“All right, please, just don’t—”
He watched in utter bewilderment as she began to pull open the long row of buttons up the front of her gown. She was shaking with fear and cold. Some of the buttons were recalcitrant and she ripped them off.
She wanted him to make love with her here, in the stable? Wet? In the hay? He suddenly felt the most bizarre sensation. He was outside himself, looking down on the Earl of Ravensworth and the shaking girl who was nearly ripping off her clothes, so great was her frenzy.
He took a step toward her, and she quickly looked up, throwing her hands out in front of her, as if to ward him off. “I’m hurrying. Please, just another moment.”
He watched the ripped, sodden gown fall to her waist, then to the hay-strewn floor of the stable. Her chemise was without any lace, a stout linen. Wet, it showed her breasts clearly. She was frantic, ripping the narrow straps of her chemise, pulling free the knots on her petticoats. In another moment she was untying her slippers and yanking off her stockings. Then she was naked and she was standing, holding herself still in front of him, her arms at her sides, her hands fisted.
Burke stared at her.
“Please,” she whispered yet again. He watched her walk to him, watched her fall to her knees in front of him. He felt her fingers on the buttons of his breeches. She got them unfastened with amazing speed. He was hard and ready, painfully so, and she was naked, for him, and she was on her knees—
He felt her hands slide up his thighs, felt her hands slip into his breeches, cup him, and then she was leaning forward and drawing him out and taking him into her mouth. He froze. His mouth opened, then closed. He couldn’t believe this.
“What the hell are you doing?”
She stared up at him, her eyes wild, her pupils dilated. “Please, I will do it as you like, but just give me a moment, please, just give me a chance—”
And that other Burke was staring down at the girl he loved, at the girl he’d wanted to marry for so long. He heard that Burke moan as she took him more deeply into her mouth, as he felt the experienced fingers caressing him, felt her tongue and her mouth—
He grasped her shoulders. “Stop it.”
She fell back on her knees. She started to cover herself with her arms and hands; then, just as quickly, she dropped her hands and rested them, palms down, on her thighs. Her breathing was shallow, harsh.
Burke stared at her, trying to think, trying to understand. His sex was still hard, still wild for her; and angrily, he straightened himself, and fastened his breeches.
“Why?” he said finally. He saw her shivering violently, and cursed. He reached over for her discarded gown, stopping cold when she burst into frantic speech.
“Please, don’t. If you would just tell me what you want, just give me a little more time, I can do it, I swear.”
She was looking, not at him but at her gown, in a wet heap on the straw. Her eyes were nearly opaque with fear and her face was as pale as her white belly. He shook his head and reached for her gown.
She screamed. “No, please.”
“Arielle, I don’t understand you. Now what—” He gaped at her. She’d scrambled away from him and was pressed against the wall, her knees drawn up, her arms wrapped around them. She looked like a wild animal trapped by a hunter.
“Arielle?” If possible, she bound herself into an even smaller ball, but at least she was looking at him. Her damp hair tumbled around her shoulders and down her back. “I was simply going to get your gown for you.” He spoke very quietly, very slowly. She didn’t move. The small animal trapped and frozen, the eyes watchful, waiting. Then he looked at her, really looked this time, and followed her exact line of vision. He realized blankly that she wasn’t looking at her gown but was staring at the riding crop near it on the floor. He felt his breathing hitch up, felt a fury that he couldn’t seem to control or understand. “You believe I would whip you?”
A whoosh of air came out of her and she jumped to her feet. “No,” she yelled, “no more!” And she ran toward the stable door.
He was closer this time, but still she was slick with rain when he caught her. “Stop it!” It took a good deal of his strength to subdue her. This is insane, he thought, as he half dragged her, half carried her back to the stable. “Stop fighting me, dammit. We have to get your gown and the lantern.”
She heard only his irritation, his anger. “You want the riding crop!”
Oh, God, he thought. He grabbed up her gown, wrapped it around her as best as he could, then picked up the lantern only to realize that he couldn’t handle both her struggling body and the damned lantern. He doused it and strode from the stable, trying to hunker over her to protect her from the rain.
Burke didn’t stop until he had set her on her feet in his bedchamber. She clutched the drenched gown in front of her. Quickly, he fetched his blue velvet dressing gown. He pulled the gown from her and she stood quietly, her eyes on the floor, as he helped her into the dressing gown. He tied the waist and stepped back. “Hold still,” he said and left her to get some towels.
When he returned, she hadn’t moved. “Come to the fireplace and sit down.”
“There’s no fire,” she said.
“There will be as soon as I can manage it. Here, dry your hair while I make one up.”
He found his hands were steady and that relieved him. This entire situation was bizarre, perhaps a dream brought on by eating snails. In a few moments, he sat back on his haunches and regarded his handiwork. He wadded up more paper, tossing it in, and the flames stretched and roared upward. “Come closer, Arielle.”
He turned as he spoke. She was very calmly drying her long hair, her face expressionless. She wasn’t looking at him. It didn’t seem to him that she was looking at anything. He rose and stretched out his hand. She ignored him and slipped off the chair, moving to stand by the fire. His dressing gown was long enough on her to be a train on a wedding gown. He pulled her chair closer, then motioned to her.
She sat down again, still silent. He went to the dressing table and picked up his comb. He pulled a chair close to hers, sat down, and took a long, thick tress of hair and began to comb it. Arielle looked at him now. She didn’t understand him. Very slowly, very tentatively, she pulled away and said, “Let me do it, please.”
He handed her the comb. “I will change out of my wet clothes,” he said, as much to himself as to her. There was no screen in the room. Modesty was an exclusively female preserve. Yet he felt strange about undressing in the same room with her. In fact, it was silly, he knew, but he’d felt not only embarrassed when she’d freed his sex and stroked him and kissed him, but also, in a sense, violated. He drew a deep breath, seeing that she wasn’t really aware of him at all, and took off his clothing. He slipped on his one other dressing gown, a deep burgundy velvet, so old that the elbows were nearly worn through.
She’d finished combing her hair. It was only slightly damp now. He stood over her, wondering what the devil he should do. The enormity of the situation was still seeping into his mind. He felt helpless, completely at a loss.
“Arielle,” he said very quietly, “we must talk, but first I’m going to get you a brandy.”
When he returned, she was silent and still as a stone.
He came in front of her and eased down on his haunches. She drew back, of course; he had expected that. Even the undisguised fear in her eyes wasn’t much of a surprise, but still it shook him profoundly. “Here, drink the brandy. It will warm you.” The laudanum he’d put in it should also help her sleep well; at least he hoped so.
She stared at the liquid as if it were poison. His eyes narrowed, and she saw that and quickly took the glass. She downed the brandy, coughing and wheezing at its savage warmth.
He took the glass from her. “Now, tell me why you—why you took me in your mouth in the stable.”
She looked at him as if he were insane, utterly without a grain of sense. “I didn’t think you wanted me to take the time to undress you. I
t was cold in the stable and I didn’t think you wanted to be cold. I only did what I thought would please you. You wouldn’t tell me what to do and I tried to—Did you want me to undress you?”
He closed his eyes against her words. He couldn’t bear to hear any more now. “Arielle, enough.” There was sharpness in his voice, sharpness he didn’t hear, but she did and froze. Burke looked into the roaring flames in the fireplace. “I didn’t ask you to service me,” he said finally.
“Service you,” she said. “Does that mean caressing you and taking you in my mouth and—”
“Yes, it does. I didn’t ask you to do that.”
Again she looked at him strangely.
“Why did you do it?”
“You had the riding crop,” she said, as if stating the most obvious fact in the world to the greatest half-wit. He saw that her fingers were pleating and unpleating the folds of velvet.
“No, you had the riding crop and you struck me with it. I didn’t do a blessed thing.” He unconsciously rubbed his left upper arm. The whip hadn’t broken his skin, but it throbbed nevertheless.
Suddenly she looked very young and very lost. “I don’t believe you. You would have. You’re just trying to draw me in, but I won’t do it, do you hear?” She jumped to her feet, took two steps, and tripped on the overly long dressing gown. He caught her and brought her against him.
“You must stop running away from me. I will always catch you. Now, I’m going to put you to bed.”
She stiffened like a board.
“No, tonight I won’t make love to you. You need to sleep, Arielle. We will work all this out in the morning.”
She didn’t believe him, not for an instant. “I want to go to my own bedchamber.”
“There are no sheets.”
“I don’t care.”
“No.”
He led her to the bed, pulled back the covers, and turned to her, saying, “Come in between the sheets, that’s a good girl.”
He tucked her up as he would a child. And she stared at him, watchful and wary and distrusting as she clutched at the blankets under her chin.
“We will work all of this out when you’re rested.”
He doused the candle, sending the raised bed into shadows, and walked back to the fireplace. And when I’m rested, he added silently to himself. He locked his bedchamber door and pocketed the key. Then he returned to the fireplace, eased his weary body into the chair, and stared into the flames. She’d serviced him with the expertise of an experienced whore. It angered him so much that he trembled from the force of it. And that damned riding crop.
It was silent in the room, save for the slashing rain on the windows. He heard a rumble of deep thunder, followed a few moments later by a white slash of lightning. What the devil was he to do?
He was nearly asleep when he heard the muffled sob. He didn’t move a muscle. Another sob. Another. Then a low moan, followed by a choked scream.
He jumped to his feet and rushed to the bed.
Nine
Burke quickly lit a candle beside the bed. He’d expected a nightmare, but when he looked down at her, she wasn’t tossing or flailing about. She seemed to be sleeping soundly. Then she moaned softly and turned her head slowly to and fro on the pillow. Her face was flushed, her breathing harsh and jerky, and when he lightly laid his palm on her forehead, he felt dry heat. She had the fever. He cursed softly.
“Arielle,” he said urgently, and gently shook her shoulders. “Wake up. You’re dreaming.”
She heard the man’s voice and it was him, she knew it. He was standing in the shadows of the stable, and this was the first time he’d spoken. He was calling her name clearly, then mumbling things she couldn’t understand. He was smiling at her and reaching out his hand to her. His other hand was behind his back.
“Arielle.”
He was calling her again. She wanted to believe him, wanted to run to him. Suddenly he brought his other hand from behind his back. In it he held a riding crop. Then he was laughing and telling her that she must be punished for her clumsiness. Why are you laughing? she screamed at him, but she could hear no sound from her throat. She saw the whip come down, and saw her naked body as if from a distance, but no, she didn’t feel the whip, the ripping pain. Still, she screamed, cowering.
“Dammit, wake up!”
He was shaking her, and she fought like a wild thing.
Burke eased into bed beside her and pulled her against the length of him. She continued struggling but he held her still, one of his legs holding hers immobile.
“Hush,” he said, cradling her head between his two hands. “Hush, love.”
She felt his hands on her and his warm breath against her ear. It wasn’t a dream. He was holding her and he would hurt her and she was terrified.
“Please,” she whispered, “please don’t hurt me.”
Burke closed his eyes a moment against that awful emptying pain her words brought. He wished that Paisley Cochrane weren’t dead. He wished he were right here so he could kill him. It would give Burke the greatest pleasure. “No, Arielle, no, I won’t hurt you. I swear I will never hurt you.”
She didn’t believe him, but his voice sounded gentle, sincere. He was lying, he had to be. She realized in that moment that she didn’t feel right. Her head felt heavy with thudding pain; her throat was raw, her chest tight.
“Please go away.”
“Your forehead is hot. You have a fever.”
She felt his warm breath against her left temple, felt the wonderful heat from his body.
Burke sighed. “It would help if you would trust me.”
“Go away.”
He did. He fetched a discarded towel, dipped one end of it into the water in the basin atop the commode. “Hold still,” he said and began wiping her face.
The wet cloth felt glorious, and she searched it out, pressing her cheek into its coolness. He continued, knowing he should rub down her body as well, but he didn’t. He didn’t want her fighting him again.
Finally she fell back asleep. Lightly Burke touched her forehead. She was cool. He hoped that now she would be all right. Just a slight cold perhaps. He added more blankets, tucked them all under her chin, and stood over her, wondering what the hell he should do now. Sleep, he thought, and climbed into bed beside her. He didn’t touch her.
When he awoke, it was light. The rain had stopped and sunlight poured through the long narrow windows. He turned his head on the pillow. Arielle was still sleeping.
For a moment he smiled, thinking that this was the way it would be for the rest of their lives. He would sleep with her and wake with her every morning. Then he remembered.
Slowly, he rose, careful not to disturb her. After he’d bathed and dressed, he returned to the bed and again felt her forehead. She was burning up.
“Oh, God, no,” he said to the silent room. He stood quietly for but another instant; then, his decision made, he strode from the bedchamber.
Close to an hour later, he led the barrel-chested Scotsman, Dr. Armbruster, into the room.
“Ye said yer wife became ill quite suddenly, my lord?”
“Yes,” Burke said and stood on the other side of the bed. “I kept wiping her face with a cool cloth until the fever was down. When I woke up this morning, as I told you, she was like this.”
Dr. Armbruster was leaning over her. Arielle opened her eyes, saw the strange man, and screamed. She was weak, but she managed to pull her arms free of the covers and strike at him. Dr. Armbruster grabbed her wrists, saying to Burke, “I daresay, my lord, that she wasn’t like this or you wouldn’t have left her. She’s locked into her mind with the fever. Delirium. Hush, my lady, hush. Come here, my lord, and hold her for me. I need to listen to her lungs.”
Burke did as he was told. He’d never been so afraid in his life. He tried to soothe her, calm her, but it was no use. She had no idea who he was, but in her mind, he wasn’t a nice man. He was beginning to believe that there was no such thing as a nice ma
n. He continued speaking to her, nonsense really, anything to distract both Arielle and him.
Dr. Armbruster straightened. A Scot, he was fond of saying, might not know what ails ye, but he’ll ne’er kill ye with remedies. “Here is what we must do, my lord.” He gave Burke exact instructions, adding, “I will ask the housekeeper for Hobhouse to return; also the maid. I can have a local woman come and nurse her.”
“No, I will do that,” said Burke. “She will be all right, will she not, sir?”
Dr. Armbruster was a straightforward man, usually blunt to a fault, but the desperate fear he saw in the young earl’s eyes made him moderate his speech. “She is young, and despite her rather fragile appearance, I think she is strong. We will see, my lord. I shall come back late this afternoon.”
As he left Hobhouse, Dr. Armbruster decided to have the vicar visit. It couldn’t hurt.
Two hours later saw Mrs. Ringlestone, the cook and housekeeper, and Ruby, the maid, installed again in Hobhouse.
“She’s either freezing or burning up,” said Mrs. Ringlestone as Burke came into the bedchamber after leaving briefly. “Poor little dear. Try to see if she won’t drink some of my beef soup. She won’t for me.”
Burke nodded and sat beside her. “Arielle,” he said sternly, knowing that she wouldn’t respond to a cajoling voice. “Open your mouth. Come now.”
She made no sign that she’d heard him.
“Open your mouth, girl. Do as I tell you.”
She did this time, without hesitation, and he managed to pour a good half cup of the soup down her throat. If Mrs. Ringlestone thought him rather rough, she didn’t say anything. After all, he got results.
“It will be a long night,” she said.
It was, as a matter of record, the longest night of Burke’s life. He decided toward dawn that Arielle was going to die. And there was nothing he could do to save her, nothing Dr. Armbruster could do. One moment she was thrashing about, completely out of her mind; the next, she was so pale and still and limp he nearly choked on his own tears. He finally fell into an exhausted sleep, his fingers over her wrist, feeling her pulse to reassure himself that she still lived.
Night Fire Page 13
