Chapter Thirteen #3
“I cannot conceive of any way to convince you otherwise, Wickham, but you must accept that she has every intention of fulfilling her duty to the gods, the North Country, and her husband.”
“I am her husband!”
“Perhaps in your heart, but not by the book!” Darcy roared.
George's sword came crashing forth. The weapon was met with Darcy's ready blade and the sound rang loudly through the clearing; more loudly than that of any other opposing metal.
The shepherd's eyes narrowed, taking Darcy in as though he could kill him with a mere glance.
Darcy ignored the chill that crept up his spine.
No sane man could produce such an expression.
He blocked another strike from George and used his other hand to push the nitwit to the ground.
“I do not want to fight you. Our Elizabeth wants neither of us to come to harm, and if you persist in this endeavour, one of us is sure to lose,” Darcy kept the blade level with George's throat.
“Then I shall have to make sure you are the one to die!” George lashed out haphazardly, and his blade made contact with Darcy's calf. A shallow cut began to ooze and Darcy jumped back, giving George a chance to gain ground.
If I kill her lover, she will hate me. Darcy bit his lip.
Perhaps if he merely injured the boy to put him out of commission.
. . Darcy lunged forward and metal clashed once again, this time hard enough to create sparks.
Every move he made was countered with an expert block.
Where did a shepherd learn to fight like that?
“Liza is mine!” George said again and again. “She is meant for me!”
Hearing it repeated endlessly sparked an emotion inside him and brought to mind all the moments he had shared with his princess, his wife over the last few months; all the smiles she had given him, all the kisses she had showered him with, all the conversations, both mundane and meaningful, they had had. Wickham was wrong.
Elizabeth belongs to me.
Rage that another man could think to steal her away ripped through his body like a ship's sails during a storm. He tossed his sword to his other hand, surprising the shepherd, and slammed the blade with enough force to knock George's weapon from his hand.
“Listen to me hard, boy. I shall only say this once. I am giving you a chance to walk away. Leave us alone. We are happy, and she has made her own choice. I had naught to do with this, and I respect her decision. Had she chosen not to honour her marriage vows, I would have let her go. I love her too much to bear to see her unhappy.”
“Blackheart, you lie! You know nothing of love!” He grabbed his sword again.
“Aye, but I do, Wickham. I admit that when I took her hand, I did have a dark heart and wanted naught to do with love, but you, of all people, should know how difficult it would be not to love Elizabeth.”
“You do not deserve her!”
“Perhaps not, but at this moment, you have disregarded her blatant request, so neither do you.”
The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Wickham finally lowered his blade, his head following suit.
“I think you should return to Meryton and forget us, Wickham,” Darcy said in a cold, quiet voice. “I do not guarantee your safety should you try to steal her away again.”
George nodded. They stood there for a moment more, then Darcy strode past the defeated man.
He was three paces away when the chill went up his spine. He had made a monumental mistake. Never turn your back on an enemy.
The reaction was automatic. Darcy was in mid-spin with his sword at gut-level before his other senses became aware of what was happening.
The blade ripped through the shepherd as though he was made of silk.
Never before in battle had bile risen in the back of Darcy's throat, but now, as Elizabeth's sweetheart crumpled, the awful bitterness hung on the back of his tongue.
In one horrible moment, his world had fallen to pieces, like jagged shards of glass ripping through his soul.
There remained one single thing he could do now.
* * *
Finn could not believe it. No trace of his master could be found, but whispers from around the camp were that he had been killed.
Finn would not be convinced without a body, so he simply refused to credit the rumours.
He would not go back to his princess and tell her that her husband was dead if he could not offer proof.
“Fan out the search area. We must find him for the princess's sake!” Finn barked out the order as he scoured the faces of the fallen.
Hours later, even after they had employed the help of prisoners they had taken in battle, they still could not find any sign of High Lord Darcy.
However, outside of the encampment area, they did find the remains of a young, red-headed stranger who Finn figured was Wickham from Darcy's description.
The boy's sword was drenched in blood, and Finn found himself praying he had fallen upon it himself.
Darcy's second ordered the boy to be buried with the other casualties and tried to determine what he could to say to his anxious princess.