Julie Garwood - Rebellious Desire

England, 1788

Angry voices awakened the child.

She sat up in bed and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "Nanny?" she whispered into the sudden silence. She looked across the room to the rocking chair adjacent to the hearth and saw that it was empty. The child quickly squirmed back down under the feathered quilt, trembling with cold and fear. Nanny wasn't where she was supposed to be.

The dying embers in the fireplace glowed a brilliant orange in the darkness and resembled the eyes of demons and witches to the little four-year-old's imagination. She wouldn't look at them, she determined. She turned her gaze to the twin windows, but the eyes followed her, terrifying her by casting eerie shadows of giants and monsters against the windows, giving life to bare branches that scraped against the glass. "Nanny?" the little girl repeated, tears in her whisper.

She heard her papa's voice then. He was yelling, and though his tone sounded harsh and unyielding, the fear immediately left the child. She wasn't alone. Her father was near, and she was safe.

Soothed, the child became curious. She had lived in the new house for over a month now and in all that time had never seen a visitor. Her papa was yelling at someone, and she wanted to see and hear what was happening.

The little girl scooted to the edge of the bed and then turned onto her stomach so that she could slide to the floor. There were pillows placed there, along each side of the bed on the hardwood floor, and she pushed one out of her way as she landed. Barefoot, she padded soundlessly across the room, her toes hidden by the long white nightgown she wore. She brushed the curly black hair out of her eyes and carefully turned the doorknob. When she reached the landing, she paused. Another man's voice reached her. The stranger had started to yell, spewing hateful words with great belching sounds that caused the child's blue eyes to widen with surprise and fear. She peeked around the corner of the banister and saw her father facing the stranger. From her position at the top of the steps, she could see another figure, partially hidden by the shadows of the entry hall.

"You've had your warnings, Braxton!" the stranger yelled with a guttural clip to his voice. "We've been well paid to see you don't cause no more trouble."

The stranger held a pistol much like the one her father often carried for his own protection, and the child saw that he was pointing it at her papa. She started down the curved stairway, her intent to run to her father so that he could soothe her and tell her everything would be all right. When she reached the bottom step, she stopped. She watched as her father hit the stranger and knocked the pistol out of his grasp. The weapon landed with a thud at the little girl's feet.

From the shadows the other man appeared. "Perkins sends his respects," he said in a raspy voice. "He also sends the message that you're not to worry about the girl. He'll be getting a good price for her."

The girl began to tremble. She couldn't look at the man talking. She knew that if she did, she would see the eyes of the demon, orange and glowing. Terror assaulted the child's senses. She could feel evil surrounding her, smell it and taste it, and if she dared to look, she knew she would be blinded by it.

The man the child believed to be the devil himself returned to the shadows just as the other man lunged at her father and gave him a hard shove. "With your throat slit, you'll not be making speeches," he said with a harsh laugh. Her papa fell to his knees and was struggling to stand when a knife appeared in the attacker's hands. An ugly, mean laugh permeated the foyer, echoing around the walls like a hundred sightless ghosts screeching at one another.

The man flipped the knife from one hand to the other and then back again as he slowly circled her father.

"Papa, I will help you," the girl whimpered as she reached for the pistol. It was heavy and as cold as if it had been lifted from the snow, and she heard a clicking sound when one of her chubby fingers slid through the circle underneath.

Her arms were outstretched and stiff and her hands trembled with fear when she pointed the weapon in the general vicinity of the two men struggling. She slowly started to walk toward her father, to give the weapon to him, but stopped abruptly when she saw the stranger plunge the long, curved knife into her papa's shoulder.

The child screamed in agony. "Papa! I will help you, Papa!" The little girl's sob, full of terror and despair, penetrated the harsh grunts of the two combatants. The stranger lurking in the shadows rushed forward to join the tableau. The struggle ceased and all three men stared in stunned disbelief at the little four-year-old pointing the gun at them.

"No!" the devil screeched. He wasn't laughing anymore.

"Run, Caroline. Run, baby, run."

The warning came too late. The child tripped over the hem of her gown as she rushed toward her father.

She instinctively grasped the trigger of the pistol when she fell and then closed her eyes against the explosion that reverberated as obscenely as the demon's laughter throughout the foyer.

The little girl opened her eyes and saw what she had done. And then she saw nothing more.

England, 1802

Gunshots shattered the silence, disrupting the peaceful ride through the English countryside.

Caroline Mary Richmond, her cousin Charity, and their black companion, Benjamin, all heard the noise at the same instant. Charity thought the sound was thunder and looked out the window. She frowned in confusion, as the sky above was as clear and blue as the finest of fall's days. There wasn't a single angry cloud in sight. She was about to comment on that fact when her cousin grabbed hold of her shoulders and pushed her to the floor of the hired carriage.

Caroline saw to her cousin's protection and then pulled a silver pearled pistol from her drawstring purse. She braced herself on top of Charity when the vehicle came to an abrupt halt along the curve of the roadway.

"Caroline, whatever are you doing?" The muffled demand came from the floor.

"Gunshots," Caroline answered.

Benjamin, seated across from his mistress, readied his own weapon and cautiously peered out his open window.

"Foul play ahead!" yelled the coachman with a thick Irish brogue. "Best wait it out here," he advised as he hastily climbed down from his perch and raced past Ben's view.

"Do you see anything?" Caroline asked.

"Only the groom hiding in the bushes," the black man replied with obvious disgust in his voice.

"I can't see anything," Charity remarked in a disgruntled voice. "Caroline, please remove your feet. I'm going to have shoe prints all over the back of my dress." She struggled to sit up and finally made it to her knees. Her bonnet was around her neck, tangled in an abundance of blonde curls and pink and yellow ribbons. Wire-rim spectacles were perched at an odd angle on her petite nose, and she squinted with concentration while she tried to right her appearance.

"Honestly, Caroline, I do wish you wouldn't be so vigorous in your need to protect me," she stated in a rush. "Oh, Lord, I've lost one of my glasses," she added with a moan. "It's probably down my gown somewhere. Do you think they're robbers, waylaying some poor traveler?"

Caroline concentrated on the last of Charity's remarks. "From the number of shots and our coachman's reaction, I would assume so," she replied. Her voice was soft and calm, an instinctive reaction to Charity's nervous prattle. "Benjamin? Please see to the horses. If they're calm enough, then we'll ride ahead and offer assistance."

Benjamin nodded his agreement and opened the door. His imposing bulk rocked the vehicle as soon as he moved, and he had to angle his broad shoulders to clear the wooden doorway. Instead of hurrying to the front of the carriage where the stable horses were harnessed, he turned to the back, where Caroline's two Arabians were tethered. The animals had come all the way from Boston with the threesome and were presents for Caroline's father, the Earl of Braxton.