Prince Darcy

by Allison Smith

  “You will not be disturbed here,” she said. “I will send you your Jane.”

  “Thank you.”

  Elizabeth entered the room, finding it a small but well-appointed chamber meant for just this purpose; a bit of light reading or relaxation out of the way of the bustle of the household. The candles were lit, meaning someone either anticipated using it this evening or it was one of the oft-used rooms in the manor.

  She settled into a chair farthest from the door, limbs weak from an excess of heady emotion running through her body. Now that she was alone, her shoulders slumped. The joy and shock of she and Darcy reconciling their hearts drained her energy. Truly, she was fortunate to have such a man as her husband. Had she not seen how he cared for his sister, his people? His willingness to act when required? He did not shirk responsibility or place the burden of his duties on a lesser man’s shoulders. She need never fear he would be intimidated by her opinions or love of reading—he would expect her to exercise her mind. If the way he deferred to his sister was any indication, personal pride notwithstanding, he felt no compunction in yielding to a woman’s will. Such was the way of all true men who were secure in their power and masculinity. They felt no need to oppress their womenfolk to make up for deficiencies.

  She lifted her hand, staring at the thumbnail-sized sapphire, the diamond winking in the flickering candlelight. The door opened, and she expected her sisters to rush into the room. Instead, the tall golden-haired man from the ball stepped inside.

  Elizabeth stood, not quite alarmed, but wary. “Sir? Are you lost?”

  He reached up, removing his half mask. “Not at all.”

  “You.”

  Wickham bowed, summer-sky eyes mocking as he straightened. “Miss Bennet. Or rather, Lady Wilshire. But I suppose it shall soon be Your Highness. And I thought Lydia the conniving one.”

  “You are banished.”

  “You are well informed. I expected no less, considering you assisted Darcy in the theft of my property.”

  “Are you mad? Your property?”

  He shrugged, stepping further into the room. “Darcy possessed it, and then he did not. That makes him a thief.” He smiled brilliantly. “And you, a thief’s harlot.”

  She cared not one whit for his perception of her. “If you leave this house now, I shall not call the guards. I have some small, rapidly diminishing sympathy for you. It must have been difficult, knowing that you were a distant relation of the Darcys and entitled to some part of the estate. But you are not, and should make do with your wits to advance you the way any man or woman not born to fortune must.”

  “The way you have? Through marriage? I never thought William would wed a woman so low born, but there must be hidden depths to you.”

  The expression in his eyes was insolent. Elizabeth refused to rise to the bait. “Take your leave, sir.”

  “Oh, I shall. It is a shame your stepmother did not succeed in killing Darcy. She is a stupid woman, had she but followed the instructions I gave her. . . .”

  Elizabeth’s stomach lurched. “You—you used Adelaide? Where is she?”

  “You should worry about yourself. But first, what belongs to me.” He stepped forward, the lines of his face shifting from insouciant mockery to menace.

  “You are mad. The ring will not be removed once it is given.”

  “Except by death, Lizzy. Except by death.”

  Lydia called her Lizzy. Lydia must have told him where they were going once they’d received the invitation from Darcy to the ball. She would be angry with her younger sister later.

  She looked around desperate for something, anything. A heavy book or a candlestick—Elizabeth lunged towards a round, hand-painted side table as Wickham leaped across the room. He grabbed her wrists, the power in his hands tightening. Never had a man used his strength against her for the purposes of harm.

  “I will give you one chance,” he said. “Darcy did not tell the entire truth as it would not have been in his interest. If you renounce him, the ring will release you. You will never be able to set foot on Pemberley land again through threat of death—some arcane witchery no doubt—and you will also never be allowed to set eyes on Darcy again. The spell on the ring will assure that. But you will live. One way or another I will have the ring, Lizzy.”

  “What do you want it for?” She trembled with fury, but her natural, stupid, foolish curiosity still reared its head. “You cannot offer it to a bride, and no buyer would risk it.”

  He snorted. “No buyer on this continent perhaps, but a resourceful man knows how to look farther afield. I will not be a poor soldier forever. You could be surprised what a foreign wizard would pay for such an artifact. It is famous in certain circles, but usually so well guarded.”

  “You are a disgusting little troll.”

  “I wonder what he sees in you,” Wickham mused. “You are no lady. I would have expected him to pursue Jane if he had a taste for common wench. But a woman with no grace, a loud mouth. . .”

  Elizabeth inhaled, preparing to scream. His head descended, mouth covering hers in perhaps the only strategic move he could make to silence her scream without releasing her hands; in no way did she believe he was attempting to kiss her. There was nothing of desire in his touch, or even a need to demonstrate his greater power. The utter coldness frightened her more than anything else; this was a man prepared to kill her to gain what he wanted.

  Wickham jerked, the sound of the opening door cutting into their small battle. His mouth softened, his body shifting. Was he attempting to make this appear like an assignation? It would be a better explanation and more believable than the truth; a threat to murder her.

  It was only a servant, carrying a tray in her hands. “Oh! Lady, I was told to bring refreshment. . . .”

  Wickham’s hand tightened on her wrist, a warning flashing in his eyes. “Put it down and leave us.”

  Elizabeth mentally shook herself. There was no way Wickham could harm the servant. “I am being held prisoner. Run, get the prince!”

  The tray clattered onto the ground, its content shattering as the woman dashed out.

  Wickham growled. “The difficult way, then. Fortunately, I grew up in this castle.”

  He dragged her through a series of back corridors and hidden doors until they were in the gardens behind the ballroom. She struggled but had not the skill to break the grip that threatened to crush her wrist and still found herself, foolishly perhaps, wanting to avoid staining Darcy’s name. At least until there was no hope. But what kind of scandal would it be if she was discovered in Wickham’s arms, struggling? Even if society believed it an assault, the fact that Prince Darcy’s betrothed was importuned at his ball by his former household member. . . .no. He would come before it was too late. The servant woman had run quickly, without hesitation.

  “There is not much time,” he muttered. “Now, one last chance, Lizzy, before I cut the ring from your finger. Renounce Darcy or bleed to death.”

  “Elizabeth,” a dispassionate voice said. “Shall I call for help?”

  Wickham’s head lifted, and he turned, Elizabeth’s wrist still in his grasp. Mary watched them both from just outside the threshold, dark eyes calm.

  “Mary! Get the prince! Wickham is—”

  “You are distraught, Lady Wilshire,” he interjected. “I understand your embarrassment at being discovered, but you must not tell tales to your sister.”

  “Don’t listen to him! Please, Mary—”

  Mary regarded them both, then stepped forward.

  “Stop right there,” Wickham said sharply.

  “I have watched,” Mary said in her pleasant tone. “I have waited. Elizabeth, did you think I would allow you to betray my mother?”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Elizabeth’s heart stopped. “Mary. . .oh, no. Mary.”

  Her sister walked forward slowly. “You block my mother’s goals at every turn. She wants only to see her daughters rise.” Mary reached into the sash at her waist, he
r hidden tool pouches sewn inside. She had several such sashes she wore for dances in place of her usual belt.

  “Well, this is interesting,” Wickham said. “Perhaps, Miss Mary, you and I may come to an accommodation? Rather presently, one hopes.”

  Mary’s closed fist opened, and she blew a cloud of shimmering powder wafting into Elizabeth’s face. Elizabeth inhaled, coughing. Inhaled again and realised, dimly, that her sister’s figure was morphing. Superimposed over Mary was the image of a cloaked crone, a wise woman whose grizzled features struck terror.

  The pressure on her wrist was gone, a man’s distant shout fading to the background. Run. She must run.

  Elizabeth turned, stumbling. She did not feel her ankle twist and the delicate ice blue slipper fall away, though the sole of one foot encountered chill, rough stone.

  Run.

  She must find shelter in the forest. Her enemies would not find her there.

  “Elizabeth!” the crone cackled, reaching forward. “You will pay for this. You will not get away.”

  The moon turned its disapproving face towards her as she ran, her gown catching on foliage, tearing rents in the fragile fabric. She dashed through gardens and fields until she reached the edge of the forest that nestled Pemberley. Sharp pain faded to the background as ghostly hands reached out to grasp her. She slid away from their imprisonment, a racking cough in the distance spurring her on. The crone was following, would not allow her to escape with her life.

  No—not a crone. Mary. Her sister, Mary. How long had Mary carried such malevolence in her heart? Oh, why had she not followed through with her intention to get to the bottom of her attempted curse upon Bingley?

  She stumbled. A wrap, why had she not brought a wrap? “Foolish, Elizabeth. Very foolish.”

  “Elizabeth.”

  The sepulchral voice reached out. She turned. In the moonlit mist a figure emerged, cloaked in Mary’s sensible weave.

  “Why?” Elizabeth asked, clutching her forehead. Confused. Nothing made sense anymore. “Why witch Bingley against Jane?”

  “I did not, it was mother. I told you she was unwell. You are distraught. Come before you harm yourself.”

  “What have you done to me?”

  “Come with me, I shall explain.”

  “No!” She shied away as Mary came closer, crossing the distance of a mile in mere seconds. When had Mary become so powerful?

  How?

  She jerked away, one moment on her boring feet and another looking up at the cloaked figure from the ground. She rolled over, dry heaving, and pushed herself upright.

  “I abhor melodrama,” the crone growled. “Fine. The cold air will set you to rights soon enough.”

  This time when Elizabeth turned to run, the crone. . .Mary. . .let her go.

  Darcy slapped Wickham.

  The desire to do far, far worse burned in his gut. But his men were watching, and probably half the ballroom through the glass as well. He must maintain, again, his dignity. The slap was an insult, reddening his former brother’s cheek.

  “Fine form,” Wickham said, “to hit a man who has been restrained.”

  Darcy inhaled. “Re—”

  “Sir,” his seneschal said. Nothing else.

  Darcy’s eyes closed for a brief moment while he exerted control over himself. When he spoke again, the chill in his voice attested to his calm.

  “Where is Elizabeth?” The maid had alerted them, her tale brief and insistent so there was no doubt. When they had finally traced Elizabeth and Wickham’s steps, it was only to find Mary standing over the villain impatiently. She had run away towards the forest as soon as they arrived.

  Wickham tried to shrug. The guards holding his arms made it difficult. They objected to him making any sort of movement. “Ask her sister. The witch fooled me, if only for a moment. Her herblore would have had more of an impact if I were not already familiar with those sorts of tricks. Alas, it was enough of an impact to allow dear Lizzy to escape.” He smiled beatifically.

  Darcy slapped him again. “That is Princess Elizabeth to you.”

  Wickham’s gaze was insolent. “I had her in my arms tonight, and you did not even know. Where were you, my brother?”

  Control fractured. He strode forward, gripping a handful of cloth and yanking the man toward him. “What herblore?”

  When they had found Wickham, he had been on his knees, wheezing and disoriented. “Answer me, or I shall forget I am a prince and give you the thrashing from my own hand that you are begging me for.”

  Wickham looked up at the sky. “An herb, that when powdered, causes hallucinations. It drives one quite mad in a large enough dose. One wonders why a young woman feels the need to carry such things to a ball. The. . .princess got quite a face full, though I daresay her sister was aiming for me. Friendly fire, so to speak. You’d best find her soon—she could die of exposure or trip and break her neck. So many nasty accidents possible in these ancient woods.”

  “Your Highness,” a guard called, looking down at an object.

  Darcy brushed past Wickham and approached, then knelt, picking up the blue slipper. “The shoes are stained with blood. She must have cut her foot.” He whirled. “Get the bloodhounds. If she is bleeding, they will find her.” As soon as she was home, he would invoke the tracking charms that ensured the safety of every Darcy, and the high level members of his household.

  The kennel master brought the hounds. They attempted to insist Darcy remain behind but he refused. “There is danger,” was his sharp reply. Georgiana stood at his side, slender and fierce.

  “Retrieve her, brother. Quickly.”

  They ran. Darcy was no soldier, but he kept his body conditioned as a matter of pride. He kept up and matched his men, too impatient to wait for a horse to be brought. His seneschal proved his worth yet again, however, for as they dived into the forest, the Seneschal appeared riding his stallion.

  “Sir! Take the horse,” he shouted, dismounting quickly to allow Darcy to vault onto horseback. Two of his officers joined him, the kennel masters waiting for Darcy’s signal. He nodded, and they released the hounds.

  They rode, following the bloodhounds, their baying and barking chilling in the deep of night. He feared Elizabeth would be frightened and hide and they would not find her until she had taken chill, or worse.

  Shouts rose. “Look there!”

  Darcy angled his horse towards the pointed fingers. Just at the edge of the torchlight stood a small, cloaked figure. A woman. His heart leaped into his throat until he realised the stance, the colour of gown, was all wrong.

  “Mary,” he said sharply, recognising the set features and distant brown eyes.

  “Your Highness.” She turned, pointing. “She went that way. I have been following far enough away to not frighten her.”

  “What happened?” He growled the words, restraing his temper.

  “It was the only way to get Wickham to release her,” was the calm reply. “Unfortunately she inhaled rather too much of the powder. I tried to tell her years ago she should work on her resistance to such things, but she has always been rather more interested in the healing herblore.”

  “Which way, Mary?” God grant him patience.

  “About a half mile. I stopped following when I heard the hounds so you might find me. Be careful. She is disoriented. Hopefully the cold air has righted her senses somewhat.”

  He would sit his new sister down when this was all over and have a long discussion regarding her knowledge of certain lore, her methods, and consequences. The blase demeanour set his teeth on edge when it was his Elizabeth paying the price.

  Elizabeth huddled against the trunk of a tree, arms wrapped around her knees. Some time ago she had realised that she was not quite herself and perhaps lurching through the forest in the deep of night was not the wise course of action. The air chilled her skin, but there was no rain, thank God. She recited her favourite poems as agonizing minute by minute the fresh air filled and refilled her lungs and slowly
, the dizziness between her temples steadied.

  Every once in a while, she thought she saw a person at the edge of her vision and froze. But no, it was just Mary’s concoction playing games with her senses.

  Mary. Elizabeth struggled to parse her sister’s words, her actions. Had Mary meant to harm her or was Elizabeth simply a victim of friendly fire? She could imagine either scenario. Mary’s nature was so pragmatic bordering on self-effacing that it was hard to remember at times that her younger sister possessed a wide streak of . . .not fanaticism. But an ability to believe in the right of her own ideology above all others. She had outgrown her piousness of youth, but Mary was not happy unless she had a cause. Her cause, it seemed, was now her mother.

  It made an awful sense. If Mary believed Elizabeth to have betrayed Adelaide, would she then take action to eliminate the opposition?

  Or had Mary only been defending Elizabeth from Wickham and decided any temporary harm done to her was outweighed by the time bought to get help? Wickham had let her go. Elizabeth had escaped. And, it seems, Mary had come after her in an attempt to help her come back to Pemberley.

  But Elizabeth could not be certain.

  One thing, however, was certain. Her best course of action as to sit here and wait until light, or until a rescue came. If Mary led a search party to her, then that itself would be proof her sister had had good intentions. If somewhat cavalierly dispatched.

  She leaned her head against the tree trunk, closing her eyes, shivering. At some point, her hair had completely come undone, falling around her shoulders. A pity it was not a coat of fur, then perhaps it would have provided some warmth. She would look a fright when she managed to make her way back to the castle.

  Tired. So tired. Perhaps she should not allow herself to sleep, however. . .that would be. . .unwise. . .to. . . .

  Do not sleep, Elizabeth! the voice ordered.

  She blinked awake. Princess Anne knelt in front of her, more solid than Elizabeth had ever seen the spirit before.