Night Fire

by Catherine Coulter

  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 ma
rried 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.”

  There was no response from the bed. he held his breath, hoping against hope. “Arielle, I said to get up. I don’t wish to tell you again.”

  He was naked, and as he was reaching for his dressing gown, he saw her sit up in bed and look toward him. He guessed she wanted to plead with him and he waited. She said nothing. She slipped out of bed. She was wearing a nightgown.

  “Take off the nightgown. Now. I thought I told you never to wear one.”

  Her hands fluttered to the long row of buttons, paused, then began to unfasten them.

  “Hurry.”

  He felt that damnable pain as he watched her become frantic, pulling and prodding at the tiny buttons. Finally she jerked the gown over her head and stood perfectly still in front of him. He reached out his hand. She didn’t move. Her eyes were closed.

  “Open your eyes.”

  She did, without hesitation. His fingers lightly stroked over her breasts. He watched her carefully. Because he was coming to know her so well, he saw the fear building even though she tried to keep her features expressionless. Slowly, he ran his hand down to her stomach. She was so incredibly soft, smooth. He let his fingers tangle in the fine curls that covered her, curls just a bit darker than her beautiful Titian hair. He heard her suck in her breath, felt her near desperation to flee. She didn’t move. He was hard with need but ignored it. Gently, he picked her up and carried her to the bed.

  When he laid her down, he saw a flash of pure anger in her eyes before she masked it. Her hands were at her sides and were fisted against the linen sheets. She made no move to cover herself, waiting, knowing herself to be helpless.

  Burke sat on the bed beside her. “Arielle.”

  She didn’t want to, but she looked at him.

  “What are you feeling? Right now?”

  She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. She ran her tongue over her lower lip and appeared completely bewildered.

  “Are you feeling desire for me?”

  She couldn’t hide her reaction. She shook her head, a small cry escaping her throat.


  “I see. Do you feel anger toward me?”

  “No, no, truly, I am—tired. Forgive me, just tell me what you wish and—”

  “I wish to hold you and fall asleep holding you.” He followed action to words, shed his dressing gown, and slipped into bed beside her. She was trembling. Damnation. He pulled her against him and settled her. Patience, he thought. Patience. “I’m too tired to kiss your beautiful ears. Forgive me.”

  He thought she’d fallen asleep, when she said, “Laura who?”

  He felt an excessive spurt of joy. He said easily, “Laura Hogburn. Not a romantic last name, I grant you, but what can she do?”

  “She could change it.”

  He smiled into the darkness. Acrimony. He was delighted.

  “What did you do to her?”

  Now what, Burke wondered silently, did she mean by that? He said aloud, “Do you mean, did I pay her money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Certainly. Do you mean, did I visit her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not since I left London to come after you. I already told you that, remember? Do you mean, did I beat her?”

  “Yes, damn you.”

  “No.”

  “But what—”

  “I had sex with her. It is what one usually does with a mistress, you know.”

  “Then she was used to doing and being exactly what a man wished her to be.”

  “I suppose so,” Burke said. “After all, she makes her living by pleasing men. Mistresses do that quite willingly, and hopefully with sufficient skill to earn enough money for their needs.”

  Arielle fell silent. She’d been right. Mistresses weren’t beaten, simply because they were free to leave whenever they wished. Men had no legal hold over them. They weren’t at all like wives, who had no choice about anything.

  She sighed and closed her eyes. She was very aware of Burke’s lean body against hers, the crinkly softness of his hair against her cheek. Her hand lay as still as she could keep it on his muscled belly. She was terrified that she would touch him by accident and that he would lose control. When he’d taken off his dressing gown, his sex had been hard, ready. She made a small, distressed sound, unable to help herself.