The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy

by Victoria Kincaid

  “During a week of traveling together, you could never spare a minute to tell me the truth?” Her eyes filled with tears. Darcy had thought Elizabeth’s angry accusations at Hunsford Parsonage had destroyed all his hopes, but the naked pain on her face tore at his soul.

  “I needed your trust so I could keep you safe,” Darcy said, realizing how paltry his words sounded even as he said them. “I only had your best interests at heart.”

  She pressed her lips together until they turned white. “You have a strange idea of what my ‘best interests’ are.” Her fists clenched at her sides as if she could hold herself together by sheer force of will.

  “Elizabeth—”

  She averted her eyes from Darcy’s face and turned toward Richard. “Colonel, could you possibly assist me in returning to England?”

  Me. Not us. It left a bitter taste in Darcy’s mouth.

  Richard looked uncertainly from her to Darcy. “I believe so. When the tide turns, the smugglers’ boats will depart. The captain of the galley I crewed most likely could be convinced to take two additional passengers for a fee.”

  “Good.” Elizabeth did not so much as glance in Darcy’s direction. “Might you know of a place I could rest until then?”

  Darcy reached out to take her arm. “Elizabeth, may we at least talk—?” She jerked her arm from his reach.

  Richard watched them warily before nodding to Elizabeth. “I rented a tent for the night. You are certainly welcome to use it now.”

  Elizabeth took Richard’s arm, and he led her back to a tent at the end of a long row of similar tents, with Darcy trailing disconsolately behind them.

  The small shelter contained a serviceable cot, a stool, and a table with a washbasin. “I apologize for the meager accommodations,” Richard said to Elizabeth, “but I hope it will allow you to sleep for a couple hours.”

  “I thank you.” The bleak expression on her face made Darcy’s heart ache. He had protected her for a week from the many dangers in France, but he could do nothing to ameliorate the pain from a wound he himself had inflicted. If I could at least explain to her why…

  “Elizabeth—” His voice was weak and pleading even to his own ears.

  “No.” She did not glance in his direction as she lowered herself to the cot.

  Richard pulled Darcy’s arm, gesturing toward the entrance. He was loath to leave her, but Elizabeth rolled without hesitation, turning her back to both men.

  He allowed his cousin to pull him from the tent, blinking in the sudden brightness. “Let us go over to that tree.” Richard pointed to an oak with wide-spreading branches. “We will be able to watch over the tent and speak in peace.”

  Feeling as though he were leaving his heart behind in the tent, Darcy followed his cousin. Once they were a sufficient distance away, Richard rounded on Darcy. “You brought that woman back from the dead! What could you possibly have done to make her so angry with you?”

  Darcy suppressed the retort on the tip of his tongue. “I told her we were married,” he said with a sigh, dropping to a patch of soft grass beneath the tree.

  Richard’s jaw fell open. “What—?”

  “She was rescued by a doctor and his wife, but they did not know her identity. She was unconscious. They were suspicious of leaving me with her, so I said she was my wife. The word came from my mouth without any forethought. I suppose it might have been wishful thinking; I was so shocked to find her alive. Then when she awakened and could not remember anything about her life…the falsehood persisted.”

  Richard sank into a cross-legged position on the ground. “And she did not realize the truth until now?”

  Darcy removed his hat and ran one hand through his damp curls. “Her memory has been returning bit by bit. The last missing piece was this past year. Apparently seeing you triggered the remaining memories. Or perhaps it was when you called her Miss Bennet.”

  “I am sorry.”

  Darcy shrugged. “My falsehoods are not your responsibility.”

  One of Richard’s eyebrows lifted. “You resurrect the woman you love from the dead and keep her safe in a hostile country only to alienate her a few days later. That takes some talent.”

  Darcy snorted at his cousin’s sarcasm. “I will be fortunate if she ever deigns to speak another word to me.”

  “You will be the man who rescued her from France. Surely you have earned some gratitude.”

  “Gratitude! No doubt I will have that, but what I want is her love.” Darcy plucked a blade of grass and proceeded to shred it.

  “I think it likely that she does love you.”

  Darcy narrowed his eyes at his cousin. “In our last conversation before leaving for France, Elizabeth proclaimed I was the last man in the world she could ever be induced to marry. Then I lied to her for a week about a basic matter of her identity.”

  Richard blew out a breath. “When you put it that way, I suppose it is not promising….”

  Darcy could not stifle a harsh laugh as he pulled up more grass to shred.

  “But you have been traveling together—alone,” Richard said. “Surely her reputation is so compromised that—”

  Darcy grabbed his cousin’s arm before he could finish the sentence. “No. Do not so much as whisper a word on that account. I do not want her forced to marry me. That would be a fate far worse than never marrying.”

  Richard’s eyebrows shot up. “Very well, I will not mention anything about your traveling arrangements, but it will provoke many questions when you return to England.”

  Darcy’s shoulders slumped. “I know. I had hoped to persuade her to an engagement by then.” He pictured the angry rigidity in her body as she had turned her face to the canvas wall of the tent. Any type of persuasion seemed unlikely.

  Richard gave a low whistle. “I thought love was supposed to make you happy.”

  I did, too. Darcy glared at his cousin. “Did you not need to speak to the boat captain about taking on two passengers?”

  Richard gave him a rueful smile. “Very well.” He stood. “I will be back soon.”

  After his cousin’s departure, Darcy stood and circled the tent—inspecting it carefully to ensure Elizabeth was safe—but saw no signs of trouble. Returning to the tree, he shifted position until his back rested against the trunk and settled in for a long watch.

  Half an hour passed before Richard returned with the welcome news that he had secured passage with the galley captain. Using the tree’s canopy to shield them from the hot midday sun, they conversed in low tones as Darcy related the story of their journey. Fortunately, this part of the camp was outside the market area, and few people passed by.

  When Darcy described Dreyfus’s betrayal, his cousin swore under his breath. “Damn double agents! My superiors in the War Office will find a way to deal with him.”

  “Dreyfus and his men may still be on the lookout for us,” Darcy warned.

  “You will not be on French soil for much longer.”

  Darcy nodded in fervent agreement. They could not leave the country quickly enough to suit him.

  ***

  Elizabeth stared at the side of the tent. With the sun bright and high in the sky, the space was filled with a dusty yellow glow. Even if she had designs on slumber, the light would have made it impossible. However, she had a far greater need for privacy and quiet in which to order her thoughts. Already she perceived the beginning of a headache in the knotted muscles in her neck.

  She had suspected William—Mr. Darcy—had not been truthful, but it had never occurred to her that he was lying about their marriage. In hindsight she should have guessed; he had been so vague about the details of the proposal and wedding. But marriage was a sacrament, a sacred bond between two people. How could he have been so cavalier about the truth of it? She had been a fool to trust him. Obviously he was completely untrustworthy and devoid of higher feelings.

  What else had he lied to her about?

  The moment when her memories rushed back to her had been
so disorienting. The sight of Colonel Fitzwilliam had provoked a flood of memories from Rosings Park: eating dinner, playing the pianoforte, walking in the park. Other recollections followed on the heels of the first, including the entirety of her history with Mr. Darcy. Now she was horrified at her behavior with him: her casual intimacy, the confidences she had shared, the kisses. He had seen parts of her body—although she had not been wholly naked in his presence. They had shared a bed!

  Before today, the cold and distant Mr. Darcy in her dreams had been a puzzlement. Now she wondered the opposite: who was the attentive and caring Mr. Darcy she had encountered in France? Elizabeth would not have believed he possessed such qualities. Yet he had treated her with tender regard and protected her with everything in his power. She could scarcely believe this was the same man who had so casually insulted her family and separated Mr. Bingley from Jane.

  He had every reason to be furious with her after her refusal of his proposal—and the egregious way she had credited Mr. Wickham’s story over his. After the incident at Hunsford, she imagined he cursed her name and would never wish to see her again. He had believed she was deceased. Why had he even come to France?

  It was such a shock, as if she had been doused with cold water. Mr. Darcy is not my husband. Even now, an hour later, her mind struggled to grapple with all the ramifications. Despite the restoration of her memories, it was difficult to change her habits of mind. She had grown accustomed to seeing him as her spouse, and now she needed to adapt to viewing him as an odd and unpleasant acquaintance who had once revealed his affection for her in a shocking and insulting manner. It was most disconcerting.

  She could not even articulate exactly how she felt about Mr. Darcy at this moment. When she had believed him to be her husband, she had not questioned her feelings for him. Of course, she loved him; he was her husband. Without memories, it had been impossible to form a complete understanding of the various emotions he provoked. But now she was left in limbo.

  How do I feel about Mr. Darcy?

  It was true that in the days following the proposal, Elizabeth had regretted the manner in which she had refused his offer, particularly after reading his letter. But that did not mean her essential feelings toward him had changed.

  It was also true that before her departure for Jersey she had found Mr. Darcy often in her thoughts. To be honest, he had occupied her thoughts more than any other young man of her acquaintance. However, she attributed that to their awkward encounter at Hunsford Parsonage; it had been so unexpected and unpleasant that she could not push it from her mind.

  After the proposal she had often mused about their lively conversations; they enjoyed many books and pieces of music in common. He was an excellent dancer and a handsome man. She had been mortifyingly incorrect in her worst accusations against his character. And yet he had still been rude and arrogant and proud. Lively, well-informed conversation was not sufficient to induce her admiration. And yet…

  The headache had crept up the base of her skull, and new pressure was building across her forehead. Why had he lied to her? Why would any man lie about such a thing? The obvious answer with most men would be to take advantage of her virtue. However, she had been in his bed, and he had steadfastly refused to avail himself of the opportunity.

  She had suggested—nay, begged him—for greater intimacies. Her cheeks flamed at the memory, and she was forced to cover her face with her hands even though there was nobody to see her. How could she face him again when she had been so brazen? It was a shame amnesia could not be employed selectively; she would choose to forget a great many incidents from the past week.

  What a fool I have been.

  He had not avoided kissing her, and his kisses had been quite…passionate. She blushed again at the memories. How wanton she had been with a man not her husband! Still, she would admit it to herself: she would miss those kisses.

  The fact was not lost on her that he had compromised her reputation most egregiously. If it were known that they had been traveling as husband and wife, he would be forced to marry her. Had that been part of his plan: to force her to marry him after she had refused his offer? Just the thought of such deliberate scheming sent shivers of horror through her body. Would Mr. Darcy stoop to such designs?

  The thought of actually marrying him produced a much weaker sense of horror.

  But he lied to me.

  That fact was inescapable. He claimed to love her, but why would he lie so egregiously and repeatedly to somebody he cared about? Even if he did love her in his way, surely he could not possibly respect her. Or trust her.

  Nor was it possible for her to trust him. Yes, she could trust him with her life and her safety, but not with her heart.

  Her body broke out in a cold sweat. That was it; the decision was made. Or perhaps there had been no decision in the first place. She could not trust him with her heart. There could be no future for them.

  The headache now engulfed her entire head; she tried to shift into a more comfortable position, to no avail. Even if she did occasionally have…warm feelings for him, they meant nothing without trust.

  He had lied to her, and she could never trust him again.

  ***

  The sun was sinking low in the sky when Richard decided the time was right to rendezvous with the smugglers’ boat. Supposing discretion to be the better part of valor, Darcy sent Richard into the tent to awaken Elizabeth. She soon emerged, a bit rumpled and bleary-eyed but alert enough to avoid meeting Darcy’s eyes. He sighed. It had been a vain hope that things would improve in such a short time.

  They joined a line of smugglers trudging toward the gate. Many boats would depart at the same time as they took advantage of the high tide. Darcy took Elizabeth’s arm and pulled ahead of Richard. She stiffened at his touch.

  “Elizabeth,” he murmured in her ear, “I understand that you are angry with me—with good reason. But we must not give the authorities any reason for suspicion. You and I must leave together and cannot be seen in Richard’s company. Remember, you are deaf.”

  She gave the barest nod, but her body did not relax beneath his arm.

  The soldier who took their papers gave Darcy an odd look since they were leaving without their wagon. Darcy scowled at the man. “One of the bastards out there”—he gestured to the galleys on the beach—“cheated me! I need to stop him before he gets away.”

  The man took a cursory glance at their papers. “I regret we cannot provide assistance, monsieur. We do not interfere in private trade matters.”

  “I understand,” Darcy growled as he grabbed the papers back. With the soldier’s eyes upon them, Darcy set a quick pace toward the beach, stalking his imaginary customer. They soon reached the wet stones of the beach where dozens of small galleys had been dragged to await the high tide. A few bigger fishing vessels were moored further out in the deeper water. Everywhere, men were climbing into boats, grabbing oars, settling onto seats, and securing cargo. A few vessels were already pushing into deeper water where the rowers—ten or twelve to a boat—jumped in and started their rhythmic strokes.

  Darcy fought the urge to break into a run, keeping to the swift but steady pace of an angry man. With her skirts gathered in one hand, Elizabeth did an admirable job of keeping pace with him. Ahead of them, Richard ambled up to one of the bigger galleys where men were tying down cargo. The boat was low and long—built for utility and speed—without any kind of roof or shelter to protect the occupants from the elements. An older man, likely the captain, regarded Richard with some impatience, his arms folded over his chest. Darcy picked up their pace as Richard stopped to speak with the captain and gestured toward them. He was just as impatient to reach the open water as the smuggler was.

  “There they are!” Someone shouted in French behind them. Darcy looked over his shoulder to see Dreyfus, leading a group of three soldiers running toward them—all with pistols drawn. “We must stop them from reaching England!”

  Chapter Seventeen

&nb
sp; Damnation! They were so close to safety.

  “Run,” Darcy urged Elizabeth. Picking up her skirts, she took off like a shot toward the smuggler’s boat, with Darcy not far behind her. At least two shots sounded behind them; Darcy could only pray that the soldiers’ aim was poor.

  “Devil take you!” the captain shouted at Richard as they raced toward him. “You promised me no trouble!”

  Ignoring the man, Richard pulled a pistol from his rumpled coat and took aim at Dreyfus. When that shot went wide, Richard took out another pistol. “Time to push off!” he shouted at the captain over his shoulder.

  Cursing and calling Richard a string of vile names, the captain helped his men push their boat into deeper water. There was no chance the captain would wait for them to reach the boat; they had to board it before it shoved off. Elizabeth had waded into the surf with no care for her boots, but as her skirts fell into the water, they created a drag that slowed her progress.

  Darcy calculated that they would not make it to the deeper water before Dreyfus and his men reached them. His imagination supplied him with images of what that failure would mean—capture, imprisonment, torture for himself and Richard, and possibly even Elizabeth. He had failed her miserably.

  He pulled out his pistol but could not fire while running.

  As he neared the boat, Richard fired his other pistol, hitting one of the soldiers, who fell with a cry onto the beach. Another soldier stopped to help his compatriot.

  Darcy splashed through the surf, frantic to reach Elizabeth. Dreyfus crashed through the water behind him. A bullet whistled by Darcy’s shoulder but did not find a target.

  Darcy hauled Elizabeth, wet skirts and all, into his arms and carried her toward the galley. She was a sodden mess, wet fabric clinging to her skin and hair dripping into her eyes. Richard had clambered aboard the boat, preventing it from gliding out to sea by the simple expedient of putting a gun to the captain’s head.