Justine Cole - The Copeland Bride

Slowly he turned. She took a step toward him and, instinctively, he reached out. Then his arm fell back to his side. "It's not that simple."

"Yes it is." She closed the rest of the distance between them and, reaching up, cupped his cheek with her hand. "There's only one thing that's important, Quinn. Whether or not you love me."

He turned his head and pressed his lips to the palm of the hand that caressed him. "You know I do. But-"

"Shhh," she whispered, her eyes shining with the depth of her love for this splendid, stubborn man. "It's enough, my darling." Her breath caught in her throat as she saw some of the awful bleakness begin to lift from his face.

"And what if I fail you again?" he asked.

"You probably will." She smiled. "And I'll fail you. We're both imperfect creatures with too much pride. We'll have to learn to trust each other. It won't be easy."

His voice was choked with emotion as he muttered, "You're the damndest woman."

And then she was in his arms, caught in an embrace so full of love that everything else ceased to exist for them. They were alone in the world, two lovers joined at last.

Together, they moved to the shelter of the pine boughs where they shed their clothing and lay together beneath the warm blankets. Slowly they began moving their hands and then their mouths, searching out smooth curves and moist hollows, hardness and softness.

The cold January morning ceased to exist for them as they gave everything to each other-their bodies, their thoughts, their very breath. Climbing… passions racing rampant… they soared together until they were one.

Their child was born the following October. Whether he was conceived in rape or in the golden moments of their slow journey back to Televea, neither of them knew, but they both suspected that the violent night in the stable, which had changed everything for them, had also brought them their son. At Noelle's insistence, they named him Christopher Simon, combining Quinn's middle name with his father's first. Christopher had Quinn's black hair and high cheekbones and his mother's topaz eyes. He was a lively, sparkling child, and they gloried in him.

Quinn traveled to Washington with Wasidan to plead the Cherokee cause, but to no avail. The removal of the Indians to the west went ahead as planned, and four thousand died in less than a year, nearly a quarter of the tribe. Disease, famine, exposure, and heartbreak killed them. Among the Cherokee, the awful journey from their ancestral home to the new land of Oklahoma came to be known as nunna-da-ul-tsun-yi, the trail on which they cried.

Quinn grieved for his people, and his wife comforted him. Their love for each other was healing. Slowly the loneliness and sense of isolation that had been so much a part of both their lives dissolved. Only the subject of Simon stood between them-Noelle pressing Quinn to reconcile with his father, and Quinn steadfastly refusing.

By the summer following Christopher's birth, Quinn's American clipper was finally on the stocks. Its keel had been laid, its frame fitted, and even though the exposed ribs were not yet ready to be planked, Quinn's daring new shape was already evident.

That summer, they frequently went to the pond in the woods behind Televea, sometimes alone, sometimes taking nine-month- old Christopher and splashing with him in the cold, clear water.

"Come on, Highness. Get in here before I pull you in!"

When it was just the two of them, she would step naked into the water and swim to him, a flash of silver in the still pond. But when Christopher was along, she contented herself with slipping off her shoes and stockings, hiking up her skirts, and wading in. As her toes sank into the mud at the edge of the pond, she inevitably thought back to those long-ago days as a mudlark, digging her feet in the banks of the Thames for pieces of coal. How far she had come.

When Christopher was with them, she loved sitting on the bank and watching as he and Quinn played naked in the water. Christopher, full of courage and squealing with delight, splashed furiously with his chubby arms and legs, confident that if the water came too near his nose, a strong set of arms would catch him up and hug him close. When he had played long enough, he arched back from his father's glistening, sun-bronzed chest and reached out for softer comfort.

"All right, my friend," Quinn would chuckle, stepping from the water and handing Christopher over to his mother, "I know what you want, and I can't say I blame you."

While she put Christopher to her breast, Quinn would slip on his pants and then sprawl beside her. With their bare feet, sun- darkened skin, and wet, tumbling hair, they looked more like a family of gypsies than the Copelands of Cape Crosse.

They returned home from the pond one July afternoon with Christopher asleep on his father's shoulder. "It was a perfect day, wasn't it, darling?" Noelle said, bestowing Quinn with the shattering smile he'd so often envied others for receiving. Then she kissed him. Christopher awakened and protested. Setting him on the grass to play, they resumed their pleasant pastime, not hearing the carriage until it was nearly up to the house. Noelle reluctantly pulled away from her husband and stepped toward the front of the drive. "Who on earth can this be?"

The carriage drew to a halt, and a groom jumped down to open the door. Noelle saw a small, embroidered slipper emerge, then the hem of a rose-colored gown and then Constance Peale Copeland herself. Her bouncing auburn curls were as thick and lustrous as ever, her emerald-green eyes as sparkling.

"My darling, darling girl!" Flying into Noelle's arms, she brought the familiar fragrance of violets with her.

"Constance!" As she hugged her, Noelle saw Simon step down from the carriage. Constance gave her another squeeze and then, chattering all the while, swept on to Quinn.

Noelle looked up into Simon's blue eyes. He had not aged at all in the past two and a half years. If anything, he seemed more youthful.

"Hello, Noelle."

She sensed him holding back and remembered the strain between them those last months in London. It all seemed so foolish now. If it weren't for this man, she would have nothing. He was the only father she would ever know, and she loved him.

She stretched out her arms. "Oh, Simon, I'm so glad to see you!"

He swept her up then, pulling her feet off the ground and hugging her until she had to gasp for breath. He finally relinquished her with a kiss and went on to greet his son.

Quinn was turned away from her, so Noelle could not read his expression, but she could tell by the rigid set of his back that nothing had changed.

The moment between the two men did not last long, for Simon spotted Christopher sitting on the grass, a dandelion clutched in his grimy fist.

"Will you look at this, Constance," he exclaimed. "Will you just look at this!"

"Oh, my dear, he's perfect!"

For Simon, the dream was complete. And Christopher, as if he sensed the importance of the occasion, ignored everyone except his grandfather. He held out the dandelion and, solemnly, Simon accepted it; then, kneeling down on the grass, he hugged the child to him.

Christopher soon had enough of that and, accustomed to the delights of his father's pockets, began investigating his grandfather's. It was not long before he held Simon's gold pocket watch.

Noelle turned to her husband, and her smile froze on her lips. He was standing off to the side, once again a stranger in his own family.

She went to him at once. "Quinn?"

It was as if she didn't exist. Staring at his father and Christopher, Quinn's eyes were bleak and hard, and she could read his thoughts as clearly as if he had spoken them aloud. His father had triumphed after all.