At first she did not see the small cottage, it was so much a part of the rocky crag that rose like a gray monolith behind it. No vines softened its rough stone exterior, no trees draped over the thatched roof. This, then, was their destination.

A whip cracked. Noelle whirled around just in time to see the coachman turn the carriage around and then disappear down the same road they had just climbed. She stood alone with Quinn.

Ignoring her, he picked up his valise and disappeared through the door of the cottage. She stood uncertainly outside, cold and desperately unhappy. A gust of wind, still raw from the North Sea, lifted up her cloak and snapped it behind her. The knife edge of the blast cut through to her skin. Reluctantly she walked to the cottage and stepped inside.

To her consternation, she saw that the interior was only one room. Although it was plain, it was clean and more comfortable than the primitive exterior had led her to expect. Braided rugs were strewn across the planked floor, pewter plates rested on a shelf; there was a cupboard, a table of rough-hewn pine, several comfortable chairs, and a large bed covered with a quilted spread.

Quinn was hunched in front of the fireplace, lighting the coal that rested on the grate.

"Shut the door," he barked.

Noelle gave it an angry shove with her foot, and the door slammed with a satisfying bang. Quinn did not seem to notice. She walked over to one of the cottage's three windows and stared out. It was empty and frightening.

He came up behind her and wearily rubbed the dark stubble that covered his jaw. "You won't be able to see anything until the mist lifts, and that won't be before morning, if then. Sometimes it hangs on for days."

"For days," Noelle exclaimed, knowing she could never get away until it cleared. "But that's impossible!"

Quinn sighed. "I think we'd better get a few things straight, Highness. Whether the mist lifts now or next week doesn't concern you, because you're not going anywhere. There isn't a village for thirty miles, and the only other person around is the old woman who takes care of this place. You can run off any time you like, but the chances are you'll die out on those moors, because I'm not going to chase you. My horse won't be here for another day, and besides, I'm too damned tired. Now, you do what you want. I'm going to bed."

He tugged off his boots and sprawled, fully clothed, across the bed. Within seconds he was asleep.

Noelle wandered restlessly about the cottage. To her distress, she saw that it was well-stocked with provisions, as if Quinn were planning a lengthy stay. A large, flat cheese rested on a shelf; two fresh loaves of bread wrapped in clean white cloths were beside it. There were bottles, of wine, a basket of eggs, bins full of vegetables and fruit, flour, sugar, and spices.

She sat down in a comfortable armchair and tried to think clearly. Quinn was right. It would be suicide to try to escape over the moors. Following the road the carriage had taken to bring them here was equally foolish, since there was no village nearby.

Besides, even if there were, no one was going to shelter a wife from her legal husband.

Her husband. The sight of him asleep on the bed brought back the painful memory of that long-ago night in the inn when he had claimed her. She remembered the awful pain of it. How did married women survive that brutal assault night after night? How would she survive it?

The fire was warming the room, and Noelle leaned back in her chair and unfastened her cloak. She was so tired. If she could just shut her eyes for a moment, perhaps something would come to her…

She awakened to sounds of movement in the cottage. Through half-parted lids, she saw Quinn walking toward her, tucking a clean white shirt into a pair of fawn-colored trousers. An empty hip bath, its tin sides still wet from his bath, sat in front of the fireplace. He looked down at her, buttoning his shirt as he spoke.

"Are you hungry?"

The sight of him, freshly bathed, banished her drowsiness, and she nodded. "What time is it?"

"Almost midnight."

Midnight! She'd been asleep for hours! Longingly she looked toward the empty tub. She was filthy. If only there were some privacy in this cottage so she could have a bath herself.

From a brick oven set in the side of the fireplace, Quinn pulled out an iron pot and carried it over to the table where two places had been laid. There was already a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread sitting in the middle.

"Come eat," he said flatly. "The old woman left a pot of stew for us. Tomorrow I'll catch some trout if the mist has lifted."

The delicious fragrance coming from the stewpot drew Noelle to the table. As she sat, Quinn filled her glass with a deep red burgundy. The stew was excellent, with hearty chunks of lamb and vegetables in a thick gravy.

While Noelle ate she found herself unobtrusively studying Quinn. How different he was from the gluttons who gorged themselves at the fashionable dinner tables of London-extolling, with full mouths, the merits of every dish; swilling wine, one glass after another; stuffing rich desserts into already overstuffed gullets.

Food obviously meant little to Quinn. Now he ate sparingly, and when he was done, he pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, watching her.

Noelle took a few more bites, and then, her appetite gone, put down her fork. "What about Constance and Simon? They'll be frantic with worry."

"I left a note. Not that I care whether Simon worries or not, but I didn't want Constance upset. She's fond of you. Damned if I know why."

He poured himself another glass of wine and took a slow sip. "I'm curious. Just what did you blackmail Simon with to make him go along with this scheme of yours? Was it only for money, or did you threaten to expose our marriage to his friends?"

Noelle's jaw dropped. "Blackmail Simon?" she gasped. "Is that what you think?"

"You don't expect me to believe this was his idea, do you?" Quinn sneered. "The man who was obsessed with having his son marry only the most well-bred of women?"

"You surely don't think it was mine?" exclaimed Noelle.

"That's exactly what I think."

"Well, you're wrong. It was Simon's idea from the beginning."

Quinn laughed, a bitter sound that had no vestige of merriment. "You're a little liar. I've seen Simon's books, and for the past two years he's been paying you quite generously."

"But that wasn't blackmail money," Noelle argued desperately. "That was my salary as his hostess."

"You can call it a salary if you want, Highness, but the rest of the world calls it blackmail." He took a final swallow of wine and then rose contemptuously from the table. "It's obvious you wanted to take Simon for everything you could and then disappear. But I spoiled your plan, didn't I, Highness, by coming back."

Noelle was furious at the unfairness of it but could see no way to defend herself. For the first time she realized he was still calling her "Highness." It was as if Dorian Pope had never existed, and he saw her now only as the scheming London pickpocket who had entrapped him. That knowledge frightened her more than anything else. Although Quinn had often been insolent to her when he thought she was Dorian Pope, he had never actually hurt her. The same could not be said of his encounters with Highness.

She realized that he was preparing a bath for her in the tin tub in front of the fireplace. The steam rose, warm and welcoming, as he added a pot of hot water. Noelle took a deep, steadying sip of wine.

"I am quite capable of pouring my own bath water," she said icily.

With one quirked eyebrow, he dismissed her comment and returned to his task. When he was done, he lit a cheroot and sprawled into one of the chairs near the tub, stretching his long legs out in front of him. The cheroot clenched in the corner of his mouth, he lazily undid his front shirt buttons, revealing the strange disk gleaming silver against the thick mat of dark hair on his chest.

"I think it's time we started our honeymoon, don't you, Highness?"

Her mouth was dry, but she met his gaze unflinchingly. "My name is Noelle."

He expelled a thin stream of smoke. "Well, Noelle," he sneered, "get over here and take off your clothes for your husband. You need a bath."

"I don't intend to bathe in front of you, Quinn."

"Why not? You've done it before."

"Yes. And my memories of it are not pleasant." With as much dignity as she could manage, she said, "I would like you to go outside."

"I'm sure you would. Now get out of that dress."

Something inside of Noelle snapped, and she jumped up. "I won't undress in front of you just because you tell me to. If you want this dress off me, you'll have to rip it off like you did before."

Quinn didn't respond, and his very composure sparked her even more. "Well? Go ahead! You're stronger than I am. I can't stop you! Go ahead and rip it off like the filthy savage that you are!"

His eyes turned into black flints with the force of his rage, and he sprang from his chair. Frightened by the wild look on his face, Noelle gripped the edge of the table in front of her.

But he did not come toward her. Instead, he turned on his heels and walked over to the foot of the bed, where his coat lay smoothly folded.

Noelle had won! He was going outside, and she would have the privacy she demanded. Not daring to let him see her gloat, she picked up her wineglass and drank, closing her eyes with a silent sigh of satisfaction.

When she opened them, she was staring into the barrel of a silver pistol.

He held it lightly in his hand, pointed directly at her. "I don't have to rip off your dress after all, do I, Highness?"