence seemed to give her. Even Constance could not help dispel Noelle's loneliness, for she too had left the city.

It was another departure, however, that had a more immediate effect on Noelle's life. Her sleek figure swathed in black silk, Anna von Furst was seen abruptly leaving London one morning. The next day, the newspapers announced that the Baron Otto von Furst had died in a hunting accident in Bavaria.

More frequently now, after the dinner parties and balls and assemblies were over, Quinn and Noelle would climb the stairs to their bedroom together. Whenever it happened, Noelle's heart would thump frantically. Was this going to be the night Quinn would try to open the door that separated them?

It became more and more difficult to repress the memory of the time in Yorkshire when he had made love to her. As if reading her thoughts, Quinn would stalk her with scowling eyes, but he made no attempt to touch her. They snapped at each other over trifles. Noelle was sharp with the servants. Quinn got into a fight at the faro table. Things could not go on as they were much longer.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Ever since the gentlemen had finished their cigars and brandy and joined the ladies in the drawing room, Hugo Meade, the Marquis of Blystone, had been pressing his thigh hard against hers. Noelle barely noticed. Not even Quinn's grim scowl from across the room could penetrate her good humor. Just when she thought she could not bear living another day with him, everything had changed.

It happened so unexpectedly. Tonight, on the way to their third dinner party of the week, Quinn had abruptly announced he was going to leave London in two days to assume permanent control of the Cape Crosse shipyard. Noelle, he declared, would stay here. He had set up a generous bank account for her so she could purchase her own residence and maintain her current style of living. Although there could be no divorce, they would no longer be together.

Noelle's heart sang. She was finally to be free of him!

The marquis's pressure on her thigh had become so relentless that Noelle was recalled to the present. With a shock, she realized he had been murmuring endearments to her.

"… adoration for you. All evening your beauty has sparkled like the finest wine waiting to be sampled by a true connoisseur."

"Really, Lord Blystone, you should not say such things." The arm of the sofa pushed up against her other thigh as she tried vainly to move away from him.

"Don't pretend with me," he pursued. "I know you return my passion. We must arrange to be alone so I can show you how much I love you."

Before she could snatch them away, he had caught up her fingers and brought them to his lips.

"Get your hands off my wife, before I break them."

The marquis dropped her hand as if it were a viper. Noelle had no idea how long Quinn had been standing behind them listening, but from the menace in his voice, it had been long enough.

"I hate to interrupt such a tender moment, Hugo, but I'm taking my wife home now, and if you so much as look at her again, I'll kill you." He grabbed Noelle's arm and none too gently pulled her up. With everyone watching them, he propelled her toward the doorway as if she were a disobedient child. Through stiff lips, Noelle thanked her hostess, all the while trying to hide her humiliation.

She kept her silence throughout the short carriage ride home. The unshed words struggled to be released, but she held them back, waiting for the moment when there would be no coachman to overhear her. Quinn did not even glance in her direction. Finally they stood alone in the dimly lit foyer at Northridge Square. As Quinn shut the front door Noelle unbridled her fury.

"How dare you humiliate me like that!"

"Don't push me tonight," he scowled blackly. "If you're smart, you'll just get out of my sight."

"I'll get out of your sight, all right, as soon as I tell you what I think of your manners!"

"I'm warning you, Highness…"

"And I'm warning you! You're a selfish, egotistical, arrogant bastard!"

"And you're a cheap little man-teasing bitch!"

Noelle swung at him then. She drew back her fist and smashed it full force into his jaw. Quinn should have seen it coming. Under other circumstances, he would have. But the unaccustomed jealousy that had been eating away at him all evening like a maggot had dulled his reflexes, and so he caught the full force of her blow.

Noelle sucked in her breath as she realized the folly of what she had done. Dear God, he would kill her! Catching her skirts up above her calves, she flew up the stairs, propelled by her fear.

There was a pounding. She did not know if it was her own heart or his footsteps behind her. Her mind raced. A key? Was there a key in the bedroom lock? She reached the top step, the hallway; her body sensed his presence behind her and, with a desperate lunge, she threw herself toward the door. It seemed a miracle when the knob turned in her hand. She shot inside and pushed against it. The latch caught. She reached for the key, began to turn it…

The door crashed in on her with such force that she was knocked from her feet. The floor underneath her shook as the heavy oak slammed shut. Lying in a pool of spilled satin on the dark rug, she heard the key turn in the lock. There was a whimper-pitiful, like a child's. With a curious detachment, she wondered who was in the room with them, and then realized the sound had come from her own throat.

Quinn loomed over her, one hand balled into a fist at his side.

"You're going to pay for that in the only way you understand."

Locking his eyes with hers, he raised his hands to his lapels and slowly pulled off his evening coat, flicking it over the chair next to him without changing his position. Then he began unfastening his waistcoat, slipping the jet studs one by one into the palm of his hand. There was no waste in his movements. Each action was deliberate, unhurried, and filled with purposeful menace. He pulled at the knot of his white neckcloth.

"For weeks now I've kept my distance from you. I've paid your bills and let you go on your way. Lately I've been asking myself why. And you know, Highness, I couldn't come up with a good answer."

Noelle watched with deadly fascination as his shirt slowly parted, revealing the powerfully muscled chest she remembered so well. It was only when his hands dropped to the waistband of his trousers that she overcame her paralysis. With a cry she leaped to her feet and dashed toward the door, but like a whip his arm snapped out and coiled around her.

"Oh, no, you don't! Not till I'm through with you."

He yanked off her cloak and then picked her up and unceremoniously tossed her onto the bed. She gave a yelp of pain as her elbow slammed into the mahogany dragon's head, but Quinn ignored her cry. Throwing himself down beside her, he gripped her slim shoulders and flipped her over onto her stomach, then planted his knee in the small of her back.

"With what this dress probably cost me, I'll be damned if I'll rip it off!" Only when he had unfastened each hook did he pull the satin gown from her struggling form. His patience wore thin, however, when it came to her petticoats, and they were soon in a torn heap on the floor.

She lay on her back before him, only a thin white chemise covering her flesh. In the struggle to remove her clothing, her hair had come undone and now it streamed about her, iced by the winter moonlight pouring in through the window.

For a moment Quinn stared down at her. There was something different about the way she looked. It nagged at him. And then, in an instant, he saw what it was. The beautiful eyes that blazed up at him were full of fury and loathing, but they held no terror. She hated him, that was certain, but she seemed no longer to fear him.

With the fascination of a scientist testing a hypothesis, he reached down and cupped her breast through the thin material of the chemise. She spat out an angry oath and kicked at him furiously. He chuckled. And then his amusement died in a groan of pain as one of her blows landed on his tender jaw.

With a growl he fell on her, using the pressure of his muscular body to still her struggles, slamming his mouth to hers in a kiss that was more an assault than a caress, grinding his hard lips, wanting to hurt. She fought against him, clawing at his back with her nails, arching her body in a futile attempt to push him off. He felt her first tremors of panic and, unaccountably, his anger fell away. Losing their desire to injure, his lips began ministering to her bruised mouth. There was a subtle change in her responses. Although the heels of her hands still dug into his shoulders, trying to push him away, her slowly parting lips delivered a different message.

He kissed her temples, her ears, enjoyed the slim pillar of her throat. When he brought himself back to her mouth, his tongue no longer had to invade, it was welcomed. Now her body moved under him with a different rhythm. His erotic senses told him his hands could move further without meeting resistance, that her breasts yearned to be stroked until the tender tips ached and strained for more.

Her response brought his own desire to a frenzy, but he held himself in check, stroking her arms and throat before he slipped down the straps of her chemise, kissing the line of her collarbone and shoulders before claiming her breasts. Even as they both lay naked in a bath of moonlight, he listened to her body, taking his cues from her response. When his kiss voyaged below the line of her waist to her stomach, and he sensed the subtle overture of fear, he replaced his mouth with his hand and smiled to himself as her muscles once again relaxed.

Then everything changed. He felt the subtle pressure of her hands on his shoulders, signaling that she no longer wanted him over her. Cautiously he shifted his weight so that he was lying on his side, facing her. For a moment she was still, and then her soft hand reached toward him and he finally understood. She wanted access to his body.

His breath was ragged in his throat as her fingers began their first tentative exploration of the muscles of his shoulders and chest. Although her movements were cautious and inexperienced, he could not remember when a woman's touch had excited him more. With a barely audible moan, he rolled onto his back. Her fingers touched the hair on his chest and then found a nipple, hard and flat, so different from her own. He shuddered, and her hand jerked away. Willing himself to lie still, he waited for her. Hesitantly she returned to test her power. His breath quickened as her cascading hair teased his bare flesh. Her hand made its way to his stomach, traveled across its flat plane, and descended unsurely. He felt her tremble, and then her fingers touched the very pulse of him. With a wince, she drew back her hand from his size, and the fear he had vanquished with his patient caresses once more took her prisoner.

He began again, gentling her with his kiss, firing her with his touch. He heard his voice murmuring reassurances to her. When he finally felt her quiver, he knew that her thighs were ready to part freely, and she would receive his manhood as willingly as her mouth was receiving his tongue.

He entered her slowly, whispering all the while that he would not hurt her. Her body began to move. Checking his own raging desire, he shifted his weight so she would not have to bear it all and adjusted his rhythm to hers. Giving instead of taking, his own pleasure mounted. She whimpered and tossed her head to the side. He buried his face in her fragrant hair as they climbed together. And for a time in the moonlit room, their bodies made their minds forget how to hate.

"Get out of bed," he snarled.

Noelle shifted and finally managed to open her eyes far enough to see Quinn standing over her, bathed and dressed. An ugly scowl marred his features as he reached down and snapped the covers from her warm flesh.

"I said get up!"

She sat up with a jerk, her hair tumbling around her face and shoulders. "What are you doing?" she sputtered.

His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "You'll be rid of me in another day. Until then, do what I say. Be dressed and downstairs in twenty minutes." He spun around on his heels and stomped from the room.

Noelle sat stunned. Was this the same man who had made such tender love to her last night? Who had held her? Kissed her? She thrust her fingers back through her tangled hair and dug the heels of her hands into her temples as she tried to push back the memory of how naturally she had responded, how eagerly she had traced the hard lines of his body with her fingers.

In the wake of Quinn's contempt, shame overwhelmed her. Her husband was an experienced lover, and she was an innocent. His mistress was gone. He had needed a woman. Why hadn't she understood that? It was all very simple really.

But it was not so clear to the troubled man who stalked the black and white marble floor at the base of the staircase. Not clear at all, for the sweetness of her lovemaking the night before had shaken him more than he cared to admit.

"You're five minutes late."

She paused on the landing and, summoning all her will, met his glaring eyes with cold disdain. "If you had awakened me five minutes earlier, I would have been on time."

"Why don't you save those high-and-mighty airs of yours for the marquis. Remember that I know what a hot-blooded bitch you really are!"

It would have been less painful if he had slashed her across the face with the back of his hand. Sickened, he watched shame etch itself on her ashen cheeks, and then he dropped his gaze. "The carriage is waiting for us," he said gruffly. "Constance is back, and she's sent a message asking us to call on her immediately."

They traveled like strangers-Noelle staring stonily ahead and Quinn brooding out the window.

"You look pale, my dear. She doesn't look well, Quinn."

As soon as Noelle had stepped into the drawing room, she had noticed an air of suppressed excitement clinging to Constance as tenaciously as the fragrance of her perfume. Now, even as she fussed over Noelle's pallor, she was darting expectant glances toward the door.

"I own I would feel better if you were not leaving for Cape Crosse so soon. Crossing the ocean is dreadful enough without being ill at the same time."

Somehow Noelle was not surprised to find that Constance assumed she would be accompanying Quinn to America. She was a practical woman, and practical women did not abandon their husbands. Besides, even though she was discerning about other people, Noelle had long ago realized that Constance possessed a blind spot where Quinn was concerned.

Just as she began to explain that she would not be leaving, the door of the drawing room opened and, to her astonishment, Simon entered. Why wasn't he in France? she wondered.

Her curiosity did not go unsatisfied for long. Simon greeted them, and after apologizing for being late, he slipped his arm around Constance and quietly announced that they had married.

There was a strangled exclamation from Quinn, and then he clenched his jaw, his face darkening. Noelle wanted to slap him. Couldn't he, even for a moment, set aside this vendetta with his father and wish them well?

Trying to distract them from his rudeness, Noelle rushed to Constance and embraced her, finding the right words even though there was little happiness inside her. Impulsively she turned to Simon and hugged him, too. He grinned like a schoolboy at the gesture, and she felt oddly ashamed of her recent treatment of him.

"You're wrong, Quinn," Constance said softly, slipping away from Simon and going to his son.

"About what?" His eyes were brooding and his lips set in stone.

"He loves me."

Quinn arranged his face in a semblance of a smile and embraced her affectionately. "Of course he does. He couldn't help but love you." But the glare he shot Simon over the top of her head was filled with venom.

"He doesn't believe you, Connie," Simon said with surprising equanimity.

"Of course he doesn't, and really, Simon, one can hardly blame him."

Noelle felt as if she had been cast adrift in a strange land where the inhabitants spoke an unfamiliar language. Constance read her thoughts.

"Noelle believes we've all lost our senses."

She disengaged herself from Quinn and, taking her place behind a well-ladened tea tray, picked up one of the china pots. "Sit down, Noelle. Simon. If you must pace, Quinn, step back from my new vases. They were frightfully expensive, but I simply couldn't resist them. Have a croissant, Noelle, and some tea. Simon, tell me if that's not enough cream."

When everyone was served, Constance turned her attention to Noelle. "Quinn believes that Simon has married me only to gain back control of the company. Don't you, my dear?"

"I confess it crossed my mind," Quinn said dryly from the other side of the room. And then, more vehemently, "Damn it, you deserve something better!"

"But I don't understand, Constance," Noelle interjected. "I thought you and Simon were equal partners."

Constance shot Quinn a disapproving glance. "Your husband appears to be a member of that unfortunate breed of men who believes women need know nothing more about their husband's occupation than the name of the firm. Really, Quinn, I had expected better of you."

She returned her attention to Noelle. "Last month, Quinn became an equal partner with Simon and myself, each of us owning one third of the company."

Suddenly Noelle understood why Quinn was so disturbed. "And when a woman marries," she said thoughtfully, "she no longer can keep title to her personal property. It all passes to her husband. So Simon now controls the company."

Constance emitted a triumphant whoop. "There! You see, Quinn, all she needs is to be headed in the proper direction. Very good, my dear. The law is ridiculous, of course, and an insult to all women, but it is the law. However, in this case, I circumvented the law by selling half of my shares before Simon and I were married."

"You can't do that!" Quinn exclaimed hotly. "It's illegal. No shares can be sold outside either of our immediate families!"

"That is why I sold them to your wife."

Noelle was flabbergasted. "What do you mean, Constance? I never purchased any shares of Copeland and Peale from you."

"Oh, but you did, my dear. And in the future, you really must remember to read whatever you sign. It is most foolhardy to set your name to anything you haven't thoroughly investigated even when it is put before you by a trusted friend in the form of a petition to raise the minimum working age to nine years."

"But I've never given you any money."

"Of course you have. Remember your foolish insistence on paying me while you were with me in Sussex? I put that money aside, intending to return it to you. When I decided to sell my shares to you, I simply used it for my own purpose. With your signed permission, I might add."

Noelle was thoughtful as she tried to piece together what Constance was telling her. This meant that Simon now controlled one third of Copeland and Peale in his own right and one sixth through Constance's remaining shares. Quinn controlled the same, one third in his own right and one sixth through the shares Constance had given her. What an amazing woman she was! With one bold stroke, she had neatly restored the balance of power between father and son.

"How much money did Noelle have?" Quinn asked, looking at Constance with considerable admiration.

"Nearly fifty pounds."

He almost choked. "You sold sixteen percent of the best shipbuilding firm in the world for fifty pounds?"

"Forty-eight pounds, five shillings, and sixpence!"

Quinn threw back his head and laughed. Only Noelle did not join in. She knew she should tell her very kind, very generous friend that she wouldn't be going to America and would never see the shipyard, but she couldn't bring herself to spoil Constance's happiness quite yet and neither, it seemed, could Quinn. She would wait until tomorrow.

"Before I turn these papers over to your wife," Constance said as she accepted a heavy envelope from Simon, "I must ask you to make the same agreement your father made."

"What's that?"

"This is Noelle's property. Legally, of course, you can take control just as Simon can take control of my property. But I am asking you to give me your word that you will not do that. Noelle must vote her own shares."

"But that's ridiculous!"

For once Noelle found herself in agreement with her husband. Still, what did it matter? Quinn would be gone soon, and he could do anything he wanted with the shares.

Quinn shook his head in disgust and turned away. "Constance, I've always respected your judgment, but this makes no sense. Noelle knows nothing about building ships."

"You will teach her."

Quinn confronted his father. "Why did you agree to this nonsense?"

"I didn't at first, but when I stopped raving and began listening to Connie, I discovered she made sense. She doesn't deserve to lose all of her decision-making power just because she's decided to marry."

"Of course she doesn't. But you can hardly compare Constance's value to Copeland and Peale with Noelle's."

"Noelle has more value than either Constance or I," Simon snapped. "She'll be bearing the heirs to the company!"

Noelle shot up from her seat, but before she could speak, Constance caught her by the hand.

"Simon has been tactless as usual. Naturally we hope you will have children, but that is your business, not ours. The fact is, Noelle, you are blessed with both courage and common sense and will certainly be an asset to the company. Well, Quinn, will you give your word that she controls her property in her own right?"

A faint prick of foreboding stung Noelle as Quinn turned and studied her with dark intensity. What was he waiting for? Why didn't he just agree and get it over with? He knew she would not hold him to his promise.

"You have my word."

Constance placed the envelope in Noelle's hand. "Welcome to Copeland and Peale, my dear."

Quinn excused himself from the room. Noelle took another cup of tea and questioned Simon and Constance about their wedding. The three of them smiled over London's reaction to this second elopement in the Copeland family and then discussed Constance's planned move back to Northridge Square.

When Quinn returned, Constance invited them to stay for lunch, and he accepted with alacrity. As they settled themselves around the table Noelle noticed that Quinn's black mood had vanished. He teased Constance, treated his father with courtesy, and was even polite to her. It was as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and it made Noelle very uneasy.

Her apprehension grew when they returned home to an unusual flurry of activity. Tomkins held one of Quinn's valises in his hand as he opened the front door for them. They stepped inside just as two footmen were descending the stairs, one at each end of a trunk. When they passed her, Noelle glimpsed a wisp of bronze satin peeking out from beneath the closed lid.

Her eyes flew to Quinn, but he had already disappeared down the back hallway. She ran up the stairs and into her bedroom, where Alice was fastening the last straps on one of three trunks scattered across the floor. The door of Noelle's armoire stood open, its empty maw telling her everything. Quinn had sent word ahead to the servants, telling them to pack all her things. He planned to take her with him!

She finally located him in her small blue and peach sitting room at the back of the house. He had never been in this room, and now it added to her outrage to see him trespassing among her things, holding one of her books in his hand.

"I thought you might want to take some of these with you."

"I'm not going anyplace, Quinn."

He continued as if she hadn't spoken. "Your taste in books surprises me. Bacon, Locke, Samuel Pepys. Not a single one of Mrs. Radcliffe's romances. But then, you've managed to surprise me from the beginning, haven't you, Highness?"

Noelle refused to be distracted. Defiantly she crossed her arms and glared at him. "I'm making my own choices now, Quinn. It's over. You've had your revenge for everything you think I've done to you. You've abducted me-"

"Abducted you?" He set down the book he was holding and lifted a dark, mocking eyebrow. "You're being melodramatic. A man doesn't abduct his wife. She goes wherever he tells her."

He was baiting her with his arrogance, deliberately trying to make her angry. But she wouldn't permit him to have that advantage over her.

"I'm to remain here. We've settled it."

"Things are different now," he shrugged. "I've sent a note to Constance telling her we've had a last-minute change of plans and are sailing early."

"Nothing is different. You can have my shares in the company. Do whatever you want with them. I release you from your agreement."

"I gave Constance my word, not you."

"Your word!" she sneered contemptuously. "Your word means nothing. You keep it only when it suits you."

His voice remained infuriatingly cool even as his eyes narrowed determinedly. "You're going to come with me to Cape Crosse."

"Cape Crosse is your home, not mine. I'm English. I don't belong in America. I belong here."

"You hate this life as much as I do. I've been watching you, Highness. You enjoy the company of the coachman and the kitchen maid more than anyone you meet in society. You don't belong here with this swarm of parasites. You belong with people who make their own way. America is a new country, sometimes a dangerous one. There's room for independent spirits."

Then he was next to her, catching up her shoulders in his hands, his voice barely a whisper, his closeness sapping her strength. "Come with me, Highness. Come with me of your own free will."

She recoiled from the strange, hypnotic appeal of his vision. "No! It's my life. Mine! I make my own choices!"

"You're my wife." His lips barely moved as he hissed each word. "The choices are mine."

"Never!" She pulled away from him and ran toward the door, but he caught the back of her dress and spun her around so violently that her chin slammed into the hard muscle of his shoulder.

"There are two ways we can do this, Highness. You can walk to the carriage like the lady you pretend to be, or you can leave it up to me." His fingers tightened ruthlessly on her arms as he gave her one warning shake. "Which will it be?"

In answer, she drew back her foot and kicked at him with all her might.

"Have it your way," he muttered through clenched teeth. Pitching her roughly over his shoulder, he carried her into the hallway, past the gaping servants, and out the front door.

Noelle did not make it easy for him. She pounded him with her fists and then sunk her teeth into the tendons of his back. He let out a muffled curse and cracked his hand down hard on her buttocks. As the carriage pulled away from the house on Northridge Square, she still felt the sting of it.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Afterward, Noelle could never quite remember the details of that nightmarish week when she lay helplessly ill in their cabin aboard the packet Dorsey Beale, her stomach violently rebelling against the relentless pitching of the ship. Most of the time Quinn left her alone, hiring a young immigrant girl from the ship's steerage to attend her during the day, and at night slipping quietly into the dark cabin, not even bothering to light the lamp that swung from the center beam as he undressed and climbed into the narrow berth across from her.

On the day after Christmas, when she still showed no signs of improvement, he announced he was taking her topside. She summoned enough energy to frame a protest but was too weak to resist when he wrapped her warmly in a blanket and carried her up to a chair on the deck. The frigid air soon set her teeth chattering, but for the first time, her stomach was quiet. From that point on, she made a steady improvement, spending as much time walking in the salt air as she could, even when the wind buffeted her so strongly, she could barely push one foot in front of the other.

One night as she sat on the edge of her berth, brushing her hair, the door of the cabin swung open to admit Quinn. It was unusual for him to desert the ship's gaming tables so early, but when she looked up to see his eyes boldly raking her body as if she were naked instead of wearing a modest nightdress, she understood that he had finally decided to claim her.

He crossed the cabin with an easy confidence that filled her with dread even as it excited her. Before she knew what was happening, he pulled her up into his arms and crushed his mouth to hers. Perhaps it was the suddenness of it, but for whatever reason, her body responded, and she felt her limbs turn to liquid.

Just as he opened the top of her nightdress to his caress and the last vestige of her will was slipping from her, the memory of his cruel taunt their final day in London returned to shame her: "Don't forget, I know what a hot-blooded bitch you are."

It was true! All he had to do was touch her, and she was ready to give herself to him!

"No!" she cried, pushing herself back from him. "I don't want your kisses. If you're going to take me, just get it done with. I won't try to fight you anymore. But I'll not have you caress my body just so you can mock me afterward if it responds!"

Quinn had the grace to look slightly abashed. "I was angry with you. I didn't mean what I said. You know that."

It was the closest thing to an apology she had ever heard from him, but the hurt was too deep. "I don't know anything of the kind!"

He took her by the shoulders then, his eyes colliding with hers. "Your body is beautiful and healthy. You should never be ashamed of it or let anyone, even me, make you ashamed of it." Abruptly he turned away and spoke so softly, she barely heard the words. "That night was probably the only good thing that has ever happened between us."

"You're wrong, Quinn," she immediately retorted, disturbed by the intensity of his tone. "Nothing good has ever happened between us, and it never will."

When he turned back to her, his face was coldly impassive. "You're right, of course. Now get into bed. It'll be as you want it."

He took her then, swiftly and silently, night after night. He used her body impersonally while she lay motionless beneath him. No caress or tenderness, no joy for her or, she soon realized, for him. Perhaps that was why she made no effort to stop him. No matter how dearly acquired, she finally had a small measure of revenge.

Each night after he left her berth for his, the disturbing question that had been lying dormant in her mind since he had carried her from Northridge Square and thrust her into the carriage surfaced to demand an answer. Why had she not escaped from him when she had the chance? Could it be that she hadn't wanted to leave? It was a ridiculous notion, she told herself, and tried to put it out of her mind.

During the day Quinn's behavior was courteous. He began to seek her out, at first chatting politely as he walked with her around the frigid decks, and then, with the captain's permission, initiating her nautical education by leading her through every part of the ship. He pointed out stays and shrouds, hatch coamings and quarter knees, explaining the function of each and talking of the differences between this vessel and ones built by Copeland and Peale. When he spoke of his ships, it was hard for Noelle to reconcile this fascinating man with the one who had abducted her -not once, but three times-raped her, bullied her, and was now taking her away from all she knew to the primitive land that was his home.

When was it they first began to talk of other things-politics, philosophy, even themselves? He told her a little about his boyhood, and although he did not mention either Simon or his mother, she sensed he had lost his childhood early, something she understood only too well. Was that why she found herself speaking about the children in London's tenements, sharing her outrage that such conditions could exist in a city that was supposed to be civilized?

It was not long before she came to realize what a well-educated man her husband was. In addition to having been schooled by private tutors, she learned that he had spent an unhappy year at Eton before he had been sent down as incorrigible. Still, he had received a university education at William and Mary, a small college in Virginia, where he had been an outcast among the wealthy sons of Southern planters because of his outspoken criticism of slavery.

They frequently went to the ship's hold, in which Pathkiller and Chestnut Lady were being comfortably transported.

"Don't be surprised when we arrive if you find the house needs some tending," he said one day as they entered the stall. "I haven't been home for over three years, and Televea has been closed."

"Televea?" She held out a piece of carrot in the palm of her hand for Chestnut Lady.

"It's a Creek word meaning 'home.' Simon bought the house from a Creek merchant who had made a fortune in cotton but overextended himself and was forced to sell off his house and his land."

"Do you mean an Indian?"

Quinn smiled. "Don't be so shocked. The Indians in Georgia don't carry tomahawks anymore. Some of the pureblood still wear turbans and leggings, but most of them dress like the white man."

Noelle was surprised to learn that the Cherokee nation had its own constitution and its own alphabet. Instead of the crude huts she had imagined Indians lived in, there were farms and churches, schools for the children.

"The Indians have become very civilized," Quinn said, his mouth twisting slightly at the corners.

"But isn't that for the best?"

He picked up a brush and began stroking Pathkiller's black coat. "They thought that by adopting the white man's ways, they'd be able to keep their land, but it was a foolish hope."

"How do you mean?"

"Treaties were made, then they were broken. The Cherokees have very little land left them. A tiny corner of North Carolina and Tennessee, a small piece of Alabama, and the very northern tip of Georgia. And now, what little they have has been taken, too."

Thoughtfully he fingered Pathkiller's mane, the brush idle in his hand. "Last May Congress passed the Indian Removal Bill. All of the eastern tribes-the Seminole, the Choctaw, Chickasaw, Creek, and the Cherokees-were ordered to give up their homeland for territory in the west, territory that they don't want."

"Does no one speak out for the Indians?"

Quinn nodded. "A few. But it hasn't changed the outcome."

"And so," Noelle said thoughtfully, "the Cherokees have to abandon their homes for an unsettled land. Have they gone yet?"

"Barely two thousand of them. The rest-more than sixteen thousand-have stayed, hoping for a miracle."

"Do you think there will be one?"

"It's been a long time since I've believed in fairy tales, Highness. The Cherokee nation is going to be broken."

Sensing how deeply the injustice troubled him, Noelle reached out and gently touched his arm. "I'm sorry, Quinn."

For a moment he looked at her, and then he nodded curtly and walked away.

That night, Quinn did not cross the cabin to her berth; nor the next. Long after he had fallen asleep, Noelle lay awake trying to understand why it was becoming harder and harder for her to keep her hatred for Quinn burning as fiercely as before. Could it be because she was strangely fascinated by him? Of all the men she had ever met, he was the only one who had never bored her.

She remembered the night she had returned from Yorkshire and confronted Simon. "I'm frightened of him," she had declared. "Can't you understand that?"

But had she been completely honest? It was true that Quinn moved through life with only the thinnest restraint on the violent side of his nature. It was also true that, too often, she had been the target of that violence. But she had lived on the cutting edge of danger since she was seven years old. While his treatment of her was abominable, in some perverse way it was not as dehumanizing as being fawned over by men who knew nothing more about her than that she was beautiful.

Without quite knowing it she made her decision. For now, it would be Cape Crosse, Copeland and Peale, and Quinn. She needed time to adjust to this new country. But most of all, she needed time to settle her relationship with her husband. As long as she felt any ambivalence toward him, she would never be free of him, no matter how much geographical distance might separate them. As for the future, she had a good mind and a strong body. She would make her own way whenever she chose.