Darcy's Kiss

by Claire Iverson

  "What do you mean?" he nearly snarled.

  Elizabeth's head felt light and faint. She shook it, closing her eyes for a moment. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I forgot... I was nearly run down by a coach, right in the center of town, just two days ago. It looked as though the horses were being driven right at me, but that seemed ridiculous. I have no enemies. So I thought it must be an accident."

  "But now you know better," Darcy said flatly.

  "Yes."

  "Elizabeth." He turned his head again to look at her. "Who is it? Who is trying to kill you?"

  "I don't know!" Elizabeth cried. "I can't think!"

  "No. Of course not. I'm sorry." His big hand came out to grip hers, sending warmth and reassurance through her in a flood. "Don't worry. You'll be safe at the parsonage in no time."

  Safe? she reflected. She felt safe now, with Darcy. If only he had been at her side, no one would have dared shoot at her, surely. She saw then that they were turning into the drive of the parsonage. She was beginning to make a habit of returning in disarray. This was the most extreme, of course. How she would frighten everyone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  With her maid's assistance, Elizabeth eased the pale blue gown over the bandage on her shoulder. She tried to suppress her excitement, telling herself it was nonsense; Mr. Darcy was merely performing the expected courtesy in calling to see her so soon. After all, as her escort he surely felt some sense of responsibility for her mishap.

  When she stepped quietly into the salon, Darcy was staring out the window, his broad back to her. Taking advantage of his unawareness of her presence, Elizabeth paused for an instant to let her gaze run lovingly over him, from the proud angle of his dark head to his muscular calves, emphasized by gleaming Hessians topped with jaunty tassels.

  She bit her lip to stem the flood of weakness that had nearly broken free in her body. After a moment she was able to say calmly, giving nothing of her thoughts away, "It's kind of you to call so soon, Mr. Darcy."

  He spun around, his brown eyes raking her, settling first on the outline of the bandage and then on her still-pale face.

  She went on, in the same voice she might have used for any of the dozens of callers who graced the drawing room in a given week, "As you can see, I'm very nearly restored. All I needed was a few days' rest."

  "Should you be up?" Darcy asked abruptly. "What did the doctor say?"

  Elizabeth's brows rose slightly at his peremptory tone, but she answered, "That it was just a flesh wound, as you guessed. He said the temporary numbness was very common, and nothing to be concerned about. It hurts only a little now, and I won't even need the bandage for long."

  Darcy continued to look searchingly at her, as though he doubted her word. Did he expect her to slide gracefully into a faint at his feet, as any self-respecting heroine should do? For a moment Elizabeth wished she were less stalwart. Any female with an ounce of romanticism in her soul would begin to sway, press one delicate hand to her brow, let him catch her in his arms.

  Suddenly Darcy said in a hard voice, "And now what? You've been lucky twice. What about the next time?"

  "Next time?" Elizabeth repeated idiotically. "I have no enemies."

  He made an exasperated sound. "Who could possibly want you dead?"

  "Nobody!" she cried. "I have no fortune. It makes no sense."

  "Elizabeth, you must think."

  "I don't want to talk about it!" Elizabeth was close to screaming. "Don't you understand? I've thought and thought, and it doesn't do any good! The whole thing doesn't make sense, and I don't want to think about it anymore!"

  His hand grasped her elbow, preventing her from turning away. She didn't try to pull free, just stood looking up into his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle. "Elizabeth, you can't hide from this. What you want, or what I want, means nothing. All that counts is what someone else wants. If you are to be safe, we need to know who that is, and what he wants."

  Elizabeth drew a deep, shuddering breath. "I appreciate your concern, Mr. Darcy," she said mechanically, "but it is not your problem, so..."

  “If you're trying to tell me to leave you alone, say so."

  "Very well." Her chin rose and she stepped back from his grasp. "Leave me alone. Let me handle my own life.” She glared at him. "Now if you're satisfied as to my well-being, why don't you leave?"

  The smile was gone in an instant, leaving his eyes glittering and his mouth compressed. "Because I'm not satisfied," he said. "Elizabeth, will you become my wife?"

  Elizabeth's breath caught in her throat and her heart began to hammer in powerful strokes. She could barely force her tongue to move, to utter the astonished words, "Become your wife?"

  "Yes." He made an impatient, almost angry, gesture. "Don't you see, it's the best way for me to protect you. We can leave for Pemberley immediately—you will be safe there. I won't let you out of my sight until we find this madman."

  Elizabeth felt chilled. The momentary leap her heart had taken, accelerating it to a dizzying, exhilarating speed, seemed to have exhausted her. She was angry with herself for the idiotic, foolish, unfounded, wonderful picture that had sprung into her mind the moment he uttered the words my wife.

  She lashed back, "And that's supposed to comfort me?"

  He drew away as though he had been stung, and Elizabeth thought she saw hurt in his eyes. If it had been anyone else, she would have been certain, but surely the cool, impassive Mr. Darcy was impervious to such barbs. It was a moment before he said quietly, "Is that a way of saying that you don't trust me?"

  Elizabeth bowed her head and twisted her fingers together. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice nearly inaudible. "Of course I trust you. I just don't need to be protected like a child. It's absurd for you to suggest making a sacrifice as final as marriage."

  "What makes you think it would be a sacrifice?" He gave a crooked smile.

  “You chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason," she glared at him.

  "I haven't made any secret of the fact that I desire you.”

  Indignation stiffened Elizabeth's backbone, and she smiled sweetly. "Dear me, that sounds somewhat unequal. Particularly should you tire of me. I don't think I care for the notion that you would benefit should you fail to protect me, so to speak."

  Elizabeth stared at his hand, at the long, square-tipped fingers, reaching to draw her in. Would what he suggested be so terrible? If she accepted his terms, she would become his wife, and her passion for him would be free to bloom. She would be free in other ways as well; he was not a man to try to hem her in, or expect her to live up to some preordained role, as would so many men. She would bear his children. She would wake in the mornings with him beside her, and give him all of her that he would accept. She would have the chance to make him care for her, to return her love.

  But what if he never cared? Would the pleasures of the marriage bed, and then children, be enough? He wanted her despite his objections. But what if he came to regret his choice of wife? How would she feel if she heard he had taken a mistress? Would not the pain of living with him day after day and seeing his indifference be greater than would the final gasp of agony she might feel now, refusing his offer?

  "What do you say?" he asked, his voice seductively soft, confident.

  She wrenched her gaze from his hand to meet his eyes, all the while shaking her head. "No. I'm sorry. I know your offer is generously meant, but it's not enough. Not for me." She forced a shaky, pleading smile. "You see, I've always dreamed of marriage with a man who loved me as his equal, whom I loved, someone I could talk to, share with. A companion as well as a lover. Perhaps it is no more than a fantasy, one that will never come true, but I can't settle for less."

  He was looking at her strangely, and she couldn't imagine what he was thinking. Before he could speak again, she said flatly, “From the first moment I saw you," she went on, “I felt you were the last man in the world I would ever marry."

  His outstretched h
and slowly dropped back to his side, and she saw the flash of some intense emotion flit across his face, only to be hidden with practiced ease. She wondered then, just for an instant, if he didn't already care for her more than he had admitted, at least in his own casual way. No! her realistic side cried. If Darcy loved her, he would have said so.

  She was suddenly determined to cut the cords that held them, cleanse him of whatever obligation he felt toward her. She looked straight at him and said steadily, "I'm grateful for your concern, Mr. Darcy, but it's unnecessary. I have no doubt that whoever is responsible for what happened has since discovered what a dreadful mistake has been made." She saw the growing exasperation on his face, and held up her hand. "Let me finish! I'm not such a fool that I won't be on the lookout. If somebody persists, he won't find me such an easy target the next time. I am perfectly capable of protecting myself."

  The old look of mocking amusement, which could so easily become unkind, twisted his mouth. "I have never been told quite so strongly that I'm not needed—or wanted! I think, Miss Bennet, that you're a fool, but we shall see." He offered her a somewhat jerky bow.

  Throwing this last mysterious addendum over his shoulder, he turned and was gone, leaving Elizabeth in a profound depression. At this moment, her life seemed to have gone horridly, wretchedly astray. Somebody was trying to kill her, and much as she might like to, she couldn't quite make herself believe that it was indeed a mistake. Someone, somewhere, thought he would benefit somehow by her dying and had determined to see her in the grave.

  And now the man she loved and would surely always love had asked her to become his wife, and she had refused him in such a way that he had walked away angry and humiliated. The hope of seeing him had been all that had given spark to Elizabeth; their encounters had been infuriating and exhilarating, uncovering emotions in her that she hadn't known she possessed.

  Oh, God, she thought, sinking down on the sofa and pressing the heels of her hands to her aching forehead. What was she to do? Who could want her dead?

  She had not lied to Darcy. These three days, while her shoulder throbbed with pain and she lay in bed, she had tortured herself with possibilities, imagined everyone she knew as a potential killer. She was not such a fool as Darcy had accused her of being; there was not an apparent motive. She had very little money. Was it someone close to her? But could it be any of them?

  No! It was beyond imagining. Yet what was the alternative?

  Could Charlotte have...? Impossible! She would never hurt anyone or anything. Especially her best friend!

  Did Mr. Collins still despise her for refusing to marry him? Had humiliation turn into a grudge?

  Surely Colonel Fitzwilliam would never harm her—even if she had refused his marriage proposal.

  Then there was Maria, she was the one who had changed, who seemed to have forgotten the affection that had always been between them. But what could be her motive?

  Besides, it was nearly impossible to imagine Maria as the culprit because of the means. How could she have hired the man? Walked up to somebody on the street? And where could she have acquired the sum needed to pay him? Sir William was paying her bills, giving her only spending money. And Maria never left the house unsupervised. It was absurd to suppose her in the role of master criminal! Except, a niggling voice in the back of Elizabeth's mind whispered, that she had displayed a far more determined personality than Elizabeth had believed her to possess. Perhaps... But no. This solution to the mystery, too, did not make sense.

  And yet Elizabeth worried it over in her mind again. Perhaps her fondness for them was blinding her to the truth. Was she finding excuses, not seeing some ruthlessness, some hate, merely because she chose not to? There was no avoiding the unpalatable fact that somebody wanted her dead. If Elizabeth thought long and hard enough, and didn't drive herself mad first, the solution would surely reveal itself.

  Perhaps it truly is a mistake, she thought. Maybe the coachman really hadn't seen her, and the near accident had simply been one of the many mishaps that occurred in a busy town. And the shot... She might have been mistaken for somebody else. The shot might even have been fired by a madman, who simply wanted to shoot somebody and didn't care who it was. He might yet kill, but the chances of Elizabeth's crossing his path again were infinitesimal. Yes, she thought eagerly. This made more sense than to suppose Maria—sweet Maria—a murderer.

  Elizabeth wished Darcy were still here so she could explain her reasoning. Surely he would agree. But she must stop thinking of him, stop turning to him in her mind. She couldn't even let herself think of him by his first name, as she was tempted to do. She needed to distance herself. He had accepted her rejection as final, and there was no reason to suppose she would even see him again.

  She was certain that many of their past encounters had been deliberately contrived by him, and future meetings could be as easily avoided. Her depression, her sense of despair, deepened yet further, and she began the cycle again. Who could it be...?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Fortunately for her peace of mind, the following day the entire household was scheduled to become part of a small dinner party at Rosings Park. Only at Elizabeth's insistence did Charlotte not cancel; Elizabeth was certain the short carriage ride wouldn't cause her any distress. Actually, Elizabeth thought it would be pleasant to escape the confines of the parsonage for a few hours.

  Sir William had made his excuses, claiming he had to remain in town on business until the next day. But Charlotte, Elizabeth, Maria and a flustered Mr. Collins planned their departure for after dusk, arriving just in time for dinner.

  Dusk was beginning to settle before they found the elusive turnoff to their destination. The country lane they were on was narrow, and as shadows crept into the coach, Elizabeth became uneasily aware that it had been a while since they had passed another traveler. It appeared that other guests had arrived earlier in the day; the only intimation they'd had that anyone might be following the same route was an occasional glimpse of a lone horseman some distance behind.

  Elizabeth was just giving herself a stern lecture, telling herself that she was no longer a child to be frightened of the dark and that nothing could happen to her surrounded by her family, when a shot rang out just ahead, startling Charlotte into giving a muffled shriek. The coach swayed to a stop, and Elizabeth could hear the coachman cursing. Mr. Collins was fumbling about, as though he thought to find a weapon, and praying as well. A loud, rough voice could be heard outside, and the tension inside the coach had nearly reached breaking point when the door was flung open, revealing a black apparition.

  With an ear-piercing scream Maria dove into Charlotte's arms, hiding her face in her bosom. Elizabeth, seated beside her cousin, felt his involuntary withdrawal from the horrid shape in the opening, and gave a deep shudder herself. She almost immediately perceived, however, that no ghost faced them, but rather a man cloaked in black and with a dark cloth, which had slits cut for eyes, wrapped about his face. The long-barreled pistol, gleaming in the uncertain light, was pointed directly at Elizabeth, and was as real as the man.

  "You!" The barrel swung toward Mr. Collins. "Down on your knees! Now! Hands on the seat, where I can see them!"

  Mr. Collins hesitated, whether from reluctance to assume such a humiliating posture or because he was too frightened to move, Elizabeth was uncertain. "Mr. Collins..." she pleaded.

  Silently he did the highwayman's bidding, spreading his hands wide on the leather seat. His head was lifted defiantly and he was watching the man from the corners of his eyes.

  The pistol lifted, wavering uncertainly between Elizabeth and the two women crouched in the corner of the far seat. "Take off your jewelry," he ordered in the same coarse voice. "Throw it on the floor."

  “We are not wearing any jewelry!" shouted Elizabeth.

  "Where's your jewelry box?"

  "We don't have one," Charlotte said in a surprisingly strong voice. "We're on our way to a small dinner party and we won't need jewels. Th
ere are some small items in our baggage, but nothing valuable. Search if you like."

  The slits in the mask stared unwaveringly at Charlotte for a moment, then turned to Elizabeth. "You. I want you out."

  "Me?" A chill spread through Elizabeth's limbs, making them heavy and difficult to move. "Why do you want me?"

  "No questions. Just move. Out." The pistol was leveled suggestively at her head.

  Charlotte cried, "No! Don't go, Lizzy!"

  The man said threateningly, "Do you want her dead?"

  Elizabeth suddenly felt sick, and she was shaken by a dry heave. Her shoulder had begun to hurt again, and her knees barely supported her as she pushed herself to her feet and stumbled toward the door, from which the highwayman had backed away. Why was he singling her out? Surely this was just a robbery. No highwayman killed if he could help it; there was no surer way to set the constable on him, ensuring that he would swing from the gibbet in no time. They had not resisted. Perhaps he simply distrusted some outward composure he had seen in her and thought she might be hiding valuables, or wanted a temporary hostage to safeguard his departure.

  Elizabeth tripped over Mr. Collins' leg, almost vaulting headlong from the coach. She grabbed the door frame, stopping herself in time, then had to clamber clumsily from the coach.

  The pistol waved her to the verge of the lane, right beside a deep ditch, beyond which was a thick growth of oaks and underbrush. Elizabeth could see the coachman, spread-eagle on the lane beside the restless horses. He was maintaining a quiet, nonstop litany of curses, which somehow seemed an appropriate backdrop for the otherwise silent events.

  The cloaked figure pushed shut the door to the coach, isolating him and Elizabeth from the others. Darkness was still setting, although the light was sufficient for Elizabeth to make out the leaves on the trees and the color of the big bay horse, a powerful brute, waiting patiently in the lane just ahead.