Abruptly Noelle set down her cup and made her way, as if by instinct, to a room she had entered only once before. It had been a nursery, she guessed, before it had become a schoolroom. Among the dusty trunks and old chests, she found the evidence of her husband's boyhood: primers with childish pictures and misspellings in the margins; a wooden ark; a battalion of lead soldiers, their bright red uniforms chipped and faded. There was an airy wooden cradle with spindle sides and, behind it all, as she had somehow known it would be, the painting of Amanda Copeland, carefully wrapped in layers of protective cloth.
It was a full-length portrait of a woman wearing a red dress with a white fringed shawl draped over it. At the base of her throat hung a small silver disk, the same one that Quinn now wore. Emily had described her welclass="underline" black hair, a strong nose, dark eyes set a bit farther apart than fashion dictated.
Noelle sat for some time studying the portrait and thinking about the woman Amanda Copeland must have been. Finally she replaced the cloth and left.
Quinn had left word with the grooms that Noelle was only permitted to ride to the south and east of the house, not into the wooded area that bordered the rear. The restriction had begun to chafe at her even before the incident with Luke Baker. Now that he was safely in jail, she decided there was no longer any need for such caution. And so, the afternoon after Emily had made her visit, Noelle impulsively turned toward the woods, ignoring the groom who called out to her from the stable door. Chestnut Lady's hooves silently crushed the sprouting seedlings that had unwisely sought haven on the narrow path. She wouldn't go any distance, she decided; just far enough to ease her resentment.
She had been exploring the clearing for some time, humming tunelessly to herself and wandering around the ruins of an old cabin before she realized she was not alone. Her first thought was of Baker. As the icy, prickly warning of danger shot down her spine, she was conscious of how well the dense overgrowth had shut out the strength of the late afternoon sunlight and of how far she had strayed from her tethered mare.
Still humming softly, she bent over and adjusted her riding boot as if there were something wrong with the heel and, at the same time, slowly extracted her knife from the other boot. Sliding it into her pocket, she began casually making her way toward her horse.
She still had some distance to go when a twig cracked ominously close to her. She began to run, darting around the back of a clump of cypress in a rapid change of direction designed to lose her pursuer. She wove through the trees as agilely as she had once run through the twisting streets of London. But she was city bred, and she had not counted on the small roots growing loosely above the surface of the sandy loam; roots thin, but strong, and ready to snare the leather toe of a riding boot.
The side of her hip hit first. Just before the rest of her body slammed against the ground, she felt her hair snag on the jagged crown of a severed tree trunk. Turning to free herself, she sucked in her breath. There, planted firmly on the ground next to her, was a pair of moccasins.
Her heart hammering, she pulled herself up, first noting the buckskin leggings and then the rifle slung across the front of a tuniclike homespun shirt before her eyes fell on his face. All that Quinn had told her about the Indians adopting the ways of the white men fled from her mind as soon as she saw the series of concentric circles tattooed on one broad cheek and the silver disks hanging from his ears. He looked surprised at the knife she thrust toward him.
"Don't come near me!" she shouted, beginning to back away toward her mare.
But he didn't heed her warning. As she saw him prepare to spring she jerked her body to the right. He had already made the leap in the direction of her movement before he realized she had tricked him. Flipping the knife over into her left hand and pulling herself back, she caught him on his side with the blade, just below the bottom rib.
It was only a glancing blow. The Indian looked down at his side, more startled than hurt at the crimson stain spreading slowly on the side of his tunic.
"You've drawn blood," he said. "A woman."
It was somehow startling to hear English words come from his mouth, even though she already knew many of the Indians spoke English.
"You threatened me!" She kept the knife blade pointed toward him. "Why were you spying on me?"
"You were running toward the swamp."
Cautiously she lowered her knife, still holding it firmly in her fist but beginning to feel foolish. Something in his straightforward gaze told her he was speaking the truth, that he had been trying to protect her, and it was merely her prejudice that had made her assume she was being attacked.
"I am Wasidan. And you are the white woman Kalanu has married."
Kalanu? Did he mean Quinn? "I'm Noelle Copeland" was all she said.
"Yes. Get your horse. I will lead you back to Televea. You should not have come in this direction; the swamps are dangerous."
Quinn raced toward the woods, his face a thundercloud as he dug his heels into his stallion's already lathered flanks. He'd been a fool to leave orders as if he thought she would obey them. How could a stable boy keep a leash on her when he hadn't been able to do it himself? At least the boy had had the sense to send for him. Quinn would not let himself think about what would happen if he were too late.
He had barely entered the trees before he saw them coming toward him, Wasidan in the lead, riding a biscuit-colored mare, and Noelle following on her chestnut. The relief that coursed through him was quickly replaced by an anger that he struggled to set aside as his old friend spotted him and raised an arm in greeting.
"Kalanu, my friend. It is good to see you."
"And you, Wasidan. It has been too long."
They clasped hands as their horses drew alongside each other. It was then that Quinn noticed the red stain on Wasidan's tunic.
"You've been hurt."
"It's only a scratch. Your woman is as fierce as the wolf."
Quinn's eyes, hard and cold, flickered over her. With a tug on the reins, she swung past the two men and headed toward the stable. She had handed her horse over to the groom and was walking back to the house when he caught up with her, his fingers digging into her arm.
"I'm not done with you yet," he growled through tight lips. "I'll see you inside after I've spoken with Wasidan."
She stepped from the tub and patted herself dry before she wrapped her wet hair with the towel Grace handed her. Quinn had still not returned to the house, even though she had waited downstairs for over an hour before she came to her senses and marched furiously to her room. What was she doing cooling her heels like a kitchen maid? He could just wait for her!
Even the hot tub water could not soothe away her anger. This time he had gone too far. His arrogance had actually put her life in danger! He should have told her it was swampland behind the house instead of issuing those mindless orders to the groom.
She slipped a mauve silk robe over her still damp body and pulled the sash tight around her waist. "The blue muslin will do for tonight, Grace."
Suddenly the front door slammed with a vengeance. Only Quinn could enter a house so violently. Noelle instructed Grace to tell him she would be downstairs presently, but the girl's hand had barely touched the knob before the door was thrown open.
"Go downstairs," he ordered the startled maid.
"She stays right here. You can go down and wait until I'm dressed."
He jerked his head toward the door. "Get out of here, Grace." Nervously the girl did as she was ordered.
"What in the hell did you think you were doing?"
His jaw was taut and his lips barely moved as he challenged her. Dimly he realized that his anger was out of proportion to her deed, but he couldn't forgive her for the fear she had sent racing like poison through his veins when he had discovered she was in danger.