"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."