Etienne had been here for nearly two weeks now. It wasn’t that he appeared to openly admire her, or to show her any excessive courtesy. But still she found herself avoiding him. She was aware that on occasion Paisley would watch her, then his son, and there would be an assessing look in his eyes. Assessing what?
“The pheasant doesn’t appeal to you, Arielle?”
He saw everything, which was strange because his eyesight was failing. “It is delicious. It is just that I am not very hungry this evening, Paisley.”
“Nevertheless, you will eat your dinner. It would displease me if you did not.”
She picked up her fork and ate the pheasant. He hadn’t whipped her since the second night of his illegitimate son’s arrival at Rendel Hall. Nor had he forced her to be naked for endless hours in his bedchamber, hanging by that rope attached to the hook in the ceiling, or on her hands and knees in front of him, her hands on his body, her mouth caressing—She shuddered, gagged on the pheasant.
Paisley said to Etienne, “No, she doesn’t look eighteen, does she? But she is, you know. She’s been a wife for nearly two years now.”
Why would Etienne care how old she was? She risked a glance at him. He was staring at her. Her heart pounded, her hands grew clammy. “More wine, Etienne?”
“Non, madame,” Etienne said easily. He turned back to his father, forcing a pleasant expression as he looked at the filthy old bastard. Surprisingly, he had accepted him with something akin to open arms, asked him to remain, but it worried Etienne because he didn’t know his sire’s motive. The only reason he’d journeyed to England was because his mother had asked it of him on her deathbed. Perhaps Lord Rendel wished him to kill someone? It sounded melodramatic, but he wouldn’t put it past the old degenerate. Perhaps he wanted to legitimize him and make him his heir? Well, that would be something. He wasn’t likely to have children by this wife.
“You find her acceptable?”
Etienne looked at the old man’s veiny hand resting near his arm. He imagined that hand on Arielle. “Oui, she is more than acceptable,” he said. “You wouldn’t have married her, I think, had she not been beautiful.” She was also hearing everything they said. Why was the old man doing this?
“True,” said Paisley and returned to his plate.
After dinner, Paisley told Arielle to play the pianoforte. “She is barely tolerable,” he said to his son. “Since she is lazy and won’t practice, what can one expect? She has a modicum of talent, so I abide listening to her now and then.”
The pianoforte was out of tune, the keys yellowed, many of them cracked or sticking. She sat down on the swivel stool and essayed a French ballad. It sounded dreadful, but there was nothing she could do about it. She played until Paisley told her to stop. Upon his command, she immediately lifted her hands from the keys and folded them in her lap. And waited.
Once, she had stopped when she had wished to. He had struck her, not even bothering to look up when the butler, Philfer, had come into the drawing room.
“Let us have tea, my dear girl,” he said to her. “Ring for Philfer.”
The butler brought in the tea, then looked at his master, not his mistress, for further instructions, which Paisley duly gave him. After Philfer had closed the salon doors, Paisley said, “You will go upstairs now, Arielle. You will have no tea.”
Immediately, Arielle rose. “Good night, Etienne. Good night, my lord.”
Another night of freedom, she thought, and her steps speeded up. She wanted the safety of her bedchamber. She scarce looked at the closed adjoining door that gave into Paisley’s bedchamber. “Dorcas,” she called, pitching her voice just right, for her maid was growing deaf. She even smiled at the old woman when she came into her bedchamber.
Within fifteen minutes Arielle was in her nightgown, her hair brushed out, and into her bed. She wanted to lie there and simply savor her continued reprieve, but she fell quickly asleep. An hour later, a light shone into her eyes and she felt someone shaking her shoulder. Paisley’s voice said. “Time for you to do as I tell you, my dear. Out of your bed now.”
She drew away, unable to help herself. “No,” she whispered. “Oh, no.”
“Do as I tell you, you little slut, else I’ll flay the hide off you. And then I will have your maid fetched. I leave you to yourself for a few days and look at your insolence.”
Arielle rose immediately and reached for her dressing gown.
“No, you will have no need of it,” he said and jerked the dressing gown out of her hands and threw it across the room. “Come with me.”
Numbly, she followed her husband through the adjoining door into his bedchamber. He was fully clothed. What did he want of her? Did he want her to disrobe him? She’d done it many times before, doing it very slowly, caressing him as she removed an article of clothing, her every motion a ritual he’d taught her. She closed her eyes for a moment and willed herself to obey. Even if she’d learned nothing else during the past two years, she had certainly learned that she had no choice at all when it came to Paisley’s demands.
“Is she not lovely?”
Arielle came to an abrupt halt. There, standing in front of the fireplace, his body silhouetted by the leaping orange flames, was Etienne. He was in a dressing gown, his feet bare.
“Yes,” he said in his strongly accented English. “She is exquisite.”
Paisley laughed. “Well, my dear? Can you guess what it is I wish you to do?”
She turned to him, and her eyes were filled with understanding and hatred, for him and for herself. “No,” she whispered. “No, you cannot, please—”
“I can do whatever I wish, Arielle. You have failed me. You must bear me an heir. Since Etienne is my son, though his mother was a trollop of little count, I will let him get you with child. He would do it for me even though he were to find you displeasing, which he doesn’t. Tonight, my dear girl, I wish you to show him what I have taught you. I wish him to see your accomplishments. And since you have so few outside the bedchamber, well, I encourage you, my dear, to do your best. You will pleasure Etienne; yes, indeed you shall.”
“No.”
She was running when he tripped her, still fighting him when he ripped the nightgown off her, still struggling when he pulled her upright back against him and said, “Well, Etienne, does her body please you, or do you find her too thin?”
“No.”
“She is quite beautiful,” said Etienne. “But I have never raped a woman. I do not wish to rape her.”
Paisley laughed, his arms squeezing beneath her ribs until she couldn’t breathe.
“You won’t have to rape her. Tonight she will pleasure you. And tomorrow night, my boy, she will be perfectly calm and willing, and I will hold her whilst you take her. She is a virgin, you know.” He laughed again.
“A girl doesn’t necessarily become pregnant with but one encounter,” said Etienne.
“No, you will take her until she is with child. You will be amply rewarded, my boy. Oh, yes, indeed you will.”
She was sobbing, tears rolling down her cheeks, her nose running, her hair in tangled confusion about her face. Paisley turned her about, raised his hand, and slapped her hard. “Enough, Arielle. Cease your foolish sniveling, else I will whip you. I expect you to show Etienne how very well trained you are. All women are whores at heart, and you are included. It’s just that you have had to wait to have your little belly filled. I give you a night of anticipation. Etienne, remove your dressing gown. I wish Arielle to see your male endowments. Raise your eyes and look at the gift I give you, my dear.”
She did. She watched Etienne shrug out of his dressing gown, watched it pool at his feet. His body was well made, she supposed, at least compared with his father’s. His sex was aroused, thrusting out, and she whimpered. She felt her husband’s hand stroking over her breasts. To protest would bring more humiliation, more pain, endless pain, and harm to Dorcas. She forced herself to be perfectly still.
“What do you think, Ariell
e? Should you like the young stallion to cover you?”
She said nothing.
“No matter. Now, Arielle, I will release you. You will very gracefully see to Etienne’s obvious need. Then you will return to your bed and think about what pleasure awaits you.”
She did as she was told. It was different because he was hard and thick. When it was over, she fell back and lay still, her face pressed into the bright green Aubusson carpet in front of the fireplace.
“Very well done, my dear girl. Leave us now.”
She was on her feet in an instant, swiping her hand across her mouth. She heard Paisley laughing as she dashed across the room and through the adjoining door.
Arielle ran to the night table and picked up the pitcher of water that sat there. She washed out her mouth, and then she vomited.
It was too much.
She could bear no more.
She looked up at the bars on her window, bars installed by a silent workman a year before, after her mad flight to her half brother. She knew that the door was already locked from the outside. Paisley had taken no chances with her since her attempted escape. Even with his threats against Dorcas, he was still careful.
Surely if she killed herself he would have no reason to hurt Dorcas. Her only problem was how to do it. She looked at a glass figurine on the night table. If it were broken, the edges would be sharp enough. She stared at the figurine, and stared at her wrists. She didn’t move for a very long time.
The next morning her husband ordered Dorcas from her bedchamber and pulled her from her bed. He watched her bathe, dress, then accompanied her downstairs. He didn’t allow her to be alone, even going to the convenience with her.
And that evening at the dinner table, Paisley Cochrane, Viscount Rendel, choked on a herring bone and died, his wife and illegitimate son in attendance.
One
BATTLE OF TOULOUSE TOULOUSE, FRANCE
APRIL 1814
It was the stench that brought him back.
He opened his eyes and gazed up at the starlit sky, unaware that the stench filling his nostrils and seeping into his lungs was of human suffering, human blood, and human death. He heard a low moan, but it didn’t quite touch him. It was odd, that was all.
It took him longer to realize that he couldn’t move. He didn’t know why he couldn’t move, but there it was. What was wrong with him? What had happened?
It occurred to him that he was dead. No, not dead, he thought, but perhaps near death. He began to remember the battle in all its detail, as was his habit. Just as he had never forgotten the screaming death of Sergeant Hallsifer at Massena in 1810, nor the memory of how Private Oliver from Sutton-on-Tyne, a young man of vast good humor and excellent marksmanship, had bled to death. He closed his mind to it. Later, he thought, if he were blessed with a later, he would remember.
He wondered vaguely if Wellington had won the battle. It was doubtful, for if Wellington hadn’t managed to bring up the heavy guns, well, there would have been no surrender and the French would have escaped from the city and been halfway to Paris by now. What the devil had happened? He tried again to move his legs, then realized with a start that a dead horse was pinning him down.
He wondered if he had been wounded, but he could feel nothing. His body seemed separate from his mind. Had he been left for dead? No, that wasn’t likely. Where were his men? Please, God, not dead, please.
He knew a moment of panic, then forced himself to breathe deeply, to control his fear. It was then that he felt the whisper of pain in his side. He concentrated on that pain. Then he turned his mind inward. He would simply have to wait until Joshua came for him, and Joshua would come.
He focused his mind back in time, back to a beautiful spring day in Sussex. He dwelt on her. His memories were still vivid, not vague and blurred with time, which usually happened. No, he could see her smiling face clearly, see the rich gleam of her hair in the brilliant sunlight.
Arielle Leslie, a child really, only fifteen years old in 1811, and he had wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life.
He could still hear her laugh, high and pure, not some sort of romantic angel’s laugh, but a young girl’s healthy pleasure—
SUSSEX, ENGLAND 1811
He was home that May in 1811 to recuperate from the wound in his shoulder, a deep bullet wound that had left him weak from the loss of too much blood and in steady pain for weeks. But he’d survived and made it home to Ravensworth Abbey. Made it home in time to attend his brother’s funeral. Montrose Drummond, seventh Earl of Ravensworth, was laid to rest in the Drummond family vault next to their father, Charles Edward Drummond, and their mother, Alicia Mary Drummond. Not that he deserved to spend eternity next to the senior Drummonds, the stupid ass. Montrose had fought a duel over a married woman and had been shot through his heart by the husband. Bloody stupid fool. It had taken him a while to realize that he, Burke Carlyle Beresford Drummond, was now the eighth Earl of Ravensworth. He remembered the day of the funeral clearly, for it was also the day he had met Arielle. He was in the Ravensworth library, the long, thick draperies flung back to let in the bright sunlight. Lannie’s voice was high and distraught, pitched just right to her captive audience.
“What will become of me? What will happen to my poor fatherless little angels? I shall moan into my pillow, so all alone. Ah, the horror of it. We shall starve. I shall have to sell myself to save my babies.” From her tone, the final degradation didn’t seem all that appalling.
Lloyd Kinnard, Lord Boyle, was Burke’s only brother-in-law, his older sister, Corinne’s, husband. Burke grinned, watching Lloyd try to stifle his laugh. It turned into a cough. “Pardon me,” he said and earned a reproachful look from Lannie.
Burke looked at his sister-in-law and wished she would shut her Cupid’s bow mouth. Her complaints were now repetitive, her creativity long used up. Sell herself? He wanted to laugh as well, but the choked look on Lord Boyle’s face made him hold his mirth. Lannie had never known a day of want in her life. Surely she could not believe for an instant that he, Burke, would toss her and her babies out on their respective ears.
No one said anything, but Lady Boyle gave Lannie a look that would have crushed her flat had she had the courtesy to pay attention to her sister-in-law.
“I am going riding,” Burke said, seeing Lannie open her mouth to begin another round. He strode quickly from the library. His arm was still in a sling, but the pain was only an occasional twinge now.
“Be back by four, Burke,” Corinne called after him. “Mr. Hodges will be here to read Montrose’s will then.”
“All right,” he said over his shoulder and kept walking. He heard Lord Boyle say something about a brandy, and smiled as his sister told him that his nose was already bulbous from drink.
Darlie saddled his big black stallion, Ashes, then offered him a leg up. “You have a care now, my lord,” he said, and Burke was startled to hear the title.
“I will,” he said and smiled at the old man who’d hefted him onto his first pony’s back.
He rode to regain the feel of his boyhood home. He hadn’t been back for nearly four years, and that visit had been at the death of his father. Not a happy stay and he’d left as quickly as was decent. Now he was back again, this time to bury his brother and to become the eighth Earl of Ravensworth. A damned earldom. It was something he didn’t want, had never wanted. He was no longer free.
Burke rode down the long, curving lime-lined drive with its high, immaculately trimmed yew bushes on either side. At least Montrose had kept the estate up. He rode the perimeter of Drummond land, heading unconsciously eastward for the small lake that nestled like an exquisite emerald at the boundary of Drummond and Leslie land. Bunberry Lake was precisely as he remembered it from a good fifteen years before. It wasn’t smaller, as things tended to be when one grew out of childhood. In fact, it seemed more precious simply because it had survived, would survive long after Burke had cast off his mortal coil.
He
dismounted carefully from Ashes’s broad back and tethered him to a maple branch. He breathed deeply. There were lily pads, willow branches dipping nearly to the surface of the still water, and daisies carpeting the ground, blooming wildly under the warm spring sun.
He sat back against the thick trunk of an oak tree. Lazily, he pulled up a blade of grass and chewed on it. He listened to frogs croaking and wondered if it was some sort of mating ritual. He listened to a hummingbird screech angrily at an intruder. And he listened to the sweet quiet that surrounded him, and savored it.
Then Ashes raised his head, sniffed the air, and whinnied.
Still Burke didn’t move. So someone was coming. He had no intention of leaving his comfortable spot. He’d been here first, after all.
Then he saw her. She was riding a chestnut mare and she was laughing, at her mare’s antics, he supposed, for the horse was prancing and dancing sideways. He could not see her face because a scarlet-plumed hat covered her hair and curved about her cheek. Her riding habit was a brilliant green, and as her mare did a particularly smart side step, he saw a booted foot. He wondered who she was. She had an excellent seat. He waited for her to notice him.
When she did, she paused but an instant, then waved to him, calling out in her pure, sweet voice, “How do you do? Are you the new earl? You are, are you not? After all I can see that you are wounded and the new earl was hurt, I heard, and you have the look of a hero, although you are the first I’ve ever seen. Yes, well, my name is Arielle and I am not really trespassing on Drummond land. Indeed, this brief patch is Leslie land, or at least it should be if it isn’t.”
During this guileless speech, Burke rose slowly to his feet. “Come here,” he called to her. He carelessly brushed off his buckskin riding breeches and straightened his dun-colored jacket.
Night Fire Page 2