Page 33 of Honor Requires

It was not merely the absence of light, but something heavier—closer—like a burden upon his very breath. Darcy became aware of it first as sensation rather than thought: the rough scrape of fabric against his face, the suffocating closeness of it, the faint, stale scent of damp and something sour. A sack. It covered his head entirely.

He tried to move. Pain answered at once. It struck from behind his eyes, sharp and insistent, spreading outward in pulsing waves that made thought itself a labor. He drew in a breath—too quickly—and the motion sent another jolt of agony through his skull.

A low sound escaped him, half groan, half attempt at speech.

“Help—” The word was swallowed by the cloth over his mouth, muffled into something unrecognizable. He stilled, forcing himself to breathe slowly, to think.

Quickly, Darcy took inventory of his body. His hands—his hands were bound. He tested them, carefully at first, then with increasing urgency. Coarse rope bit into his wrists, drawn tight behind his back, the angle unnatural and already beginning to ache with a deep, persistent throb.

Where? What…what happened? He swallowed hard, his throat dry. Memory came in fragments.

A road. The rhythmic motion of his horse beneath him. The wind against his face—cool, controlled. He had ridden ahead. The carriage would follow. There had been— A sound? A movement? The horse had shied violently beneath him. He remembered the sudden loss of control, the sharp jolt as he was thrown—

And then… Nothing. Darkness again. Darcy forced himself to draw a steady breath, to push past the rising surge of panic.

Take account. He must continue to take account of his condition.

He shifted, testing his limbs. His coat—gone. His attire—gone. What remained was rough against his skin, ill-fitting, the fabric coarse and scratchy as though fashioned with no regard for comfort. They were not his clothes.

His boots— Still there, but everything else—Gone. Even his signet ring was missing. A chill crept through him that had nothing to do with the temperature. He strained against the bonds, twisting his wrists, attempting to find some slack. The rope held fast. It had been tied with skill—tight, deliberate, unyielding.

His breath quickened despite his efforts to remain calm. Where am I? The thought came sharp and sudden. Where had he been taken? How long had he been—

A sound broke the silence. A door. The scrape of it opening, followed by the faint echo of footsteps upon stone. Darcy froze. Instinct stilled him, every sense sharpening despite the pain.

The footsteps came nearer, then stopped.

A voice spoke. “Awake, Mr. Darcy?”

The tone was wrong. There was an affectation to it—a strained attempt at refinement that did not quite succeed in disguising its origin. A tradesman, perhaps, trying on the speech of a gentleman and finding it ill-fitted.

“Good,” the man said lightly. “I had begun to wonder if my colleague might not have his wish after all. You were unconscious for some time.”

Darcy forced his voice past the dryness in his throat. “Where—am I?”

A low chuckle answered him. It held no warmth. “You would like clarification.”

“I demand it.”

The man laughed then, more openly. “Demand?” he echoed. “You are in no position to demand anything, sir.”

Darcy drew himself as upright as his bonds would allow. “If you have any sense,” he said, his voice gaining strength, “you will release me at once. Do you know who I am?”

“Oh, I know very well who you are. And you would know me had your pride not prevented our forming a business partnership. So many letters I sent, requesting a meeting.” There was a pause. Then, “You would be dead, if I had my way.” The words fell with a terrible calm. “That is the fate that befalls anyone who stands in my way.”

Darcy stilled. His befuddled mind struggled to make sense of what the man’s words meant.

“It is much cleaner,” the man went on. “No complications. No risk of loose ends.” A faint note of irritation entered his tone. “But one of my partners—ah, he is a man of delicate conscience. He would not have your blood upon his hands. Loyalty, he calls it.” A mocking sound followed. “I call it weakness.”

Darcy’s pulse pounded. “Then release me,” he said sharply. “If your associate objects to violence, then this—whatever this is—must be resolved at once. You will answer for this.”

Another laugh—low, mirthless. “Removing you from the equation was the only way to get what I want. I found a way to do it without shedding your blood,” the man said. A pause. “And where you are going, Mr. Darcy, you will wish I had not.”

Cold settled into Darcy’s bones. “You will not escape this,” he said, though the words rang less certain than he intended. “You will be found out. My family—my connections—”

“Have no power here.” The voice hardened, losing its pretense. “The great Fitzwilliam Darcy is no more.” A step backward, then the sound of the door. It slammed shut with finality. Silence rushed in once more.

Darcy strained against the ropes again, more desperately now, twisting, pulling, forcing his wrists against the rough fibers until the skin burned.