Chapter Nine
Elizabeth met her escort at the front of the house. A young man offered her a knee, and she mounted Kensington in a smooth, practiced move. She straightened her skirts and thanked the man. He nodded, tipping his cap to her before shoving it back on his head and turning for the stables.
Clark and Taylor were former Army men, recommended for the position by several of the men she had hired to work the farm.
Francis had interviewed them and had them investigated; he was pleased with what he had discovered.
So impressed was he that he had teased her about stealing them for Anna.
They had been hired to ride escort for Elizabeth and her aunt as they enjoyed the London season, but their changed plans had not flustered either man.
Clark was the smaller of the two, though neither man was large.
They were lean and wiry, reputed to be excellent riders and exceptional shots.
They did not speak much, instead keeping their focus outward as they rode.
Elizabeth felt a little foolish, riding between these two silent men.
But Francis had given the men their orders; she would not gainsay them.
She tried to concentrate instead on the pleasure of the location. She was happy to have an opportunity, at last, to view all the work that had been accomplished in their absence.
There was a sparse stand of trees just behind them and a set of boulders across the way.
Taylor signaled his partner and rode off to check behind the latter.
Elizabeth watched him go—he was a fair distance away when she thought she heard something move behind her.
She turned, catching a shadow moving from the trees into a brushy area just beyond.
She meant to point it out to Clark, but he was already on the move.
He whistled shrilly, two fingers in his mouth, and at the signal, Taylor immediately wheeled around and urged his mount into a gallop back in their direction, the horse’s hooves pounding heavily against the ground.
The whistle startled Kensington, and the Arabian’s head turned away quicker than Elizabeth could respond. She tried to calm the mare and tighten her hold on the reins, but Kensington skittered to the right and tossed her head. Then there was the crack of a shot, and the horse was off.
Elizabeth fought to remain atop Kensington as the frightened mare sped away.
The horse did not remain in the center of the trail but was rather precariously keeping just to the side of it.
Elizabeth tried to guide her back to safer ground but had not fully succeeded when she saw a thick, low branch directly in their path.
There was only a second before she hit it—too low to duck, no time to go around.
She dropped the reins, turning forward as she grabbed at the limb instead; she was certain that falling to the ground after hanging from the bough would do less damage than flying off the mare at this speed.
But they were traveling too fast; her hands could not find a purchase.
There was a sharp pain as she struck the branch hard—too hard to arrest the momentum that flipped her completely over it.
She instinctively tucked her chin to her chest as she dropped, hitting the ground flat on her back.
“Unnnnhh,” Elizabeth heard as all the air was forced from her body, and then there was nothing but the struggle to breathe and a growing panic when she could not manage it.
After what seemed an eternity but was likely only a few seconds, she heard a guttural kind of moaning, but she was unsure of its source.
She could feel her arms and legs but could not summon the energy to move them.
Her eyes rolled back as her world shrank to a small point of light.
Breathe, was all she could think around the burning in her lungs and the pain that surrounded her. Breathe.
From far away, she felt a hand on her shoulder and another slipping under her to trace her spine, her ribs.
Then there was a second set of hands, gentler, warmer, dragging her up into a semi-sitting position, lifting her arms, carefully pulling her shoulders back while something—legs or knees—pushed her stomach forward.
Her lungs opened and she took in a sliver of air. Then, like someone dying of thirst who has been handed a drink, she sputtered and strained, trying to take in more.
“Easy,” she heard a deep voice say. “Easy, Elizabeth.”
She gasped and gulped and wheezed and finally, finally, took in a full breath. She opened her eyes halfway, her head fell back, and she focused on a familiar, beloved face hovering worriedly above her.
“Fitzwilliam?” she asked, the air icy in her lungs. She felt oddly disconnected from her voice. Her vision began to swirl and fade, pulling her into the dark.
Darcy stripped Kensington of her sidesaddle and leapt on her bareback. He urged her to a gallop, only to pull up short when he saw a gun being trained on him.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy!” he shouted as he held up his hands, growing frantic when he saw that the man was shielding someone lying in the dirt. “I am betrothed to Miss Russell!”
The man eyed him warily but evidently knew the name.
He nodded, putting the gun away, and Darcy slipped off the horse.
He took it all in, ignoring the tremor in his hands.
Elizabeth was flat on her back on the side of the road, legs slightly apart, arms wide, palms turned up towards the sky, fingers half-curled.
Her hat was gone. Some of her hair had pulled free of its pins, fanning out haphazardly around her head.
Her face was pale and pained. Not moving.
Not breathing. Though… thank God, she seemed to be trying.
He was at her side before he realized he had moved.
“Clark,” the man said roughly, identifying himself as he felt Elizabeth’s ribs to check for damage. Darcy wanted to slap the man’s hands away but was drawn instead to the strangled sound emanating from Elizabeth’s throat as she tried to pull more air into her lungs.
“Her back ain’t broke, ribs neither,” Clark said with authority. He rocked back on his heels. “There’s air getting in, just not much. Normally it starts up again on its own, but…”
It put Darcy in mind of someone drowning, and suddenly, he knew what to do.
He moved behind her head and shoulders. He crouched, pulling her carefully into a sitting position with her back against his chest. He slid his arms under hers, bending his arms back towards his chest as though he was carrying a load of firewood.
At the same time, he pushed his knees into the small of her back and slowly nudged her abdomen forward.
She gasped, took a shallow breath, then a larger one. Her eyes opened.
He supported her head with his arm and hand while he shifted to her side.
He looked down into her face, grateful to see the recognition in her eyes—but the almost unintelligible “Fitzwilliam?” was less than reassuring.
As he watched, her eyelids fluttered closed again.
Something cold expanded in his chest and clutched at his heart.
“Elizabeth?” he called, trying with everything he had to keep his voice from breaking, “Elizabeth.”
“We have to get her back to the house, sir,” Clark told him firmly. “Taylor’s after him, but we need to move Miss Russell to safety.”
Darcy shook his head tightly, still securing her. Elizabeth’s body was limp, her head rolled towards him. She was breathing in shallow but regular puffs of air, but there was no way to know if she was otherwise injured. “We cannot move her yet. Just wait a few moments.” Please, Elizabeth, wake.
The man made an inarticulate, impatient noise in his throat but nodded.
“Elizabeth,” Darcy called. He set his knees fully on the ground and laid her down gently. “Elizabeth, we need to move you, sweetheart. Can you open your eyes?” He stroked her cheek and tried to swallow his fear.
When her eyelids flickered and opened, his own breathing calmed. He tried to offer her an encouraging smile. “Where are you hurt, Elizabeth?” he asked, keeping his voice low and controlled.
She was silent, thinking, and then said, “Sides. Back.” Her voice was rough, but it was clearer now.
“What about your head? Neck?”
She considered it. “No.”
Clark grunted. “We should get her up and see if she can walk.”
“Do you think you can do that, dearest?” Darcy asked Elizabeth. They had little choice but to move her, but if she found it too painful, they would find another way.
“Yes,” she said hoarsely, and held her arms out. “Help me.”
Darcy glanced at Clark and noted the approval in his eyes.
Each man took an arm and assisted Elizabeth to her feet.
She stood uncertainly, but she did not complain, and her legs, at least, were uninjured.
He caught Kensington’s reins and Clark did the same for his mount, but it was clear Elizabeth was in no condition to ride.
It would not be safe in any case, not until Taylor made it back.
He wrapped an arm around her waist for support as they slowly walked between the two horses and they reached the safety of the house.
It was not until they arrived and the housekeeper began calling out orders that Darcy realized Richard was nowhere to be found.
God, I hope you find him, Richard, he thought darkly. Find him and bring him here to me.
“He got away,” was the grim report they had from Taylor, whose coat sleeve was torn and bloody. “But I hobbled him.”
Darcy crossed his arms over his chest. He was frustrated and angry. Elizabeth was upstairs with the housekeeper and her aunt. After a week apart, again he could not see her. To hear that they were no closer to ending these attacks was infuriating.