A Reckless Beauty (11 page)

He left her then, and Fanny stood very still, trying to tell herself that she was his Miss Pitney, any available young woman at all. That he really felt nothing for her, and would realize that the moment the battle was won.

And that thought made her sad. Incredibly sad.

She pulled herself up, shoulders straight, and reentered the ballroom, then stopped, amazed, as she saw couples still dancing a Scottish reel, heard the music that played on even as several women stood crying on the sides on the room and even more scarlet-jacketed soldiers took hasty leave of their hostess, who hugged each and every man before allowing him through the doorway.

Miss Pitney came tripping down the dance, her fingers held lightly by a young man in ridiculously overdone evening dress, and Fanny stepped onto the floor, stopping just in front of the woman, blocking her progress.

“Your pardon?” the redhead said haughtily. “You’re in my way.”

“And you’re a silly, heartless, brainless twit,” Fanny bit out tightly. “For some reason I no longer understand, I thought you should know that.”

Fanny then turned on her heel, located Lady Whalley standing near the door, happily giving out kisses and encouraging words to each scarlet-jacketed man leaving the ballroom, and dragged her out into the night by her elbow.

F
ANNY, EXHAUSTED IN BOTH
mind and body, slept fully clothed on the uncomfortable settee in the small drawing room of Lady Whalley’s slim town house. The drawing room was two floors lower, closer to the street. Ridiculously, irrationally, closer to Rian and Brede.

Not that Fanny had slept more than a few hours since coming back from Lady Richmond’s ball. Nor had she eaten. Such mundane, everyday things were so alien to her, when all her concentration was centered on what was happening a good ten miles away.

She had already left the house several times, to mingle with others on the streets, hoping for bits of gossip, snippets of news, and then attempted to winnow the grain from the chaff so that she had a clearer picture of what was going on to the south of Brussels.

Word of Bonaparte’s victory at Ligny had served to set off a panic barely mitigated by news of at least a reasonable draw at Quatre-Bras. But there had been no further reports of any substance in at least twelve hours, and many were fearing the worst. The werewolf, the tyrant, the Emperor—he was within striking distance.

Frances had packed all of their clothing and had taken on the role of cook after they’d risen yesterday to find the kitchen fire out, half their larder shelves empty and the cook nowhere to be found.

People were leaving Brussels as quickly as their servants could pack up their bags and arrange transport. Already, three people had knocked on Lady Whalley’s door, offering exorbitant amounts for her brother’s coach and horses.

Wiggins slept now in the small carriage house, armed to the teeth with pistols, knives and an ancient blunderbuss he’d unearthed somewhere, protecting that coach and those horses, including her own Molly.

These terrible, fickle people. So ready to laugh and dance, so eager to be a part of history—so reluctant to put themselves in personal danger. Fanny loathed them all.

The noise outside the town house never seemed to cease now. The rattle of wheels on the cobblestones, the shouts of angry people pushing and shoving and demanding the respect they believed due their fine clothes and high social stations. All of them running; rats deserting what they’d decided had to be Wellington’s sinking ship. And, all the time, the incessant rain, falling on all of them.

Fanny turned her head into one of the pillows and pulled the blanket higher over her head. Whether it was her own fears, or the constant angry and nervous noises penetrating her brain, her sleep became disturbed enough to open her to dreams.

To the dream that had first begun when Rian left Becket Hall well over a month ago…

She could never see herself as she was now in the dream, but she knew she was looking out of her eyes, as if she, the grown Fanny, was standing somewhere straight behind the much younger Fanny. A part of her younger self, the adult watching the child, but strictly in the role of an observer, unable to control or change anything that was happening, that would happen.

The young Fanny was wearing a pretty striped dress cut from material left over from the glorious, striped gown fashioned for the beautiful, kind Isabella. She wasn’t supposed to be wearing the dress; it was her very best one, and to be saved for special times. Like when her new papa returned from the sea.

She’d never had a papa, and he fascinated her. All big and strong, and with such a kind smile. He would rub her head and call her his Irish Moonlight because of her nearly white-blond hair and grass green eyes, and she’d giggle. Because that was silly, Rian had said so. Moonlight wasn’t green.

He was coming home soon. Fanny had heard him promise as much as he’d hugged them all goodbye, saving a special hug for the beautiful Isabella, a last kiss on the forehead for the infant, Callie. He’d come back soon, and then they’d all leave together, sail off to a beautiful castle in some faraway place. And they’d all be very happy.

So
soon
might even be today, and that’s why Fanny had put on her prettiest dress. That’s what she’d told Rian, who’d only laughed at her and run off to play with the other boys, first taunting her that she couldn’t play with them. Not in that dress.

Which was why Fanny was on the beach by herself a few hours later, dancing in and out of the small wavelets that softly kissed against the sand. She was careful to hold up her skirts as she stood with her bare feet submerged in the clear water that sparkled almost blue-white in the sunlight.

The older Fanny watched her younger self play, longing to tap her on the shoulder, warn her.
Run away. Run away.

The young Fanny was singing a song, some silly thing she and Rian had made up about Jacko’s nose—
“thar she blows!”
She was dancing toward the water, retreating again, not having thought about her mama for whole days now, learning to forget, to move on, as only young children are blessedly able to do.

She was charging a shore bird that began to beat its wings and escape skyward when she saw the ships. Three of them. She clapped her hands in glee, and looked back across the wide, deep beach. Toward the house, the trees. Looking for Rian. Longing to taunt
him,
because she’d been right.

No, no! Count them! Papa had two ships. Two, not three!
Fanny tried to warn her younger self.
It’s Beales. Beales! Beales had three! Count them!

Rian was nowhere to be seen, so the young Fanny turned back to watch as anchors were dropped into the water and longboats were lowered. She put a hand up to shade her eyes in the bright sun and looked for her papa in one of the first boats. But he wasn’t there. No tall, handsome Chance, with his long blond hair blowing around his face in the breeze. No fierce Jacko and his booming voice. No silly Billy, who had made her a pretty wooden top and taught her how to spin it.

Young Fanny tipped her head to one side, wondering, where was her papa?

Look at them! Look at them! See the pistols hanging around their necks! See their terrible smiles! See, Fanny. See!

“Fanny!”

The little girl wheeled around on the sand at the sound of Rian’s voice, to see him running toward her, his shoulder-length black curls flying behind him as he ran, his face as white as the sands. “To me, Fanny! Run to me!”

She lifted her skirts and began to run. Not because she was afraid, but because Rian was afraid. He met up with her with such force that he nearly knocked her down, and then quickly picked her up, tucking her beneath his arm as if she were a sack of meal. And then running. Running.

Up on the veranda of the house the beautiful Isabella was shouting down to them all. “Run! Into the trees! Hide! Run, everyone! Run!”

Fanny spared a moment from watching herself, to look up at Isabella, standing so bravely on the veranda, Odette beside her, holding Callie. Isabella kissed the child, traced the Sign of the Holy Cross on her little forehead just like Fanny’s mama used to do, and then pushed Odette away, shooed her away, down the winding staircase.

A small section of the roof of the huge house exploded, wood flying everywhere, as one of the ships began firing grapeshot. A veritable broadside, directed high and across the wide beach. There were more explosions. A tall palm not ten yards from them snapped in half, its top falling to the ground with a mighty crash. Sand kicked up around them, rained down on them.

“Run! Run!” Isabella urged yet again.

Odette waved Rian and his burden and at least another dozen children ahead of her. They all vanished into the lush vegetation as dozens of the island’s men and women, the young, the heavy with child, the ancient, all armed with pistols and knives and metal-tipped pikes, ran toward the beach, toward the danger.

Isabella also stood her ground, her fingers wrapped tightly around the wooden balustrade—dear God, she was as young as the now grown Fanny was now—her beautiful young face locked in an expression of daring, defiance.

So brave. So doomed.

The dream shifted, and Fanny was now with her younger self and the others, hidden in the secret cave deep in the interior of the island. Night had come and then gone, and the shots and the screams had finally stopped. No one had passed by their hiding place in several hours, beating at the undergrowth, calling for Odette to come out, come out and she would be spared. It hadn’t been easy, keeping the youngest ones quiet, and Fanny had even bitten Rian’s hand, drawn blood, trying to be free of his tight grip. But Rian hadn’t yelled, even as she’d bitten deep.

The dreaming Fanny tasted Rian’s blood in her mouth, moaned piteously in her sleep.

Courtland, at thirteen, the oldest of the children in the cave, handed the sleeping Callie to Odette and left them, returning an endless time later. His thin cheeks were tearstained, but his eyes were dry. There was blood on his clothing, blood stained his hands and bare feet. He was no longer thirteen. What he had seen had made him a man. A stone-faced, stoic, sad man, so much older than his years.

“The curse persists, I can see nothing. Tell me. Isabella lives?” Odette asked him. “You saw her?”

He gathered up the sleeping Callie once more, the blood on his hands smearing the infant’s white lawn gown. “I saw her. No one and nothing lives. No one and nothing.”

Odette sank to her knees and began keening like a wild animal in pain.

“I will be the one who tells him,” Courtland said. It was, in fact, Fanny thought, probably only the third or fourth time she’d heard Court speak since she and Rian had come to the island. His voice was rusty, as if he rarely used it. He’d never played, like the other children. He’d stayed with Isabella, always, Isabella and her now motherless infant. Fanny had thought him silly, but now they—Rian, Spencer, the other younger boys—all looked to him for guidance. “He’ll need to see the babe is all right. Stay here. We’ll come for you.”

Fanny watched all of this unfolding in front of her as it had done so many years ago, unable to stop watching, even when her younger self fell asleep in Rian’s thin arms, still crying that she was hungry, and that her pretty dress was ruined.

And then her papa was there. Tall, strong. Giving orders quietly, knowing they’d be obeyed without question. Fanny watched her younger self scrambling up onto Rian’s shoulders, all of them moving forward, moving back through the trees in a long, silent line. Nobody spoke. Even Callie, the youngest of them all, did not cry.

Rian tried to keep Fanny’s head pressed into his neck, but she fought to see. The bodies. Hacked into pieces. Burned. Bits and pieces of bodies hanging from the ruined veranda. Old Harry, who used to tell them all silly stories, just sitting on the sand. Except that his head was in his lap. Wasn’t that silly! Why didn’t he put it back on?

Everywhere, blood. Everywhere, bodies. Even the goats were dead, their bellies ripped open. The chickens, the cows. Fanny had liked the cows.

No birds sang. Everything was quiet, save for the rough sobs of grown men as they knelt over broken bodies.

“Fanny, don’t look!”

But Fanny looked, saw with her young, uncomprehending eyes. Saw the markings on the white wall above the veranda. Squiggles, all red and dripping.

“Rian, what’s that?” she asked, tugging one arm free and pointing to the house.

But Rian just kept moving with the others. Toward the longboats. Toward the two damaged ships lying at anchor in the natural harbor.

The older Fanny watched herself go. Watched the younger Rian carry her away, to safety. Then she looked back at the house, seeing the squiggles, painted there in blood, and knew them for what they were. Words. A warning.

You lose. No mercy, no quarter. Until it’s mine.

“He won’t stop,” Fanny mumbled brokenly into the pillow as, in her dream, she watched the two ships at last limp out to sea, the big white house, all of the buildings, down to the last chicken coop, now ablaze behind them, sending black smoke high into the bright blue sky. “He’ll never stop. But why? Why…”

The grown Fanny stood alone on the sands now, death spread out all around her, watching the world burn, watching the ships disappear over the horizon.

But she was still there. Left behind. Forgotten. Still in danger.

Fanny always woke up at this point, frantically calling Rian’s name. Left with her fear, never knowing what would happen next, watching the young Rian sail away with her younger self.

She tried to burrow back into the dream. Continue the dream. Find Rian again, somehow catch up to the ships, and safety. Because Edmund Beales was coming back, and she needed Rian’s protection. Needed him to hide her, keep her safe, just as he’d always kept her safe.

The young Fanny was safe. Cuddled up on the ship with Rian’s arms around her.

But what about now? What about her
now?
How could he sail off like that, leaving her to fend for herself? How could he leave her alone?

It was time to wake up. She would always wake now, crying, alone. Why couldn’t she wake up?

“Fanny.”

She caught her breath in a sob, still locked inside the dream. He hadn’t left her alone here on the beach. He’d come back for her. But where? Where was he? She turned fully around on the beach, looking for him, straining to see him.

There! Stepping out from the trees. There he was, cast in the red glow from the burning house. He’d stayed!

She ran. Picked up her skirts, her pretty striped, colored skirts, and raced toward him, laughing, crying, feeling safe at last. Rian wouldn’t leave her. He’d never leave her, child or man. How could she have been so silly?

“Rian! Rian, here I am! Rian, I—”

He stepped completely into the sunshine, the hem of his dirty gray greatcoat swirling about his high-top riding boots, the long white scarf hanging loose around his neck, his tawny hair unruly, falling down over his cheeks, an unlit cheroot stuck in the corner of his mouth. His eyes were hooded, yet intense. He took the cheroot from his mouth. “Hello, Fanny-panny.”

Fanny stood stock-still, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. “Rian?” she asked, breathless. “Where’s Rian?”

“Unavoidably detained, I’m afraid. He sent me in his place. But you knew that, Fanny. You’re not a child anymore. You’re neither of you children anymore.”