Justine Cole - The Copeland Bride

Her dress was damp with perspiration, torn at the hem where she had caught it when she leaped from the carriage, and she pulled it off along with her petticoats, leaving them all in a crumpled heap on the floor. Her hair came undone as she was undressing, and it clung to her damp body and curled in moist tendrils at her hairline. Clad only in her thinnest chemise, she threw herself on the bed and cried. The temperature in the room rose with the final force of the afternoon heat.

When she could cry no more, she rolled over onto her back and threw her forearm over her burning eyes, trying to shut out her mortification as she repeated the scene in the carriage over and over in her mind. The room gradually darkened, but evening provided no relief from the heat now trapped inside.

It was nighttime when a knock sounded at her door. Noelle lay silently. When the knocking continued, growing firmer and more insistent, she snatched a porcelain vase from the table next to her bed and hurled it at the door. The footsteps quickly retreated.

The interruption opened her wound once again, and shame and the suffocating heat of the room choked her until she could barely breathe. She lay motionless, arms at her sides, sweat trickling down between her breasts, drawing one conscious breath after another. A mosquito landed on her bare leg, but she didn't bother to brush it away even when she felt the sting of it drawing out her blood.

The door in the adjoining room opened and then shut. She heard the sound of his movements, water splashing, and, finally, the creak of the bedsprings. Dragging herself from her bed, she began to pace the room, her chemise so wet that it was transparent, her hair tangled honey falling to her waist over glistening shoulders.

Six steps in one direction. Eight in the other. She was almost demented from her hunger for him, her need to have him and still keep her pride. Back and forth. One… two… three… four… One step after another.

Dear God, her desperate thoughts raged, he has driven me to the brink of insanity, poisoned me, but I must have him. I must have his fingers burning into my flesh. My hands on him, kneading muscles like steel. Touching him. Tasting him.

Propelled by a force stronger than her pride, she found the doorknob that separated them twisting in her hands. The moonlight streamed in the open windows of his room, and the fresh air was cold against her wet flesh. He propped himself up on one elbow and watched her come toward him, the sheet that covered his bare chest slipping down to his waist.

She stood at the foot of the bed in a shaft of moonlight so he could see her clearly, so there would be no misunderstanding. Her fingers tugged at the thin blue ribbon that held the bodice of her chemise together. As it came undone in her hands she locked her eyes with his and opened the garment slowly until she had unveiled the gleaming mounds of her breasts to him. Only then did she bend over and peel the damp chemise off.

Even when she was naked, she did not move, did not try to hide from the burning eyes that branded her flesh. Instead, she reached to the back of her neck and, with both of her hands, lifted the weight of her hair high so that nothing was hidden from his gaze.

His nostrils flared, and she felt a flash of triumph. Let him reject me now, her hatred cried.

With her hands still holding up her hair, she walked toward him with the slow seductiveness of Eve and then set one knee up on the side of the bed. "I want you," she said huskily.

With a dark moan, he reached out toward her, but she evaded him. Now it would be on her terms. Slowly she leaned across his chest, lowering herself until her burning nipples were pressed against his cool flesh. Thrusting her fingers roughly into his thick black hair, she clamped his mouth to hers, plunging her tongue between his teeth.

With only her instincts to guide her, she made love to him so agonizingly, so expertly, that when she was done, he could only crush her to him, unable to bear the thought of having her steal away from his side.

That night, she dreamed that her bed was on the side of a vast, rocky hill where low-flying curlews swooped toward her, their wings batting at her face, flying closer and closer until, one by one, they tangled themselves in the wild mass of her hair. She jerked awake to find Quinn's arm pinning her down as he slept, his fingers painfully entwined in the strands of her hair.

With a slow sigh, Noelle released the tension of her nightmare. As her breath warmed his cheek Quinn stirred. His hand released its grip on her hair and slid down her body, cupping itself around one of her breasts. She felt him grow rigid against her leg, and then she was conscious of little else as she gave herself up to the sensations he was arousing.

It was much later when Noelle pulled herself from bed. She smelled of sweat and sex, and all she could think of was getting away from the piercing eyes that watched her so intently and sinking into the tub she had heard Grace filling in the next room.

As if he were reading her thoughts, he climbed out beside her and tilted her chin up. "Ever take a bath with a man before?"

"I certainly have not," she flared, presenting a picture of offended dignity so incongruous with her wild abandonment in bed that Quinn laughed and scooped her into his arms.

"We'll have to do something about that."

She told him his behavior was odious and demanded that he put her down that very instant, but he ignored her half-hearted struggles and lowered them both into the water.

It was a big tub, but it hadn't been designed to hold two people, especially when one of them was as large as Quinn. He draped a dripping calf over the side and watched with amusement as, avoiding his eyes, she lathered a washcloth and began efficiently scrubbing herself.

"You're missing the point, Highness." He grinned, taking the soapy cloth from her and setting it aside. He lathered his own hands and washed her that way, lingering so long on the most sensitive parts of her body that, with a gasp, she finally grabbed the soap away and began to wash him.

She studied his body with open fascination as she slid her hands over him-the rippling muscles, the faint white marks along each side of his spine where his skin had stretched taut when he had grown too quickly as a boy, a jagged scar on his calf.

Not long after they had finished washing each other, they found themselves on Noelle's bed, their bodies leaving a wet imprint on her pale blue bedspread as they satisfied each other in a fashion as old as time.

It was nearly noon when Quinn propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down at her.

"Are you sure the shipyard won't fall apart without you?" she teased.

But he didn't smile. With a question in her eyes, she reached up toward his cheek. Gently he stopped her hand. "Which way is it going to be, Highness?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that from now on, you'll either be in my bed every night as my wife, or you'll stay the hell away from me. You can't have it both ways anymore."

"I'll think about it," she snapped, even though she knew what her answer would be.

"Do that. You have until tonight."

Chafing at his arrogance, she watched him get out of bed and walk to the door that connected the two rooms. "Quinn."

He turned.

"If I do decide to share your bed, don't think anything else has changed between us!" It was her pride speaking, and she immediately regretted her words.

"That's fine with me, Highness. We both know how we feel about each other. Nothing that happens between us in bed, no matter how good, is likely to change that."

His words proved to be too prophetic. At night, they were like two bodies with one mind, joining together with total abandon -nothing held back, nothing feared. But during the day, the hostilities between them escalated. The memories of past betrayals were too fresh.

Although neither would admit it, both were afraid of the terrible attraction that drew them together. They were increasingly cruel to each other, sometimes even trading caustic jibes in the presence of the servants. As the summer ended, their lovemaking grew more violent. It was as if it were a sickness that had spread out of control, advancing beyond their bodies to devour their minds.

In September, the activity at the shipyard returned to normal, and Noelle began spending more time there, although she never searched out her husband, and for his part, he ignored her presence. One day she stepped into Quinn's office to shed the short jacket she had worn over her riding skirt, for the day had grown warm. Tossing it on a chair, she noticed a new wooden half mode! sitting on his desk. She picked it up and, as she ran her fingers along the smooth line of the hull, she felt a spark of excitement. The shape was sleeker than anything she had ever seen, its bow leaner and its breadth much further back than was customary. She knew that a half model was the first step toward building a ship. If Quinn had made a model, he must be getting ready to start.

"What the hell are you doing in here! Put that down!"

She jumped and the model slipped from her hand and fell to the floor, knocking out the pins that held it together and sending the wooden layers scattering. It was a simple matter to reassemble it, but Quinn clenched his fist in anger, his eyes turning the color of gun metal. He hated the constriction he felt in his guts whenever he came upon her unexpectedly. Why the hell couldn't she stay home where she belonged-out of his way, out of his life, out of everything except his bed!

"God damn it! Look what you've done! You have no right to be in here!"