William knocked at the door, and they waited. Nobody answered. William scowled. “Even if Mr. Dreyfus is away, I would expect his ill-tempered housekeeper to answer once more.” He knocked again. After a long moment the scuff of a shoe on the floor sounded inside the house, and thumps suggested someone was removing a bar on the other side of the door.
Unsurprisingly, William’s chivalry compelled him to stand between her and the door as if she required a bodyguard. His body obscured most of Elizabeth’s view of the person who opened the door. She had the impression of a paunchy man, not tall, in his forties, and with graying hair, but she could not glimpse his face.
“Mr. Dreyfus?”
“Yes?” The other man’s tone was suspicious.
“I am Darcy. We are in need of your assistance.” William extended his hand with the scrap of paper held between thumb and forefinger.
The other man grunted in recognition. “Yes, I heard about you. Come in, then.” His tone was rather begrudging, and the sound of his voice was oddly familiar. She dismissed it; without her memory, everything provoked a sense of oddness these days.
William stepped back, gesturing for Elizabeth to enter the house before him. Only then did she truly glimpse the other man’s face. She started, struck forcefully by a sensation of recognition. But how could she recognize this man when she recognized nothing else in her life? Surely she had never encountered him before.
However, Mr. Dreyfus’s reaction to Elizabeth was far more striking. His eyes bulged, and his face paled. “But-But you are dead! I saw you fall from the boat! You could not have—after that blow to the head—”
Images from her dream came rushing back to Elizabeth in an instant. The rowing boat. The gun. The explosion. Naked hatred on a man’s face. This man’s face. She did not understand all the images, but she knew she had encountered this man before when he kidnapped her from the ship.
Chapter Nine
She had to escape.
But her body refused to cooperate. She shook with tremors, and her feet were afflicted with acute paralysis at the moment she most needed them to act. She grabbed William’s arm, and his eyes shot to her face in alarm. “It is the man!” she hissed. “The man from my dream—with the pistol.”
Realization dawned on Darcy’s face. “From the rowing boat?”
“Yes!”
“You are the Black Cobra!” Darcy hurled the accusation at Dreyfus. “A double agent.”
Dreyfus smiled, showing all his teeth, but his eyes darted around in a panic to see if they were overheard. “I do not know what you mean. This woman must be confusing me with another man. Please, come inside and we can discuss—”
Darcy had pulled Elizabeth behind him once more. Now he gave her a push. “Run for the carriage,” he insisted urgently. Elizabeth hesitated a moment, unhappy about leaving William. “I will be right behind you!” he hissed.
Dreyfus had ducked inside his house for a moment, but now he stepped out, brandishing a pistol.
“Run!” William pushed her again.
Elizabeth ran. Grabbing bunches of skirts in her fists, she pounded her feet on the dirt of the drive. Reaching the curricle, she grabbed the seat, stepped on the rim of the wheel, and hoisted herself onto the bench, heedless of rips or dirt on her gown.
She whirled around to glimpse William grappling with Dreyfus over control of the gun. “Don’t be a fool, Darcy!” Dreyfus shouted. “I have agents all over this countryside. You will never escape France!”
A loud crack split the air, startling Elizabeth. The horse even stopped munching the grass for a moment. Elizabeth feared for William’s life, but as the smoke cleared, she saw the pistol still pointed upward as both men struggled to control it. The bullet must have fired into the sky.
Dreyfus released his grip on the now-useless pistol, and Darcy pulled it away, striking Dreyfus in the jaw with his other fist. The man fell backward through the doorway onto the wooden boards of his hallway floor. Turning on his heel, Elizabeth’s husband sprinted toward the curricle. In a moment his weight jostled the seat, and he whipped the reins. Dreyfus’s pistol dropped from his hand to the floorboard of the carriage. The horse, demonstrating a hitherto unseen energy, jumped forward and took off at a run. William leaned forward in the seat, urging her to faster speeds.
“Crouch down,” Darcy ordered Elizabeth. “He may have another pistol—”
Elizabeth bent over at the waist, grabbing the seat with both hands as the carriage lurched and jumped over the bumps in the drive. As they passed behind a line of trees near the road, she breathed a sigh of relief.
Within a minute they were back on the road. William directed the horse away from Saint-Malo, keeping to a gallop.
After nearly twenty minutes of hard driving, he finally slowed the horse to a walk. The beast was sweating, its flanks heaving with exertion. Glancing behind them, Elizabeth saw no sign of pursuit. “Do you think he will follow us?”
William’s mouth was a grim line. “Undoubtedly. We know he is a double agent. He will be desperate to prevent us from sharing that information with the War Office.” After a moment he asked, “What do you recall from the boat?”
She stared at the road, willing herself not to shudder. “The sight of that man helped me recall additional memories from the dream.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Somehow the sailors on the cutter discovered his identity. He held me in front of him, with a pistol to my head, so he could escape.”
William grunted in realization. “A young, gently-bred woman—probably the only woman aboard—would make an effective hostage. Nobody would risk your life to prevent Dreyfus from escaping.”
“He made me climb into the rowing boat with him. When the ship was just a silhouette on the horizon…there was an explosion.” Elizabeth squeezed her eyes closed, wishing she could forget the sight—ironically, the only memory from her previous life. “I had been pleased that I was the only soul at risk, and the rest of the crew would survive.” Her voice cracked on the last word. “But he set the gunpowder afire.”
William covered her hand with his. “He would have carried out the scheme even if you had not been present.”
“Perhaps. But it hardly seems fair that I lived and they…” She could not finish the sentence.
William grimaced. “Dreyfus did not intend for you to survive either. Did you attend to his words? He hit you on the head and pushed you over the side of the boat, the blackguard! You simply did not oblige him by drowning. And I, for one, am very happy you thwarted his plans.”
Elizabeth rubbed her forehead, chasing after foggy memories. “I believe I clung to a bit of driftwood until I came to shore.” She shivered. “I could so easily have died.”
Enough, Elizabeth resolved. I cannot dwell on the past when the present is more pressing. Our escape from France is now more complicated and less certain. “Can we reach any other English agents in Brittany?” she asked William.
“I have other names,” he said slowly. “But I dare not contact them. Who knows how many others secretly work for Napoleon?”
Elizabeth’s stomach churned at this unwelcome news, but of course, William was correct. “Perhaps we should make for Calais?”
William stared at the horse’s ears as it ambled along the road. “Dreyfus cried out that he has agents all over the countryside.”
“It may have been just an attempt to scare you.”
He expelled a harsh breath. “Or it might be accurate. If he alerts a whole network of agents throughout Brittany and Normandy… They know we will travel to the coast. We are so conspicuous. His colleagues could simply monitor the roads and await our arrival.” He gritted his teeth. “If this were Derbyshire, I could find a hundred little country roads they would never think to monitor. But I do not even possess a map of France!” His hands clenched convulsively on the reins.
They were both silent as they contemplated the situation. Elizabeth wiped more sweat from under the rim of her bonnet and wondered yet again if
the hat was doing more harm than good. “Perhaps we are safest if we do not do what they expect.”
William gave her a sharp look. “Go away from the coast, you mean?”
She shrugged. “They would not anticipate such a move.”
William stared without seeing as he contemplated the idea. “There is nowhere else we could so easily disappear as in Paris,” he mused. “Although it does seem rather like entering the belly of the beast.”
“Do you know of any English agents in Paris?”
“No.” William snapped his fingers. “But I do know someone who could help us! My old governess lives in Paris. We correspond, although rather infrequently of late. But I have not heard of her decease.”
“Are you certain she would help us?”
“She loves me and Georgiana like a mother. Plus, the Darcy estate pays her pension.” He nodded briskly. “Very well. We are for Paris!”
***
They embarked on the next phase of their journey in high spirits. Although Darcy did not urge the horse to run, he set a brisk pace, and they made progress as the noonday sun climbed high into the sky. They did not stop for lunch, but Elizabeth retrieved some cheese and bread from a hamper that the Martins’ housekeeper had insisted on packing for them. The roads were sparsely traveled; everyone they saw appeared to be farmers or tradesmen, with nary a soldier in sight.
Elizabeth’s health held for most of the day, with only three episodes of coughing. By late afternoon, however, she was visibly wilting. Although she had not uttered a word of complaint, her conversation had faded to single words, and her face was notably paler.
Increasingly, Darcy drove with one eye on Elizabeth. When her head began to droop, he feared she would fall. Transferring the reins to his left hand, he drew her close until her head rested on his shoulder. She showed no impulse to flinch away but made an approving noise and burrowed closer to his side. Darcy held his breath, fearing he would disturb her.
He ignored the voice in his head that screamed about the impropriety; her body was such a warm and welcome weight—its presence provoking tender, protective sentiments—that surely there could be no evil in it.
He allowed himself a brief fantasy that she was his wife in truth: she might lay her head on his shoulder at any minute of the day, and he would have the privilege of encircling her in his arms whenever the mood struck him. No wonder men pursued marriage.
Darcy was drawn from his reverie by the welcome sight of a village in the distance. Given the uncertain state of Elizabeth’s health, they would need to rest for the night. As they entered the hamlet, Darcy was pleased to find a coaching inn almost immediately. It appeared to have been built when Henry VIII had been on the throne in England, but it would have to do.
When Darcy reined in the horse, Elizabeth started, blinked, and raised her head, leaving his shoulder cold and bereft. “Should we stop already?” She peered at the sun, low in the sky and casting long shadows but not near dusk. “It is not so very late.”
“An early night will do us both a world of good,” Darcy said gently. “We can set out tomorrow at the crack of dawn.” Elizabeth viewed the inn anxiously. “We would have encountered any pursuers by now,” he reassured her.
Elizabeth allowed her shoulders to slump. “I must admit to fond thoughts of a warm dinner and soft bed.”
The inn was shabby but clean enough. It was not crowded; the innkeeper was quite happy at the sight of Darcy—and even happier at the sight of his coins. Taking the best accommodations available, he ordered dinner to be brought to the room right away. Darcy regretted that he could not avoid temptation by ordering separate rooms, but he could not protect Elizabeth effectively from another room.
Elizabeth leaned heavily on his arm as he escorted her up the stairs. An alarmed Darcy felt her forehead for fever, but it was cool.
After settling Elizabeth in the room with an admonishment to eat before sleeping, Darcy visited the stables to arrange for a fresh horse in the morning. The stablemaster was quite accommodating despite giving Darcy many puzzled glances. Only as he climbed the stairs to their room did he realize why. As his hand reached for the banister, he noticed the roughly woven fabric encasing his arm.
Darcy swore under his breath. Living with the Martins, who had guessed much of his secret, he had forgotten to play the role of a simple laborer. His clothes suited the role of a poor wanderer, but he had approached the inn as the master of Pemberley. He had commanded the finest room, ordered the best meal, and arranged a new horse. “Some spy you are,” he said to himself under his breath. Britain was fortunate that her future did not rely on Darcy’s thespian skills.
He paused at the top of the stairs, considering whether his blunder was sufficient to require an immediate departure. But he had promised both the innkeeper and the stablemaster additional payments in the morning. If they alerted the provincial authorities to the presence of a pair of odd travelers, neither man would receive those coins. Darcy continued toward the room with some misgivings. I will be a better actor in the future, he vowed.
He strode quickly to the end of the narrow hallway, worn boards squeaking with each step, and eased the door open just enough to slip inside the room. The sun was just beginning to set, but Elizabeth was already deeply asleep. A nearby tray attested to her worthy attempt to eat a dinner of hearty stew and bread. About half the food had been consumed, but sleep had plainly stolen over her before she had finished.
The innkeeper had provided a bottle of red wine, and Elizabeth had drunk half of it. Darcy chuckled to himself; no wonder she had fallen asleep so quickly. Mr. Martin had admonished her to avoid any spirits during her recovery, so the wine had a strong effect on her.
Her hair spread wantonly over the pillow in a profusion of dark curls while her hand rested next to her cheek in a gesture at once innocent and completely alluring. Darcy’s gaze slipped down her body, now clad only in her shift. Of course, he had seen her before in her nightrail and had contemplated her sleeping form. But earlier it had been easy to think of her as an invalid. Now…
Now, he was all too aware that she was an attractive, healthy woman.
Darcy ran a hand over his face, reminding himself yet again why he should not touch her. Still, his eyes wandered to Elizabeth’s chest as it rose and fell with each soft breath. She had not climbed under the coverlet before surrendering to slumber, so her bare legs and feet peeked out from beneath the shift’s hem. He could not tear his eyes from the sight, as if he had never glimpsed bare legs and feet before. But they were so well shaped, so impossibly graceful. And they belonged to Elizabeth.
His hand itched with a desire to stroke her lower leg and make her sigh with pleasure. Darcy swallowed hard. Yes, separate rooms would have been a far superior choice.
Resolutely, he averted his eyes from the alluring sight and sought his own dinner, which had been set on a small table. Suddenly realizing how ravenous he felt, Darcy tore into the meal, devouring every last crumb of bread and drop of stew. The red wine also disappeared quickly, leaving Darcy in a more mellow state of mind.
His attention was again caught by Elizabeth’s slumbering form. There was no harm in looking, he reasoned. Elizabeth would never know.
Her mouth had opened slightly, her delicately pink lips parted in just the right position to kiss. Darcy groaned. His fingers tingled with the need to touch her—at least caress a bare upper arm or stroke his thumb over her lips.
You do not have the right. She is not your wife. In the past few days he had acted like a husband to her, protecting her and attending to her needs, but it was merely a habit of mind, not reality.
Mustering his willpower, Darcy turned his attention to preparing for bed. Pouring some water into the basin, he used it to wash some of the road grime from his hands and face, wishing he could have a full bath. Then he slipped out of his clothing and into the long, loose nightshirt from his pack. Elizabeth might be deeply asleep, but he kept his back turned to her.
Darcy p
ulled the covers around Elizabeth’s sleeping form, tucking her in securely. She gave a little sigh and a half smile but did not awaken. He climbed under the covers on the other side of the bed, an action that felt at once all wrong and far too right. Allowing himself one indulgence, Darcy leaned over and tenderly kissed Elizabeth’s brow before retreating to his side of the bed and dropping off to sleep.
***
Darcy awoke disoriented, unsure where he was or what was happening. Someone loomed over him, launching his heart into a frantic rhythm. “It is just me, my love,” a warm voice murmured.
Oh yes. Elizabeth. The coaching inn. Good Lord, he was sharing a bed with Elizabeth!
The moon had risen and cast a silvery glow through the window, turning Elizabeth into a dark silhouette. She peered down at him, her curls tumbling around her face, the long ends brushing against his cheeks. Elizabeth’s shift draped loosely around her body, providing tantalizing glimpses of ivory skin. Her forearms rested on his chest and her breasts were…
Darcy hastily raised his eyes to her face. “Elizabeth?” he whispered.
“Yes.” She drew out the word like one long exhalation.
Darcy’s conscience warred with his body’s desires. “Er…you should sleep; we must rise early in the morning.”
Her lips curved into a smile he could only describe as seductive. “I slept for a long time, and I am no longer tired.”
That much was plain to Darcy.
Her eyes held his gaze—the green so much darker in the dim light. Her lips were so close. The sight and the scent of Elizabeth made his heart pound and his breathing quicken.
No, this was wrong. He locked the muscles in his arms, keeping them stiff at his sides so they would not enclose her—no matter how much he longed for the embrace.
“You need more rest.” He tried to sound firm, but he was too breathless.
The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy Page 10
