Chapter Eleven #2
Wickham held a second knife to her right hand. “However, he never said you must be delivered with all of your fingers intact….” The knife was very sharp; she could feel the edge cut into the skin above her index finger.
Now she had to fight her own sense of rising panic.
She could touch her own life force, which she only used for healing—the last thing she wanted to do to Wickham.
But healing was similar to what she had done with the wights—pushing life energies into them—and that had caused them to dissipate.
What would happen if she did that to Wickham?
He was obviously not dead, but it was worth the attempt.
She gathered her life energies, imagining it as a bright white ball—a tiny sun—and pushed it into the man, just as she had with the wights.
At first nothing happened. Wickham still held the knife to her throat.
Then he blinked and stopped, frozen in mid-action.
He fell backward, crashing limply onto the forest floor.
Both knives dropped from nerveless fingers.
Did I kill him? The thought pricked her conscience. Although he had been about to cut off her finger, she did not long to kill him.
Any attempts to sit up made her dizzy and nauseous, but she was able to extend her senses enough to discern a faint pulse and the rhythm of Wickham’s shallow breathing. Thank God! She was a healer, not a killer.
Darkness encroached around the edges of her vision; she could not escape its pull any longer. Fighting her attacker had used the last of her energy. She could only pray that Wickham did not awaken before she did. That was her last thought before she fell into the blackness.
***
“Elizabeth? Elizabeth!” Someone was calling her name from very far away. “Elizabeth? Darling?” Who would address her in such a way? Jane? But it was a man’s voice.
She managed to crack open her eyes despite their absurd weight. Mr. Darcy was staring down at her, his face creased with worry.
She mumbled something; although it failed to emerge as coherent words, he appeared reassured. “Thank the Lord! What did Wickham do to you? Where are you injured?”
She spoke slowly and carefully with a tongue that was quite uncooperative. “Hit my…head on…rock.” Indeed, the pain from the back of her head was a dull throb alternating with occasional piercing stabs.
“She may have a contusion of the brain,” said a male voice on her other side. She rolled her head to the left and saw Colonel Fitzwilliam. Why was he in Hertfordshire? Behind Mr. Darcy, she saw a few militia officers. How had so many people come to be in the Old Forest?
Mr. Darcy’s fingers felt the back of her head.
She winced when he pressed on a particularly tender spot.
“My apologies,” he said hastily, removing his hand.
“There is a lump but no blood,” he told his cousin.
“Does it hurt anywhere else? Did you break any limbs?” He spoke loudly despite crouching directly beside her.
She wet parched lips. “No, nothing else hurts very much. My hearing is intact as well.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam chuckled. “As are her wits.”
Mr. Darcy glanced at the colonel. “We must take her back to the carriage. The doctor can examine her at Longbourn.”
“Mr. Wickham?” Elizabeth asked hoarsely.
The colonel smiled grimly. “He is here.”
“Alive?”
He frowned in confusion. “Yes, but unconscious without a mark upon him. Would you like to explain how you managed that?”
Elizabeth shook her head and then regretted it. “Later.” The story was too complicated. “Do not allow him…to escape. He…attempted to abduct me.”
Mr. Darcy made a noise like a stifled oath. The colonel’s expression was forbidding. “We feared as much.”
“He will not escape,” Mr. Darcy reassured her. “Richard wrapped his wrists in some sturdy ropes. We have a couple of Colonel Forster’s militia officers with us; they can carry him to the road, where he will be taken to the brig.”
“We will need to question him first,” the colonel cautioned. “He is the only person who knows the necromancer’s identity.”
Mr. Darcy scowled. “Indeed. I will leave that task to you and the director. I might be tempted to break something.” He turned his attention to Elizabeth. “I must pick you up now,” he said gently. “I fear it may hurt.”
“I understand,” she whispered.
He put one arm under her legs and the other around her back, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. It did jostle her injured head, and she could not stifle a moan.
“Perhaps if you position her head differently—” Colonel Fitzwilliam suggested, stretching out a hand.
Mr. Darcy stepped backward, taking her out of his reach. “Do not touch her,” he growled at his cousin, who looked shocked, his hand arrested in mid-motion.
Why was Mr. Darcy behaving so? He never spoke that way to anyone, let alone his cousin, with whom he had always been on good terms.
“She is mine to care for,” Mr. Darcy said in a more conciliatory tone. “It is my error that placed her in this position.” The colonel nodded but regarded his cousin as if he had turned into a wild animal.
Mr. Darcy tilted Elizabeth’s body until her head was resting on his shoulder. “Are you comfortable?” he murmured to her.
“Comfortable enough.”
She heard grunts and shuffling that suggested the officers were picking up Mr. Wickham—none too gently.
“Richard, if you could lead the way?” Mr. Darcy asked.
“Yes,” the colonel said, with an odd note in his voice. “We need to go in this direction.”
Elizabeth rested her head against Mr. Darcy’s shoulder, safe and protected for the first time in hours.
***
The walk back to the carriage seemed to take twice as long as the trek out, but Darcy would have been happy to carry Elizabeth three times that distance now that he knew she was alive.
She had fallen into a swoon again, which was probably for the best given her obvious discomfort.
Even when he laid her carefully in the carriage, the motion did not awaken her.
Then he sat beside her and carefully laid her head on his lap to prevent her from being jostled.
The militia officers had swung Wickham none too gently into the back of their wagon and set off for the garrison’s brig. The man had not awakened. How had Elizabeth incapacitated him? Darcy wondered what the doctor would find when he examined the blackguard.
Richard sat across from Darcy as the carriage bounced and squeaked its way back to Longbourn.
He had said nothing about Darcy’s outburst, which had startled and disconcerted Darcy himself.
I should apologize, he thought for the thousandth time.
But perhaps it was best not to call further attention to the incident.
Seeing her injured and vulnerable had prompted a visceral, possessive reaction in Darcy.
At that moment, he could not suffer anyone else to touch her.
He might even have snapped at Jane Bennet.
Darcy blew out a long breath, willing himself to relax from the frenzy of anxiety over the past hours.
He could not exhibit such conduct in front of her family at Longbourn.
He needed to be honest with himself. While Elizabeth would recover from her injuries, Darcy was not sanguine that his possessive behavior would disappear.
It was rooted in his deep love for her, which was not likely to wane.
If he was unable to conceive of another man touching her, how could he leave her behind in Hertfordshire, knowing that someday another man would marry her?
The mere thought caused cold shivers to run down his spine.
For days, Darcy had agonized about family, duty, and honor balanced against his love for Elizabeth.
But perhaps the decision had been made for him.
He was beginning to believe he simply could not live without her in his life.
The soul-wrenching terror he had experienced when she was missing was perhaps a sign about what he must do.
He had believed he had a choice about marrying Elizabeth Bennet.
He had been wrong.
Clearly this was the woman he was destined to marry. No other woman would suffice.
He would be proud to have her on his arm.
Not only was she beautiful and witty, but she also possessed a rare and amazing power.
Somehow she had fought Wickham to a standstill.
When they had followed their trail, Darcy had every expectation that they would find Elizabeth’s body.
His relief that she breathed was so great that he had barely restrained himself from kissing her—in front of Richard and Forster’s officers.
Of course, it did not excuse his behavior toward Richard.
Even if she had been his acknowledged fiancée, it did not justify practically laying claim to Elizabeth as if he were some primitive potentate.
Darcy’s conduct might cause Richard to think he had a secret understanding with Elizabeth.
But his cousin would know that Bennet had not consented to an engagement since nothing had been mentioned during the frantic search for Elizabeth.
At least he could count on Richard not to gossip about the irregular way Darcy was conducting his affairs.
It was all a matter of formality anyway.
Once Elizabeth was in her right mind, Darcy could establish an understanding with her.
And since he would be staying at Longbourn—he had no intention of letting her out of his sight again—it would be the work of a moment to secure Bennet’s consent.
He would simply have to face his family’s wrath when it came.
The most pressing problem now was preventing the necromancer from attempting to kill Elizabeth—again.
***