In the narrow confines of the Concorde, the strange, empty darkness of the sky view
ed through the window, the sense of being on a spaceship rather than a plane, underscored the surrealistic quality of the last few hours. She felt as if she were surrendering the life she’d known to the inky blackness of the night. She glanced at Quinn, silent and tight-lipped beside her, and she felt a sudden, swirling excitement.
What if things had gone differently? What if he really had fallen in love with her and asked her to run away with him? What if…
If, if, if. There was no point to playing that kind of game. And yet, Paige found herself stealing another look at the man beside her, remembering the things he’d whispered to her the night they’d met, the way he’d kissed her, the feel of his arms around her. If only time were a wheel, she thought suddenly, and you could turn it back. If only she’d met Quinn before she’d met Alan…
Quinn turned towards her and she looked away quickly. It wouldn’t have mattered when they met. What she’d felt in Quinn’s arms wasn’t love. He would have asked her to go to bed with him, not to run away and marry him. That was the irony in all this, wasn’t it? That he’d married her only because he believed she’d behaved like a tramp.
Her thoughts flashed nervously to what awaited her in London. She knew he owned a business there. Did he live in a hotel suite? He seemed the sort of man who might prefer that kind of impersonal setting. A furnished flat, perhaps. Yes, she thought, that was probably where he lived, and she let her mind drift, imagining some efficient but coldly decorated suite of rooms bearing no imprint of the man who lived in them.
London lay dark and silent when they landed. During the taxi ride from the airport, Paige leaned her forehead against the window. England, she thought, waiting to feel something. But she was numb with weariness. The taxi finally pulled up before a grey stone house. Quinn stepped to the pavement and held his hand out to her.
‘Your new home, Paige.’ Cold amusement darkened his eyes. ‘I hope it meets with your approval.’
She ignored his hand and moved past him, trying to think of some rejoinder that would mask the terror within her. But no words came, and her mouth went dry. She heard Quinn speak her name, and then his arms closed around her.
‘I’m all right,’ she murmured, but he’d already swung her into his arms.
‘Like hell you are,’ he growled, holding her close to him as he strode up the steps to the house.
The door swung open, and Quinn’s housekeeper stared at them from the entranceway.
‘Say “hello” to my wife, Norah,’ he muttered as he marched past her.
The housekeeper bustled after them, wide-eyed with shock, offering coffee or tea, or something more celebratory, but Quinn headed straight for the curving staircase that rose to the next floor.
‘Thank you, Norah, but Mrs Fowler’s had a long day. I think what she needs most is sleep.’
Paige wanted to protest, to tell him she was capable of walking up the stairs on her own, but his arms were warm and strangely comforting. It was easier to clasp her hands around his neck and lay her face against his chest. By the time he shouldered open the door to a room at the end of the hall, her lashes lay heavy against her cheeks.
‘That’s it,’ he said softly, and she felt herself sinking into the soft embrace of a wide bed.
There was the brush of his fingers at her throat, the whisper of silk, and then her jacket was off her shoulders, her blouse unbuttoned to the cleft between her breasts. Quinn muttered something, and his fingers stilled. His hand lay unmoving on her breast.
Was it a dream, or did she hear her own voice whisper his name? Was there the brush of firm lips against hers? Was there a memory of heated skin? Did she hear a husky voice whisper, ‘You’ll be all right, Juliet?’
Yes, it was a dream. It had to be. The only reality, Paige thought as she fell into a dark spiral of exhaustion, was that Quinn had carried her off against her will.
He was her husband, and this was the England that had once known armoured knights and moated castles. But those days were long gone.
You might still be able to carry a woman off. Quinn had proved that. But you could never force her to belong to you. That would always remain the same.
CHAPTER SIX
DRESSED in her bridal gown, Paige walked slowly down a twisting corridor. Doors, closed against her for ever, watched her with blinded eyes. A man appeared far ahead. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and she moved towards him. He turned and made an impatient gesture. She began to walk more quickly, but it didn’t seem to matter. The corridor grew ever longer, ever more twisted, until it was enclosed by high walls. The man was gone and Paige was alone in this strange place of shadows and darkness. Fear wrapped her in clammy embrace. Suddenly, there was a noise ahead, a tapping from behind the wall. Someone was there, someone who would help her…
‘Mrs Fowler?’
Paige whimpered softly, still trapped in the tangled dream. There was a voice calling to her, but it was a strange voice.
The tapping came again. ‘Mrs Fowler? Are you awake, ma’am? Mr Fowler said to tell you breakfast is ready.’
Mrs Fowler… Paige’s eyes flew open. ‘Alan?’ she whispered.
The door swung open. A slender woman holding a silver tray stepped hesitantly into the darkened room.
‘It’s Norah, ma’am. I’ve brought you some coffee.’ The woman put the tray on the bedside table and then cleared her throat. ‘Are you feeling better, Mrs Fowler? Shall I get you some aspirin or…’