Free Night Fire by Catherine Coulter Page A

whinnied again.
    â€œWhy did she treat me like I was carrying the plague?” Ashes was silent this time.
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    Arielle was cold, so cold her teeth were chattering. She was naked, tied down to the bed, her legs and arms spread wide, her wrists and ankles tied with satin strips to the bedposts. He was there, of course. She saw him standing by the fireplace, his pose relaxed, a riding crop in one hand. He was slapping it lightly and rhythmically against his open palm. He was fully clothed.
    She didn’t plead; it would do no good. She stared at the riding crop, knowing it would strike her soon, nearly feeling the stinging pain each stroke would bring. But he’d tied her down on her back. Usually she was facedown on her knees on the floor. She swallowed painfully, unable to still her shivering.
    Then, suddenly, there were others. At least six men were now in the room and they were drinking brandy. She didn’t know how she knew it was brandy, she just knew. They were laughing, talking loudly, but she couldn’t make out their words. One man looked toward her and made some obscene gestures with his hands. She watched, dumb with terror, as the men came over to the bed, circled it, and stared down at her. They all had riding crops. The man closest to her head leaned down suddenly, grasped her jaw between his thick fingers to hold her still, and kissed her hard.
    She tried to pull away, tried to scream for him to leave her alone. She felt all their hands now, touching her, slapping her. She opened her mouth but there was no sound.
    Just as suddenly, all the men were gone, all except him—Paisley. He was yelling insults at her, his voice contemptuous, telling her that she was so sexless she couldn’t interest any man. He’d even gotten them drunk, he yelled at her, but still they didn’t want her. She was a worthless trollop, of no value at all, even as a diversion.
    She wanted to scream at him that she was glad she was worthless, glad that no man wanted her, but still she couldn’t seem to make any sound. She felt tears sliding down her cheeks, tasted the salt in her mouth. Now he was grinning at her. He tossed the riding crop to the floor and opened his breeches. She stared at him. His sex was hard, ready.
    Now, he told her, now he would take her. At last. He climbed over her, sitting back on his heels. He leaned down, his hands rough on her body, and suddenly she screamed, loud, piercing screams.
    It wasn’t Paisley coming into her body.
    It was Burke Drummond.
    Arielle sat up in bed, fully awake. Unconsciously, she was rubbing her wrists and her ankles, as if soothing them from the straps. It was a dream, she said over and over to herself. But why had Paisley become Burke Drummond?
    She’d felt a threat from him, that was why. The poor man had probably not meant a thing, yet her fear of men had made him evil and rough and harsh, like Paisley Cochrane.
    She huddled down under the mound of covers, trying to get warm. The room wasn’t cold, but she was, and the cold was from deep inside her. She wondered blankly if she would ever be warm again.
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    â€œHer ladyship is not receiving today, my lord.”
    Burke looked at the old man’s expression and knew he could probably bribe any information he desired from the fellow. Why didn’t Arielle boot him out, for heaven’s sake?
    â€œTell her the Earl of Ravensworth is here to see her.”
    â€œShe knew of your visit, my lord. She told me to give you her apologies.” Philfur studiously flicked a piece of lint from his black sleeve. “It is possible that her ladyship isn’t as ill-disposed as she seems.”
    Well, he was right, the miserable old bastard. Burke hadn’t been privy to such a blatant bribery attempt in a very long time. “I trust she is not,” he said finally, his voice bland. “Tell her that I shall return on the morrow. My best to her.”
    â€œCertainly, my