Stafford and Worth scrambled toward where Lydia Wickham lay on the frozen ground before the stables.They bowed low to avoid detection. Worth squatted beside the enclosure, gun aimed at the stable door, using his left forearm to set his sight line and to steady the weapon. Stafford, on the other hand, scurried to the lady’s side. He turned her over gently to determine her wounds. Seeing only one obvious injury, Stafford waited no more than two heartbeats before he scooped her to him and ran in the opposite direction.
Seeing the viscount’s retreat, Worth backed carefully away, a bit shaken by the experience.
Stafford handed Lydia off to Lucas before saying to Worth, “We should stay close in case Darcy needs us.” He cocked his gun and turned again toward the structure.
“I agree.” Worth followed the viscount, but his nerves still showed.
“Hopefully, Darcy will sew things up soon.” Stafford knelt along the fence line, where he might observe when the door opened but not be in an immediate line of fire. “Wickham cannot think to escape.”
Worth knelt behind the viscount. “I do not believe Mr.Wickham capable of making such logical decisions. He will risk everything.”
“Then Darcy will have to kill the man to free his wife?” Stafford took in Worth’s inscrutable expression.
“I have no doubt of it.”
“We have another one for you,” Lucas called as he carried Lydia Wickham into the drawing room. Mrs. Reynolds followed the footman.
Cathleen scrambled up from the chaise upon which she sat to allow the man to place Mrs.Wickham down in her place. “Do you need help, Mrs. Reynolds?”
“I can always use an extra set of hands.”The woman took a pair of scissors from her box and cut away part of Lydia’s sleeve. “Let us examine the wound first, and then we will use some smelling salts to wake Mrs.Wickham. Why do you not step into the hallway and grab a few cloaks from the clothes tree.We need to warm her arms and legs so she does not suffer from the cold.”
“Certainly.” Cathleen hurried to do the woman’s bidding.When she returned with three cloaks, she asked, “Do we know what is going on?” Cathleen adjusted the outerwear over Lydia’s legs.
Mrs. Reynolds whispered softly, “Lucas says Lord Stafford and Mr.Worth rescued Mrs.Wickham from where her husband had left her. Reportedly, Mr. Wickham used his wife as protection against Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
“And my cousin?” Cathleen folded a new bandage for the gunshot wound.
Mrs. Reynolds glanced quickly around the room to ensure privacy. “Lord Stafford and Mr.Worth stand guard before the stables. Mr. Darcy went in to rescue his wife, whom Mr.Wickham holds prisoner.”
“Will Mr. Darcy prevail?”
“Yes, or die trying. The Master will safeguard Mrs. Darcy’s life with his own.”
“Let her go, Wickham.” Darcy stood and stepped into the open.“It is I on whom you seek revenge.”
“I do seek revenge on you, Darcy, but I am not that milquetoast George Wickham.”
Confused by the man’s words, Darcy’s eyes locked on Elizabeth and saw that she spoke to him of the unknown—of a message she tried to relay. “I am afraid, sir, I do not know the rules of the game you play.” Keeping his gun loosely by his side, Darcy infused his words with calmness as he edged forward—only inches, but forward just the same.
“’Tis no game,” James Withey declared. “Ask your wife if you doubt my sincerity.”
This, then, was what she wanted to tell him. Elizabeth’s eyes revealed that her mind raced through a series of facts she needed to share. “Mrs. Darcy?” he spoke softly and edged still closer.
With the gun only inches from her head, Elizabeth should have been having a fit of the vapors; instead, she gave Darcy a mischievous grin before saying, “It is true, Fitzwilliam,” she asserted. “This is Mr. Withey—James Withey. It is my understanding that you have met Mr.Withey previously.”
Mystified, Darcy eyed Elizabeth. Why does she agree with the man? Darcy intuited that Elizabeth wanted to prove something to him.“I am at a loss, my Dear,” he said in an intimate tone.“I do not believe I have made Mr.Withey’s acquaintance previously.”
Elizabeth arched one eyebrow, which said, Listen to what I do not say in my words, and Darcy allowed himself to relax into a serene alertness. “I am sure, my Husband, that you have simply forgotten your interactions with Mr. Withey because of your numerous responsibilities to Pemberley, and, in reality, it has been several years since you have seen each other.”
“As you are an excellent example of reason and common sense, I suspect you are correct.” Again, he surreptitiously moved another two inches closer to Wickham and to the gun the man held on Elizabeth.
“Might we cut through all the niceties?”Withey growled.
Elizabeth swallowed hard but controlled her countenance. Any sense of self-preservation disappeared with her need to warn Darcy. “I shall speak forthrightly, my Husband. Unlike the affable Mr. Wickham, Mr. Withey prefers the reputation of a rakehell.”
Her captor interrupted, “Tell him how he paid my gambling debts three times. Remind your husband how he took the punishment when I broke the balcony window playing cricket.” Withey waved the gun about as he spoke, and Darcy considered the opening, but Elizabeth remained in danger, so he squelched his desire to strike.
With great effort, Darcy held his anger in check. “I apologize for my forgetfulness.”
Elizabeth noted the beginning of understanding in Darcy, so she tried a brazen experiment. “Mr. Withey, might I ask to speak to the gentleman with the Scottish brogue whom I met earlier?”
“MacIves?” James Withey asked disdainfully.
She prayed she had not made a mistake. Darcy crept closer and closer, and Elizabeth needed to keep Withey occupied until her husband could act. “I do not believe I caught the gentleman’s name,” she offered.
With no more than a clenching of his jaw muscles, Withey became Gregor MacIves. Before Darcy’s eyes, the man’s bearing, his natural gait and movements, his gestures, and his vocal quality transformed. “Ye missed me, Lass?” The man caught Elizabeth about the waist and pulled her against his body.
Darcy’s hands fisted at his side, but he maintained a strained control for Elizabeth’s safety.
His wife eased herself out of the man’s grasp. “Mr. MacIves.” She purposely smiled at the man, “Might I introduce my husband, Mr. Darcy.”
“I didnae realize ye had a mon, Lass.” He brought the gun to point at Darcy.“I ken relieve ye of the burden; I will kill him for ye. Tis a mon’s duty to protect his womon.”
Elizabeth gasped when he made Darcy his target, but her husband appreciated the change in the situation. It kept her safe, and that was what mattered to him.
“No, I could not ask that of you,” she insisted emphatically. A fresh chill of dread went through her as she watched Darcy stand tall, making himself a larger target. Before MacIves could follow through on his threat, Elizabeth asked, “Why do you not send Mr. Whittington to speak to us?” She had gambled before and made headway with Darcy’s understanding, so she kept to her plan to show him what he faced. Darcy still looked a bit confused; yet, she knew she had piqued his curiosity. The sharp twist of his mouth said he had what he wanted: His enemy’s attention had fallen on him. However, she wished Darcy to truly see the evil he fought.
MacIves pressed his lips together in a grim line. “Ye be ’nouncing His Young Lordship to ye husband, Lass?”
“It is what a lady does.” She bestowed a polite smile on him.
As before, a change ensued; MacIves squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them seconds later, he held himself in the stature of a young nobleman.The boy known as Peter Whittington looked down in surprise at Elizabeth. “Mrs. Darcy, you have need of me?”
“Yes, Mr. Whittington. I believe you are acquainted with my husband.” She gestured toward Darcy.
Even though he maintained his stance, everything else about Wickham changed. No longer the rough Scottish lord of a previous century, the man standing before them was an immature aristocrat. “Of course. It has been some time since I have seen you, Darcy. Not since our first year at Eton.”
Finally, what Elizabeth wanted him to know stood blaringly clear before him. Each of these “characters” was Wickham at a pivotal moment in the man’s life. Darcy nodded his understanding, seeing how he might now get close enough to disarm his former friend. “Mr. Whittington, is it?” Darcy said, seemingly unruffled. “I nearly forgot that year was a complicated one for you. If I recall correctly, your father became quite livid regarding your responsibilities, often preferring the cane to emphasize his point. When your grades suffered, your father took it quite personally.”
Whittington muttered, “Thank you for reminding me of my shortcomings, Darcy.”
Darcy nodded. “You had some difficulty, as I recall, identifying your place. When word reached the school of my father’s furnishing your education, many thought you his by-blow, rather than his godson.”
“You turned from me that year,”Whittington accused.
“My mother took ill…there were other forces of concern in my life.”
Whittington recoiled with Darcy’s words. “I was your friend,” he insisted. “When you said nothing, they all believed the worst.”
Darcy said with as much contrition as he could muster, “I was young and a bit jealous of your easiness, but I never meant for you to suffer.”
Whittington bragged, “I did have an easier time with women.”
Darcy made himself offer a compliment. “Women always took to you.”
“All of them except my mother,” Whittington snarled. “She thought me too much like my father.” He looked off in sad remembrance, and Darcy moved again, but this time he silently told Elizabeth to do the same.
“Your father suffered much to please her.”
“Women are the shallow sex.”
Darcy eased closer.“Then it was you who punished Mrs.Wickham by destroying her room? She was too extravagant, I suppose? And what of the maid?”
Whittington puffed up with autocratic importance. “Mrs. Wickham is very much like my mother, Lady Whitlock, always insisting that her husband spend more than he has. My friend should have left the lady long ago, as my father should leave Her Ladyship.”
“And Lucinda Dodd, the maid?” Darcy insisted.
Whittington frowned.“She would not let me leave.Those born to serve should never reprimand their betters.”
Darcy watched as Elizabeth brushed a tear away. For himself, he made no comment. Instead, he called to mind what he knew of Wickham’s childhood and of the man’s years at school and university. “May I ask, Mr. Whittington, if MacIves is one of the Scottish relatives that you found when you sought proof of your ancestral connections?”
Peter Whittington became immediately angry. “You may trace your family to the Matlocks and the Attingboroughs and the D’Arcys and to the Saxon founders of this area, and all I could claim was a minor Scottish border lord who raided England for sheep and cattle and women to maintain his Highland keep. You have bloodlines dating back to the British nobility; my ancestors were nothing more than glorified thieves.”
“No family tree grows perfectly straight,” Darcy remarked dispassionately.
“Nay, we dinnae look so verra noble now, did we?” The Scot returned without their request and in the middle of the conversation, and for a moment, even Elizabeth appeared surprised, but she recovered quickly. “Yet I will not be shunned by a bloody prima donna lord. If’n he belies me family a’gin, he will receive whate’er I choose to mete out.”
Elizabeth whispered softly,“Too many sins and too little patience.”
“The borders, Lass, they be rough—it takes those who love the law and those who hate it to survive there—the clans, they know their own justice and their own loves—a hardened lot of murderers and thieves I call family.”
Although the man continued to point the gun in Darcy’s direction, he saw only Elizabeth, and as the Scot spoke, Darcy moved quickly to a point of advantage. Bringing his own weapon level with the man’s chest, he ordered, “I will have your gun, Mr. Wickham.”
A flutter of the man’s eyes was all the warning they received; instantly, everything changed.The man, known as Gregor MacIves, swung his gun in Elizabeth’s direction—and pulled the trigger.
“No!” Darcy leapt at the man, catching MacIves’s arm and sending them both crashing to the packed dirt. Holding on with all his might, he pinned the Scot’s wrist to the ground, wrenched the gun from the man, and tossed it to the side. Arms and legs flailing and twisting, they began a struggle for control—a dance of ignoble frenzy. A crushing fist to the jaw. A punch to the kidneys. A knee to the groin. Fingers opened—grappling—a barely contained fury spilling forth. A lifetime of trust betrayed—of volition violated—a voracious vortex of evil sucking them both in—taking their restraint.
Each loathed for what the other stood—the odious paranoia of allowing hate full reign—they fought relentlessly. Sweat slicked Darcy’s face, but he battled on until MacIves pulled a dagger from his boot, and with one sweeping arc brought it down to pierce Darcy’s back. For a split second, Darcy clung to his opponent’s shoulders, and then he opened his hands and slid to his knees, a grimace of defeat flooding his face.
Triumphantly, the Scot stepped over the crouched master of Pemberley. Leaning down, he caught the knife’s handle, giving it a hurried lift to do more damage, before withdrawing it from the wound. “I told the lass I would kill ye for her,” he growled in Darcy’s ear. “I be raising yer bairn as me own,” he taunted. “We have played our game, Darcy, and I take the winning hand.” And just like that, in a twinkling of the eye, James Withey returned.
James stepped away from Fitzwilliam Darcy’s slumped-over form. Leaning against a wooden panel, he caught his breath while he watched with amusement as Elizabeth Darcy crawled on hands and knees toward her husband.
The sound of the gun exploding so close to her head sent Elizabeth diving for cover.Then the sting of the grazing wound caught her breath in her throat, and, for a moment, Elizabeth expected to open her eyes and see heaven; but the stream of blood running down her head said she lived. Behind her, a battle raged; bodies fell against each other as she tried to right herself and go to Darcy’s aid. The blood—her blood—ran into her eye, and Elizabeth swiped at it with the sleeve of her gown—the blanket long gone. Fingers groping for a hold against the stall’s wooden slats, Elizabeth caught the second rail and, with determination, pulled herself to her knees. Then she heard the gasp, and through streaks of sweat and blood, she saw the man she loved more than life crumble to the floor, a dagger thrust deep into his back.
“Fitzwilliam!” she exclaimed, needing to be by his side. Crawling across the hay-covered earth, she fought to reach him—fought to touch him.
Yet, as she made contact, a force compelled her backward. James Withey caught her hair, snapping her head around and forcing Elizabeth to her feet. “No,” he hissed. “No one helps Darcy. We let him die.”
Elizabeth battled the tears bubbling in her eyes as the red lines blurred her vision.“What do you want?” she demanded; her bottom lip trembled in panic.“You won! Just get out! Leave Pemberley!”
“Not without you,” he declared, grabbing Elizabeth’s arm and pulling her toward the door.
She contested his efforts with all her might, but when she turned her head to wipe the blood from her face against her sleeve, James used the momentary slack of her momentum to pull Elizabeth forward—catching her to his side and lifting her where he might carry her, skimming across the frozen ground. Frantically, she caught at everything to stop their progress, but nothing held, and then Elizabeth grabbed the broken handle of an ax and clasped it to her.
James pressed his shoulder to the stable door, sending it swinging open with a bang. Dragging Elizabeth toward the horses, he did not see her take a firm hold of the broken handle; but as he slowed, preparing to mount, he loosened his grip, and she spun away from him, arcing the stick upward, striking Withey firmly under the chin and dazing him long enough for her to turn toward the stable and Darcy.
Yet, the sound of a gun cocking behind her brought Elizabeth up short of the door. Anger’s color ebbed with the realization. Somehow, James Withey had prevailed. She froze as her bloodied face took in his rictal grin.
When the stable door slammed open, Stafford and Worth expected Darcy to exit with his wife. Instead, the real-life Pemberley phantom carried a bloody Elizabeth Darcy toward the waiting horses.
“Hold for the clean shot,” Stafford ordered as they both took aim at the abductor, but with his back to the horses, he offered no easy shot; and both men hesitated.
In amazement, they watched as Elizabeth executed an escape attempt that would knock a normal man unconscious, but left her captor only momentarily stunned before he took aim with a carefully concealed pocket pistol; and before they could react, James Withey took dominion of Darcy’s wife again.
“Nice try, Mrs. Darcy,” he mocked as he pulled her into his body, Elizabeth’s back tight against his chest. “Before I set you free, you will pay for such impudence.” He purposely cupped her breast in intimidation and squeezed it possessively.
Elizabeth clenched her fists at her sides, but she did not fight him. Her thoughts remained on Darcy. If she left with Withey, the others could help her husband.That was her mission: saving Darcy’s life. “I will not fight you,” she declared.
“Order Darcy’s friends away.” Withey pulled her closer to him, expecting Stafford and Worth to attack.
Elizabeth nodded her agreement. Taking a deep breath, she called out, “Lord Stafford, please take Mr. Worth and move away. Mr.Withey has a gun to my head and will not hesitate to shoot.”
“Tell them to put their weapons down,” he ordered softly.
“Please lay down your guns,” she added.
Worth and Lawrence assessed the situation. “Where is Darcy?” Stafford asked as he bent to place his gun in a nearby snowdrift.
Elizabeth could not suppress the sobs waiting to escape. “Help him!” she managed to say before James pushed her toward Pandora.
Nigel Worth followed Stafford’s example and lowered his gun. “She does this for her husband,” he whispered to the viscount.
Withey gave her a leg up as Elizabeth rucked up her skirts to sit astride Pandora’s back. “Do not try anything adventurous, Mrs. Darcy,” he warned as he mounted Darcy’s favorite stallion.
Elizabeth, needing to maneuver Withey away from Pemberley so the others could tend to Darcy’s wounds, nodded her affirmation. Misery scraped at the back of her throat as she accepted her fate.
“Stand back!” Withey ordered as he kicked Demon’s flanks and took up the leading line on Pandora’s harness.Without further ado, he led Elizabeth toward the forest road.
Stafford and Worth stared in admiration as the blood-encrusted face of Elizabeth Darcy passed them. Sitting on Pandora’s back, she shot a pleading look and a nod of her head toward the open stable door. Withey kept her horse abreast of his and the gun pointed directly at her, but she told them what to do without words. As soon as she and her captor passed them, Stafford and Worth ran to the stable.They hit the door and skidded to a stop when they found a bloody Fitzwilliam Darcy trying to open a nearby stall.
“Darcy?” Stafford caught him under the arm and lifted his friend, supporting Darcy’s sagging weight. “Let me get you into the house.”
“No!” Darcy gritted his teeth. “Saddle the horse.” Pain sheared through him.
“You cannot—” Worth began, A contemptuous glare from Darcy stopped him midsentence.
Barely moving his lips, Darcy summarized the situation. “Elizabeth is my wife.”
Stafford nodded his agreement. “Saddle the horse, Worth. Let me see what I can do for Darcy.”
The solicitor agreed reluctantly, but he did what the viscount said. Meanwhile, Stafford wrestled Darcy free of his jacket. “Wickham may have hit a lung,” Stafford whispered as he used rags he found in a nearby bucket to bind Darcy’s wound.
“And he may not have,” Darcy observed.
Lawrence leaned closer. “Mrs. Darcy struck Wickham with a blow that would have brought another man to his knees, but it barely stunned him. You cannot fight him, Darcy. You must kill him—without reservation—if you expect to stop him. If he gets a chance, he will rape your wife. He touched Mrs. Darcy quite inappropriately as a show of power.”
“He seeks revenge.” Darcy exhaled the words.
“I will follow you,” Stafford asserted. “I will finish it if you cannot.”
“Thank you, Stafford.”
Within five minutes, Darcy sat upon Vulcan’s back. It took all his determination to simply pull himself into the saddle. Stafford placed a horse blanket about Darcy’s shoulders—neither of them considering his return to the tight-fitting jacket. “I will bring your coat for Mrs. Darcy,” he said as he handed Darcy a gun.“Be careful, my friend.”
With a nod of his head, Darcy kicked Vulcan’s sides and sent the gelding in an easy gallop toward the forest road.
“They will follow,” Elizabeth said quietly as they turned toward the road leading to Kympton.The horses suffered with the frozen tundra and with having stood outside in the cold so long, but Withey took no note of the conditions. He simply pressed Demon a bit harder. After that, they rode in silence for nearly a half hour, keeping to the more treacherous back roads.
Elizabeth shivered from the cold and from the panic gripping her heart. She worried for Darcy and for the colonel and for Lydia. Her family lay dead or dying, and she rode away with the man who had brought devastation to her home.“I cannot go on,” she said from the depths of her resolve.“I will let you take me no farther, M. Withey.”
“What will you do, Mrs. Darcy?” James Withey snarled. “Will you have me shoot you? Right here? Right now?”
Elizabeth did not look at him, but she answered just the same. “If that is my only choice.”
Her captor ignored her verbal challenge; instead,Withey turned the horses toward a nearby church.“Let us see what God has to offer us today. Maybe something left over from the collection plate.”
He slid from Demon’s back and reached up to help Elizabeth from the saddle. She let her eyes fall on the small whitewashed building, and an errant thought struck her.
“Mr. Withey, might I speak to Mr.Wickham?”
“Why?” Her request shocked him. “Why him and why now?”
“I wish to speak to Mr. Wickham,” she insisted.
He held her gaze for a heartbeat before a squeeze of his eyes brought the man she knew.“Miss Elizabeth, may I help you dismount?”
“Yes, Mr. Wickham, but it is Mrs. Darcy now. Remember.” She gently placed her hands on his shoulders and allowed him to lift her. “We are brother and sister,” she added quietly.
“So we are,” he noted as he placed her hand on his arm to lead Elizabeth toward the building. “Mr. Withey was most displeased with your asking for me,” he noted as they walked along.
“I had not seen you since you left for Newcastle. Of course, I was curious.” When they reached the church steps, Elizabeth purposely smiled at him, trying to continue her part in this charade. “Look where we are, Mr. Wickham.” She gestured with her free hand to the church steps upon which they stood. “It is the sanctuary at Kympton, the one you so coveted for years.”
Wickham looked around with an assessing eye. “It is, at that, Mrs. Darcy. It is a shame your husband denied me the living once promised by his father.”
Elizabeth forced evenness into her voice despite the fact that she stood in a frozen landscape, wearing a simple day dress, with blood caked about her eyes and in her hair and spoke to a madman. “It must be Providence which has brought us here today, Mr. Wickham. I am sure Mr. Darcy said the living was to come available in the late spring. Perhaps something could still be secured. Mr. Darcy will do anything to keep my regard.”
“The man is not likely to change his mind, Miss Elizabeth.”
She did not correct him this time. Instead, Elizabeth looked steadily at the church. “It is rather inviting. Might we take a look inside? I find it quite cold here in the open.”
“Of course. How callous of me.”Wickham reached for the door and opened it for her. “After you.”
Darcy knew he could be no more than ten minutes behind Wickham and Elizabeth. He slumped over Vulcan’s neck, clinging to the animal, making himself stay in the saddle—to find Elizabeth before Wickham violated her as revenge for past sins. He had witnessed the lunacy for himself and knew he had no choice, but it grieved him to have things come to this. Although he inherently knew he was not to blame for George Wickham’s descent into hell, part of him wondered what he might have done differently.When he had first taken the blame for Mr. Wickham’s transgressions, Darcy had done so out of friendship. Later, he had done it to protect the Pemberley name from scandal. Now, he realized that all he had managed to do was to give Wickham permission to continue his wayward ways—to reinforce all the wrongs the man perpetrated.
Then, as the late afternoon light began to fade, he, finally, saw them. Demon and Pandora stood before the Kympton village church. Somehow, Fate, probably with a bit of Elizabeth’s manipulations, had brought them all to this place at this time. Planning his attack as he approached, Darcy rode to the cemetery beside the church. He painfully slid from the saddle. Using Vulcan as a brace, Darcy pulled himself to stand straight. He took the gun from his waistband, cocked it, and started for the church’s side door.
“It is a most delightful place! Excellent parsonage house!” Wickham stared out the window. “It would have suited me in every respect.”
“How should you have liked making sermons?” Elizabeth asked, trying to keep him talking. She had decided if she could get away and hide long enough to make it to the nearby village, then she just possibly might find help for herself and her husband.
“Exceedingly well.” He turned back to face her. “I should have considered it as part of my duty, and the exertions would soon have been nothing. One ought not to repine; but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The quiet, the retirement of such a life would have answered all my ideas of happiness. But it was not to be.”
While he spoke dreamily, Elizabeth slowly edged toward the side door of the church. “I have heard from authority that the living was left you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron—at my husband’s will.” Elizabeth realized she provoked him, but it was a calculated risk. She leaned away from him; breathing heavily, the weight of her dilemma dawned fully. For the sake of the distraction, she needed to keep Wickham talking.
“You have? Yes, there was something in that; I told you so from the first, you may remember.” Having been caught in the lie he so often repeated, Wickham became more agitated, pacing the length of the vestibule.
Elizabeth eased closer to her goal. She prayed that, as with the front door, the side one would be unlocked. “I did hear, too, that there was a time when sermon-making was not so palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you actually declared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business had been compromised accordingly—and that Mr. Darcy provided you with three thousand pounds as compensation.”
Wickham’s eyes flickered, and she saw James Withey for a split second, but Wickham remained in control. “You did? And it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember what I told you on that point when first we talked.”
Elizabeth cautiously reached behind her and felt for the door handle. Finding it, she breathed easier. It was now or never. “Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let us quarrel about the past. In the future, I hope we shall always be of one mind.” She saw the flicker again, and James Withey’s rage take over.
His mouth twisted in contempt. “You had to mention that bitch and the marriage!” He stormed across the church at her, knocking over benches set for the parishioners, but Elizabeth did not wait to hear the end of his rant. She ran through the opened door to the cemetery—from a living nightmare—and into the waiting arms of her husband.
Withey stormed across the church trying to reach the woman. Wickham had not been aware of Elizabeth Darcy’s scheming mind, and now James would have to find her and silence her before she sent up a general alarm in the neighborhood. “Damn!” He raced after her, out the church’s side door, but a specter he had thought he left behind stood solidly among the tombstones, and James found himself on the short end of a gun.
“Step behind me, Elizabeth.” Darcy moved her to relative safety as he kept his gaze on their interloper. She stilled against him, terror tightening her fingers on his arm.
“I thought you dead,” Withey snarled.
A sarcastic smile graced Darcy’s face.“As usual, you were in error.”
“Well, Darcy, we are at an impasse. Our battle is to end this day, with only one claiming victory.” Falsely, James took a small step backward. “It is my belief that you are too honorable to kill a man in cold blood, and you are in too much pain to come for me,” he added brashly. With that, James dived through the open doorway, gunfire chasing him into the dusky shadows.
The gunshot surprised her, but Elizabeth did not scream. Instead, she prayed that Darcy had not killed Wickham. The man was correct; it would haunt her husband terribly, so despite what he had put them through, she wished Wickham to live.The sound of the front door banging open told her that God had answered that prayer.
“Help me,” Darcy ordered as he lurched toward the noise.
She clung to her husband. “Let him go, Fitzwilliam,” she begged. “I will not have you labeled a murderer.”
Darcy pulled up. Looking down at her bruised and bloody face, he said, “He did this to you.” He reached to caress her cheek.
“And to you.” She braced his shoulder with her hands.“Let this be the worst of it.”
The sound of hoof beats said Withey had made his escape, and for a moment, they thought it finished, but suddenly Demon bore down on them; and James Withey wielded a sword, slicing the frozen air.
Darcy pulled Elizabeth behind a burial crypt at the last second, but Withey circled the horse and came at them again. Everything moved in shadows: the crazed face of George Wickham yelling a curse filled with years of hate and a proud and a principled Fitzwilliam Darcy standing tall to rebuke the attack. And then Darcy reacted by instinct: He whistled to the horse—his horse—to Demon, and the stallion reared up, pawing the air with violent strikes.
James Withey barely held the reins as he charged Darcy for the second time, concentrating purely on making contact with his enemy, so when Darcy emitted a shrill whistle, at first he did not understand the man’s intentions; but then the horse rose on its back legs to defend itself from an unknown attack, and James felt himself sliding from the saddle. And then a grim silence.
“My God, Fitzwilliam!” Elizabeth rushed around her husband as he calmed his favorite horse. George Wickham lay, arms and legs akimbo, on a nearby grave, his head split open and a grayish blood seeping into the frozen ground. “He hit the tombstone,” she whispered to the stillness, as she reached out tentatively to touch her sister’s husband. However, the man no longer moved.
Darcy stood beside her. Lifting her gently to her feet, he pulled Elizabeth against his chest, allowing his wife’s grief to begin. “It is over, Sweetheart.” He held her to him. “Mr. Wickham can hurt us no more.”
The sound of fresh horses brought his head up, but only Stafford and Worth appeared. In silence, both men dismounted and joined them in the cemetery’s middle. Surrounded by marble and wood, dismay at what they had all suffered permeated the winter’s quiet. With a nod of his head, Darcy indicated for them to check the body. Worth did the honors while Stafford entered the church to set things aright. No one spoke. They had been through so much together in the past week that none of them needed words to know what to do.
“Are we taking Wickham back to Pemberley?” Stafford said at last.
Darcy still held Elizabeth in his embrace.“It is what Mrs. Darcy would want for her sister.”
Worth brought Vulcan alongside of the grave, so he and Stafford could load the body across the saddle. “Did you notice the epitaph?” the solicitor asked as they clumsily lifted Wickham to the horse.“’Tis fate that flings the dice, and as she flings, of kings makes peasants, and of peasants kings.”
“Wickham proved the folly of keeping bad company.” Stafford shot a quick glance at the Darcys. “As Ovid said, ‘The vulgar estimate friends by the advantage to be derived from them.’”
“Can you ride, Darcy?”Worth asked as he brought Demon forward.
Darcy bent his head to speak to Elizabeth. “May I take you up with me, my Dear?”
Elizabeth raised her head to look at him carefully. “Will it not hurt you?”
“It will hurt me more to have you out of the safety of my arms.”
Stafford suggested, “We should leave before the village comes to see what is going on.We are lucky no one seems to be home at the parsonage. I think we will need to construct a new truth out of this.”
“I suspect you are correct,Your Lordship. Now, if you and Worth will give me a leg up, we will take the back roads to Pemberley.”
“As you wish, Darcy.”
When Elizabeth had settled herself across Darcy’s lap, Stafford handed up his coat. “This may smell a bit better than the blanket your husband wears, Mrs. Darcy.”
“Thank you, Lord Stafford, but I find the odor of horse flesh quite alluring.” She turned into Darcy’s warmth as he draped the coat around her.
Stafford chuckled. “If I ever find a woman with your mettle, Mrs. Darcy, I will be on one knee in a heartbeat.”
“I shall happily celebrate that day, Your Lordship.”