Chapter 12
The move spurred every man in the clearing into action.
Darcy vaulted the paddock fence. Richard was right behind him, moving with a soldier’s deadly efficiency. Colonel Forster shouted orders to his men, spreading them around the perimeter to cut off any escape.
Wickham spun to face them, the whip still clutched in his hand. His face was flushed, his coat torn, and there was a wildness in his eyes that spoke of a man who knew he was cornered.
“Stay back!” Wickham raised the whip threateningly. “I will hurt him, Darcy. I swear I will!”
“Put down the whip,” Darcy said, his voice deadly calm despite the fury coursing through him. “Now.”
“Not until we have an understanding.” Wickham sneered as he pulled a knife from his belt. “You are going to give me money. A great deal of it. Or this horse dies.”
“How much?” Darcy asked, his eyes never leaving Wickham’s face.
“Two thousand pounds.”
“Gambling debts?” Richard demanded.
“To the wrong people.” Wickham’s voice cracked. “People who don’t wait for payment. If I don’t have the money by week’s end, I’m a dead man.” His laugh turned wild. “If you won’t give me what I need, Darcy, I’ll kill this horse and make you watch.”
“You do not want to do that,” Darcy said, still advancing. “Whatever trouble you are in, killing Atlas will not save you.”
“Won’t it?” Wickham raised the knife high.
Before he could bring it down, Atlas moved.
The horse was twenty-five years old, his joints stiff, his prime long past. But there was nothing old or slow about the way he lunged forward, ears pinned flat, teeth bared. Wickham stumbled backward with a cry of alarm, and Atlas pursued him with single-minded fury.
“Atlas, no!” Darcy shouted, but the horse was beyond hearing. Years of remembered abuse coalesced into this moment of defiance.
Atlas reared, his front hooves slashing the air. Wickham raised his arms to protect his face and stumbled. His feet tangled and he fell hard onto the packed earth.
The horse’s hooves came down.
Wickham screamed and rolled, but not fast enough. One hoof grazed across the face with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed across the dirt.
“Get the horse!” Colonel Forster ordered his men. “Carefully! Do not hurt him!”
But Atlas had already stopped. He stood over Wickham’s prone form, nostrils flaring, muscles quivering with spent fury.
Darcy moved toward Atlas, his hands raised, his voice low and soothing. “Easy, boy. Easy. You have won.”
Atlas’s ears swiveled toward Darcy’s voice. The horse’s chest heaved with exertion, sweat darkening his coat. Terrible welts marked his shoulders and flanks where the whip had struck. A gash dripped blood across his chest where Wickham’s knife had found its mark.
“Atlas,” Darcy said, moving closer. “It is over. You are safe now. He will not hurt you again. I promise.”
Slowly, Atlas’s rigid stance eased. His ears came forward. He turned his head toward Darcy, and in his dark eyes was a mixture of rage, pain, and a glimmer of trust.
Darcy reached for the trailing lead rope. His fingers closed around it, and the tension drained from the horse’s shoulders. “Good boy,” he whispered. “Such a good, brave lad.”
Behind him, Richard hauled Wickham to his feet. Blood poured from Wickham’s shattered nose. When he opened his mouth to protest, his front teeth were gone—broken off by the force of Atlas’s hoof.
“Thop! Pleath—” Wickham’s voice was thick, wet, barely intelligible.
“Shut your mouth,” Richard said coldly. “Or what is left of it.”
Two militia officers moved in to flank the prisoner. Wickham swayed between them, blood streaming down his ruined face, and Darcy understood that his greatest weapon—that charming smile, those handsome features—was destroyed forever.
“Wickham,” Colonel Forster barked, his voice cold with contempt. “Theft, cruelty to animals, assault—take your pick. You will face a court-martial at the very least. More likely you will hang. You have no one to blame but yourself.”
To his men he said, “Take the prisoner to camp and guard him well. He not only has no future in the militia, he has no future at all.”
Darcy continued his examination of Atlas, his hands gentle but thorough. The welts were painful but superficial—raised and angry but not deep enough to scar. Atlas flinched when Darcy’s fingers found a bloody spot on his foreleg, but he stood still, his trust in Darcy evident.
It was when Darcy moved to check Atlas’s chest that he found it. Blood. Running down his chest, matting the hair. Darcy’s stomach clenched. He parted the hair carefully and found the wound—a gash perhaps three inches long.
“Richard,” he called, his voice raw. “I need cloth.”
Richard was there in an instant, already loosening his cravat as Darcy was doing the same with his own. “How bad?”
“Deep enough. It needs binding.” Darcy accepted the cravat and pressed both cloths firmly against the wound. Atlas shifted but did not pull away.
If they could get the horse to Longbourn, if they could keep infection at bay—
“We need to move him,” Darcy said. “The wound needs proper cleaning and binding. And Atlas needs water, rest, and care.”
“Can he walk?” Richard asked.
“I do not know.” Darcy ran his hand down Atlas’s legs, checking for heat, swelling, or any sign of injury beyond the visible wounds. Everything seemed sound. “Atlas, can you walk? Can you make it home?”
Atlas’s ears swiveled toward him. The horse took a tentative step, then another. He limped, favoring his left foreleg, but he could move.
“Sam,” Darcy called. “Bring Gracie. I will lead Atlas on foot. It will be slower, but I will not risk riding him in this condition.”
“Aye, sir.” Sam vaulted the fence and brought Gracie forward, her reins loose in his hand.
“Two miles back to Longbourn,” Richard said. “Maybe a bit more. Can he make it?”
“He will make it,” Darcy said, his voice carrying absolute conviction. “Atlas has never failed me. He will not fail now.”
“She will forgive you, you know,” Richard said eventually.
“Who?”
“Miss Elizabeth.”
“I do not deserve her forgiveness.” Darcy’s voice was rough. “I brought Atlas here to teach her to ride. Instead, I have caused him to be beaten by a man who should never have been allowed within ten miles of him.”
“You could not have known Wickham would do this.”
“Could I not? I have known Wickham all my life. I knew what he is capable of. And still, I was careless. I worried only about Georgiana and Elizabeth. I allowed my guard to drop.” Darcy’s hand gripped the lead rope. “Atlas has paid the price for my complacency.”
“And Wickham will pay the price for his cruelty,” Richard said.
They crested a slight rise, and Longbourn came into view. The figures in the stable yard all turned toward the lane, watching, waiting.
“Almost there, boy,” he said.
Atlas’s ears swiveled toward his voice. The horse’s steps quickened slightly, as though he too could sense they were nearing safety.
The moment Elizabeth saw Atlas, her entire body sagged with relief. Then she ran.
“Elizabeth, wait!” Miss Bennet called, but Elizabeth was already halfway down the lane, her skirts flying, heedless of propriety or decorum or anything except the horse limping toward her.
She reached them, breathless. “Oh, Atlas,” she said, her voice breaking. “Oh, you brave, wonderful horse.” She reached up to touch his face with trembling fingers, and Atlas lowered his head to her, huffing warm breath against her palm. Tears streamed down Elizabeth’s face, but she smiled.
“You found him,” she said, looking at Darcy with such gratitude that tenderness welled up inside him. “Thank you. Thank you for bringing him home.”
“He found himself,” Darcy said. “I merely brought him to you.”
They walked the final distance together—Darcy on one side of Atlas, Elizabeth on the other, her hand resting gently on the horse’s neck. The gathered crowd parted to let them pass, and Darcy led Atlas into the stable, into his box, where fresh hay and water waited.
Jacob was there immediately. Sam brought a lamp and hung it on the hook so they could see properly. Darcy carefully removed the blood-soaked cravats and examined the area in better light.
“It is a clean cut,” he said, relief evident in his voice. “Not too deep. If we keep it clean, prevent infection…”
“We will,” Elizabeth said. She had rolled up her sleeves and accepted a cloth from Jacob, dipping it in the water. “Tell me what to do.”
They worked in silence for a while, cleaning the wound, checking Atlas’s other injuries. The welts from the whip were angry and raised, but none had broken the skin. They would heal with time and care.
“Sam,” Darcy said, “ride to Netherfield and fetch my medical supplies from my valet. There is a salve in my trunk. Bring the entire kit.”
“Aye, sir.” Sam rushed to Gracie.
“He needs water,” Darcy stated. “And food, if he will take it.”
Jacob brought fresh water, and Atlas drank long and deep. They offered him grain, but he only lipped at it half-heartedly before turning away.
“That is not uncommon,” Darcy assured Elizabeth, seeing her concern. “He is exhausted and in pain. His appetite will return once he has rested.”
Mr. Bennet appeared in the stable doorway. “How is he?”
“He will live if we can prevent infection,” Darcy said. “But he needs care. Constant attention for the next few days at least.”
“Then he shall have it.” Mr. Bennet’s gaze moved to his daughter, who stood with her hand resting on Atlas’s neck, her eyes never leaving the horse. “Lizzy will not leave his side, I suspect. And I imagine you will not either, Mr. Darcy.”
“No,” Darcy said. “I will not.”
“Then I shall ask Hill to prepare the guest rooms for you and your sister. You cannot ride back and forth to Netherfield in the middle of the night if Atlas takes a turn.” Mr. Bennet’s expression was serious.
“My youngest daughter may have been foolish, but you have been honorable in this matter. The least I can do is offer you hospitality while you tend your horse.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Bennet nodded and withdrew, leaving Darcy and Elizabeth with Atlas and the soft glow of lamplight.
Richard extended their thanks to the others for their help, while Miss Bennet invited them all inside Longbourn for refreshment.
Elizabeth turned to look at him, and in the lamplight, he saw tear tracks on her cheeks and the depth of emotion in her eyes.
“You saved him,” she said.
“He saved himself, Elizabeth. You should have seen him—he faced down Wickham with more courage than most men could muster. He is old, he is hurt, but he is unbroken. That is what matters.”
Elizabeth’s eyes searched his face, and Darcy knew she was seeing past his words to the truth beneath. He loved this horse. He loved watching Elizabeth with this horse. He loved—
He cleared his throat. “We should recheck him,” he said, stepping away before he could say something he could not take back. “Make certain the bleeding has fully stopped.”
They fell into a routine over the next few hours—tending the wound, offering water, monitoring Atlas’s breathing, and the warmth of his skin. Sam returned with the medical supplies, and Darcy applied the salve carefully to both the chest wound and the worst of the whip marks.
Night fell, and the household quieted. And still they, along with the grooms, remained in the stable, keeping watch over Atlas as he dozed fitfully in his box, his weight shifting constantly as he stood, his head hanging low.
At some point, Elizabeth’s head drooped onto Darcy’s shoulder. He stilled, barely breathing, not daring to disturb her. She was exhausted, he realized. Emotionally and physically spent.
“Sleep,” he murmured. “I will wake you if anything changes. I promise.”
She was asleep before she could protest again, her weight warm and trusting against his side.
Darcy allowed himself the luxury of looking at her—really looking at her—without her bright eyes watching him. The curve of her cheek, the dark lashes against her skin, the small furrow between her brows that suggested she worried even in sleep.
He loved her.
The realization was not new—he had admitted it to himself during the search for Atlas. But here, in the quiet darkness of the stable, with Elizabeth sleeping and Atlas breathing steadily in his box, the truth of it soaked into his bones.
He would forever be in love with Elizabeth Bennet.