Night Fire Read Free Page B

her face. Paisley turned her about, raised his hand, and slapped her hard. “Enough, Arielle. Cease your foolish sniveling, else I will whip you. I expect you to show Etienne how very well trained you are. All women are whores at heart, and you are included. It’s just that you have had to wait to have your little belly filled. I give you a night of anticipation. Etienne, remove your dressing gown. I wish Arielle to see your male endowments. Raise your eyes and look at the gift I give you, my dear.”
    She did. She watched Etienne shrug out of his dressing gown, watched it pool at his feet. His body was well made, she supposed, at least compared with his father’s. His sex was aroused, thrusting out, and she whimpered. She felt her husband’s hand stroking over her breasts. To protest would bring more humiliation, more pain, endless pain, and harm to Dorcas. She forced herself to be perfectly still.
    â€œWhat do you think, Arielle? Should you like the young stallion to cover you?”
    She said nothing.
    â€œNo matter. Now, Arielle, I will release you. You will very gracefully see to Etienne’s obvious need. Then you will return to your bed and think about what pleasure awaits you.”
    She did as she was told. It was different because he was hard and thick. When it was over, she fell back and lay still, her face pressed into the bright green Aubusson carpet in front of the fireplace.
    â€œVery well done, my dear girl. Leave us now.”
    She was on her feet in an instant, swiping her hand across her mouth. She heard Paisley laughing as she dashed across the room and through the adjoining door.
    Arielle ran to the night table and picked up the pitcher of water that sat there. She washed out her mouth, and then she vomited.
    It was too much.
    She could bear no more.
    She looked up at the bars on her window, bars installed by a silent workman a year before, after her mad flight to her half brother. She knew that the door was already locked from the outside. Paisley had taken no chances with her since her attempted escape. Even with his threats against Dorcas, he was still careful.
    Surely if she killed herself he would have no reason to hurt Dorcas. Her only problem was how to do it. She looked at a glass figurine on the night table. If it were broken, the edges would be sharp enough. She stared at the figurine, and stared at her wrists. She didn’t move for a very long time.
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    The next morning her husband ordered Dorcas from her bedchamber and pulled her from her bed. He watched her bathe, dress, then accompanied her downstairs. He didn’t allow her to be alone, even going to the convenience with her.
    And that evening at the dinner table, Paisley Cochrane, Viscount Rendel, choked on a herring bone and died, his wife and illegitimate son in attendance.

One
    BATTLE OF TOULOUSE TOULOUSE, FRANCE
APRIL 1814
    I t was the stench that brought him back.
    He opened his eyes and gazed up at the starlit sky, unaware that the stench filling his nostrils and seeping into his lungs was of human suffering, human blood, and human death. He heard a low moan, but it didn’t quite touch him. It was odd, that was all.
    It took him longer to realize that he couldn’t move. He didn’t know why he couldn’t move, but there it was. What was wrong with him? What had happened?
    It occurred to him that he was dead. No, not dead, he thought, but perhaps near death. He began to remember the battle in all its detail, as was his habit. Just as he had never forgotten the screaming death of Sergeant Hallsifer at Massena in 1810, nor the memory of how Private Oliver from Sutton-on-Tyne, a young man of vast good humor and excellent marksmanship, had bled to death. He closed his mind to it. Later, he thought, if he were blessed with a later, he would remember.
    He wondered vaguely if Wellington had won the battle. It was doubtful, for if Wellington hadn’t managed to bring up the heavy guns, well,