Fitzwilliam Darcy, Traitor

by Jennifer Joy

  From the depths of his heart, Darcy said, "Thank you."

  Miss Elizabeth's eyebrows furled together, her expression pained.

  Darcy started. "Are you hurt?" he asked, his eyes wondering over her for any sign of injury.

  She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, dampening it in the snow. "I am not, but you are," she said. Dabbing gently, she cleaned a trail from his aching cheek to his throbbing forehead, easing the hurt with her touch.

  Miss Elizabeth stood close enough, Darcy again caught the smell of her hair. He would forever associate honeysuckle with comfort. At that moment, he felt no pain. He did not flinch or blink lest he break the spell she cast over him.

  A burst of freezing wind slammed against them, trickling down his neck and sending shivers through his limbs. Darcy widened his stance before he lost his footing.

  Miss Elizabeth stepped away from him, folding the stained handkerchief and putting it inside her pocket.

  Nature had come to his rescue, bringing Darcy back to his senses. "We must find shelter immediately," he said.

  He looked about for chimney smoke, for a horse and rider, for any sign of life. But there was nothing in sight to encourage hope of a prompt rescue.

  Miss Elizabeth rose to her tiptoes and examined their surroundings as intently as Darcy did. Finally, she said, "These fields are cared for. See the fence lines? All we need is to find a tenant willing to take us in until the storm subsides and our clothes have a chance to dry. Thanks to my mother, we have provisions to offer in exchange for a place before the fire."

  Bingley groaned. "I shall … never … be warm again," he said between the chattering of his teeth. He cradled the kettle against him as if his life depended upon it. In all likelihood, it did.

  Darcy determined not to criticize Mrs. Bennet again. If her extravagance saved his friends, it was only right that he overlook her faults.

  "We will walk along the road. It is our best chance of meeting with someone who might be able to help us. If we see a house, we will seek refuge there," he said.

  It was doubtful anyone would travel behind them in this weather, but better to wander along a traveled road than to get lost in the fields with no hope of being seen by a passerby.

  Miss Elizabeth extended her arms before her, snowflakes flurrying around her hands. "I can hardly see my own hands right in front of me. Perhaps the view from your height offers a better perspective?" She arched her eyebrow at Darcy.

  She smiled, but Darcy saw her concern. He knew she used humor effectively, but he then learned that Miss Elizabeth used humor to mask her fear. He admired her attempt to ease their worries while hiding her own.

  He ought to have laughed as Bingley did, but the gravity of their situation weighed upon him too heavily.

  Bingley teased, "I am so … relieved … we are with … you … and not my sisters. They would have … fainted … in the carriage … and been … no use at all."

  His labored speech added urgency to their situation.

  Miss Bennet replied, "Our sisters will be heartbroken when they learn they have missed out on all of our excitement."

  Darcy rose to the tips of his boots, hoping the extra inches would be enough to see a rooftop. Nothing.

  Miss Elizabeth laughed. "Lydia and Kitty would have assaulted those cowards with snowballs and anything else they could throw."

  Her sister added, "Mary would have recited the best parts of Fordyce's sermons to them in an effort to save their souls."

  "Or to fan the flames of purgatory until it burned their toes. Where sermons are ineffective, Mary is of the belief that fear moves people to change," Miss Elizabeth said.

  Bingley's laughter sounded more like a hiss and a wheeze. "The highwaymen would have run off … wishing … they had chosen … a different target."

  Having turned in a complete circle and seen nothing to inspire the hope they would survive until they reached the next village, Darcy lifted the bulky tablecloth from the ground. His muscles screamed in pain and his ribs stabbed him so that he could not breathe.

  Miss Elizabeth reached for the food pack. "I can carry it."

  “A gentleman would never allow a lady to carry a heavy load when he is capable of doing it himself.”

  “You would insist on propriety when you are injured? We do not have time for niceties when we must walk faster and find shelter before the storm worsens.”

  There was no point in arguing. Right was right. Darcy tightened his grip around the tablecloth and started walking, all the time scanning the horizon for signs of a refuge.

  Miss Elizabeth was right about one thing: In his and Bingley's condition, they would not last long.

  Chapter 11

  Elizabeth watched Mr. Darcy turn, the snow already dusting his black coat. His wide shoulders carried the load with ease. He did not bemoan the loss of his possessions. He did not mourn the loss of his carriage. He minimized his pain, focusing instead on seeing them to safety.

  She felt his protection. Even when he had been tied up, Elizabeth sensed he would rather endure the blows of those evil men than have them turn against her and Jane.

  Those blackguards! The cowardly brutes! Tying up a man, taking away his ability to defend himself…. Elizabeth felt Mr. Darcy’s humiliation. Had that been their intention? Was their purpose to humble him? Or had they feared Mr. Darcy’s fists? Now, that was a thought…

  The more Elizabeth pondered what had happened, the slower she walked, and the more convinced she became that the highwaymen knew Mr. Darcy. That he had been their target. But why?

  The questions flooded forth, new theories forming as quickly as Elizabeth thought of them.

  Mr. Bingley and Jane walked together, and Elizabeth's half boots slipped over the icy road as she passed them on her way to Mr. Darcy.

  The exercise did little to warm her, and Mr. Darcy’s stern semblance did not encourage her to voice her curiosity. How fortunate she was not intimidated by him.

  "Mr. Darcy, is boxing among your many talents?" she asked, reaching for her necklace only to be reminded it was forever gone to her. Pulling up her collar, she wrapped her arms around herself and tried not to think of her pearl.

  "I can usually defend myself and those dependent on me," he answered.

  She heard his bruised pride, and while she would otherwise have believed a dose of humility beneficial to Mr. Darcy, she could not support how the highwaymen had gone about it. "Those men bound your wrists," she said.

  After a long pause, he answered, "They did."

  This conversation was not going anywhere fast, much like their little group. She asked, "Why did they bind you?"

  "I can only assume they did so to prevent me from fighting back."

  Any fool would draw the same conclusion … and Mr. Darcy was not a fool. Nor was she. Why did he not speak freely? Was he hiding something from her? She observed, "And yet they did not tie up Mr. Bingley."

  "No, they did not." He offered no opinion, nor any explanation. How maddening when it was information Elizabeth sought!

  Loosening her arms to gesture, Elizabeth slipped over an icy patch of ground. Before she could squeak, Mr. Darcy caught her arm and held her firmly. The speed with which he came to her assistance was impressive. It would not have been an easy thing for those two men to have tied his hands. Had they pressed the pistol against his temple? Elizabeth imagined what Mr. Darcy would not tell her.

  He released his hold and resumed walking, albeit closer to her than he had been before. It was the perfect distance for conversation, and Elizabeth took courage to try again. She said, "If only I had thought to free the two horses at the back of your coach."

  "Do not trouble yourself. I tried to free them while you distracted the highwayman with that horrible hamper." The side of his mouth twitched upward.

  Was Mr. Darcy displaying a sense of humor? There was hope!

  With a smile, she answered, "That horrible hamper will be our salvation. My mother's foresight is disturbing, but I
am indebted to her." She looked over her shoulder at Mr. Bingley who clutched the kettle to his chest, his chin hovering over the warm pewter.

  Mr. Darcy's voice, low and clear, cut through the wind whistling over Elizabeth’s ears. "As am I."

  It shocked Elizabeth to hear Mr. Darcy express anything favorable toward her mother, much less gratitude. Or perhaps he meant to say that he, too, was disturbed by her mother’s foresight. Yes, that must be it.

  Not knowing what else to say to get him to talk, she mentioned the horses again. She really ought to have thought of them sooner. How simple it would have been for her or Jane to release them while the men were distracted. "I should have thought of the horses before. My hands were free to untie them."

  He looked down at her. "Would the horses have been helpful?”

  The incredulity raising his eyebrows irked her. He clearly doubted her ability to ride a horse when he knew her to be a gentleman’s daughter. All ladies knew how to ride … even if they preferred to walk on their own two feet on solid ground.

  "Of course they would have been helpful," she replied.

  "In all the time I spent at Netherfield Park, not once did I see you on a horse. When you came to care for Miss Bennet, you walked."

  She could not argue with the truth. Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders and tightened her arms over her chest for the little warmth it provided. "I enjoy walking. Too much is missed when one travels in a hurry."

  "A fine notion so long as you are at your leisure. I would give anything for a carriage and horses right now."

  A gust of wind rushed past Elizabeth, pressing her damp skirts against her legs. She shoved her fingers deeper into her wool gloves and shivered uncontrollably. Poor Mr. Bingley must be absolutely miserable. And with Jane holding his arm, she would be damper than Elizabeth by now.

  "I would give anything for you to have a carriage right now too,” she agreed wholeheartedly. “However, I cannot help but note that if any of us had ever walked this portion of the road before, we would know where to find shelter now. I have traveled this way many times by carriage, and yet, I am not confident of my surroundings."

  Mr. Darcy stopped, rising up on the toes of his boots and stretching to his full height. Impressive height it was, too. Elizabeth tried to see what he could, but all she saw was a white blanket of snow — snow that was coming down in earnest. Soon, it would be difficult for them to see the road at all. While she had teased about not being able to see her hands before, her jest was not far from the truth now.

  Mr. Darcy moved forward a few more paces, then stopped again, pointing. "Is that a path?"

  Elizabeth followed the direction of his finger. She squinted, trying to see through the flurry of flakes clouding her view.

  He added, “It looks like a break in the hedge. Do you see it?”

  She did. It looked like nothing more than a shadow, but the space between hedgerows was wide enough for a horse and cart to pass through. She said, "It appears to be. Shall we see?"

  Mr. Bingley shuffled his feet from side to side, his body visibly trembling. Jane moved along with him lest he turn into an icicle.

  "We have no other option," Mr. Darcy said, his vision fixed on the barrier marking the property.

  It was a risk. If the path led nowhere, they would have to turn back, colder and more exhausted than when they had detoured off the road.

  Elizabeth shook her head. Dwelling on the dangers would do nothing to produce a cottage along the lane. For Mr. Darcy's benefit as well as her own, she said cheerfully, "After what we have been through this morning, something is bound to go our way."

  He looked down at her. "In the darkest trouble, you see a bright side?"

  He may not have meant it as a compliment, but Elizabeth accepted it as such. "Why would I see things any other way? How tiresome to always think the worst of everything and everybody … except for those men we met today. I cannot think of anything kind to say about them."

  Mr. Darcy did not offer his opinion. Not even his expression changed, though Elizabeth peeked at him numerous times. She still had a multitude of questions requiring answers.

  She tried again. "I am sorry they killed your coachman."

  "Me too."

  “The footman was too afraid to be of any help,” she commented.

  Mr. Darcy’s sigh was longer than his reply. “He was.”

  So they were back to short, clipped answers, were they? She persisted. "But they did not kill him."

  "No."

  “And they did not kill us.”

  “No, they did not.”

  Why did he not want to discuss what had happened?

  Growing in frustration and lacking in patience, Elizabeth stated her conclusion directly. "Mr. Darcy, I think those men knew you."

  This time, he did not offer any sort of reply at all.

  Elizabeth burst in frustration. "Do you not want to know who those awful men were? Does not your sense of duty demand they be brought to justice?"

  Mr. Darcy stopped, turning to face her. His angry gaze traveled with unnerving thoroughness over her.

  Elizabeth felt Jane's skirt brush past her, but Elizabeth did not waver. She met Mr. Darcy’s penetrating gaze, her courage rising along with the angle of her chin.

  Her feet were firmly rooted in place, but her tongue was loose enough to speak. If Mr. Darcy had any sympathy, she would appeal to it. "We must find those men and ensure they do not harm anyone else. What if they attack others as they attacked us?"

  Mr. Darcy raised an arm heavenward in a wild gesture, his controlled voice a riveting contrast when he said, "I know who they were, and if you were not so blinded by your prejudices, you would too.”

  Elizabeth’s exhale rose like a cloud of steam in front of her, blending with Mr. Darcy's irate puffs of breath. She opened her mouth to speak but produced only fog.

  "A cottage!" Jane shouted.

  Mr. Darcy continued down the path, pausing until Elizabeth caught up with him even though he was the last person in the world she wanted to walk with right now. She was too angry to care he had insulted her character when he guarded secrets that were not his to keep.

  Mr. Darcy knew who had attacked them. And not only was it someone he knew, it was someone she knew.

  Chapter 12

  The closer they got to the cottage, the more derelict it appeared. No smoke came from the chimney, no light from the single window facing them. Any hope Darcy held of borrowing a horse and galloping to London died when he lifted the latch. He did not bother to knock.

  Just as he had thought. Abandoned.

  Stepping aside to allow Bingley and the ladies to pass, Darcy closed the door, shutting out the wind and any trace of light.

  Straw and oak scented the stale air. Slowly, Darcy's eyes grew accustomed to the dreary room. A straw pallet lay beside the fireplace opposite him. Against the wall beside the door rested a table with only three legs and two chairs of questionable sturdiness.

  The floor was hard-packed dirt littered with bits of straw. It was dry so far as he could tell.

  There were no visible holes in the roof.

  But what drew Darcy’s eye was the pile of wood stacked beside the hearth. He would warm himself before he battled against the weather to London. He would find his coach — and the man responsible for taking it — there, he was certain.

  Darcy walked over to the fireplace, searching with his hands and his eyes. His fingers were so numb and clumsy, he could not trust them completely. He searched once, and then again. All the wood in the world would not serve them unless he found a flint knife.

  Miss Bennet pulled a chair in front of the hearth, leaning against it to check its sturdiness before encouraging Bingley to sit. Her optimism was not lost on Darcy. There was no sense in sitting in front of a hearth unless one expected to warm himself.

  Miss Elizabeth plucked something off of the table, handing it to him. “I do not know how to start a fire, but I know we will need this.”

&nbs
p; It was a flint knife. “Thank you,” he mumbled. He had walked right by it. Few things got past Miss Elizabeth … except for when charm blinded her.

  “Mr. Darcy?” she asked, still holding the flint knife out to him.

  He took it from her, eliminating all trace of that evil fiend from his mind to focus on the task at hand. Gathering loose straw from the floor, Darcy set to work, coaxing the sparks into flames. He would start a fire, which Bingley could maintain while Darcy walked to the village. Once there, he would arrange for a villager to convey Bingley and the ladies to the inn, where they would sleep in proper rooms. Their needs and comfort seen to, Darcy would use his name to secure a horse which he would ride to London. Weather permitting, he could be there before nightfall. His business would be done before dinner. Until then, he would have no peace, no restful slumber, no happiness with the thorn in his side threatening to attack again without warning.

  Dried sap from a twig snapped, spewing fiery sparks at him. Darcy needed to concentrate or risk setting himself on fire.

  He added a piece of wood to the flame, praying it would catch fire. It reminded Darcy of the adventures he and his older cousins had enjoyed in the woods surrounding Pemberley and the caves near his uncle's estate.

  Bingley had thawed enough to offer to help. It was kind of him, but he trembled too much to be of any use. His lips were blue, and though he clutched the kettle to his chest still, the warmth would have left the pewter vessel long ago.

  Darcy would never forget how Bingley had tried to help him. The cowardly fiend had kicked Bingley to the ground and held him there, threatening to shoot Darcy in the head while his thieving companion tied Darcy’s hands so tightly, his fingers tingled. Bingley was the best of men and a good friend, and Darcy swore he would repay him somehow.

  Miss Bennet pried the kettle from Bingley’s hands, setting it near the glowing embers. Bingley watched her every movement with a silly grin. Even in his misery, he only had eyes for Miss Bennet. Only now, Darcy did not believe him so foolish.

  Miss Elizabeth bustled about behind them, laying out the provisions Darcy had laid by the doorway while he blew gently on the flames. Finally, the wood caught fire, snapping and brightening the room with its glow. Darcy breathed in the pungent odor of the oak wood.