Justine Cole - The Copeland Bride

In a wild rage, she dashed across the room to the door and slammed it with her fists, cursing and sobbing. Abruptly she stopped and stared at the door. Then, her pulses racing, she bent over and peeked through the keyhole. A slow smile crept across her face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Noelle Dorian," she mumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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