Chapter 35 The Library #2
Mr. Darcy reached out, as casually as if he wished to shake hands, and savagely bent the man’s wrist. There was a crack, and the sword fell into Mr. Darcy’s grasp.
He turned and lunged, a long fencing thrust that extended his sword arm above a well-balanced forward foot, his other arm straight back.
He looked gentlemanly and poised, exactly like the stage actors I had seen in Hamlet.
My gaze followed his outstretched arm, then the shining steel exposed before the blade vanished into the sandy-haired man’s side. The sword’s tip protruded high on the far side, tenting the man’s upper sleeve like an embroidery needle pushed through fabric.
It seemed a strange fencing hit—sideways, both chest and arm. Something that might be disallowed as unsportsmanlike.
Mr. Darcy recovered from his lunge, and the blade withdrew.
When he struck, I had heard a gasp—his, or the man’s, or mine.
When he pulled back, there was a scrape of metal on bone.
The sandy-haired man fell like a cloth doll into a pile of unmoving limbs.
I stared down at him. It was so fast. Less than a breath.
The other man staggered back, shouting what were likely French obscenities because the words were utterly unfamiliar.
Awkwardly, he drew his pistol with his left hand.
He pawed at it with his injured right, then abandoned that and pressed the back of the pistol against his thigh. Trying to cock it with one hand.
Mr. Darcy was staring in disbelief at the man he had killed.
“Mr. Darcy!” I said. He did not move. Georgiana was making distraught sounds beside me. “Mr. Darcy!” I shouted. He just stood.
The pistol’s hammer clicked into place, a sound I knew from my father cleaning and checking his hunting guns.
I reached for the tyke’s awareness even as I screamed, “Stop him!” both in my mind and aloud, envisioning the French man.
The familiar, confusing double perspective returned as the tyke ran and sank his teeth into the man’s ankle with a stomach-turning crunch.
The man screamed, pointed his pistol at the tyke, and fired.
The pistol shot was deafening and bright, a flash of flame I saw twice, once a shaft of light brighter than the candles, and again as a huge spray of multi-colored heat and sparks.
And pain.
A door of red-hot fury slammed, throwing me out of the tyke’s awareness. The shock was incredible. I collapsed to my knees, head ringing, retching at the wooden floorboards a foot from my nose.
The man’s scream ended with gurgling. Then there were only the snarls of the tyke.
“Miss Bennet!” Mr. Darcy’s strong hands held my shoulders. He helped me sit. “Are you hurt?”
The French man lay on the floor. The tyke was tearing at his throat and face. Grotesque, wet shreds flew from his muzzle.
“Enough!” I called dizzily to the tyke, trying to crawl past Mr. Darcy. The tyke turned and charged at me, stopping just short of attacking, his bloody teeth bared. I recoiled in disbelief. I reached for his mind but struck that impenetrable wall of pain and fury.
Miss Darcy fell to her knees beside me. She sang a shaky note, becoming melodic, descending through strange tones.
She crouched lower, easing past myself and Mr. Darcy, singing.
The tyke quieted, his knife-edged teeth still bared in a soft hiss.
Unafraid, she reached out and touched his head.
Stroked his back. The hiss dissolved into a desperate, pained whimper.
“You are shot.” She sang the words into her song, soft and sad.
Dreadful thoughts burst into my mind. Fear for the tyke. Realization that I sent the Gardiners’ bound draca into danger, which I had no right to do. What if he died? What if my aunt was struck by binding sickness?
“How bad is it?” I crawled past Mr. Darcy to see.
She lifted the tyke onto her lap. “Grazed,” she sang gently, then hummed while she turned him.
His flanks rose and fell in rapid pants.
“Here.” Without touching, her finger followed a long, straight mark on one side of his torso.
The scales were bent in a shallow groove, and shining, as if scraped to a high polish.
Her song faded to quiet. When the tyke remained calm, she spoke. “When they are angry, their scales lock. A shot must be square to penetrate. He is hurting, but not grievously injured.” Her blue eyes were serious. “They are much tougher than we are.” I let out a relieved breath.
Mr. Darcy had risen. He cut the ropes that bound the maid, who thanked him and sat up, rubbing her wrists. She seemed far calmer than I would have been. He threw his jacket over the ruin of the Frenchman’s face and throat.
He returned to look down at the man he had killed. After several seconds, he turned to his sister.
“Are you well, Georgiana?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered distractedly and began humming to the tyke again.
I closed my eyes, still kneeling, and felt for the tyke’s awareness. The wall of red fury was gone. His pain folded into my own body, a burning line on my ribs. You are very brave, I thought, and felt his head turn to me.
“How do you do that?” asked Miss Darcy. My eyes snapped open and met her curious gaze. “Command him, when you are not bound?”
At his sister’s question, Mr. Darcy turned. Waiting for the answer.
Wonderful. Trying to choose a reply, I licked my lips and felt the sting of broken skin.
There were distant shouts. A bell began to clang. The alarm was raised at last.
Mr. Darcy headed toward the doorway.
“Wait,” I called to him. My secret was revealed anyway. “There was another man. Let me check first.”
I closed my eyes and encouraged the tyke to go into the hall. I heard him plop from Miss Darcy’s lap, then his paws padded past me, limping, even as I saw myself through his eyes, my dress shimmering in peculiar shades. I could have counted the individual threads.
The hallway would have been dark to my eyes, but the tyke saw differently. Violet light streamed through the windows.
“The hall is empty…” I said, even as something warm appeared at the end. “Wait. A man approaches.”
The man was walking stealthily by the interior wall, although he was obvious to the tyke’s eyes. But the tyke felt curious, not concerned. The man’s gait was familiar to me as well, and he wore a misshapen hat. “It is Mr. Rabb.”
“Rabb!” Mr. Darcy shouted, startling me to open my eyes.
Mr. Rabb ran into the room, a pistol in his hand and another jammed into his belt. “Sir, there are intruders—” He broke off, seeing the bodies on the floor.
“We have encountered them,” Mr. Darcy said dryly.
“And killed them,” Mr. Rabb said. He appraised Mr. Darcy. “You?”
“I took one of them,” Mr. Darcy said. “Then I froze like a fool. Wellesley will be scathing when I tell him. He always accuses me of having a gentleman’s delicacy when we fence.”
“Mr. Wellesley is a soldier,” Mr. Rabb said. “He knows what it means to kill a man. I was horrified my first time.”
“I will not freeze again,” Mr. Darcy said firmly. “Not when those I love are threatened.”
I had fixated on the beginning of that exchange. “You fence with Arthur Wellesley?” Mr. Wellesley was the commander of England’s forces in the Peninsular War against Napoleon.
A memory returned: me, mocking Mr. Darcy at Netherfield by suggesting they played cards.
Mr. Darcy looked at me. “Yes, Miss Bennet. And you commanded a draca, bound to another husband and wyfe, to fetch me from the music parlor, and then to save my life. Which is more remarkable?” His forehead wrinkled. “Your lip is bleeding.”
He fell to his knees in front of me and lifted my chin with his fingers. His thumb grazed my bruised cheek, almost too light to feel.
My breath had stopped. My eyes were wide.
He felt in his pocket for a handkerchief and dabbed my lip. “Am I hurting you?”
A little, but it was comforting. I nodded, then realized that was the wrong answer and shook my head. “No. It only stings.” Although my cheek throbbed where the man’s palm had struck.
“Another man took books on draca,” Miss Darcy said. “They sought writing on la Tarasque. And something else. The child of the lake.”
Mr. Darcy stood. “I should like my books returned. He may still be on the grounds. Rabb, assist the ladies while I assemble a party to search.”
“Respectfully, sir, hunting is my skill.”
“I trust you to keep them safe. That matters more than books.” Mr. Rabb nodded reluctantly.
Mr. Darcy touched his sister’s shoulder, and she smiled at him. Her fear had vanished the moment the tyke was injured.
Mr. Darcy gave me a stiff, short bow, then his running steps faded down the hall. It seemed we were back to bows.
“The household staff are gathered in the kitchens,” Mr. Rabb said. He collected an abandoned lantern from the floor and led us out the doorway.
The tyke was in the hallway. I scooped him up as we passed so he would not have to walk with his sore side.
Watching me, Mr. Rabb said, “If I heard the master right, you were ‘commanding draca,’ Miss Bennet.”
“It was remarkable,” Miss Darcy said. “I have seen nothing like it.”
“You would have if you had not been so young when your mother died,” Mr. Rabb replied.
Miss Darcy stopped stock still. “Mamma could do that?”
Mr. Rabb aimed the lantern down so light pooled around us in the dark hallway.
“Lady Anne was a miracle with draca. All draca, not just her wyvern. Made me think of the legend of the Scottish wyves. But the missus was not quick to explain, and old Mr. Darcy did not wish it widely known.” His eyes, glinting under grizzled eyebrows, met mine.
“You are not quick to explain, yourself.”
“I also do not wish it widely known,” I said. “Nor can I explain much. I would like to understand better.”
“I won’t tell a soul, ma’am. But I know some things you should hear. Maybe we can have a chat when the evening’s business is settled. I might need a dram for that, if you fancy whiskey.”
I had never tasted anything stronger than port. “Perhaps a sip.”