His cousin grinned. “If she required one, I would gladly play Elizabeth Darcy’s hero, but not as you imply. I would serve any member of your family because you are my dearest friend.” Edward stood to depart. “If Mrs. Darcy found a map, it would prove someone else at Woodvine had decided to save herself by placing the blame on the maid.” The colonel bowed. “As I expect more chaos tomorrow, I will seek my bed. I suggest, Cousin, you find yours only after extending an honest apology to your wife.”
Darcy looked intently upon Elizabeth’s small form. Sometimes he forgot how small she was. Her personality was so large that he often mistook her dominating individuality for her physical form. He placed the banyan he wore across the back of a chair and set the lamp he carried on the side table. It provided a mere trace of light and would quickly burn itself out. Darcy lifted the corner of the lightweight blanket and edged his way under the linens. The warmth of Elizabeth’s body coated his chest as he inched her farther to her side of the bed.
She had not unfurled, but his wife huskily asked, “Fitzwilliam?”
He smiled at the familiar rasp in her voice as he answered her. “Yes, my love.” Darcy kissed her temple. “I am here. I will protect you.”
She rolled over in his embrace. Her silk gown felt cool along his skin. “I found it,” she mumbled half asleep.
Darcy smiled easily. “The map?”
“Yes, the stolen map,” she murmured against his chest. Her breath teased the line of hairs leading to his rapidly developing erection.
Darcy pushed his passion away. “We will discuss it in the morning. Sleep now, my love,” he whispered.
Elizabeth snuggled closer to him. He never tired of the feel of her against him. He closed his eyes and inhaled the comforting scent of lavender in her hair. As the light dimmed in a wick drowned by hot wax, sleep crept across his countenance. He buried his nose in her auburn locks and relaxed against the woman who held his heart in the palm of her small hand. He murmured, “I love you, Elizabeth. I am infinitely sorry I hurt you earlier.”
Darcy rose later than usual. Even though he had fallen asleep with Elizabeth in his arms, he had slept fretfully, with bizarre nightmares, none of which he could recall in the morning light. All that remained was the depressing feeling of dread pressing against his chest. His first thought was of his wife, and he had rolled over to reach for her, but Elizabeth’s side of the bed was empty. He rubbed his palm across the linens. Cool. She had left the bed some time earlier.
Regretting having missed her, Darcy swung his long legs over the bed’s edge. Scrubbing the sleep away with his knuckles, he glanced about the room. Nothing appeared out of place, and so he caught the banyan and made his way to his chambers. Sheffield had laid out his clothes and had delivered fresh water for Darcy’s ablutions.
“Do you wish me to fetch your morning coffee, Sir?” his valet asked as he slipped into the chamber from Darcy’s dressing room.
Darcy shook his head in the negative. He was anxious to see his wife. He and Elizabeth had never gone to bed in the midst of an argument. True, he had apologized, but Elizabeth had not actually said he was forgiven, and somehow that bothered him. The remnants of his dreams inspired him to settle the rift between them. “I should speak to Mrs. Darcy before the day becomes too hectic,” he said in explanation.
Sheffield draped the shirt over Darcy’s head. “Hannah has indicated that Mrs. Darcy has gone for a walk about the grounds, Sir.”
Darcy frowned his disapproval. It was not unusual for Elizabeth to walk the grounds of Pemberley alone, but this was different. “Why did Hannah not accompany her mistress?” he demanded as Sheffield buttoned Darcy’s waistcoat.
“I understood Mrs. Darcy had refused both Hannah’s company and that of the colonel. The Mistress was heard to say she required privacy to consider the evening’s events.” His man set the jacket upon Darcy’s shoulders and smoothed the seams.
His wife’s continued disquiet bothered Darcy. It was not like Elizabeth to carry forward her anger. Normally, Elizabeth’s natural contestations would flare hot and then fizzle just as quickly. She often thought herself right even when she had erred, but his wife was not an unreasonable woman. And even though Elizabeth had objected to Mr. Stowbridge’s treatment of the maid, something deeper must be at the base of this sudden need for solitude. Could it be our recent loss? Despite the countenance she presented to the world, his wife had not taken well the loss of their child. “Hurry along, Sheffield,” he said with a bit of irritation when his man fidgeted with Darcy’s cravat.
Elizabeth had not meant to stray so far from the manor house when she had sought the outdoors to clear her thinking, but the waterfall had called to her. The steady flow of the water cascading over the jagged cliff spoke to the constancy of life, and she required that reassurance to fully understand her disquiet.
Her husband’s obstinacy had been the plums in the Christmas pudding. She did not fault Darcy for his overprotective nature, but Elizabeth had found it ironic that the colonel had treated her with more respect for her intelligence than had Edward Fitzwilliam’s illustrious cousin. “That is because you did not give your heart to the colonel,” she argued aloud. Even with her condemnation of Darcy, he had sought to shelter her from Society’s disdain. Yet, she still had felt the sting of her husband’s autocratic attitude. A shrug of resignation shook Elizabeth’s shoulders. “I knew the way of him when we married,” she chastised her shadow. “And my husband’s cousin is likely not to extend such tolerance to his own wife. As most women think to change a man’s bad habits after they marry, so does a man lose his easy way with a woman when he perceives himself the Master of the house.”
“So true,” a deep voice said from behind her.
“Ah, there you are, Darcy,” Edward remarked as Darcy entered the converted morning room. His cousin folded the newsprint to continue his reading. “I had thought to breakfast alone what with everyone late abed.”
Darcy asked distractedly, “Has Cowan departed?”
The colonel frowned as he set his cup upon its saucer. “At the crack of dawn. A tap on my door and a note under the opening announced Cowan’s withdrawal.”
Darcy tore apart a hot roll as he strolled to a nearby window. “And the note?” He stuffed a wedge of the warm bread into his mouth.
“Not much. Said he expected to be gone several days. Said he would send word if he was delayed.”
Darcy remained with his back to the room. His eyes searched the grounds for any sign of his wife. “Did Cowan disclose his destination?”
Edward chuckled. “It is not in Cowan’s nature to reveal his sources or his suspicions. Yet, never question the man’s integrity. I count him among my closest acquaintances.”
“And the Society representatives?” Nothing moved outside the window. Even the breeze from overnight had ceased its ruffling of the young leaves of the nearby line of ash.
“Still abed,” the colonel said with amusement. “For three men so intent on cataloging the late Mr. Darcy’s ancient discoveries, the Society men love their slumber more. I have promised Mrs. Darcy that as soon as Mr. Franklyn rises I will secure your cousin’s journals. In the uproar of last evening, we forgot to retrieve them from the gentleman’s room.”
Oblivious to the rise of the morning mist and the sun’s hide-and-seek dance with a white, fluffy cloud, Darcy announced, “As my wife has not returned from her walk, I think it best that I seek her company.”
Edward placed his serviette on the table. “Do you think something amiss?”
Darcy shook his head in the negative, but his body said otherwise. His anxiety could not be hidden. “Would you search the stables and the carriage house?”
“Certainly.” Darcy followed his cousin from the room. They separated in the main vestibule. Darcy’s steps quickened as he rushed toward the open courtyard entrance to the gardens.
Elizabeth spun around to find the face of danger. She automatically retreated two steps to the rear as the dark
-skinned man stepped onto the cliff face before her. She surveyed the area. She had unknowingly fenced herself in. When Elizabeth had sought the waterfall’s peace, she had chosen a complementary cliff face where she could watch the stream form high in the surrounding rock to slide over the jutting edge to a tranquil lake below.
Unfortunately, the space she occupied was not only solitary, but also very narrow. The stranger easily blocked her retreat. “Who are you?” Elizabeth caught her breath and defiantly challenged the man’s gaze. She demanded and was pleasantly surprised that her voice did not betray her fear. “This is private property.”
A bemused smirk turned up the man’s lips. “I hold an invitation from the land’s owner,” he said in a highly accented speech.
Elizabeth knew without doubt that this stranger was one of the gypsy band. Suddenly, her earlier romantic musings regarding the Roma appeared quite foolish. It was clear that the man’s presence spoke of danger. She worked hard to disguise her fears. “I understood your group planned to leave your camp behind.”
He took a half step closer, and Elizabeth’s back stiffened in response. “Not for three more days, Milady. Andrzej has spoken to the house’s master regarding our departure.”
“My husband,” she said as a means to warn the man away.
He said with a sneer, “Then you are Mrs. Darcy.” Elizabeth swallowed hard, fighting off the impending dread, which had crept along her spine. “Andrzej did not speak of your beauty.”
If the situation had not been so frightening she might have enjoyed listening to the man speak. There was a soft roll of the ‘r’s and a growling hiss on each ‘s,’ but she could find no thrill in the intended threat in the stranger’s tone. “I think it best if I return to the house.”
“You do not care for my company?” he asked as if she had disappointed him, but Elizabeth recognized the ruse.
She set her shoulders with a haughty slant and started around the man. “Mr. Darcy will be most displeased if you impede my return.”
But the stranger did not withdraw. Instead, he caught her arm and forced Elizabeth to grasp his shirtsleeve to right her stance. “Do you think I care what will or will not please your husband?” he growled. He caught her chin in his large palm and shoved it upward. He said seductively, “I would give a care if I disappointed Mrs. Darcy, however.”
Elizabeth jerked her head to the side. “Then you should know, Sir, I am greatly displeased. Unhand me immediately.”
He laughed lightly. “Ah, my pet. You will not be so prickly when you know me better.”
Elizabeth cringed. “If you persist in this folly, ‘prickly’ will be an understatement,” she declared. “I have no desire to know you now or ever. I ask you once again to unhand me.”
“And if I choose otherwise?” he asked in a sinisterly low tone. Elizabeth could smell the stink of his breath and the unusual spicy scent of his slicked-back hair.
“I shall fight you with every breath of my life. Whatever you plan shall not come easily,” she said with conviction. And she would. Elizabeth would fight this man. Fight through the paralyzing fear, which had locked her knees into stone fortresses.
The man tightened his hold on her arm and pulled Elizabeth closer. He whispered into her ear. “Where is the amusement in such actions?”
Without considering the consequences, Elizabeth spun away from him. Jerking hard against his hold, she used a counterbalance move, which Darcy had showed her one evening when they had playfully wrestled before the fireplace in her sitting room. She jerked hard to throw her attacker off balance and followed that move with a firm shove against the man’s chest. She turned to run, but the Rom caught her skirt to pull her toward him.
Elizabeth wound up her small fist and struck the interloper between the eyes, at the bridge of his nose. It hurt her hand more than she had anticipated, but she had no time to nurse the pain. The gypsy loosened his grasp as he automatically reached for his nose; therefore, she shoved hard and darted around him.
Unfortunately, her attacker recovered quickly. He caught her about the waist and jerked Elizabeth hard against him. Her back plastered his chest. The Rom viciously dragged her toward the tree line to the right. Soon he would have her under the cover of the bushes, and her chances of escape would decrease dramatically. She scratched at his hands and dug her nails into his wrist, but the man did not relent.
Panic had replaced determination in Elizabeth’s veins. As a last effort, she twisted to elbow the Rom in his ribs. With all her strength, she hit him solidly in the side and was rewarded with a brief lessening of his hold on her. Elizabeth reacted immediately. She broke from his grasp to run, but there was no easy retreat. Her assailant remained between her and freedom. The cliff face and the lake lay at her back. It was a long way down, but she would take it if necessary. Her hands came up to ward off his next attack while she edged toward the drop.
“You do not want to jump,” he placated, but she noticed how he leaned forward. He would pounce in a heartbeat if she allowed her guard to slacken.
Elizabeth’s foot searched for solid ground as she widened the distance between them. “What I want and what I am willing to do are not necessarily in alignment,” she said in warning. “I ask you again to walk away. To leave me be.”
His eyes gleamed. A lock of damp hair fell across his forehead. He leaned close. Skeptical. “It is not so easy, my pet. The Roma are never seen to be in the right. Even if I leave, your husband will hunt me down.”
Desperately, she pleaded, “I shall speak to Mr. Darcy. If you quit the area, Mr. Darcy will not pursue you.”
The Rom smiled with regret. “Such a great man would bow to the wishes of a woman? You have married for love, Milady?”
Elizabeth nodded her hopes. “It is as I said. Mr. Darcy will listen to my pleas.” Of course, it was only last evening that Darcy had ignored her wishes, but Elizabeth would never admit her reason for being alone on this cliff had been her irritation with Darcy for posturing before the Woodvine household. Her husband had chosen his pride over his loyalty to her.
She and the Rom stared at each other for a long time. Elizabeth watched a gamut of emotions cross her attacker’s countenance. Finally, he said, “Mr. Darcy may wish to grant your request, but his conceit would never permit him to forget how a Rom had abused his wife. The stain would haunt him. Therefore, if I am to die at your husband’s hands, it should be for more than a physical disagreement.” A sadness crossed his countenance, and Elizabeth knew they were both doomed.
Without further ado, he lunged at her. Automatically, she braced herself for the blow. The impact knocked the air from her lungs as she fell backward into the open arms of sunlight and a sweet mist. The prism of light through the water was never more beautiful, and Elizabeth closed her eyes to forever cherish the image. Beside her, she heard the Rom say, “Forgive me,” but she had no time to respond. Their combined weight had increased their velocity, and all she could do was to conjure up the image of her husband’s handsome countenance before she hit the water and was dragged under by the gypsy’s body.
Elizabeth had never swum in her gown and half boots, but she had swum before; therefore, she held hopes of surviving this encounter once she hit the water. One of her fears had been that they would crash onto the jagged rocks, but evidently, the gypsy’s weight had carried them out over the lake’s surface.
As they sank together, she turned from his grasp and kicked hard to surface for air. She broke the water and gulped in her first breath since the Rom had pounced. However, her efforts were short lived: her enemy had also surfaced. With flailing arms, he reached for her.
In a panic, the man fought to survive, but his fight would cost them both dearly if she could not calm him. “I have you,” she shouted over the sound of water being slapped by her attacker. She trod water. Her gown floated upward and wrapped about her waist, but she still thought they could reach the shore if she could make him listen to her. “I have you,” she screamed louder, but th
e man’s shouts for assistance drowned her efforts.
She caught him about the neck to pull him through the water; yet, the Rom evidently thought she still fought him. An arm across her throat sent her backward and struggling to stay afloat. The Rom swallowed a mouthful of water and spit it out in a sputtering twirling motion, which caught Elizabeth in the side of the head. His loosely closed fist had stunned her, and she shook her head to clear it.
Again, the Rom reached for her, catching Elizabeth’s shoulders and dragging them both below the surface. His grasp shoved her downward where the light did not reach, and the temperature was cool. The gypsy’s grasp tightened as he realized his peril, and she was pushed deeper and deeper. Even in the murky water, she could see her attacker’s eyes widen with the realization that he had breathed his last breath.
Yet, even then, the man did not release her. Instead, his fingers twisted into the material of her sleeve, and he tugged her closer. Still, she fought him, striking his face, his throat, his chest. But he held her tightly. Elizabeth struggled. She had held her breath for longer than she ever remembered doing previously. With one last effort, she brought her knees to her chest and kicked him as hard as she could. She slid farther from him, but still the gypsy clung to her gown. Her hair had come loose when he had struck her, and her bonnet’s ribbons had twisted about her neck, making it harder to hold her breath. The Rom’s grasp loosened when she used his chest as a footboard. A final kick to his throat sent her hurtling from him and slamming into a soft spongy object on the lake’s bottom.
Darcy had circled the garden and had emerged in the small orchard at the back of the estate. He had walked this way with Elizabeth only yesterday when Cowan had uncovered Mr. Bates’ shallow grave. Now, he retraced his steps. Darcy could not imagine his wife straying too far from the paths with which she was familiar. It was not in Elizabeth’s nature to place herself in danger; yet, he could not abandon his feeling of doom.
The Mysterious Death of Mr. Darcy Page 21
