Night Fire

by Catherine Coulter

  Burke grinned down at her and held her firmly when she tried to pull away from him. “Hush and be still. You’d best not move for a while.”

  She saw that movement of any sort was beyond her. A fierce pain slashed through her head and she swallowed convulsively, closing her eyes.

  “Shush,” he said softly. “Do you need to be sick?”

  The thought of retching in front of him was unnerving. She said nothing, merely kept her lips tightly closed and prayed.

  “Take light breaths and don’t move.” He began to stroke his fingertips over her forehead. It wasn’t near the lump, but it did seem to ease the pain a bit.

  “You shouldn’t have run away from me. I was wrong to be so flippant, but you angered me and I struck back. Perhaps you will contrive to forget it, and to forgive me for my strange lapse. I am usually a gentleman, you know.”

  At the moment, she wouldn’t have cared if he were the devil. “I want to go home,” she said. “I want to die in my own bed.”

  It was a pity they were so close to Rendel Hall. He would have preferred to take her to the Abbey. But Lannie was still there, and a fussing Lannie could easily send Arielle or any sentient human being to the hereafter with a sigh of gratitude.

  “All right. Let’s stay here just a few minutes longer, until you feel more the thing again.”

  Arielle said nothing. She felt the warmth of his thigh beneath her shoulders. She felt his left hand on her shoulder, light and gentle. She hated this weakness. She hated the fear that stirred itself to life as if it were a living thing inside her. She hated being dependent on him, even though it was just for a little while. She wasn’t aware that tears were streaking down her face.

  Burke saw the tears and felt as though he’d been struck. He couldn’t bear it. He wiped the tears away, speaking to her, trying to ease her.

  “It’s all right,” he said and repeated the words again and again. “You’ll be all right very soon now.” And even as he spoke, she lurched up onto her knees and lost the little breakfast she’d eaten. She continued to retch, dry heaves, for there was nothing in her stomach, and he held her shoulders to keep her steady, then supported her, knowing the awful weakness that followed sickness. He handed her his handkerchief and she wiped her mouth. He wanted to take her home with him and never let her out of his sight again. He wanted—

  “I want to go home now,” Arielle said, not looking at him. She was drowning in misery and pain, and there was no help for it. “Please, I want to go home.”

  “All right. Will you trust me enough to let me do what I think is necessary?”

  She felt too awful to reply. No, she didn’t trust him, but she couldn’t see that she had any choice.

  She felt his hands slip around her thighs, felt him lifting her in his arms as he himself rose.

  Lord, she was light, he thought. Too thin, too slight. He carried her to Ashes. “Hold on,” he said, and cradling her in one arm, he managed to mount the stallion. “I’ll send Geordie for Mindle. Don’t worry, she’ll be all right.”

  During the short ride back to Rendel Hall, neither one of them said anything. Burke held her very close, his ears tuned to any sound she might make.

  To his relief, Geordie took charge quite efficiently. Burke carried Arielle into Rendel Hall, up the stairs, and down the narrow hallway to her bedchamber. Something in him stirred as he realized that it wasn’t the master suite. He was aware of the old woman, Dorcas, dogging his heels, making false starts and stops, wringing her hands until he finally said, “Bring me some water. She needs to wash out her mouth and bathe her face.”

  Then there was that old ass, Philfer, acting as though Burke had intruded into his domain. He blessed Geordie, who said to Philfer with great conciseness, “Shut yer trap, old man. Fetch his lordship a brandy and let the doctor in when he comes.”

  Dr. Mortimer Arkwright, bent and thin as a stick as he neared his sixtieth year, greeted Burke in the dour voice that had been a part of him for nearly fifty of those years. The old man had brought Burke into the world and for that, Burke was profoundly grateful. He’d also thought Dr. Arkwright long dead and blurted out as much.

  “Not yet,” said Dr. Arkwright, giving Burke a nearly toothless grin. “I’m retired, but the Rendel stable lad caught me fair and square. Being I was so close, I thought it silly to send the lad on for Mark Brody. You know Brody, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I met him three years ago when he first came.” Burke then told the doctor what happened.

  “Arielle Leslie, poor little girl. Well, lad, let’s take a look. What were you doing with her anyway?”

  Good question, thought Burke, but he didn’t reply, merely walked more quickly toward Arielle’s room.

  “She’s grown up,” said Dr. Arkwright as he stared down at Arielle. “Well, my dear, open your eyes and tell me where you hurt.”

  Arielle said only, “My head. Dreadful. Please make it stop.”

  Dr. Arkwright grunted. “I approve a woman of few words. Now, open your eyes, that’s it, and tell me how many fingers I’m holding up.”

  Burke stepped back, saying nothing, watching the old man efficiently treat Arielle. Oddly, Dr. Arkwright turned to Burke after a few minutes, saying, “I can’t give her any laudanum just yet. Concussion. Wake her up every couple of hours and ask her who she is and where she is. In eight hours or so, some laudanum. I’ll leave instructions.”

  Dorcas finally regained her senses. “His lordship doesn’t live here. He merely brought her home.”

  Dr. Arkwright looked at Burke, then grunted again. “So that’s the way of it, hmm?”

  Burke found himself leaving with Dr. Arkwright. “You’re certain she’ll be all right?”

  “If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t be leaving. Don’t be such a fool, my boy. The chit will be singing songs in her bath by tomorrow morning. If you were her husband, you’d be there to sing with her.”

  “That’s true enough,” said Burke. “It scared me witless when she flew over her horse’s head.”

  “Natural enough reaction,” said Dr. Arkwright. “She’s a beauty. I wondered how she’d turn out. Haven’t seen her for three years, you know; last time was just before Sir Arthur died. I suppose you’ll be back tomorrow to see her?”

  Burke nodded. He watched Dr. Arkwright climb into his small brougham and leave.

  “Is she all right?”

  “Yes, Geordie, she’ll be fine. Dr. Arkwright swears it. You’ll keep an eye out, won’t you?”

  “Aye, that I will. The lass promised me some haggis, and I’ll remind her about it tomorrow morning.” Geordie scratched his head. “Old Philfer can be got around.”

  Burke didn’t want to leave, but he couldn’t find another choice for himself. Finally he returned to Ravensworth Abbey and spent a very long afternoon and night.

  “Is she singing yet?” was his first question when he greeted Dorcas the following morning.

  The old woman smiled, and Burke saw she was missing almost all her back teeth. “Very nearly. Do you wish to see her, my lord?”

  Burke couldn’t believe it. Everyone in Arielle’s employ seemed eager to promote him. Only Arielle was fighting tooth and nail. “Certainly,” he said, all calm and confident, and followed Dorcas up the stairs.

  “You were with Arielle since she was a child, were you not?”

  “Yes, a sweetheart she was, open and chatty and clean of spirit, if you know what I mean.”

  “A pity she changed.”

  “What can you expect? It was bound to have happened. Ah, lovey, I’ve a visitor for you.”

  She turned in the doorway and motioned to Burke. He heard Arielle call out, her voice harsh and wary, “No, Dorcas. Please, I don’t wish to see—”

  “Hello, Arielle. It’s just me. You look well again. Does your head feel all right?”

  Actually, she looked as awful as Arielle could look, her beautiful hair tumbled and tangled and lank, her face as white as the counterpane, an ugly purple-an
d-yellow bruise showing at her left temple. She pulled the covers to her chin, and her back was pressed tight against the headboard. He took a step toward her and she gasped.

  She was behaving strangely, and that pulled him up short. For heaven’s sake, it wasn’t as if she were a young girl who’d never been married. Her reputation was quite safe, particularly since her old, very respectable-looking nurse was here. Why was she behaving in such a missish fashion? He tried a smile and managed a mechanical one. “I was just concerned for you. Will I still see you at teatime on Friday?”

  She nodded, mute, but he saw the lie in her eyes before she lowered them. She had changed her mind. Perhaps she was more ill than Dr. Arkwright had thought.

  What the devil should he do now? He didn’t want to leave her, not yet. “You are supposed to sing in your bath this morning, according to Dr. Arkwright.”

  “If you leave I promise I shall.”

  “Have you breakfasted yet?”

  She shook her head, wincing a bit.

  “Would you like to have something?”

  “Yes,” said Dorcas, stepping to the bed. “Let me have Bessie bring you some toast and tea.”

  Arielle didn’t realize that Dorcas was leaving until she was nearly out the door. Arielle called after her, but the old woman didn’t come back.

  “You are safe with me,” Burke said, slanting an eyebrow. “It has never been my practice to seduce or ravish ladies who have such colorful bruises on their faces.”

  She didn’t reply, and Burke, not knowing what to say, looked about her bedchamber. He wasn’t certain what he had expected, but this wasn’t it. It was nearly a monk’s cell, sparsely furnished and those furnishings severe. Not a feminine flounce or furbelow in the room. He found himself staring toward the adjoining door. Was the master suite on the other side? He didn’t want to think about that filthy old man opening that door and coming in here, to this bed, to Arielle. He said, “Is your husband’s room beyond?”

  Arielle heard the fury in his voice but didn’t understand it. She didn’t want to understand it. She wanted Burke out of her bedchamber. he filled it, his scent, his vitality, his maleness.

  “Please go away, my lord.”

  He swung about to face her. “I will if you give me your word you will come to Ravensworth Abbey on Friday.”

  She chewed her lower lip.

  He felt his frustration grow.

  Finally, very quietly, she said, “No.”

  Five

  Burke stared down at her, absorbing the consequences of that one simple word. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been rejected by a woman. Whenever he had been, though, he knew deep inside it couldn’t have hurt as much as this did. Nor would it have made him so furious he couldn’t think straight.

  “Why?”

  “Please,” she said, “please just leave me alone. I don’t wish to see anyone or—or be with anyone. I am a widow. I wish to remain a widow.”

  “Your husband is dead—” The rawness of his voice shocked him. “—how long? Seven, eight months now? For God’ sake, Arielle, he was an old man. Don’t you want a young man, one who will give you so much more than he could have?”

  Arielle wanted to laugh, but when she opened her mouth, an ugly, harsh sound came out. She got hold of herself. He didn’t know what he was saying. She would keep her mouth shut. He would leave. But he was made of tougher stuff than she’d imagined.

  “You couldn’t have loved that old satyr. He was a disgusting old man. Look at me—don’t you remember how you felt three years ago? How I made you feel?”

  She remembered, but the memories weren’t hers; they were that other girl’s. She remained silent, her eyes on her clasped hands.

  “Damn you.”

  He leaned over her, jerked her against his chest. His mouth was on hers, hard and aggressive, his tongue probing against her closed lips. “Open your mouth.”

  She opened her mouth to yell at him and felt his tongue.

  “Here’s your breakfast, my dear—oh, goodness.”

  Burke froze at the sound of Dorcas’s voice. Slowly, as if he were a man waking from a dream, he pulled his hands back and straightened to look down at her. “I will see you again, Arielle.”

  “No.”

  “Oh, yes. It’s not over between us.” He shook his head. “It won’t ever be over.” He strode across her bedchamber and left.

  Arielle was staring straight ahead, toward the open doorway. “He is much stronger than Paisley,” she said calmly. “Entirely stronger than Paisley.” Then, without another word, she rose from her bed and walked to the wide windows that gave onto the front of the house. She watched Burke walk toward the stable. She leaned forward, her forehead against the glass. It came to her that evening what she would do.

  Mr. Gregory Lapwing, Arthur Leslie’s former solicitor, seated himself across from his old friend’s daughter. He’d known her all of her eighteen years and was as fond of her as an older man besotted with a new, young wife could be. His nineteen-year-old wife was certainly livelier, prettier, than this pinched-looking girl.

  “I appreciate your coming to me, Mr. Lapwing,” Arielle said, giving him her hand.

  “My pleasure, Arielle. What is it you wish?”

  He thought she looked ill, so pale and thin was she. Was she still grieving for her dead husband? It was the first time he’d seen her since her father’s death more than three years before. Strange business, that, leaving the girl in the guardianship of her half brother, but he supposed Arthur had had no choice. Her precipitous marriage to Lord Rendel had shocked him, but then again, it had nothing to do with him, so he had forgotten it. Until now.

  “I want to sell Rendel Hall, all the land, and all the furnishings. Everything. Immediately.”

  Mr. Lapwing didn’t blink. He’d perfected the expressionless expression long ago. Nothing a client said could disconcert him. “May I ask you why?”

  “I wish to leave the country. I wish to move to Paris. Napoleon is gone and Louis the Eighteenth is on the throne. There is no more danger.” She added, a dimple appearing in her left cheek, “I do speak French, you know. Father insisted.”

  “I see,” Mr. Lapwing said, frowning. “May I ask why you wished to deal with me rather than with Lord Rendel’s solicitor?”

  “I don’t know him,” Arielle said. It was only a half lie. She didn’t trust him simply because he’d been Paisley’s man. “Really, sir, there is nothing to keep me here. I wish to travel.”

  Mr. Lapwing rose from his chair. “It is unusual, of course, for a lady to wish to travel. You must be properly protected and chaperoned—”

  How ridiculous, Arielle was thinking. I wasn’t protected here, in beautiful, just England. Men. They spouted such nonsense. However, she had a goal to attain, so her voice was calm and respectful. “Of course, Mr. Lapwing. Pray don’t worry. I will be duly chaperoned.”

  “But—”

  “My mind is quite made up, sir.”

  “Very well. Who is Lord Rendel’s solicitor?”

  “Jeffrey Chaucer, of all things. I’ve heard it said that his late mother was a poetess. Do you know him, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Lapwing shortly. “One can’t forget him, what with that silly name of his. A poetess, huh? Well, no matter. I will make inquiries immediately, my dear. I will also send a man here to speak to your steward—”

  “Mr. Harold Jewells is his name.”

  “Yes, certainly, and he will also take a thorough inventory. Not only of household furnishings but of livestock, outbuildings, tenants’ cottages—you get the idea.”

  “How soon do you think I can leave England?”

  “I don’t know—a month, perhaps? We can’t do very much without a buyer, you know.”

  So she would have to hide for a month. Brighton, she thought. She and Dorcas could stay there until everything was done. No one else would know. “All right,” she said aloud. “Oh, just one more thing, Mr. Lapwing. The buyer mustn’t dismis
s any of the Rendel tenants or servants, nor may their circumstances be changed.”

  “It is unlikely that a buyer would do that, but I will make your wishes clear. Ah, doesn’t your land march to the east with Ravensworth?”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice becoming suddenly cold. “Why do you ask, sir?”

  “I was simply curious, that’s all.” That gave Mr. Lapwing an excellent idea, but he didn’t want to speak of it to Arielle. It could lead to disappointment. No, he would tell her only if he were successful. He ate an excellent luncheon with her, then returned to East Grinstead. He made an appointment to see the Earl of Ravensworth the following Monday morning. Although he would have few facts or figures, he could still determine whether or not the earl was interested.

  When Mr. Lapwing entered the Ravensworth library the following Monday morning, George Cerlew preceding him and making the introductions, Burke wondered what the devil the man wanted with him. He hadn’t long to wait.

  He found that he couldn’t quite take in what he was hearing. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “My lord, Lady Rendel wishes to sell everything as quickly as possible. Your land marches on hers. I wished to give you the first chance at it. As of yet, my man hasn’t done an assessment or an inventory, so I cannot provide you with an estimate of its worth. However, if you are interested, your man could work with mine.”

  Burke wasn’t attending him. He waved his hand. “Just a moment, sir. Why does Lady Rendel want to sell out?”

  Mr. Lapwing smiled with understanding. No one wanted to buy a possible pig in a poke. The earl was efficiently trying to determine if the house had terminal rot of some sort or suffered from gross mismanagement. “Nothing to do with the property, my lord. Lady Rendel has been a widow for a while now. She said she wanted to leave England and live in Paris since the Bourbon is restored to the throne. It is probably because of her grief over her husband. It was his house, you know. The memories must be painful for her. You know how ladies feel so deeply about things such as this.”

  “I see,” Burke said. He was silent for several minutes. It struck him cleanly between the eyes that it was because of him that she wanted to sell out. She wanted to run because of him. Why? he asked himself again. Why was she so wary of him? Mr. Lapwing said nothing, merely watched the earl. Finally Burke said, “I will buy everything. I will have my steward, Mr. Cerlew, work with your man, as you suggested. I will give her a fair price.”