The letters carved in the marble grew blurry and wavy, frustrating her desire for a clear view. Tears fell freely down her cheeks.
Sometimes, she had difficulty not being angry at this vexing situation. Loving Richard had been simple; he had been her best friend. Why did he have to be taken from her and leave her with these complicated questions about Mr. Darcy?
She tried to guess what Richard would say about this situation, but her imagination failed her. It was impossible to envision confessing feelings for someone else. But what if she spoke to him not as a fiancé, but as a friend? As she would speak to Jane?
She sent up a silent plea to the heavens. Richard, I might be falling in love with your cousin. I am so sorry. I did not mean for it to happen. What should I do?
A divine message would be welcome at this moment. Perhaps a bolt of lightning or an angel would appear to give her a sign. She would have settled for a dove. Or a sparrow. But nothing happened.
She imagined a Richard who had never loved her romantically, who had only ever seen her as a friend. How would he have felt if she loved his cousin?
Well, of course, he would be overjoyed. If he believed Elizabeth would be a good match for Mr. Darcy. Richard had loved his cousin.
Would Richard have seen me as a good match for Mr. Darcy?
In an instant everything became clear to Elizabeth. Richard had wanted the best for her—he would want her to be happy. She might believe she was betraying Richard, but he would never have felt that way. In fact, he had expressed concern over his cousin’s isolation and wished he would find a woman to love. What if Elizabeth could be that woman?
She blinked the tears from her eyes, and the engraved letters and numbers grew clearer. Then just for a moment, the entire gravestone seemed to glow with a soft white light. Elizabeth gasped. Richard had given her the guidance she sought—without an angel or a burning bush. She blinked again, and the gravestone looked utterly ordinary in the bright wintry light. Did I see anything at all?
Elizabeth stood and stepped toward the gravestone, needing to feel it under her fingers. Removing her glove, she laid her naked hand on the top of the smooth marble. It should have been cold, but it felt warm to her touch.
“Thank you, Richard, dearest one. Even now you continue to give me gifts.” A tear rolled down her cheek, but she was no longer overwhelmed by grief. Instead, she felt a tiny seed of hope beginning to grow. She straightened and smiled.
Now she was ready to return to London and face William again. As she tugged on her glove, she dabbed her face with her handkerchief, hoping her red-rimmed eyes would not alarm Weston and Carter. Elizabeth turned away from the grave, wondering if they had finished watering the horses.
There was a tall figure blocking her way, silhouetted by the sun. For a moment, her heart leapt in the hopes Mr. Darcy had met her. But when her eyes adjusted to the sunlight, Elizabeth gasped. It was Wickham!
Chapter 17
“Hello, Sister,” Wickham sneered. “I thought this might be a good day for a family reunion.”
Elizabeth could not imagine Wickham’s presence was an accident. Somehow, he must have learned she would be here—alone.
Swallowing hard, Elizabeth nodded a curt greeting. “Mr. Wickham, what a coincidence.” She tried to brush past him. “If you will excuse me, I must—”
“I am afraid I will not excuse you, Lizzy.” Wickham’s hand shot out and grabbed her upper arm like a vise.
She attempted to pull away, but he only tightened his already bruising hold on her arm. Taking advantage of his superior strength, Wickham yanked her toward him and whispered in her ear. “Someone has been telling stories about me to Darcy. He’s got Bow Street Runners looking for me and stirring up trouble with the London merchants. Suddenly, my word is no good, and no one wants to give me credit. And everyone believes me one step from the gallows!”
Elizabeth’s brow creased with worry. She was unaware, but not surprised, that Mr. Darcy had undertaken these measures. Elizabeth set her jaw. She refused to show fear to Wickham. “I said nothing to Mr. Darcy that was not true.”
Wickham continued on as if she had never spoken. “Now I cannot return to London, and I may need to flee England altogether.” He whirled her around to face him, grabbing her other arm in a painfully strong hold. “And. It. Is. Your. Fault.” He punctuated each word with a bone jarring shake of Elizabeth’s body.
Her instincts cried at her to fight the man and run for her life, but she fought back this panicked reaction, knowing it would be useless. Focus, keep your head, Elizabeth. “Mr. Darcy will not be happy to learn you have treated me thus. He is not a man to cross. Perhaps you had best leave.”
Wickham laughed harshly. “By the time Darcy learns of this, I will be long gone.”
Elizabeth lifted her chin as she looked at him. “What do you want from me?”
He sighed. “If only you had given me the money when I first asked so politely, things would not have come to this pass.”
Despite the perilous situation, Elizabeth’s temper flared. How dare he blame her? “You destroyed my garden and threw rocks through my windows! How is any of this my fault?”
“Do not blame me!” Wickham roared. “You drove me to it!” He released one of her arms only so he could deal her a violent slap across the face that sent her careening backward and falling onto the dead grass of the churchyard.
He is a madman! Elizabeth thought, clutching her hand to her cheek. Momentarily freed from his grip, she scrambled backward awkwardly, heedless of the dirt and mud. Wickham advanced slowly, towering over her menacingly. He is enjoying this, she realized. Relishing his sense of power over me! Elizabeth looked desperately over her left shoulder. There it was! Her reticule, abandoned on the flat rock where she had been sitting.
In no hurry, Wickham simply smiled like a cat anticipating fun with a mouse. “You will pay for the way you have treated me!”
She did not want to take her eyes off him, but it was necessary. Lunging toward the reticule, she grabbed it as she scrambled further back, her boots gaining little purchase in the dry grass.
Wickham laughed at the sight. “Yes, by all means, get your handkerchief! I will give you something to cry about.”
Elizabeth pulled out the pistol and pointed it at him. His smile died. “Leave me alone!” She shouted.
Wickham swallowed and seemed to regain his equilibrium. “What? A present from your dear departed betrothed? But I doubt you know how to use it.”
“Do not make assumptions, Mr. Wickham.” Without daring to glance away from him, she tried to stand. But as she was getting her feet under her, her boot heel caught on the hem of her dress, upsetting her balance. Wickham took advantage of her momentary distraction to lunge forward.
Elizabeth reacted instantly. She could not allow Wickham to hurt her again! She squeezed the trigger.
The blast from the pistol was deafening as the smell of gunpowder filled the air. The pistol’s recoil pushed Elizabeth back onto the grass, but she stood hastily, ready to fend off Wickham. But it was not necessary. The man was lying on the ground a few feet away from her.
For an awful moment, Elizabeth thought she had killed him. Then Wickham screamed—an awful, blood curdling sound. “Damn you to hell, woman! You shot me!”
Relief washed through Elizabeth. The man could not be too badly hurt if he could curse. Clutching the pistol, which was useless as a gun but could make an effective projectile if necessary, she carefully approached Wickham’s prone figure.
He was clutching his right leg, below the knee, where blood seeped through his fingers. “Damn you! You shot me!” He repeated.
For a moment, Elizabeth was struck with an absurd impulse to laugh. What had he expected? “I warned you.”
“But I never thought you would do it! You’re a woman!” This was followed by some more unsavory language. “Damnation, it hurts!”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. Underneath all the bluster, the man was such a coward.<
br />
Peering down the hill, she could see the carriage had not returned. Why were they taking so long? She supposed they would have to take Wickham to a doctor. Undoubtedly, he would try to persuade the authorities she had attacked him without provocation. She sighed.
Well, there was nothing for it. Turning back to the still-cursing man, she knelt next to him and examined the wound. She shoved down his stocking and pushed up his trouser leg, but every time she touched his leg, Wickham would moan and curse.
The wound needed binding, and she must sacrifice a petticoat to tear into strips. Making quick work of the project, she started binding up the wound to the best of her ability; it seemed to staunch the bleeding, at least for the moment.
As she worked, the sound of approaching hoofs rose from the road, but they were coming from the wrong direction; it could not be Weston and Carter. The rider was pushing his horse to run. Did Wickham have a henchman? The thought made her sick with worry. She looked up, but the angle was wrong, and she could see nothing.
Elizabeth finished tying the last knot in her makeshift bandage, but before she could stand to get a better view of the road, Wickham grabbed her arm. Using it as leverage, he flipped his body over hers and pinned her to the ground.
Elizabeth tried to strike out at him with her fists, but he held down her hands with his—and straddled her hips with his legs. The indecency of the position made Elizabeth blush. “I was trying to help you!” She hissed at him.
Wickham’s face was white and drawn with pain. “After shooting me!” He snarled. Pulling a length of rope from his pocket, he held Elizabeth’s wrists together over her head with one hand. No, she could not let him tie her hands! She fought to buck him off while looking around frantically for the gun. There it was, only three feet away, but it might as well have been on the moon.
Closing her eyes in concentration, she focused on bringing up her right leg as leverage against his wounded leg—in the hopes she could push him off her. Then she heard a loud thump. All of Wickham’s weight unexpectedly landed on her. Opening her eyes, she was peering directly into his unconscious face. Good Lord! She rolled his limp body off hers and into the dirt. What had happened to Wickham? She squinted up into the sun.
There stood Mr. Darcy, dark against the bright blue sky, after having apparently punched Wickham. Mr. Darcy’s clothing was disheveled, his cravat askew and his hair a mess. He looked quite wild. However, the expression on his face was an intense mixture of relief and anxiety as he gazed searchingly at her. “Elizabeth!”
“Mr. Darcy?” Her voice squeaked embarrassingly. What must she look like, sprawled in the dirt? Quickly, she scrambled to her feet. “Thank you for your assistance!”
Mr. Darcy closed the distance between them even as his eyes quickly scanned the hillside, taking in the scene. “I heard a gunshot and screaming. I feared the worst.”
Elizabeth felt her face heating. What would he think of her? “I shot Mr. Wickham when he attacked me.”
A corner of Mr. Darcy’s mouth quirked upward. “You shot Wickham?”
What must he think of her? “I warned him to stay away, but he kept coming toward me.”
Mr. Darcy chuckled softly. “You never cease to amaze me.”
Relief flooded through Elizabeth; at least he did not seem appalled by her behavior.
“Did he hurt you?” His eyes searched her frantically. He frowned at her face, where Wickham’s slap had undoubtedly left a mark. “No wonder you were screaming.” Gently he reached out to touch her cheek.
Despite herself, Elizabeth was indignant. “That was not me—”
A groan alerted them that Wickham was recovering his senses. “Darcy?” Wickham cried. “She shot me! The damn woman shot me!” He rolled to his side in the dirt, looking imploringly up at Mr. Darcy.
“Good for her,” Mr. Darcy replied.
“Christ, it hurts like the devil!” Wickham moaned.
“The screams were Wickham’s?” William asked her, and she nodded. He laughed.
William looked about them and then took Elizabeth’s hand in his. Drawing her away from where Wickham writhed and groaned, he led her behind a tree for some privacy. Elizabeth was mystified by his actions but gave no objection.
“Oh, thank God, you are unharmed!” He cried. Before she could blink, William had pulled her into a bone crushing embrace, one hand pressed against her back, while the other stroked her hair. “Elizabeth! My Elizabeth.”
She stiffened for a moment in shock—although she hardly knew whether to be more surprised at his touch or his words.
The warmth of his body following the tension of the past days was indescribable. She knew it was highly inappropriate, but she melted completely into his body—where she fit quite comfortably. I have been longing for his touch, she realized with a shock.
When he loosened his hold on her waist, she wanted to protest the loss of warmth—despite the impropriety. But he did not release her. Instead, a gentle hand under her chin tilted her face up, and his lips descended onto hers.
She had a second to realize he was about to kiss her before their lips met—and she was caught up in a maelstrom.
Her first thought was that William kissed nothing like Richard.
Richard’s kisses had been gentle, loving… and careful.
William kissed her with absolute desperation. As if he had waited his whole life for this precise moment—and he had only this moment in which to express all his cares, desires, passions.
His lips were fierce on hers. Demanding reassurance that she still lived. Insisting that she respond to him. Expecting a return of his passion.
When his tongue brushed the seam of her lips, she parted them without thought and was amazed at the new onslaught of sensation as his tongue explored her mouth. No, Richard had never kissed like this.
Distantly, she heard someone moaning in passion and only belatedly realized it was her. The feelings his tongue provoked …. Who would have believed the sensations from one small place could reverberate so thoroughly throughout all of her body, racing up and down her spine and even into her fingers and toes? She had not known such exquisite pleasure existed!
When he finally released her, she was dizzy from loss of breath and reeling from the events of the past few moments. I suppose now I know how he feels about me. She stifled a slightly hysterical giggle that threatened to erupt.
Elizabeth was certain her expression was dazed, and her cheeks were bright red. William could not meet her eyes but stared at a point over her right shoulder. “Forgive me, I take unconscionable liberties,” he murmured, dropping his gaze to the stunted grass under their feet. “In my defense, I can only claim temporary madness brought on by the tremendous relief of seeing you unharmed.”
Elizabeth’s lips twisted. Only this man could kiss her so passionately and then apologize so abjectly for it a moment later. “It is quite all right,” she said softly. “I am capable of defending myself from unwanted embraces. My pistol is somewhere about here.”
William’s eyes shot anxiously to her face, but then he chuckled. “I am pleased my embraces were not so unwelcome.”
Elizabeth was on the verge of confessing exactly how much she welcomed his advances when they were interrupted by a groan from Wickham. “What are you about over there?” Wickham called out peevishly. Fortunately, a well-placed shrub and a sturdy tree trunk obscured the man’s view of their compromising activities. “When is someone fetching the doctor?”
William took her hand again as they stole around the tree to regard Wickham’s prone figure on the ground.
William regarded her with a hint of a smile. “What do you think, Miss Bennet? Should we leave him here? Eventually, he might drag himself to the church.”
Elizabeth enjoyed the way his eyes lit with amusement. “Well, he has caused me quite a bit of trouble ….”
“You cannot leave me!” Wickham cried. He might be unable to stand, but his lungs were perfectly healthy. “I shall bleed to death! Wh
ere is your Christian charity?”
“Hmmm….” Darcy said thoughtfully. “If he were to die, it would save both of us quite a bit of vexation.”
Indignant noises were coming from Wickham’s direction. Elizabeth met William’s eyes with a similar conspiratorial glee.
“Indeed,” she replied. Her attention was caught by activity at the bottom of the hill. “But it appears that my carriage has returned. Perhaps we had best take him to the doctor. If he did die, there would be tiresome questions.”
Darcy sighed heavily. “Very well. If you wish.” He gave her a broad smile and strode down the hill to collect her servants.
***
Darcy sat across from Elizabeth, attempting to discern her mood from her shuttered expression, but it was fruitless. Her eyes were downcast, and her face a mask. Was she angry with him? She had every right to be. Not only had he failed to protect her, once again, from danger, but he had behaved with a total lack of propriety.
On the hill in the graveyard, Darcy had—for perhaps the first time in his life—acted wholly on impulse, without any consideration for the consequences. His heart had overflowed with relief at finding Elizabeth unharmed, and he had not checked the compulsion to embrace, even kiss her. Now that a cooler head was prevailing, he was heartily ashamed of his precipitous behavior but not the sentiments behind it.
Elizabeth had seemed happy to see him and appeared to return his affection, but perhaps she was only grateful for his assistance, belated though it was. Although she had denied being offended at his completely inappropriate behavior, she had grown more solemn since reuniting with her servants and had said little since then. Perhaps she had second thoughts …
He had said nothing about renewing his offer of marriage—it had seemed wrong to do so under those circumstances and in that place, but what if she believed he did not intend to? What if she believed he would compromise her reputation and cared nothing for her?
Pride and Proposals Page 21
