Night Fire (3 page)

“I'm sorry. I didn't know. However, I am thankful that they had you.”

“I don't think they had an immense amount of choice in the matter, my lord.”

“You forgot. You must call me Burke. I should like for us to become friends.”

“All right. And I am Arielle. My dear father has a penchant for romantic, rather flighty names—”

“Your name is perfect for you.”

“Flighty, am I? Since there is nothing I can do about it, I should suppose I must make do.”

“Is that something else one must face up to? Like your plain old red hair masquerading as Titian?”

“You are stretching the point a bit. Yes, you are right. The most perfect example is dear Lannie. She is such a ninny. Oh, dear, she is your sister-in-law. I was forgetting that.”

“She is a ninny. Indeed, the reason I am here right now is to escape her infernal melodramas.”

“She is rather good at them, though.”

“Not when she has but one subject to draw from.”

“Oh, yes, Montrose. Has she told everyone, the servants included, that you, as the new earl, will most likely make her work shuttling coals to the bedchambers, before dawn, mind you, to be able to feed her poor little darlings?”

Burke burst into laughter. “Had she done that, I probably would have remained. No, her main focus before I left was that she would have to sell her body to feed her little angels. You know my sister-in-law well, I see.”

“Yes, Lannie isn't really stupid, you know. She is just sometimes irritating. I am sorry about Montrose, as is my father. He doesn't believe in funerals, of course. They are, unfortunately, in the category of heathen orgies, and thus he won't abide them. Forgive us for our seeming disregard.”

“You're forgiven,” Burke said. He found himself staring at the clean lines of her profile as she turned to look out over the lake. He would not have cared if Sir Arthur had classified funerals as Viking pyres.

“Why are you staring at me?” Arielle asked, turning to face him. Her eyes were alight with laughter and teasing. “It is my nose, isn't it? Mother told me when I was six years old that I shouldn't ever have any pretensions to beauty. It is the Leslie nose, not the Ramsay nose.”

“It is a perfect nose. Incidentally, your mother was quite mistaken.”

“Ha. Well, you are a very nice man—rather, major and earl. I must go now or Father will be concerned. He is a pet, you know, but since I am his only child, he does fret.”

“Shall I see you home?”

“Do you know my father?”

“I met him when I was a boy. It's been at least fourteen years since I've seen him.”

“Then you'd best not. He is in the throes of a translation—Aristophanes, I believe—and since he is having some difficulty with a few Greek phrases, he is a bit abrupt with those around him. It is possible he would treat you like an importunate tradesman and that wouldn't do at all. I am the only one he seems to know when one of these bouts overtakes him, and if I am not there, he shouts at everyone. Good-bye, Burke. You will get well, quickly now.”

“Of course.” He tossed her into her saddle. It hurt him to do it, but he had to touch her. Her waist was very small, as was the rest of her. If nothing else could save him, he could at least be aware that she had the body of a young girl, all coltish angles and straight lines. Nevertheless, his fingers tingled. He stood quite still, like a buffoon, staring after her. She finally turned in her saddle, saw him standing there, and gaily waved good-bye.

The next time Burke met Arielle was over tea at Ravensworth Abbey. She was dutifully listening to Lannie carry on.

“Oh yes, indeed, the infamous will. I vow and declare, Arielle, I was never so shocked in all my life.”

“But, Lannie,” Arielle said reasonably, resolutely keeping her eyes from Burke, “Poppet or Virgie couldn't become the Earl of Ravensworth. Unfortunately, girls aren't given all that much worth.”

“I disagree,” said Burke, thinking that Arielle had more power over the damned Earl of Ravensworth than any human alive.

“You would,” said Lannie with charming ambiguity, giving him a petulant shrug. “And Montrose left
him
the guardian of my poor little babies.”

Arielle pursed her lips to hold back her laughter. “Burke will be an excellent guardian, Lannie. Would you have preferred the myopic Mr. Hodges?”

“Oooh, that miserable old tight-fist.”

“There, you see. Burke will never draw the purse strings, will you?”

“Not at all,” he said. “I am the most generous of men, Lannie.” He gave another glance in Arielle's direction, trying to be subtle about his infatuation. She was wearing a soft lavender muslin gown, a schoolgirl's dress with a high neck and a wide satin sash about her waist. But her hair—He swallowed. Her hair was in loose, thick curls down her back. He'd prayed that today when she came to visit, he would see her as he was supposed to—as a very delightful young lady who should spend most of her time in the schoolroom, a delightful young lady, nothing more. But when she'd walked into the drawing room, he'd felt that same blasted feeling as on the day of the funeral, save more so. Damn her, she wasn't even grown. She was by far too innocent and just plain too young for an adult man. He cursed into his teacup.

“Did you say something, Burke?”

“Surely dear Burke wants all that is due to him,” said Lannie in a snide voice. “He is, after all, the earl.”

“I agree,” said Arielle, those innocent blue eyes as wicked as the most practiced flirt in London. “We must ensure that he is filled with consequence.”

“As in hot air?”

“No, I propose to advance your vanity. You have not enough. Joshua was telling me that—”

“You know my Joshua? Joshua spoke to you?” Burke looked at her with frank surprise. Joshua Tucker wasn't precisely a misogynist, but he had a very low regard in general for the female of the species and didn't hesitate to voice this opinion. He was also as loyal as a tick, and his ingenuity had saved the both of them several times during the past five years.

“Certainly,” Arielle said. “He was speaking to Darlie and I introduced myself. He does assure me that he cares for you to the best of his ability but that you haven't a vain bone in your major's body. Er,
major lord's
body.”

Lannie laughed. “Really, Arielle, you haven't a notion of what you're talking about. Montrose told me about that girl Burke took up with at Oxford—”

“Enough, Lannie,” he said quite pleasantly.

“You see,” Arielle said, “you won't even let Lannie brag about your exploits with females.”

“I doubt she was going to brag.”

“Lannie is kindhearted,” said Arielle and turned her eyes on Lady Ravensworth. Lannie had the grace to twitch a bit. Burke sat back in his chair. It was odd, but Arielle held the reins of control at this tea party, not Lannie, and Lannie was seven years her senior.

“More tea, if you please, Lannie.” He wondered what Joshua would say about this female.

“Will you resign your commission now, Burke?”

He shook his head. “No, I cannot, Lannie. Not until things are settled.”

“I should not resign either,” said Arielle, and there was a definite blood lust in her eyes. “I wish I were a man.”

“You would still be too young for the army, my dear.”

“If you die, cousin Radnor will become the Earl of Ravensworth,” said Lannie, her tone both spiteful and appalled.

“That is a crusher,” said Burke. “I haven't seen Radnor in a good six or seven years. What has he been doing?”

“He is a vicar,” Lannie told him, “but he still has no chin. He grew a small beard to cover it.”

Burke stared at her, then burst into laughter. “Rad? A vicar?” It was too much. He choked on his tea and in the next instant felt Arielle's hands pounding his back. When he stopped choking he breathed in her scent and wanted to rip off her schoolgirl's gown and carry her down to the Aubusson carpet.

“Are you all right now, Burke?”

“Yes, sit down, Arielle. I wonder why our cousin didn't come to the funeral.”

“He is in Scotland,” Lannie said, “ministering to a great aunt he doubtless hopes will leave him some money when she succumbs.”

“He sounds like a thoroughly unlikable creature,” Arielle said.

“He is, most assuredly. Now, Arielle, would you like to ride Ashes?”

He would never forget that afternoon. It was the afternoon he, Burke Carlyle Beresford Drummond, fell in love for the first and only time of his life. It was the afternoon he began making his plans to return to the Peninsula.

Three days later, he saw Arielle Leslie for the last time. He visited her at Leslie Farm to tell her good-bye. He'd met her father, Sir Arthur, again. She had her father's eyes, clear and steady, a cloudless blue like the spring sky.

“Do not forget me,” he'd said, intending that his voice would be light, jocular.

“How could I?” He saw sadness in her eyes, heard her voice crack slightly. “But you will forget me, my lord earl. I am a silly girl, whereas you are a hero and—”

“Hardly silly, my dear. I won't be returning to England for a time, perhaps several years. Then, if you wish it, I will call on you.”

She gave him her sweet smile and placed her hand on his forearm. “I shall look forward to it. I doubt you will have time for me, though. So many ladies will be flocking about you, demanding your favors and your attention. I promise I will be among them, at their fore, if it pleases you.”

“Yes, it will please me more than I can say.” He wanted desperately to ask her to write to him, but that would place him beyond the pale. He noticed that Sir Arthur was frowning slightly. He didn't know if it was due to a problem with his Greek translations or to the obvious besottedness of the Earl of Ravensworth toward his very young and innocent daughter.

He took his leave.

TOULOUSE, FRANCE
1814

There was that moaning sound again. Burke realized this time that it was coming from him.

He wasn't with Arielle. He was lying in a battlefield near Toulouse, three years later, pinned under a horse, a wound in his side. The pain was building now into crashing waves, pulling him clearly into the present, making him grit his teeth to keep still.

“Major Lord. Thank God I've found you at last.”

“Joshua,” Burke said, surprised at how weak his voice sounded. “I knew you would come. A horse seems to have died on me.”

“Yes, I see. Hold still. I will return quickly with help.”

It was a good hour later before Burke was lying as comfortably as possible on a cot in his tent, Joshua beside him, seated cross-legged on the floor, telling his master of the French withdrawal from Toulouse. Burke was naked beneath a single sheet, save for the bandage that covered the saber slash in his side. He listened with but half an ear. Memories and pain still held him.

“Here, Major Lord,” said Joshua, rising to bend over his master, “the doctor said you was to drink some laudanum. Lost too much blood and you must rest to restore it, so don't give me any of your excuses.”

“I shan't,” Burke said and swallowed the water with the laudanum in it. Joshua tucked a blanket about his chest.

Satisfied with his master's comfort, Joshua said. “Wellington couldn't get his heavy guns into place in time and so the damned Frogs slipped away.”

“I thought that was what had happened. Where is Wellington?”

“He should be here to see you very soon. He is quietly furious, if you know what I mean, Major Lord.”

“Yes,” Burke said, “I know.” He managed a smile for Joshua, seeing the man's fear for him. “I shall soon be quite myself again. Just keep calling me major lord. It does sound like the top of the heap.”

He fell asleep then, thankfully, only to hear Joshua's voice calling to him.

“Major Lord. Major Lord.”

He felt a slap on his face and tried to turn away from it, to return to the past, to Arielle, but it wasn't to be.

“Major Lord. Come, you must wake up now. The duke is here to see you.”

“I don't want to,” said Burke very clearly.

“Well, your commander doesn't care for your bloody attitude, Ravensworth.”

Burke forced his eyes open. Wellington was standing beside his cot, his smile a bit forced, lines of fatigue about his eyes. His uniform was immaculate, as usual, his black boots clear as mirrors.

“Sir,” he said and tried to raise his hand.

“Lie still, Burke. I have little time, my boy, then I must be off to Paris. I wanted to tell you in person of the waste of it all. Our battle, all the deaths, all for naught. Napoleon has abdicated, had abdicated before we began.”

Burke stared up at him. “You're jesting,” he said slowly.

“I wish to God I were. It is something I have prayed for, but God saw fit to lose nearly five thousand more of His souls before seeing to it. Well, hurrah I say, but I only wish we had been spared. The doctor tells me that you will mend soon, my boy. You will return to England, Burke. It is over now, at least your part of it.”

Yes, Burke thought later. It was over at last. Arielle was now eighteen years old, nineteen in October he remembered her telling him. Old enough for marriage. Old enough for him. What if she had formed an attachment with another man?

He refused to accept that. Over the past three years he'd received sporadic though informative letters from Lannie. He wondered occasionally if she suspected his motive for asking her so specifically to write about life at Ravensworth and the doings of their neighbors. He knew about Sir Arthur's death, very sudden and but six months after he had left England, and he'd written Arielle a proper letter of condolence. He'd received no response in return, of course.

What had she been doing since the spring of 1811? Lannie had written of the marriage of every male and female within a fifty-mile radius of Ravensworth. No mention of Arielle. Perhaps she was waiting for him.