He looked over and smiled. 'Afraid I'm fresh out of tea and scones. You're stuck with coffee this morning.'
Her mouth curved in response. 'Coffee's fine.'
He brought her a steaming cup, his smile abruptly disappearing when his fingers brushed against hers. He pulled away quickly and went back to his place by the fire. Her brief happiness in the morning disappeared. 'You should have awakened me,' she said stiffly. 'It must be ten o'clock by now.'
'You needed to sleep.' He jerked his head toward the trees behind him. 'There's a creek back there where you can wash. Dainty put a clean change of clothes for you in my saddlebags.'
She set her coffee down and, without looking at him, gathered the clothes and made her way to the creek. As she washed she barely noticed the sting of the cold water on her flesh. She dressed quickly in the fawn riding habit that Dainty had packed and then, more slowly, returned to their camp.
Quinn was saddling Pathkiller. Although he had his back to her, he heard her approach. 'We'll take it easy today,' he said. 'There's an inn about five hours ride from here where we can spend the night.'
The question could no longer remain unasked. 'Why did you go back to Televea, Quinn?'
For an instant his hands seemed to falter on the girth strap, and then he finished tightening it. 'We'll stop every hour so you can rest. I know the owner of the inn. It's a clean place and the food is good.'
She touched the silver disk around her neck. 'Tell me why, Quinn. I have to know why you returned.'
He brushed past her toward the other saddle that lay on the ground. 'We'll talk about this later, Noelle. After we're back at Televea.'
If he had struck her, he could not have made his feelings more clear. The tears that had been steadily rising in her throat threatened to strangle her. With a low sob, she turned and fled into the trees, running mindlessly, numbed by her pain and her great sense of loss. She did not hear the footsteps racing after her, was barely conscious of his hands on her shoulders snatching her to him, of the roughness of his jacket against her cheek.
'Highness, don't cry. Please don't cry,' he whispered hoarsely. 'Don't let me hurt you any more than I already have.'
She clenched her fists and pressed them against his chest. 'Why didn't you send me away long ago instead of torturing me so?' she sobbed. 'Is this your revenge? Making me fall in love with you and then tossing me away? Is this what your hatred of me has led you to?'
'Hatred?' He pushed her back from him and gave her shoulders a shake. 'My God, you're the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me. I love you more than I love my own life!'
'Then why did you leave me?' she cried, barely comprehending the declaration she had waited so long to hear.
'For God's sake, what was I going to say to you?' His lips curled brutally, and his next words were laden with mockery. 'My dear wife, even though I took a whip to you in the stable and raped you, you must understand that I really love you!'
'Yes!' she screamed. 'Yes! That's exactly what you were supposed to say!'
He dropped his hands from her shoulders and, with a savage curse, turned away from her. 'Don't you understand? Even if you could forgive me, I could never forgive myself.'
Her tears were falling freely now. 'Then why did you go back to Televea?'
For a long time he said nothing. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and once again under control. 'I went back because I had to see you one last time and make sure you were all right.' He stared off into the distance. 'Marry Wolf Brandt, Noelle. When
Noelle stood without moving. There was a terrible resignation about Quinn, a slump to his shoulders she had never seen before. Suddenly she realized it was not he who had his revenge, but she. She had finally done what she'd sworn to do so long ago. She had finally defeated him. How many times she had prayed to see him humbled. Now it had happened-and all she could think of was how awful it was and how much she loved him. There was nothing else-no satisfaction, no feeling of vindication, nothing but an overwhelming urge to erase that awful resignation.
'I'm not going to listen to any more of your ridiculous self-pity!' she exclaimed, slashing at her tear-stained cheeks with the back of her hand. 'You did a terrible thing to me. We've both done terrible things. But that's all in the past now. We have the rest of our lives. And if you think I'm going to marry Wolf, you're quite mistaken. I'm not a piece of property to be passed from one man to another. You're my husband, Quinn Copeland. Mine!'
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.
Chapter Thirty-eight
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
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
