Page 39 of Midnight at Pemberley

Darcy spoke over his shoulder, “It is an urgent family matter. I must leave.” He rushed to where his groomsman waited. “Ride back to London with Mr. Bingley,” he ordered as he mounted. Without another word, he turned the horse towards Meryton.

When, at length, he rode onto the graveled pathway leading to the manor house, the horse was lathered in foam. Darcy slid from the saddle and ran towards the house. He burst through the front door, begging not to be too late. “Elizabeth!” he bellowed repeatedly as he dashed from room to room. In the billiards room, the blanket upon which they had lain was draped across the small table. Instinctively, Darcy grabbed a rapier, removing the tip as he continued his search.

A thump—a muffled sound from above—told him where she was. Leaping over the lower banister, he bolted up the stairs. Breathlessly, he swung the door open. As it banged against the wall, a terrible tableau opened up before him. Elizabeth’s limbs—her arms and her legs—were tied to the four posts of the bed. She was stripped down to her chemise, her face rigid with terror from what she experienced at Wickham’s hands. Her eyes, misted with tears, flooded his heart with anguish. Wickham himself sat in a wing chair beside the bed. He caressed Elizabeth’s arm lightly with his fingertips.

“Darcy? You returned.” Wickham’s smile widened. The changing scenario pleased him. “It is as I said, Miss Elizabeth. He cares for you.”

Tears streamed from Elizabeth’s eyes. “I am sorry, William.” A slight shake of his head told her he did not blame her. He was the one at fault.

“Leave her be, Wickham. You seek me.”

Wickham stood casually. He ran a fingertip along Elizabeth’s breasts. “I want you, Darcy, but not enough to give up Miss Elizabeth. You would gladly die in her stead, but that is just it. You would gladly die. In fact, you want to die to end this. However, my killing the woman you love will only bring anguish, not death.”

Darcy would happily sacrifice himself to save Elizabeth. Without preamble, he charged the apparition lurking beside the bed. Barely two steps into the room, a powerful wind hit his chest, sending his body flying through the air like a rag doll to slither down the wall in apparent defeat. The rapier skidded away towards the bed.

“Close your eyes, Elizabeth,” he ordered as he staggered to his feet. Darcy brought his arms level to bring forth his power. Wickham was strong, but Darcy would not claim defeat until Elizabeth was free. It was suicide to attack Wickham, yet, Darcy had vowed to end the curse. His death would mean life for Elizabeth. Her determination—her passion— made him strong. Like Wickham’s wind, Darcy’s light held a formidable energy. It bent Wickham backwards, momentarily blinding him.

Shielding his eyes, Wickham teetered for a moment before regaining control. Mockingly, he challenged, “Excellent, Darcy, but you are still no match for me.” Again, a whirlwind skittered across the floor towards Darcy, with power enough to suck the skin from his body.

Intuitively, he rolled to the side, drawing the power away from where Elizabeth remained restrained. She attempted to free herself, but the knots kept her as an audience for whatever would come.

Darcy grabbed the discarded rapier. He and Wickham faced each other. Muscles flexed for response. Steel grey eyes met ice blue ones. The minutest movement took on great importance. The only noise in the room was Elizabeth’s shuddered breathing. And as quickly as it stopped, the battle began again. Wickham lunged to reach him, and, mechanically, from his place on the floor, Darcy plunged the sword into the fiend’s chest, pushing upward to open the wound.

Wickham’s face contorted in obvious surprise, knowing the folly of his attack on Darcy. “Die!” Darcy roared as he clamored to his feet, pushing the rapier deeper into Wickham’s heart.

Wickham snarled a smile—a mixture of pain and defiance. “After you, Darcy.” With a mocking salute, the whole room swirled as if within a storm. Darcy grabbed the four-poster, diving onto the bed to protect Elizabeth from the debris.

“I have you,” he growled as he draped himself over her.

Within seconds, it was over. Silence ruled where chaos had been. The room stilled. Only the echoing sound of the broken sword hitting the floor remained in the room.

Her muffled cough became his reality. Darcy rolled from her, straining to right himself and his world. “Elizabeth?” He pushed the hair from her face. “Elizabeth!” He kissed her cheeks. “Tell me you are uninjured.” He caressed her jawline in the palm of his hand, searching for the woman he cherished.

Although obviously shaken, she managed to whisper, “You came. I thought you were gone.”

“Oh, Vixen,” he moaned as he drank of her lips tenderly. “I will explain it later.” His mouth rested only inches above hers. “We must leave now.” Darcy reached for the knots that held her. “Please tell me the blackguard did not harm you.”

“Just frightened me.”

Gently, Darcy massaged the welts upon her wrists. “How can you ever forgive me?” he whispered before kissing the inside of each. “How may I make amends?” To his frustration, Elizabeth did not offer words of acceptance. Instead, she went about loosening the knots from her ankles. Fearing the worst, Darcy backed away, assuming she wanted only freedom from him forever. He could not blame her. “I am sorry, Elizabeth,” he murmured before dropping his gaze.

But as quickly as she was free, Elizabeth bounded into his arms. Darcy staggered backwards, absorbing the impact of her impetuous move. Her boldness radiated through them, and he laughed before pulling her to him and lowering his head to kiss her. He trembled against her and muttered something incoherent before sinking his tongue into her mouth.

When they parted, Elizabeth teased, “We did this last night.”

“Not enough.” Groaning, he pulled her closer and tenderly stroked her hair. At length, their situation claimed reason. “We must depart.”

He assisted in finding her discarded clothing and quietly aided her in restoring her dress. “Turn,” he ordered as Elizabeth worked to secure the bodice of her dress. As he laced up the last of the eyelets, he kissed the nape of her neck. “I nearly lost you today.”

“I was so happy to see you.” Impulsively, she turned in his arms, and the passion began anew.

Lost in the kiss, neither of them heard the intruders surreptitiously making their way up the stairs until a voice came from behind Darcy. “Mr. Darcy, kindly remove your hands from my daughter.”

Elizabeth froze, but she did not release the hold she had on Darcy’s jacket. “Papa, let me explain.” Her voice held a resolve that startled both Darcy and her father.

Mr. Bennet turned to hustle his servants from the room before he answered her. “There is little to explain.” He closed the door. “It appears you and Mr. Darcy are more intimate than any of us suspected. How long has this clandestine affair been going on?” His voice was unaccustomedly grave.

Darcy did not turn around. He permitted Elizabeth the lead. When he returned to save her, he committed himself to this moment.