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.
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.'
Quinn leaned forward, all trace of indolence gone from his posture. He had to ask his father why he had finally married her at the end when she was dying. But before he could even frame the question, Quinn knew the answer as surely as if he had looked into his own heart. Simon hadn't been able to bear the thought that Amanda would die without ever having been his wife.
The room was quiet as each man occupied himself with his own thoughts. It was Quinn who finally broke the silence. 'I hope Christopher's not going to be as hard on me as I've been on you.'
'Oh, no you don't, my boy!' Simon exclaimed, somehow afraid of the curious weakness that was coming over him at his son's words. 'Don't you start getting soft on me. Your hatred is the one thing I've always been able to count on. Too many changes aren't good for a man of my age.'
Quinn laughed. Whether it was from the whiskey or Simon's words, he didn't know, but he couldn't seem to help himself. Finally he sobered, knowing there was something more he must say. 'I've been wrong, Simon. It was wrong of me to sit in judgment on you all these years.'
Simon felt a deep happiness well up inside him. He took a sip from his drink and cleared his throat. 'That ship you're building, son. You've sure got yourself a winner there. How many knots you figure she'll do?'
The conversation moved on to important things.
The next morning Noelle and Constance met in the hallway.
'Do you know where…?'
'Did Quinn…?'
They saw the anxiety in each other's eyes.
'Oh, dear,' Constance finally managed, tightening her lacy green wrapper around her waist. 'You don't think…?'
Without another word they rushed down the stairs. Noelle's gold silk robe fluttered around her ankles as she flew into the front hallway. Quinn had been in such a dangerous mood last night, there was no accounting for what might have happened.
'Perhaps Dainty has seen them.'
They were on their way to the kitchen when Noelle noticed that the door of the drawing room was ajar. She tugged on Constance's arm, and together they went in.
Only the faintest light penetrated the tightly drawn draperies. The air was close, full of old smoke and stale liquor. Empty bottles lay on their sides on the rug. Quinn's boots leaned against a spindled candlestand; Simon's pipe and a collection of cheroot butts overflowed a fluted candy dish. There were glasses on the floor along with two wooden half models and part of a loaf of bread. The occupants of the room, rumpled and unshaven, were sound asleep.
Simon was lying flat on his back on the settee, his legs dangling over one arm, while Quinn was slouched down into an overstuffed chair, his feet propped up on a table, a half-filled bottle tilting precariously in his lap.
'Faith! No wonder they didn't come to bed. They were in their cups.'
'In Georgia, we say they were drunk as skunks.' Noelle smiled.
'Do you, my dear? How colorful.'
Something warm and joyous began to grow inside Noelle as she surveyed the empty glasses and half models and cheroot butts, all the evidence of easy camaraderie. 'Oh, Constance, do you think they've finally set things right between them?'
Constance reached for Noelle's hand, her green eyes suddenly brimming with tears. 'Appearances can be deceiving, of course, but it looks hopeful, most hopeful indeed.' She gave a tiny, embarrassed sniff. 'If a trifle vulgar.'
A giggle, as light as air, escaped Noelle. 'I don't know if we ought to awaken them. This is the first time I've seen them together in the same room without shouting at each other.'
'Mmm. Still, I confess I'm overcome with curiosity.' Constance leaned over her husband and touched his shoulder. 'Simon?'
There was no movement at all.
