The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy

by Victoria Kincaid

  Staying barely ahead of Dreyfus, Darcy propelled them both through the water toward the boat. He half pushed, half dragged Elizabeth over the gunwale, where Richard steadied her with his free hand. Darcy shoved his pistol into her hand, hoping the powder was still dry. If he did not make it onto the boat, she would need it to defend herself.

  The moment he released her, Elizabeth reached for Darcy, but he knew they could not escape unless he did something to stop Dreyfus. “Go! Go!” he urged Richard before turning to face the double agent.

  “No! William!” Elizabeth reached with her free hand. “I am not leaving you!”

  Darcy had no opportunity to argue before he was tackled by Dreyfus, the man’s hands immediately clamping around his neck. Darcy tried to pry them off, but the other man had a firm grip and Darcy’s hands were slick from seawater. The back of Darcy’s legs hit the now-stationary boat, but he could not get purchase to pull Dreyfus’s hands away.

  The pressure of the other man’s hands slowly constricted the flow of air, and Darcy’s vision darkened around the edges. His movements grew weaker and uncoordinated. He could only hope that the galley would escape while Dreyfus took the time to kill him.

  A loud bang nearly deafened him, and suddenly Dreyfus’s grip went slack. The Frenchman fell on top of Darcy at the same moment hands grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him onto the boat. Darcy instinctively clung to Dreyfus, pulling the man into the galley with him.

  “Go! Go!” Richard exhorted the captain, and the boat lurched into action under their soaked bodies. Shouts and curses in French floated over the water, but nobody fired at them. Perhaps they feared hitting Dreyfus.

  Gasping for breath, Darcy pushed off Dreyfus’s limp body and sat up. Crouched by his side, Elizabeth gasped when she saw blood on his shirt. He shook his head, panting, “Not…mine. Dreyfus’s.”

  Some of the tension left her body; Darcy was pathetically grateful she cared about him that much.

  The men were rowing for their lives and the galley was skimming over the waves while the captain shouted. “Row! Row! Devil take it! Row!”

  Darcy gave the rowers credit; they were strong and fast. The boat slid over the water like a dolphin. The coast of France rapidly grew smaller behind them.

  Richard pulled Dreyfus to his feet. “Mr. Dreyfus, we have not met, but we have corresponded. I am Colonel Fitzwilliam.” Dreyfus sagged in his arms at this revelation. “I never expected to encounter you under these circumstances, but I suppose the War Office will be pleased to have you in their custody. No doubt you have plenty of useful information about Napoleon’s spies.”

  “I will tell you nothing,” the man ground out. “You may shoot me again. I will tell you nothing.”

  Richard grinned. “’Twas not I that shot the first bullet. It was she.” He gestured to Elizabeth with a dramatic flourish.

  Darcy and Dreyfus both gaped at her, and she shrugged, the pistol still held loosely in one hand. “My father gave me shooting lessons as a girl.”

  “Bah!” Dreyfus spat on the deck. “I will not cooperate with you.”

  Richard shrugged. “It is your choice, but we need not bind your wound in that case.” His eyes looked pointedly at the freely bleeding bullet hole in the man’s shoulder.

  “If you do not treat it, I could bleed to death!” Dreyfus protested.

  Richard folded his arms across his chest and gave the man a relaxed grin. “The unfortunate consequence of becoming a double agent and shooting at my cousin. Perhaps you should re-think some of your choices.” Dreyfus’s response was unprintable, but Richard merely waggled a finger at him. “Ah, ah. Watch the language. There is a lady present.”

  The Frenchman sneered derisively at Elizabeth’s sodden homespun clothing. “Lady!” he scoffed.

  Darcy was happy he had regained his breath. His fist hit Dreyfus’s chin with a very satisfying thump. The man fell back into the bottom of the boat. “Lady indeed,” Darcy growled. “That is Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy, mistress of Pemberley!”

  Dreyfus did not try to stand, but his eyes darted from Darcy to Elizabeth, his mouth gaping open. Richard’s eyes were alive with merriment. “Did you believe you were chasing after a fishmonger and his wife?”

  Only then did Darcy remember that the marriage was a sham—and that Elizabeth knew it to be a lie. He had grown so accustomed to the falsehood. However, her stony expression suggested that she had not forgotten. On the whole, Darcy much preferred the pretense.

  “Will you cooperate?” Richard asked Dreyfus, his eyes hard.

  “Yes,” the Frenchman muttered, staring at the floor of the boat.

  “Good.” Richard pulled the man’s hands behind him and tied them with a bit of rope. “Let us see what we can do about that wound.” He pulled the double agent to the boat’s stern, where he proceeded to make bandages out of silk shawls from one of the smuggled packages.

  The coast of France was nothing more than a shadow on the horizon. The captain made his way to the back of the boat. His face was so red that he was in imminent danger of an attack of apoplexy. “You told me there would be no trouble!” he shouted at Richard, waving an arm in his face. “You said the French would not bother us!”

  Calmly, Richard continued to bandage Dreyfus’s wound. “I believed they would not, but I am afraid I was mistaken.”

  This admission did nothing for the captain’s temper; he drew back an arm as if to strike Richard. “Now I won’t be able to ever return to Gravelines,” he bellowed, a Kentish accent strong in his voice. “You have ruined me!”

  Darcy hastily reloaded his pistol from the kit in his pocket. If they had to fight off the captain, would the crew join his side?

  Richard did not seem worried. “Actually, I have saved your business,” he said calmly.

  “The hell you have!” the man scoffed.

  “After all, by returning us safely to Ramsgate, you are ensuring my goodwill. A clever move, sir. Otherwise I might be tempted to report your illegal activities to my superiors at the War Office. They take a dim view of smuggling, and they know whose boat I shipped out on.”

  “Your superiors at the—” The captain spluttered. “Well, devil take you!” he shouted, and turning on his heel, he stomped to the front of the boat.

  Richard put the final knot in the bandage and grinned at Darcy. “It should be smooth sailing after this, Cuz.”

  Darcy’s gaze traveled to the figure of Elizabeth, huddled miserably on a bench near the front of the boat, ignoring everything happening around her. “Maybe for you, but not for me.”

  ***

  Now that the captain had stopped shouting at Colonel Fitzwilliam, silence had descended over the galley. There was only the squeak of the oars and the grunts of the rowers, the slap of water on the side of the boat. Nobody spoke. Dreyfus appeared to be sleeping. Beside him, the colonel kept a watchful eye, pistol at the ready.

  Before retreating to the stern once more, Will—Mr. Darcy had provided Elizabeth with a blanket that once might have been white but was now a dingy gray. Despite its uncertain cleanliness, Elizabeth welcomed it. As the wind dried her clothing, she felt truly chilled for the first time in days. Thank goodness they were not making this trip during the wintertime. The blanket kept out the worst of the cold, but she still shivered as the wind whipped the ties on her bonnet and lashed stray strands of hair into her eyes.

  A fine mist had started to fall; in minutes everything she wore would no doubt be soaked through. Wonderful. But there was nowhere to go on this boat. Built for speed and maximum cargo space, the galley had no shelter.

  Huddling deeper under the blanket, Elizabeth reminded herself that she would soon be home. I will soon see Longbourn again…and Papa and Jane… It was far better to dwell on those images than to think about her current circumstances. She would even prefer to focus on her current misery than to contemplate the state of her relationship with Mr. Darcy.

  She had been so gullible. He deceived her for days, telling her
she was his wife. She had grown accustomed to the idea, to anticipating a future with him once they returned to England. Now her future seemed like an empty hole. Elizabeth dug her fingernails into the palm of her hand. How he must have been laughing at her ignorance!

  Of course, she could have allowed Dreyfus to strangle Mr. Darcy, but in the heat of battle she had not even considered it. Her only thought had been to save Mr. Darcy at any cost; the prospect he might be hurt had horrified her. I cannot fathom how I managed to hit the man! Her shot had been lucky indeed, but she was very happy he would live.

  Now that she reflected on it, her need to save Mr. Darcy only made sense. For a week, she had relied on him to get her safely home. It was only sensible to worry what would become of her if he perished. Her reaction was quite rational and had nothing to do with her personal feelings for the man. Nothing.

  Mr. Darcy had been very solicitous of her wellbeing; she could hardly repay him by ignoring him in his hour of need. She had done what any good Christian would do.

  She pulled the blanket more tightly around her shoulders. He said he loves me, she reminded herself yet again. But what did those words mean to him? Men could mean so many different things by the word “love.” She could not trust that it meant the same to him that it did to her. She would never lie to someone she loved.

  She deliberately bit down on the inside of her cheek, focusing on the pain. I will not cry. I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

  Instead she conjured up an image of Longbourn’s drawing room: her father sitting by the fire, Jane embroidering, Lydia and Kitty squabbling. The muscles in her back began to loosen. How lovely it would be to sit in her father’s study and discuss books. Her sisters would be amazed to hear about her adventures in France, although there would be much she would need to conceal. And Jane…her embrace would be a balm. To Jane, at least, Elizabeth could confess everything without fear of judgment or consequences.

  If only Jane were here now…

  Darcy interrupted her as she was recreating Longbourn’s dining room in her mind. “Eliz—Miss Bennet, allow me to thank you for saving my life.” He took another place on the hard, narrow bench but as far from her as the plank would allow.

  Drat the man! Of course, he must utter the exact words she could not reject with an angry retort!

  She took a quick, involuntary glance in his direction. His clothing was as damp as hers, and he had no blanket to shield him from the wind. An occasional shiver betrayed his chill. I will not feel sorry for him, she vowed silently.

  But civility demanded that she at least acknowledge his words. “It was the least I could do. After all, you saved my life, Mr. Darcy.”

  He winced when she emphasized the last two words. Was she being too harsh with him? After all, she would not have escaped France without his assistance. “I truly appreciate all that you have done for me, Mr. Darcy. My family will be eternally in your debt.”

  “If you would thank me, let it be for yourself alone,” he said huskily. “I thought of nothing save keeping you safe and well.”

  Oh, Good Lord, why did he have to make it so difficult to stay furious with him?

  “I pray you, listen to my explanation of”—he cleared his throat— “of the past week.”

  Elizabeth wanted to push him off the bench and watch him sprawl on the dirty boat’s deck. But, she grudgingly admitted, she probably owed Mr. Darcy her life. The least she could do was listen to his explanation. Once she was off this boat, she need not ever see him again.

  “Very well,” she said stiffly.

  Mr. Darcy held his shapeless worker’s hat, turning the rim around and around in his hands. He cleared his throat again. “When I arrived at Saint-Malo, I believed you were dead.”

  Elizabeth nodded. She knew this but still did not know what to make of it.

  “I wanted to find the man who caused the cutter to explode and bring him to England for justice.” Darcy glanced over his shoulder at Dreyfus huddled on the floor of the boat. “I just this minute realized that we actually accomplished that goal even though I abandoned it.”

  “Why did you want to avenge me? Did you somehow believe you were responsible for my trip to Jersey?”

  “It did occur to me that you would not have been on that cutter if I had made you an offer of my hand in a way that could have tempted you.” The desolation on his face took Elizabeth’s breath away. “But I had journeyed to Longbourn in the hopes of changing your opinion of me. When I learned of your…demise, I thought I had lost that opportunity. There was no further service I could render you or your family, save to avenge your death.”

  Despite herself, Elizabeth felt moisture gathering in her eyes. Every time she doubted his love for her, he made such doubt impossible.

  “But then I walked into a bedchamber at the Martins’ house, and you were lying in the bed—ill but quite alive. I never even dared to hope…” He swallowed, staring down at his hands. “I was so overcome by the sight that I took you into my arms….You were warm and breathing and…”

  Elizabeth could not help glancing at his profile. He was staring out over the ocean, his jaw clenched and tense. Reliving these memories was clearly a kind of agony for him.

  When she said nothing, Mr. Darcy continued. “The Martins were scandalized at my behavior—grabbing an unconscious woman—so I said the first thing that came into my mind: that you were my wife.” He rubbed his jaw with one hand. “Oddly enough, at the time it almost did not feel like a lie. I had been so ready to make you mine—to make you another offer at Longbourn—that it almost felt like you were…mine.”

  I should say something….But no words could emerge past the lump in her throat.

  “I thought that when you awakened, I would induce you to play along, at least so that Mr. Martin would not be scandalized that I was in your sick room. I had no idea that you would have…”

  “Forgotten everything,” she supplied.

  “Yes. The Martins told you I was your husband, and how was I to correct your misapprehension without destroying your trust? You did not remember who I was; I could not confess to deception. It seemed easiest to allow you to continue to believe it.”

  “Easiest?” Her voice was so loud that several of the rowers looked in their direction. “Easiest for whom?” she asked in a lower voice.

  “For both of us.” He squared his shoulders and then turned to look directly at her. “Elizabeth, if I had told you that we were neither married nor engaged, and that upon our previous meeting, you told me that I was the last person on earth you would marry”—Elizabeth flinched at her harsh words—“would you have accompanied me out of Saint-Malo?”

  The first days in Saint-Malo had been so disorienting, not knowing who she was or why she was in France. She could see now that her “husband” had been a source of comfort and security. “Possibly not,” she conceded. “But we have been traveling together for a week. You could have told me at any point.”

  His head dropped, and his eyes fixed on his hands again. “I considered telling you upon many occasions, but I feared distracting you from the all-important tasks of recovering from your illness and reaching England. Nothing was more important than getting you home safely. I vowed I would do anything to make that happen. Even make you hate me.”

  Elizabeth could not help recalling how he had charged into Adele’s house to rescue her when he easily could have escaped on his own. He had put her safety above everything else, including his own life.

  “I had planned to tell you the truth once we reached England. I swear to you!” His voice now held an edge of desperation.

  “The truth would have been necessary.” Elizabeth’s voice sounded cold even to her own ears. “The population of Longbourn and Meryton would hardly have cooperated with your deception.”

  “I pray you, understand that I abhor falsehoods of every kind. Living such a lie felt wrong every moment of every day.”

  She could sense his desperation, but she was n
ot convinced that he had no choice. “Did it truly feel wrong, Mr. Darcy, or did you get a secret thrill from pretending I was your wife? It was what you wanted after all.” Elizabeth’s rage was an ice-cold core deep in her body. Mr. Darcy’s words had melted it a little bit, but she clung to it like a piece of driftwood in the ocean. Otherwise the onslaught of fresh memories threatened to overwhelm her.

  He opened his mouth quickly as if for an angry retort but then closed it again. “I will admit I enjoyed the fantasy of you as my wife,” he said with a sigh. “Nothing would make me happier.”

  “Even now?” she asked. He had certainly seen her at her worst.

  “Even now,” he said firmly. “But I swear to God I did not embark on the deception for the purpose of coercing you into matrimony.”

  “No?”

  A corner of his mouth quirked upward. “No. I am somewhat familiar with your temperament, Elizabeth.”

  She could not help responding with a small grin of her own.

  “I will admit that playing the role of your husband gave me pleasure.” The absentminded smile on his face was all the more charming because he seemed unaware of it. “But not as much pleasure as being your husband in truth would give me.” He leaned forward. “I am very sorry,” he said simply. “I cannot apologize sufficiently for the pain my falsehoods have caused.”

  She took a deep breath. “I accept your apology, Mr. Darcy.”

  “I thank you.” He was watching her with something akin to hope on his face.

  “But,” she continued, “I do not know if I can trust you. You deceived me so thoroughly—even if it was with the best of intentions.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I do not make a habit of deception,” he said stiffly. “Quite the contrary.”

  “I know,” she murmured. “Please believe that I do forgive you and hold you blameless. And you have my deepest gratitude for saving my life. I wish I could somehow repay you.”

  He scowled. “I want neither gratitude nor recompense.”

  She swallowed. This was more difficult than she expected. She had come to regard him as a friend and disliked causing him any pain. “I hope that when we part in Kent we may part as friends.”