Night Fire by Catherine Coulter Page A

see—”
    â€œHello, Arielle. It’s just me. You look well again. Does your head feel all right?”
    Actually, she looked as awful as Arielle could look, her beautiful hair tumbled and tangled and lank, her face as white as the counterpane, an ugly purple-and-yellow bruise showing at her left temple. She pulled the covers to her chin, and her back was pressed tight against the headboard. He took a step toward her and she gasped.
    She was behaving strangely, and that pulled him up short. For heaven’s sake, it wasn’t as if she were a young girl who’d never been married. Her reputation was quite safe, particularly since her old, very respectable-looking nurse was here. Why was she behaving in such a missish fashion? He tried a smile and managed a mechanical one. “I was just concerned for you. Will I still see you at teatime on Friday?”
    She nodded, mute, but he saw the lie in her eyes before she lowered them. She had changed her mind. Perhaps she was more ill than Dr. Arkwright had thought.
    What the devil should he do now? He didn’t want to leave her, not yet. “You are supposed to sing in your bath this morning, according to Dr. Arkwright.”
    â€œIf you leave I promise I shall.”
    â€œHave you breakfasted yet?”
    She shook her head, wincing a bit.
    â€œWould you like to have something?”
    â€œYes,” said Dorcas, stepping to the bed. “Let me have Bessie bring you some toast and tea.”
    Arielle didn’t realize that Dorcas was leaving until she was nearly out the door. Arielle called after her, but the old woman didn’t come back.
    â€œYou are safe with me,” Burke said, slanting an eyebrow. “It has never been my practice to seduce or ravish ladies who have such colorful bruises on their faces.”
    She didn’t reply, and Burke, not knowing what to say, looked about her bedchamber. He wasn’t certain what he had expected, but this wasn’t it. It was nearly a monk’s cell, sparsely furnished and those furnishings severe. Not a feminine flounce or furbelow in the room. He found himself staring toward the adjoining door. Was the master suite on the other side? He didn’t want to think about that filthy old man opening that door and coming in here, to this bed, to Arielle. He said, “Is your husband’s room beyond?”
    Arielle heard the fury in his voice but didn’t understand it. She didn’t want to understand it. She wanted Burke out of her bedchamber. he filled it, his scent, his vitality, his maleness .
    â€œPlease go away, my lord.”
    He swung about to face her. “I will if you give me your word you will come to Ravensworth Abbey on Friday.”
    She chewed her lower lip.
    He felt his frustration grow.
    Finally, very quietly, she said, “No.”

Five
    B urke stared down at her, absorbing the consequences of that one simple word. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been rejected by a woman. Whenever he had been, though, he knew deep inside it couldn’t have hurt as much as this did. Nor would it have made him so furious he couldn’t think straight.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œPlease,” she said, “please just leave me alone. I don’t wish to see anyone or—or be with anyone. I am a widow. I wish to remain a widow.”
    â€œYour husband is dead—” The rawness of his voice shocked him. “—how long? Seven, eight months now? For God’ sake, Arielle, he was an old man. Don’t you want a young man, one who will give you so much more than he could have?”
    Arielle wanted to laugh, but when she opened her mouth, an ugly, harsh sound came out. She got hold of herself. He didn’t know what he was saying. She would keep her mouth shut. He would leave. But he was made of tougher stuff than she’d imagined.
    â€œYou couldn’t have loved that old satyr. He was a disgusting old man. Look at