Night Fire (14 page)

“It was I who seduced her,” said Burke, who couldn't stand this utter nonsense another moment. “Aren't I the one to be judged harshly?”

“You are a man, my lord,” said the vicar without a blink. “If you will recall your scripture, you will remember that the woman, the temptress, holds the power of evil. A man may be weak, my lord, but not many men would perform such a noble service as you have this day. I will pray, devoutly, that the young woman becomes deserving of the honor you have bestowed upon her.”

No hope for it, Burke thought. When Ruby and Mrs. Ringlestone came back into the bedchamber bearing trays of cakes and wine, he was profoundly relieved.

She was his wife. She didn't know it, but that was all right.

Now she had to live.

“Please pray for her, sir,” he said to the vicar as he helped the old man on his way. “I love her, you see, and I don't want to lose her now. I don't think I could bear it.”

“Since she has both Armbruster and our good Lord on her side, I venture to think she will survive, my lord. I will visit tomorrow.”

Burke, elated, weary, and so scared he could scarce think straight, resumed his vigil by his wife's bed.

 

Arielle opened her eyes. She felt lazy and strangely at peace. However, she soon realized she hadn't the foggiest idea of where she was. She slowly looked about, nothing the long narrow windows whose draperies were tied away, admitting weak rays of sunlight; the few pieces of furniture; the single wing chair that was drawn up next to the bed. And the heat of the room. A fire was blazing in the fireplace. She realized she was sweating and she wondered why the devil her maid had built up such a blaze.

It was summer, wasn't it?

“Dorcas,” she called out, but nothing came from her mouth save a flat croaking sound. “Oh, dear,” she whispered. She wanted to sit up, but the pile of blankets covering her was too heavy.

Why was she so weak? She raised her hand and pushed the hair off her forehead and realized that someone had braided her hair. The thick braid felt lank, heavy and oily.

She lowered her arm and tried to think. “Paisley,” she whispered, thinking he'd brought her here. She felt that awful fear wash through her. No, he was dead, a long time ago, months ago. A lifetime ago.

“Hello. Is that really you, Arielle?”

She turned her face toward the sound of the voice. A man's voice. Deep and calm. Burke's voice. What was he doing here? She tensed.

“No, no, my dear, don't be frightened. You are all right now—at least I think you are. Your eyes certainly look bright. Welcome back.” That wasn't even close to what he was feeling at the moment, but there was no reason to frighten her by yelling aloud and dancing about the bedchamber. His smile grew wider. She was all right, truly, finally.

She opened her mouth and this time, with great concentration, she managed to say, “What are you doing here? Where is here?”

“I will answer everything. First, would you like something to eat? Drink?”

Her mouth watered immediately. He smiled and walked away from the bed.

She heard him calling outside the chamber door to someone named Mrs. Ringlestone. When he came back, he held out a glass of water. “Here, let me help you. Don't be alarmed.”

He held her up while she sipped at the water. She couldn't seem to get enough.

“Very good,” he said and gently eased her back down. “Mrs. Ringlestone—she's our cook—she'll bring up food. How do you feel?”

“Fine,” she said. “Just weak.”

“No wonder. You've been very ill. You've had me so scared I promised years and years of devout rectitude if you would but come back whole.”

“How long was I ill?”

“Eight days. You came down with an inflammation of the lung, the result of your mad dash into the storm. Do you remember?”

She frowned, trying to recall, but it only made her head throb.

He saw the sudden tensing of pain and said, “Don't try to remember. Just relax and get well again.”

“You've lost weight, Burke.”

He grinned, knowing that he had and strangely pleased that she would notice.

“You shouldn't have. You're too thin now.”

He made a vow not to give her a mirror. Not only was she as skinny as his malacca cane, her skin was pasty and her glorious hair was dull and lifeless.

“But you,” he said, “look wonderful.”

She stilled at his words, and he cursed himself silently for rushing his fences. “Ah, Mrs. Ringlestone, some food for our patient. Arielle, my dear, this is our cook, Mrs. Ringlestone.”

“My lady,” said Mrs. Ringlestone.

“Hello,” said Arielle.

Burke lifted her against the pillows. Mrs. Ringlestone had prepared some hot barley soup and warm bread piled high with butter. There was also a small crock of honey.

“Thank you, Mrs. Ringlestone. I'll watch to see that she doesn't spill the soup on her lap.”

Arielle didn't think to protest that comment; she was too busy getting a spoonful of soup into her mouth.

Burke watched her, a slight smile on his lips, and quickly eased down beside her when he saw she was too exhausted to continue.

“More?” he asked as he took the spoon from her.

“Please.”

She seemed to fall asleep shortly thereafter. Burke removed the tray, only to almost drop it when she said, very clearly, “Where is that little man with the scraggly white hair?”

So she did remember something.

When next she awoke, it was nearly dark. Burke had sent Mrs. Ringlestone and Ruby on their way an hour before, and he was sitting in a chair next to Arielle's bed, reading a book of John Donne's poetry. He wasn't particularly interested in the poet, but Knight's library downstairs didn't have a great selection. One moment he was half attending to a poem about men not being islands when he sensed she was awake. He didn't know how he knew, but he just did.

“Hello,” he said before she even raised her eyes.

“May I have some water?”

“Certainly.”

She downed an entire glass. Surely she would have to relieve herself, he thought, and wondered what the devil he should do about it. He doubted she had the strength to handle the task herself. He said, “Are you hungry? Mrs. Ringlestone left some food for you.”

She nodded and said nothing more. When he left the bedchamber, she looked about for the chamber pot. I must make myself move, she thought.

She did, barely. She couldn't imagine being this weak and shaky. She also didn't think she would manage, but she did. When the door opened again to admit Burke and her dinner tray, she was half standing, half sitting at the end of the bed, clutching the bedpost. Her nightgown was bunched up about her knees and she was breathing heavily.

She looked pale and sweaty. Burke didn't say anything. He merely set the tray down on the table next to the bed. “Let me help you back into bed.”

Her chin went up. “I don't need your help. I just need another minute to—”

She felt herself being scooped up and gently placed in bed.

This time she managed to feed herself a good deal before she became too tired and allowed Burke to feed her the rest of the chicken breast. She gave a sigh of contentment afterward and leaned back against her pillow.

“Did I almost die?”

He placed his cup of hot black coffee on the tray. “Yes,” he said, “yes, you did almost die. You scared the hell out of me. But you're fine now.”

“You'll let me leave, then?”

He shook his head. “It wouldn't do at all. Not now.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I spent all your hundred pounds on the doctor.”

“You
what
?”

He gave her a crooked grin. “I didn't have any money with me. I had to give the doctor yours.”

“You will certainly pay it back.”

“I had fully intended to provide you with a generous quarterly allowance. You needn't worry.”

“Burke. Now you listen to me. I won't hear any more of this nonsense, and I have no intention—”

“Hush. Would you like a bath? Your hair is a bit on the edge.”

A bath sounded so marvelous that she forgot her grievances for the moment. “Yes, but you can't stay.”

“You'll need my help, Arielle.”

She said neither yea nor nay to that. When at last the tub was filled, Burke helped her out of bed. She was so thin, he thought, so fragile. Except for her will, thank God.

He helped her to the tub, then turned her to face him, holding her firmly against him. “Now attend me. I have taken care of you since you became ill. I did everything for you. There is no reason for you to feel embarrassed with me now. You can't do this alone. I will help you into the tub, then I'll wash your hair for you. All right?”

She said in a low, pained voice, “Everything?”

“Everything.”

“Why?”

“I'll tell you why later, when you're back in your bed.”

He helped her off with her nightgown, efficiently and matter-of-factly. Once she was in the hot water, he unbraided her hair and brushed out the tangles.

“Let's wash your hair first,” he said. It was quite a chore, something he wasn't at all used to doing, but he managed. Once he'd gotten all the soap rinsed out, he said, “I'm going to change your bed now. You wash the rest of you, all right?”

Arielle was beyond embarrassment. She was shaking with weakness, but she didn't say anything.

Burke rose and looked down at her for a moment. Her breasts were covered by the water, but he knew their shape, feel, and texture quite well. Lovely breasts, almost too large for her slender torso, and he'd cursed himself every time he'd taken care of her because he'd become hard instantly. He forced himself even now to tamp down thoughts and images so lustful that he nearly trembled, and headed for the bed.

He'd just finished changing the bedding when he heard a cry behind him. He whirled around to see Arielle trying to climb out of the tub, a towel in one hand, the other hand flailing about wildly. She lost her balance and went tumbling to the floor before he could move.

A
rielle lay on her back, her arms and legs sprawled, feeling like a great fool.

“Arielle.”

She saw the fear and worry in his dark eyes and quickly said, “I'm all right, just clumsy.” She wanted to cover herself, but she hadn't the strength. It was too much. She turned her head away from him and choked back a sob.

He gathered her and the towel and lifted her into his arms. He carried her to the fireplace and sat down in a chair. He began to dry her. Instead of fighting him, she was pliant, her head against his shoulder. He tried to keep his hands off her, but it was impossible. His fingers stroked over her left breast. I won't look, he thought. I won't respond. I won't be a damned animal. But he couldn't help himself. He looked and saw that her nipple was taut, and it nearly did him in.

He pretended he was going into battle, reaching for the cold, emotionless control that had kept him alive more times than he cared to think about. He didn't linger, was nearly rough, until he got to her feet. They, at least, were safer than the rest of her, but even there he found beauty. Her feet were narrow, finely arched. He was looking at her toes when he said, “You are too thin. We've got to feed you ten times a day.”

He hadn't intended to say anything. “Nice toes, though,” he added, trying for some vagrant humor and not finding any. He sighed and began to dry her hair.

But it was simply too much. The wretched towel he'd wrapped around her wasn't enough. It was torture, and there was no chance he was going to make her any less wary of him than she already was. He carried her to the bed and got her into his dressing gown, wrapping it twice around her and tying the belt securely. She made no protest during this operation. He knew that she would have fought him to the edge if she'd had the strength. She said not a word when he carried her back to the chair by the fire.

By the time her hair was only slightly damp, his arm was aching from combing out tangles and holding her. He eased her down and arranged himself more comfortably. Her long hair was hanging loose over his arm. She was well covered, the fire was well stocked and hot, and soon both of them were sound asleep.

Burke awoke to a dark room. There were only glowing embers in the fireplace. He felt cramped, his neck sore, and his left arm was numb. Arielle was nestled against him, still deeply asleep, her body so relaxed that it quickly gave rise to more erotic fantasies.

He brought her closer, breathing in the sweet scent of her. My wife, he thought; she is finally my wife. It was deep in the middle of the night. He heard the sounds of the house, the groans and the quiet creakings, the gentle swishing of tree branches against the windows. He felt at peace and pleasantly hazy in his thoughts. Reality did not intrude.

“Let's go to bed, wife,” he said and smiled at his words. He truly was happy with the sound of that.

It was Arielle who awoke first the following morning and she was wonderfully warm. It took her a moment to realize that the warmth was from Burke. She was lying against him, her head on his chest, her leg thrown over his thighs. One arm was holding her firmly against him. She could hear his even, deep breathing. She flattened her palm on his chest and stilled. He was naked. Crisp hair was between her splayed fingers.

“Burke?”

He mumbled something in his sleep and tightened his hold on her. Slowly, very slowly, she managed to pull away from him. His dressing gown gaped open down her front and she quickly drew it tightly against her. She was nearly free when she heard him say easily, “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

Her cheeks were flushed, her hair in tangles about her face and down her back. He could have told her that she was the most exquisite creature in the world to him.

They stared at each other, she at a stranger, he at his wife.

“You have whiskers,” she said.

“Men usually do in the morning.”

“You also have hair on your chest.”

“Just about everywhere, I'm afraid, except for my back. I'd just as soon not shave my body, if you don't mind. I hope it doesn't offend you too much.”

This was ridiculous. “I want to leave now.”

“This very moment? Wearing my dressing gown?”

She lowered her head. He was teasing her, sounding gentle, but it made no difference to her fear. It made no difference to the reality of things. He was lying in bed with her, naked, ready to do whatever pleased him. “I feel much better,” she said at last, moving a few inches away from him.

“Good. So do I. Now I will remove myself for a while. Will you be all right until I return?”

She nodded.

“I believe I can even find a nightgown for you.”

“A nightgown? Where did a nightgown come from?”

“I bought one for you.” There, he thought; face a bit of reality, Arielle. “In London, when I was planning to abduct you. I couldn't be worried about bringing any baggage from your carriage, so I had to buy you a few things. Had you looked in the armoire in the other bedchamber, you would have found several gowns, slippers, and undergarments. No bonnets, though. That was beyond me. I'm sorry. Actually, I bought you just one nightgown and you wore it all during your illness. I'm not certain if Mrs. Ringlestone has laundered it.”

Whether she faced reality or anything else, he didn't know, for she said nothing.

She continued to say nothing until he left the bedchamber. She turned away when he'd gotten out of bed. Nor did she turn to face him even when he told her he was well covered. Burke gave her a long look from the door, then left, gently closing it behind him.

Burke didn't want to leave her alone too long. He knew the moment of reckoning was very near now. After all, Mrs. Ringlestone and Ruby couldn't be expected to keep their respective mouths closed around her. He would have to tell her and he would have to put the plain gold band back on her third finger.

When he entered the bedchamber, he found her sitting by the fireplace, a blanket over her legs, her head against the cushion. She'd brushed most of the tangles from her hair, pulled it back, and wrapped a thick strand of her own hair about it to hold it in place. Her eyes were very large in her thin face and he thought her the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, certainly the most beautiful woman he'd ever loved. He was smiling at his foolish and pleasing thoughts as he said easily, “Mrs. Ringlestone will be bringing our breakfast soon. Are you hungry?”

“Yes. At this rate I shall be fat as a flawn by winter.”

“Good, I'm partial to overweight flawns. Now, Arielle, there is something we need to discuss.”

“I want to leave.”

“Something other than that.”

“I don't want to talk to you about anything else.”

“A pity, but you must. Remember I told you that if you married me I would take you to Boston to see your half sister?”

She frowned at that, not trusting him an inch, but intrigued by his question. “Yes. Why?”

He drew a deep breath and pulled the wedding band from his pocket. He took her hand, and before she knew what he was about, he had worked the ring over the knuckle of her third finger. It was tight, which was just fine with him.

“We're married,” he said.

Arielle stared down at the ring. She tried to pull it off but failed. She kept shaking her finger, yanking at it. “Don't be ridiculous. Of course we aren't married. Why, I—” She looked panicked, and uncertain, and stricken. “That mangy little man—that other man who had the oddest accent—”

“The mangy one is the vicar. He married us. The other is Dr. Armbruster. He's a Scotsman, thus his accent.”

“That's impossible. A woman must agree, I know that.”

Burke leaned down, placing one hand on each chair arm, his face only inches from hers. “You must listen to me, and I will tell you everything.” He straightened and leaned against the mantelpiece. “It's really very simple. I thought you were dying. In your delirium, you spoke of many things. But over and over you said you wanted me. You said you couldn't bear your life the way it was, the way it had been. I asked you to marry me and you said yes.”

“That's a lie. I would never—”

“In your delirium, Arielle. In any case, I felt it was what you wanted, deep down somewhere in your mind, so I spoke to the vicar about it. He agreed. He married us. I have since taken care of the bishop, the special licenses, and all that. We are legally married.”

“I can't remember anything.”

He hated the panic, the fear, in her voice, hated the necessity for the lie about her sentiments. “Arielle, I could not force you to marry me. But you said ‘I do' quite clearly when the vicar asked you if you would take me for your husband. There were three witnesses. You signed the marriage papers. It is done.”

“It cannot be true.”

“It will be good between us, you will see.”

She gave him a bitter look. “Aren't you afraid that I will murder you just as I did my dead husband?”

“No. Did you? Murder him, I mean.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice vicious. “Yes, I did, and I'll murder you too!”

She was hurting so much. He wished there were something he could do, something magical he could say. “I will try to make you happy, Arielle.”

“Will you?”

“Why would you think I wouldn't? I love you, after all. Why would I want to make the woman I love unhappy?”

There was a light knock on the door. Burke called out impatiently, “Come in, Mrs. Ringlestone.”

The older woman came into the room, smiling widely. “Och, I knew you'd be much better this morning, my lady. His lordship ordered a breakfast grand enough to feed a battalion. Yes, he did, and I agree that—”

Arielle was looking at Burke, paying little attention to Mrs. Ringlestone's ramblings. Her husband. Burke now owned her just as Paisley had. He would possess her completely in any fashion he wished, and he had every right to treat her any way he pleased. She saw clearly, starkly, the dream she'd had before. Paisley had become Burke, and he was over her, and naked, and he wasn't impotent, as her husband had been. She'd seen the future and it had happened.

She wasn't aware that tears were falling slowly from her eyes and silently running down her cheeks. Mrs. Ringlestone saw them and was so startled and dismayed, she stopped talking, staring helplessly at Arielle.

“Please leave us, Mrs. Ringlestone,” Burke said.

When she had left, Burke took Arielle in his arms and pulled her onto his lap. She didn't protest. She didn't say anything. She seemed distant and sealed off from him.

He couldn't stand it. “Tell me why you're crying.”

Her head went back and forth against his shoulder.

“You will tell me now, Arielle.”

It was his meanest voice and he hated using it with her, but yet again, it worked.

“I won't do it. I won't.” She was trembling, with rage, fear, he didn't know what.

“What won't you do? Answer me, damn you.”

“That awful dream, it's come true, but I won't let you hurt me, I won't.”

“Tell me about the dream.”

It didn't occur to her not to tell him. He was using his man's voice and she responded to it instantly. “The night after I met you again, at Bunberry Lake, I dreamed. There were Paisley and other men as well and they all had—and then Paisley became you and you were in my bed and forcing me. I couldn't stop you. You're too strong. Don't you see?”

“Yes,” he said quietly, “I do see. But why was I forcing you? That makes no sense.”

“You're a man.”

“A man who loves you.”

“That is stupid, it doesn't matter, and you're lying.”

Burke leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His hand began stroking her upper arm. Her tears stopped. She supposed she cried so little because tears meant there was some sort of hope. She had none. And he'd ordered her to stop, so she did.

Burke wanted desperately at that moment to tell her that he knew the truth, but he wasn't certain that she could take it. Finding out she was married to him was quite likely more than enough for her to absorb, at least for the present. He admitted too that he was wary about telling her, frightened about his reaction to what she would tell him, if she told him anything. Never for as long as he lived would he forget the helpless rage that had consumed him when he'd realized the truth. His beautiful, innocent girl, abused by that monster.

Never would he forget that moment, never. It was as clear in his mind now as it had been then. It was late at night, their wedding night, actually. Her fever had risen as it always did at night and her breathing was heavy, labored. He'd been bathing her, quite efficient at it now, thinking vaguely that in all his fantasies about her, he'd never envisioned this one for his wedding night. Finally, he'd turned her onto her stomach and tossed her thick braid over her shoulder. He began stroking the cool, damp cloth across her back, over her hips, and down her long legs. His rhythm was steady, the pressure light, and he was silently reciting Latin declensions in order to control his lust. The candle gutted suddenly and he paused to light another. He held it up for a moment. And then he looked at her, really looked, with the light strong and steady, and he grew very still.

He shook his head automatically. It had to be a trick of the candlelight. But it wasn't. He brought the candle nearer. He lightly touched a fingertip to one of the thin white marks. Then to another. There were so many. He looked at her buttocks and thighs. More white lines, and he wanted to howl, to scream, but he didn't. It wouldn't help. It would make no difference. She'd been beaten, often and thoroughly. He closed his eyes, unable to handle the reality of those marks. Her half brother? He was shaking his head even as he thought that. No, her husband, of course. That was why she was terrified of men, and why she hadn't wanted to marry him.