Justine Cole - The Copeland Bride

Abruptly he turned to leave.

She reached out for his arm. "Please don't go now," she whispered. "They've only just arrived."

"I'll be back later."

Simon stood up. "You going somewhere, Quinn?"

"To the yard. I have to check on a few things before the men go home."

Simon planted a swift kiss on Christopher's head. "I'll come with you."

"Suit yourself."

Without speaking, the two men walked toward the stables. Constance and Noelle exchanged a long; unhappy look.

"Oh, dear," Constance sighed. "I confess I had hoped things would be improved by now. It was a foolish idea of mine, arriving here unannounced."

"Don't be a peagoose!" Noelle said. "I can't think of anyone I'd rather see. Let me deposit this little ragamuffin in the nursery while you freshen up, and then we'll curl up with a pot of tea and have a nice, long chat."

Constance smiled at her fondly. "I'd like nothing better."

"Damn him!" Quinn seethed as he slammed the bedroom door behind them.

"I take it you're referring to Simon." Noelle sighed wearily.

Dinner had been a catastrophe, and the strain was catching up with her. The fact that Quinn had appeared at all was, she suspected, only a mark of his affection for Constance, for he had treated his father with thinly veiled contempt and turned his full attention to his stepmother. Noelle had tried to compensate for his rudeness by entertaining Simon with stories of his grandson, but she knew by the sadness in his eyes that he saw through her efforts.

"He has no business being here!" Quinn jerked off his coat and threw it down on the bed. "Did you see him out there this afternoon, gloating over Christopher as if he were personally responsible."

Noelle's laugh was bitter. "He was, ducks."

"Are you trying to be funny?"

She was immediately contrite. "I'm sorry. Of course not. I'm just tired, that's all."

He stalked into the dressing room, the chasm between them widening. While he was gone Noelle removed her gown and petticoats and slipped on a gold silk robe. She was sitting in front of her dressing table taking down her hair when he returned, still dressed in his trousers with his white shirt open to the waist.

"I want him out of the house tomorrow."

He was spoiling for a fight. Noelle picked up her hairbrush and began jerking it through her hair. "And Constance? Would you like me to throw her out, too?"

"Just whose side are you on, anyway?"

She gritted her teeth. "I'm on your side."

"It certainly didn't seem that way at dinner tonight."

"What are you implying?"

His eyes raked her with their old arrogance. "You're my wife. I expect your loyalty."

"Loyalty! Why don't you say what you mean? You want me to be as rude to Simon as you are. You don't want loyalty, Quinn. You want obedience!"

"Put it however you like."

She slammed her hairbrush down on the dressing table. "You go to hell!"

In two long strides he was at her, pulling her up from the dressing table by her arms, his fingers biting deep into her flesh. The planes of his face were stark and furious.

"Quinn!"

He froze, horrified by his own anger.

She threw her arms around his neck. "My darling. Oh, my dear, dear darling. I'm so sorry."

He clutched her to his chest, she who was more precious to him than life itself. "Don't. Please don't. It's me. I'm the one. God, I'm sorry. I had so much anger inside me when I came upstairs, I was deliberately goading you into an argument."

Noelle's voice was barely audible. "I love you, Quinn. You're more important to me than anything."

"I've got the devil's own temper, Highness, but I never thought I'd see the day again when I'd turn it on you."

She drew back her head and looked up at him unhappily. "Quinn, I have to tell you something."

"From the expression on your face, I don't think I'm going to like it much."

"No, you're not." Her eyes were deeply troubled. "I love Simon. I can't help it, and I won't pretend with you about it. In a strange way, he and Constance gave birth to me, at least as I am now, and I love them both."

Troubled, Quinn moved away from her and dropped down into one of the wing chairs in front of the fireplace. "I guess I don't understand how you can love him after the way he manipulated you."

"Your father is a human being, Quinn, not a god. He makes mistakes like the rest of us. If you could accept that about him, you might finally be at peace with yourself."

A log fell behind the grate, sending up a shower of sparks. "Go to bed, Highness," he said softly. "I'm going to sit up for a while."

He was still in the chair when he finally heard her deep, even breathing. Staring at the dying flames, Quinn willed his own body to relax, but it was no use. He wasn't going to get any sleep tonight. Maybe a drink would help. Maybe two.

As he stepped down into the front hallway, he saw a dim band of light glowing from beneath the closed door of the drawing room. So, he wasn't the only one who was finding sleep difficult. He hesitated only a moment before he went in.

Simon was sprawled in a chair with his back to the door and a half-empty glass dangling from one hand. He had positioned himself in the exact center of the room, where his view of the portrait that hung over the fireplace was unrestricted.

Quinn watched him silently. Simon was wearing a faded paisley robe that had been a Christmas gift from Amanda. God, it had to be more than twenty years ago. Funny he should still remember that robe; even funnier that Simon had kept it. He walked over to a carved Venetian chest that held an assortment of bottles and poured himself a stiff measure of whiskey. Then again, maybe it wasn't so funny.

Simon lifted his glass to the portrait and, without once looking at Quinn, said, "She was a beautiful woman, your mother. Not in the conventional sense, maybe, but in the ways that counted."

Quinn lowered himself to the sofa and stretched his long legs out in front of him, sipping from his drink as if he were alone in the room.

In one motion, Simon drained his own glass and stood up to refill it. "The strange thing is, having a legal marriage didn't really matter to her. Your mother wasn't much for convention. Oh, she went to church on Sunday, but that was only because I insisted. The institutions of religion didn't interest her." He corked the bottle and wandered back to his chair. "She married me in her heart the day I bought her from Carter Slade, and she never again thought of me as anything but her husband. She used to laugh at me when I brought it up. Damn woman. She never did understand what a coward I was."

"Why, Simon?" Quinn's voice was flat. "Why didn't you marry her when you should have?"

"Prejudice." The word, finally spoken, hung between them in the quiet room. "Blind, stupid prejudice. There was one little part of me that didn't want a wife with Indian blood. Isn't that the goddamnedest, saddest thing you ever heard in your life? One drop of your mother's blood was worth more than all of mine put together."

For the first time since Amanda's death the tight knot of hatred inside Quinn eased. Perhaps it was Simon's honesty. Noelle's words came back to him as clearly as if she were standing at his shoulder. "Your father is a human being, Quinn, not a god. He makes mistakes like the rest of us."

Simon went on talking, keeping his eyes on the portrait. "Of course, when you were born, I realized how stupid I'd been. But that was a little late, wasn't it? Even if I had taken Amanda far away from Cape Crosse to be married, there was always the chance someone would have found out. God forbid that people should discover the truth about Simon Copeland; that his only son was a bastard and his wife-not his wife at all. I decided it was more expedient-now there's a word I've always liked-it was more expedient to do nothing, and so that's what I did-nothing."