Justine Cole - The Copeland Bride

"Would you like to hear about the ship, Highness?" Quinn's voice was so low that for a moment Noelle thought she was imagining it.

"If you'd like to tell me," she said softly.

"I'm going to call her an American clipper."

"Clipper. It's a good word. I like it."

"She'll be big-seven hundred and fifty tons-and full rigged. There'll be no gilt on her, no ornament, nothing to distract from that long, thin hull."

He spoke on into the night of his plans, his hopes, and even his worry that Wolf Brandt, the man who had commissioned her, might not be able to find a crew when she was finally ready to go to sea. Sailors, he told her, were deeply superstitious, and a ship so radically different in design from any they had ever seen would invoke their most primitive fears.

"Does Mr. Brandt understand this?" she asked.

"Yes. But when you meet him, you'll see that he's a man who likes to take risks. If he can man her, he knows she'll make him a fortune."

"Quinn?"

"Hmm?"

"If you don't want me at the shipyard anymore, I won't come."

Incredibly he slid his arm under her and gently drew her to his shoulder. "The men like having you there. They think you bring us good luck."

"And what about you?"

It might have been his chin that brushed across the top of her head, but suddenly, Noelle wanted to believe that it was his lips.

"Go to sleep, Highness."

His voice was so gentle that her heart constricted and, in that instant, Noelle knew that she loved him. The unexpectedness of it staggered her. She squeezed her eyes shut and, willing her body to lie still within the strong circle of his arms, tried to tell herself it was an illusion, but the truth was written so clearly inside her that she couldn't deny it. She loved him, had loved him for a long time.

When did it happen? Was it as long ago as that storm-ridden night in Yorkshire when he had pulled her from Ravensdale Tarn and then made love to her, or since they had come to Televea? Had it happened in the passion of their lovemaking or in quieter moments as he had spoken of his Indian heritage or described his ships?

The awful irony of it was not lost on her. She had committed the same folly as dozens of other women. She had fallen in love with Quinn Copeland. But she was much more vulnerable than any of them, because she was bound to him in the eyes of both man and God.

The next evening, their carriage took them to the home of Wolf Brandt. He had issued a dinner invitation only that morning, and Quinn had accepted. As the carriage neared the northern edge of Cape Crosse, Noelle tried to calm herself by recalling what Quinn had told her about the man, but all she could remember was that he was a bachelor. She seemed to remember Quinn telling her Brandt was renting a house that Edwin Darcy owned, but she wasn't certain. Everything had been so muddled for her since last night that nothing seemed to make sense any longer. To add to her confusion, Quinn had been different with her since the moment, not a half hour ago, when he had come up behind her in the hallway as she was making a final check on her appearance in the mirror.

"Don't touch anything, Highness. You're perfect."

She had dressed with special care in a lace-trimmed gown the color of old gold doubloons. It was a romantic dress with something about it that conjured up Spanish ships and plundered treasure. The two of them together, she in her gilded dress and Quinn with his buccaneer's swarthy good looks, seemed as though they belonged in an earlier time.

Now, as Quinn helped her down from the carriage, his hand held hers a fraction of a second longer than necessary. She looked up into his eyes and wondered how she could have ever thought them cold. There was something there he had never before permitted her to see. Was it tenderness? Affection? Had he too tired of the war between them, of the verbal skirmishes, the bed that was too often only another battlefield? Noelle's lips curved tentatively and Quinn smiled in return, his face looking younger than she had ever seen it, almost boyish.

Whatever might have happened between them was cut off by the sound of the front door opening as Wolf Brandt himself stepped out to greet his guests. As soon as Noelle saw him, she was certain she had met him before. Only a few inches taller than she, he was an attractive man in his late thirties with fair hair and gray eyes. None of his features was extraordinary, but there was an elegance about his manner that stirred her memory.

"Quinn, welcome! And Mrs. Copeland. I'm so glad that you could come."

While he ushered them into the house, Noelle tried to recall when she had last heard that faint Germanic accent. There was something so familiar about the way he turned his w's to v's, his th to z.

After the butler took her wrap, Brandt surveyed Noelle with such open appreciation that she was amused. Wolf Brandt was obviously an accomplished flirt.

"Mrs. Copeland, you are even more enchanting than I have remembered."

"So we have met before. I thought as much."

"But of course. And you don't remember." He flicked his palms open and closed in an elegantly despondent gesture. "You see, Quinn, how sad life can be. Unlike you, I am one of those unfortunate men whom beautiful women quickly forget."

Quinn gave a snort of amusement, and Noelle smiled. "Somehow I doubt that."

"I will jar your memory. We were introduced at an unpleasantly overcrowded ball in London. The Atterburys', I believe."

"Of course," Noelle lied. "How could I have forgotten, Mr. Brandt."

"You will call me Wolf. It is short for Wolfgang, you know. Hideous name! Only my sister is permitted to call me that. Come, let us go into the drawing room. She is waiting for us."

Noelle's attention was caught by a pair of exceptionally fine Sèvres vases sitting on a table, and so she did not see Quinn's thunderstruck expression or the apologetic shrug Wolf Brandt gave him. She did, however, notice that just before her host reached out his well-manicured hand to open the drawing-room door, he swept her with a faintly pitying gaze.

Like a beautiful, deadly spider, the Baroness Anna von Furst sat in the exact center of a white satin sofa. She was a study in black and white. The black crepe gown that molded to her body was dramatically slashed to reveal one alabaster shoulder and the luscious top of a single white breast. Her hair was pulled back from her face in shining raven's wings, her eyes and lashes so sooty, they looked as if they would leave stains on her white skin. She wore no jewelry, no feather or flower. Only her lips, red as fresh blood, moist and predatory, gave color to her ensemble.

"And so, Wolfgang, you finally bring our guests to me. I have been waiting."

In the face of Quinn's betrayal, Noelle could not move. Just as she had discovered her love for him and deluded herself into believing that things could be different between them, he had brought his mistress to Cape Crosse to flaunt before her!

She was dimly conscious that he was walking toward Anna, but since his back was toward her, she couldn't see the angry white line that traced the edge of his lips as he took her hand, nor did she hear the frost in his greeting.

With a gentle yet insistent pressure on her arm, Wolf Brandt propelled her into the room. The baroness's eyes flicked over Noelle lazily, and then in a manner neither hostile nor friendly, she said, "What a pretty child you are. I had forgotten."

At the subtle barb, anger flooded through Noelle, blurring the edges of her pain. "But I have not forgotten you. Baroness," she said. "You don't look as well as you did in London. I can see that the loss of your husband has weighed heavily on you."

Noelle caught the slight crinkling at the corner of Quinn's eyes, and it fueled her fury. So he found it amusing to see two women sparring over him! How amused would he be when he saw she didn't care?