Night Fire by Catherine Coulter Page B

me—don’t you remember how you felt three years ago? How I made you feel?”
    She remembered, but the memories weren’t hers; they were that other girl’s. She remained silent, her eyes on her clasped hands.
    â€œDamn you.”
    He leaned over her, jerked her against his chest. His mouth was on hers, hard and aggressive, his tongue probing against her closed lips. “Open your mouth.”
    She opened her mouth to yell at him and felt his tongue.
    â€œHere’s your breakfast, my dear—oh, goodness.”
    Burke froze at the sound of Dorcas’s voice. Slowly, as if he were a man waking from a dream, he pulled his hands back and straightened to look down at her. “I will see you again, Arielle.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOh, yes. It’s not over between us.” He shook his head. “It won’t ever be over.” He strode across her bedchamber and left.
    Arielle was staring straight ahead, toward the open doorway. “He is much stronger than Paisley,” she said calmly. “Entirely stronger than Paisley.” Then, without another word, she rose from her bed and walked to the wide windows that gave onto the front of the house. She watched Burke walk toward the stable. She leaned forward, her forehead against the glass. It came to her that evening what she would do.
    Â 
    Mr. Gregory Lapwing, Arthur Leslie’s former solicitor, seated himself across from his old friend’s daughter. He’d known her all of her eighteen years and was as fond of her as an older man besotted with a new, young wife could be. His nineteen-year-old wife was certainly livelier, prettier, than this pinched-looking girl.
    â€œI appreciate your coming to me, Mr. Lapwing,” Arielle said, giving him her hand.
    â€œMy pleasure, Arielle. What is it you wish?”
    He thought she looked ill, so pale and thin was she. Was she still grieving for her dead husband? It was the first time he’d seen her since her father’s death more than three years before. Strange business, that, leaving the girl in the guardianship of her half brother, but he supposed Arthur had had no choice. Her precipitous marriage to Lord Rendel had shocked him, but then again, it had nothing to do with him, so he had forgotten it. Until now.
    â€œI want to sell Rendel Hall, all the land, and all the furnishings. Everything. Immediately.”
    Mr. Lapwing didn’t blink. He’d perfected the expressionless expression long ago. Nothing a client said could disconcert him. “May I ask you why?”
    â€œI wish to leave the country. I wish to move to Paris. Napoleon is gone and Louis the Eighteenth is on the throne. There is no more danger.” She added, a dimple appearing in her left cheek, “I do speak French, you know. Father insisted.”
    â€œI see,” Mr. Lapwing said, frowning. “May I ask why you wished to deal with me rather than with Lord Rendel’s solicitor?”
    â€œI don’t know him,” Arielle said. It was only a half lie. She didn’t trust him simply because he’d been Paisley’s man. “Really, sir, there is nothing to keep me here. I wish to travel.”
    Mr. Lapwing rose from his chair. “It is unusual, of course, for a lady to wish to travel. You must be properly protected and chaperoned—”
    How ridiculous, Arielle was thinking. I wasn’t protected here, in beautiful, just England. Men. They spouted such nonsense. However, she had a goal to attain, so her voice was calm and respectful. “Of course, Mr. Lapwing. Pray don’t worry. I will be duly chaperoned.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œMy mind is quite made up, sir.”
    â€œVery well. Who is Lord Rendel’s solicitor?”
    â€œJeffrey Chaucer, of all things. I’ve heard it said that his late mother was a poetess. Do you know him, sir?”
    â€œYes,” said Mr. Lapwing shortly. “One can’t forget him, what with