Night Fire (17 page)

Over brandy, Knight had said, “I say, Burke, isn't there an easier way to get a woman to marry you?” He had been tossing playing cards negligently on the table between them, some landing faceup, others facedown.

“Probably, but not this one.” Burke raised his brandy snifter. “Let's drink to my wife, Knight. And to that wonderful hunting box you are providing for the honeymoon.”

“Don't you mean
pre
-honeymoon? Ah, three jacks up, Burke. That will be hard to beat. You intend to keep her there until she agrees, don't you?”

“If I have to.” Burke sighed, then gave his friend a crooked grin and began tossing the cards from his deck. “Sounds as if I've gone round the bend, doesn't it? Perhaps I have. I just know that I have to have her.”

“I look forward to meeting this paragon,” Knight said and grinned when he tossed the fourth jack faceup on the table. “This is wonderful for you. As for
this
man, he firmly intends to remain unshackled until he's old and gray, and the night before it is his fate to be dead or impotent or both, he will beget a legal heir.”

Burke choked on his brandy, but within a very short time, managed to turn up three queens.

“I trust, dear fellow,” Knight drawled as he closely scrutinized the queen of hearts, “that this is an omen of good things for you. But I don't know, Burke. Women can be the very devil, you know.” After wishing him luck, Knight had left his own house, whistling, to visit his mistress.

Burke now smiled down at his sleeping paragon. She had loved him once; she would love him again.

 

Arielle dressed for dinner that evening. She chose a simple muslin of pale green from her own trunk, not from the gowns Burke had purchased for her. Dorcas fastened the final button and stepped back. “The neckline comes to your chin,” she said, slapping down an errant fold in the skirt. “You hope to keep him away from you,” she added matter-of-factly.

“Yes.”

“You look like a girl still in the schoolroom. A decent man would stay away from you.”

Arielle wasn't at all certain just how decent Burke was. She said nothing, however.

When she entered the drawing room some thirty minutes later, Burke's expression told her that she could wear a rag and he would still want her, desperately.

He smiled at her, his sweet smile, one that made her feel quite strange and warm at the same time. She pulled herself together. How would he look at her in a month? A year? Five years? That thought brought back the chill of an empty future.

“You look wonderful,” he said, and before she could move, he kissed her wrist, then her mouth. “Are you ready to be a glutton?”

She nodded and said as she quickly stepped away from him, “You're a very handsome man, Burke. I've always thought that, but I—”

“Let's have our dinner. And thank you for the compliment.”

Over her fresh mushroom soup, Arielle asked, “What has happened to Rendel Hall? Do you know?”

“No, and I don't really care.”

“You were willing to buy it, Burke—the house, all the land, everything.”

“Only because I was making plans to have you even then.” He robbed his words of threat for her by smiling broadly. “It doesn't make too much sense now when I think about it. How could I have had you in my power if you had so much money?”

“What you did is not amusing, Burke.”

“No, but then again, I was dead serious.”

Montague came into the dining room, two footmen on his heels, each carrying huge silver trays. Burke said nothing more until all the food was served; then he nodded dismissal to Montague.

Even as he did it, he realized Arielle should do the dismissing. She was the mistress, after all. He would have to discuss it with her. He didn't wish her to feel a visitor in her own house. He wanted her to
know
that she was truly the mistress here.

Both of them did full justice to Cook's offering of lamb cutlets and fresh peas. Arielle looked down at her lemon cream dessert and made a face at it. “I can't hold another bite. It was delicious, all of it.”

“You must tell Montague so he can inform Cook of your delight.”

She nodded, then looked about the massive, dark oak wainscoted walls. The chandelier overhead could, if it fell, slay a good twenty people. It was dusty. She started to say something, then shook her head at herself. Why should she care? She looked at the bank of three long windows that gave onto the front lawn of the Abbey. The draperies were thick, dark blue velvet. Too dark, and the velvet was shiny with age. She pictured pale yellow draperies, perhaps, to make the room airy. Again she shook her head at herself. It didn't matter if the room looked like a tomb.

She glanced over at Burke and saw that he'd been watching her, his expression intent. “What are you going to do tonight?” she asked, pleased that her voice sounded as calm as a summer pond to her sensitive ears.

“You will see,” he said.

She paled at his words, but he held his peace. He wasn't in any hurry to adjourn to his bedchamber. He asked Arielle to play the piano for him and she did, singing several Italian ballads that were soft and soothing and sad.

When Montague entered with the tea tray, Burke gave a start. He didn't realize the time had passed so quickly. He nodded to the butler and said to his wife, “That was lovely. Thank you. Come and have some tea now, before we retire.”

Arielle didn't want to retire, ever. She fiddled with her teacup, crushed a moist piece of raspberry-and-currant tart on the gold-edged plate. “My father sang quite well,” she said.

“He taught you?”

“Yes.”

“I sing, too. Perhaps we can try a duet soon.”

“Do you play?”

“Not so well anymore. When it was decided that I was to be armybound, my father said I shouldn't be bothered with such nonsense. A pity. I much enjoyed playing.”

“You could begin to play again.”

“Yes,” he said easily. “Here we are once more, the picture of two relaxed, happy people. Only one of them is terrified that her husband will rip off her clothes and do unspeakable things to her. The picture is awry, Arielle.”

She ignored him and said, “I think I shall retire now, Burke. May I use my own bedchamber?”

“No. Pray don't ask that of me again, Arielle. That ‘no' will still be in effect in fifty years.”

“Good night,” she said and rose.

“Wait for me, my dear. I will come with you.”

He saw that she'd moved a screen into his bedchamber. It was a Chinese affair that he thought particularly obnoxious, but he didn't say anything. Within a month, he would be able to destroy it without any demures from her. At least he prayed that that would be so. When she emerged, swathed from neck to floor in a white lawn gown, he was already lying in bed, seemingly engrossed in a fascinating book about the Borgias.

He was naked; he was determined on his course.

“Come here,” he said, putting the book on the bedside table and patting the bed beside him.

Her step lagging, her eyes down, she neared the bed. Burke took her hand in his. “Very good. Now, Arielle, I would like you to take off the nightgown.”

Her head jerked up and he saw the stricken look in her eyes. His expression didn't change. He saw her tongue glide over her lower lip.

“Shall I help you?”

She shook her head then and quickly, frantically, pulled open the ribbons and unfastened the myriad of buttons. He watched her lift the gown over her head, watched it pool at her feet. He said nothing, merely looked at her. She stood very still, as if she were used to this scrutiny. “You look lovely,” he said at last with great but inadequate sincerity. She didn't flinch when he reached out his hand and gently cupped her left breast. “Come sit beside me, here.”

She sat, her hands on her thighs, her legs slightly parted. How many times, he wondered had Paisley Cochrane forced her to do this? Her hands were on her thighs because obviously her former husband hadn't wanted her trying to cover herself.

In the dim light it was nearly impossible for Burke to make out the faint white scars. “Look at me, Arielle.”

She jerked. That was something she wasn't used to, he thought. Slowly, she raised her head. Her expression for just a moment was pain-filled before she managed to mask all expression so he wouldn't know what she was thinking or feeling. Very gently he clasped one of her hands. He felt the warm smoothness of her thigh beneath his hand. Long slender legs, she had, sleekly muscled.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“All right.”

“Come into bed now. I don't want you to take a chill.”

He pulled the covers back. She looked undecided, but then slowly, she crawled over him and burrowed under the covers.

He turned on his side to face her. “Now, you told me you couldn't bear the waiting anymore.”

She nodded, her eyes tightly closed.

“I am sorry to disappoint you, love, but I don't feel like a ravening beast tonight.”

Her eyes flew open and she sucked in her breath, blurting out, “Why are you toying with me like this?”

“Shush,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her. He could feel her fear of him, taste her bloody fear, damn her, hear the small, gasping breaths. He said slowly, “I intend to toy with you until you don't want me to stop.”

“Can I not simply—do it? I will try, truly I will.”

“Tonight,” he said, ignoring her words as he stroked his fingers through her hair, “I'm going to love every inch of you. I'm going to learn you, memorize you.”

She looked at him as though he'd lost his mind. Since he'd already decided that there was little enough left, he couldn't blame her.

“You have the cutest ears,” he said, kissing the shell of her ear, then nibbling lightly on her earlobe. “Soft and small and very feminine.” He saw the tiny hole and continued. “I shall have to buy you some jewelry. Actually, there are the Drummond jewels—heirlooms, the lot of them—I'll fetch them for you and you can decide what you would like. There must be pierced earrings. If you don't like any of it, I will buy you what you wish.”

She gave him a disbelieving look. Paisley had allowed her to wear his first wife's jewelry on occasions when there were guests. A rather ugly emerald bracelet had fallen off her wrist one time, and he'd beaten her soundly for her carelessness. Burke was still toying with her and she hated it. She felt off balance, and she was frightened.

His tongue glided again over her ear, then made a light foray into the inside. It felt odd. She shivered. Perhaps he would give her jewelry, then accuse her of losing it. “I don't want any jewelry,” she said.

“Why not? Don't you look well in jewelry?”

“I—I might lose it. And you would be displeased.”

“I see,” he said, and he did indeed understand now. “Now, where was I? Ah, yes, your right ear. I think while I pay attention to that part of you, I should like to feel your breasts against my chest. There, that isn't so bad, is it?”

B
urke didn't think he would be able to sleep, but eventually he did. She was tangled against him, held to him tightly, his arm firmly around her back. He wasn't concerned that she'd felt him hard against her belly. He wanted her to know that he desired her. He wanted her to realize, eventually, that no matter how much need he had, he wouldn't force her.

What she'd realized to this point, of course, was that he wasn't behaving the way a man should. She was waiting, waiting for him to turn on her, to beat her, to force her to her knees. Time, he thought yet again, and patience and consistency, praying that he was right.

How very strange, he thought, on the point of sleep, that things had turned out this way. A wife terrified of her husband. It was certainly a situation he'd never considered.

When Burke heard the scream he was calmly retreating his troops into the hills of Portugal, back, back, away from the French, who were coming ever toward them. He was waiting for Major Lufton and his men to arrive from the rear and entrap the French between them. He shaded his eyes against the ferocious noonday sun. Where the hell was Major Lufton?

There was another scream and he bolted upright in bed.

Arielle whispered, “What is that?”

“Stay here.” Burke was quickly out of bed and into his dressing gown. It was just after dawn, and the light in the corridor was pale, indistinct.

He dashed down the corridor, coming to a halt when he saw Mrs. Pepperall standing at the top of the stairs, staring downward, her hand covering her mouth.

Burke walked quickly to her. He looked down to see the girl, Mellie, swathed in a white nightgown, lying in a pool of blood. From here he could tell that her neck was broken.

He felt a wave of sickness, but his voice was calm with authority. “Fetch Montague, Mrs. Pepperall, and tell him to send a footman for Dr. Brody.”

An hour later, Burke, Arielle, and Mark Brody were seated in the drawing room.

“I'd say she died some five or six hours ago,” said Dr. Brody between sips of strong dark tea.

“Then why wasn't there a candle anywhere about?” Arielle asked. “Burke remarked on that immediately. What was she doing there without any light to guide her?”

“It is an interesting point,” said Burke. “In any case, we must call in Sir Edward Pottenham, since he is the local magistrate—not that he will be one whit of help to anyone.”

Mark Brody said, after darting a quick glance at Arielle, “Mellie was bleeding profusely. Do you think possibly she awoke, saw the blood, and tried to find someone to help her? Perhaps she was too frightened to think of lighting a candle.”

There wasn't an answer, of course. Sir Edward was told the story several hours later. He sat quietly for a moment, then slapped his hands on his thighs and said, “Well, perhaps it is for the best. The girl was ruined, of course, no future at all for her. Her death was an accident, or suicide. For the best.”

Arielle couldn't help herself. She jumped to her feet, the abrupt movement making her dizzy. But she held her ground, clutching at the back of a chair. “For the best? An innocent young girl is dead, her neck broken, and you think it's a good thing? God save us from all men. I hope you fall down some stairs and break your neck—then
I
can say it is a good thing.”

She gathered up her skirts and ran from the drawing room. Burke regarded Sir Edward from beneath half-closed lashes.

“Well, I say. Your new wife, my lord, well, hysterics in women, one must put up with it, I suppose. I daresay she's breeding. Women are such strange creatures and—”

“Actually, Sir Edward,” Burke said as he rose, “I quite agree with my wife. I don't think Mellie died by accident or took her own life. I think she was deliberately lured out to the stairs and pushed. Do you still believe it's a good thing if the girl was murdered?”

Sir Edward was miffed. He wanted to be left in blessed peace and get back to his butterfly collection. “So who did it? You, my lord?”

Burke smiled at his snide tone. “No, but perhaps the man who raped her is a servant in this house, a possibility that makes my skin crawl. He feared she would remember something and identify him. He killed her.”

“A theory without substance. And exactly how will you find out who this mythical man is?”

“I haven't the foggiest notion right now, but I will have a Bow Street Runner soon. Then we'll see. There is a flaw in that theory, however,” he added thoughtfully. “Even if he'd been caught, nothing much would have happened to him for raping Mellie. Murder is a lurid extreme.”

“Not given your attitude, my lord. The fellow must have believed that if you found out he was the so-called rapist, you would cut his throat. Well, there it is. Now I have more important things to do.”

“I shall show you out, Sir Edward,” Burke said. So, he thought, it is my fault that Mellie was murdered. Well, hell.

 

The day after Mellie's funeral, Burke was called from his study by Montague, who was looking somewhat bewildered. “My lord, you have company. Not entirely company, but some of one kind and some of another. Many of both.”

Burke raised an eyebrow. “I will be there immediately.”

He saw Montague's problem when he came into the entrance hall. Lannie had returned with her two children, Knight, and a gentleman Burke had never before seen.

“Well,” he said. “Welcome, everyone.”

“Uncle Burke. Uncle Burke. We're home and we brought you a present.”

Burke caught both little girls in his arms and kissed them soundly. “And I've a present for each of you, Virgie and Poppet.”

“It's our new aunt, isn't it?” said Virgie, two years older than Poppet and thus more of a candid speaker. “Mother told us you married a girl who had killed her husband, and she couldn't understand it because the poor old man hadn't a son and—”

“Oh, dear,” said Lannie, having the grace to blush. “I didn't say it
exactly
like that. Girls, let go of your uncle. Ah, Mrs. Mack, take them to the nursery. Your uncle will visit you later, girls—won't you, Burke?”

“Certainly.” He kissed both girls again, to their giggling delight, and gave them into Mrs. Mack's long-suffering care.

“Burke,” Lannie said, “this is Percy Kingstone. Percy, may I introduce you to my brother-in-law and the master here, Burke Drummond, the Earl of Ravensworth.”

The men shook hands. So, Burke was thinking, the wind sits in this direction, does it? The man seemed unobjectionable to Burke, somewhat stout, a bit of a dandy if the truth be told, but his expression was pleasant, his eyes intelligent. He smiled and remarked on the excellent condition of the roads from London. Burke turned to Knight.

“May I ask what wrenches you from London?”

“I'm here to see your bride, of course,” Knight said. “I told Lannie I would be delighted to play propriety, so I sat between the two of them for four hours.”

Percy Kingstone, Lord Carver, grinned and took Lannie's gloved hand. “He did indeed, my lord, and he snored for three of the four hours.”

“A gross untruth,” said Knight.

Lannie, who had been looking about her, said abruptly, “We got your letter and then saw the notice in the
Gazette
. Corinne was furious, Burke, simply outraged that you would wed without having the family present. You know how she is.”

“Yes, I do.” He gave Lannie a sweet smile. “Montague will see to everyone's luggage. I assume this is to be a visit?”

He assumed correctly, Knight told him. It was a good thirty minutes later before Knight and Burke finally found themselves alone in Burke's estate room, the only room in the Abbey that guaranteed them privacy.

“Where is your bride?”

“Asleep, I hope. She still isn't completely well yet and tires easily.”

“I didn't realize she had been ill.”

“Yes, she became quite sick at your hunting box. She is much better now.”

Knight wandered over to the fireplace and leaned his broad shoulder negligently against the mantelpiece. “I don't suppose you will tell me what transpired at Hobhouse? Other than your bride's illness, of course.”

“Her illness is at the root of the business, if you would know the truth. I married her really without her knowing about it. I daresay that if she hadn't been ill she never would have married me. She is hurt, Knight. I have an odd marriage, I suppose you could say.”

Knight regarded him, saying nothing.

Burke gave it up without a whimper. He and Knight had been through too much together for him to even consider dissembling now. “Her first husband abused her dreadfully. If you saw the white lines on her body—” He paused, and Knight frowned at the fury and pain he saw in his friend's eyes. “He beat her. Often. Obviously with great pleasure. There, now you will understand. I ask that you be gentle with her. I'm glad you're here. We've had some nastiness, and your presence will take Arielle's mind off it, hopefully.”

A houseful of guests certainly did distract Arielle. She went so far as to laugh at dinner at a comment made by Lord Carver. She'd thought him rather like a stuffed, very well garbed sausage until she discovered he was near to overflowing with a keen wit. And he appeared kind.

“That was too absurd,” Lannie said, taping her fork on his hand, “and I won't believe a word of it.”

“That Daisy kissed the dowager duchess or that the footman pinched Daisy's, ah, her—well, you understand.”

Burke watched her laugh and felt something warm and sweet fill him. He wished at this very moment that he could touch her, nothing more, just feel her warmth and softness. And, of course, she would look at him, trying to control her fear, trying desperately to discover what it was he wanted so she could do it to keep him from striking her.

It was better in the dark when she was lying beside him in the big bed. He couldn't see her fear, her wariness, perhaps even her revulsion. But he still knew that after each kiss she expected an order, expected him to hit her, to yell at her. But nothing save more kisses and caresses followed. He wondered if his behavior was still driving her frantic.

There was a brief lull in the conversation as Montague directed the footmen to remove the green-pea soup and the stewed trout and serve the entrées of venison, scallops of chickens, and tendons of beef.

Lannie, not waiting for the footmen to remove themselves, said with a meaningful look toward Burke, “So, my brother-in-law, this very romantic fellow who Corinne says collected at least half a dozen ladies during his visit to London, comes back to Ravensworth, takes one look at you, Arielle, and marries you. It is vastly romantic, don't you agree, Percy?”

“To be swept off one's feet, my dear, is that what you mean? Sort of like swimming off Dover at high tide?”

“You are provoking. Now, Arielle, did you set your cap for Burke?”

“I suppose you could say that, Lannie.”

Burke gave her a warm smile. Arielle didn't return it. She felt very alone at that moment, felt indeed something of a fraud.

“I suppose he is passing handsome. At least that's what the ladies whispered to me whilst I was in London. And, Burke, you naughty man, I heard Lord Donnovan tell about your mistress, Laura something-or-other. Oh, dear, really, forgive me—I didn't mean, truly, it's just that—”

“Eat, Lannie, and count the peas on your plate,” Burke said easily.

Knight, a diplomat of the first order, said in a thoughtful voice, “I say, Burke, that painting just above your left shoulder, is it an ancestor?”

“Yes, my great-great-grandfather, Hugo Everett Drakemore Drummond.” As he spoke, Burke looked toward Arielle. Her head was down. He felt a wave of anger at Lannie for her damnably loose tongue. He glanced over to see Knight looking at him, a question in his eyes.

When Arielle said quietly, “If you will excuse us, gentlemen,” and rose, it took all Burke's resolution not to go to her and drag her away to explain. He watched her walk gracefully from the dining room, Lannie beside her.

“Well,” Lannie said brightly, looking about the drawing room, “You haven't changed anything, I see.”

“No,” said Arielle.

“How odd it is to have another lady here as mistress. Not that I mind, Arielle, for I truly don't. It just feels rather strange. Even after Montrose died, I was still the mistress. Yes, very strange.”

“Lord Carver seems a nice gentleman.”

“Yes, I fancy that I shall marry him. He is very smart, you know.” She added a bit uncertainly, “He is, I am told, much admired for his wit.”

Arielle smiled at that negligent bit of praise. “Yes, he is very amusing. Do Virgie and Poppet like him?”

“They are utterly indiscriminating. They rally around any male who comes into their ken, including Percy. Percy's first wife died in childbirth. He didn't believe, so he told me, that he would ever find another lady he could love.” Lannie turned a pale shade of pink at her words. “I think we will deal well together.”

“I think so too.”

“Now tell me about poor little Mellie. I couldn't believe it. Mrs. Pepperall told me, you know. Killing herself like that.”

Arielle's expression turned hard. “Mellie was raped. She didn't kill herself, Lannie. I am sorry to say this because it is frightening, but someone killed her, probably the man who raped her. You see, she went down the stairs in the middle of the night. There was no candle anywhere about.”

“But Mrs. Pepperall told me that Mellie was struck with guilt and—”

“Guilt? About what? She was raped, Lannie. She didn't do anything. She was fifteen years old.”

Lannie gave her a long look, then said, “I think I shall play a French ballad for you.”

The gentlemen soon made their appearance, and good manners dictated that Burke play the attentive host until all his guests were ready for their beds. It was close to midnight before he closed his chamber door, drew a deep sigh, and began to take off his clothes. Arielle had excused herself a few moments earlier. She was in bed, the covers drawn up to her eyebrows. He could see her outline from the light of the single candle on the table. He knew she was awake. He gritted his teeth and said in his major lord's voice, “Arielle, get up now. I wish to see you.”