Page 29 of Gentlemen of Honor (Bennet Gang Duology #2)

Tis But a Scratch!

Darcy grimaced as he unsaddled his mount. Warmth spread down his arm, the movement reopening the gash there. He needed to see to his horse and get inside, where hopefully Patrick would know what to do with the injury. So far, fortunately, his dark coat and shirt hid the blood. He didn’t want Elizabeth to know he’d come to harm. She’d been so brave all evening, but he could see the tension about her eyes. He did not want to add another burden.

Darcy had watched from the shadows of the hallway as the two Hargreaves had argued, judging Nathan as honest. He’d also seen the incredible shot that took the pistol from Lord Franklin’s hand, the man’s back to Darcy but his arm outstretched to give a view of the gun. Miss Bennet, he knew, had made that shot. From across the yard, and with a pistol, for he hadn’t seen her Bakers with her.

He’d held his breath as Elizabeth confronted Lord Franklin, knowing how she would view interference from him, and said a prayer of thanks when she merely knocked the man unconscious. The fool had no idea how fortunate he was that Elizabeth retained her grasp on reason. Darcy had read the rage in her eyes.

Despite the searing pain in his right bicep, he’d helped her check that all the kidnappers, including Lord Franklin, were secured, while Miss Bennet and Miss Mary waited without, watching over Thomas and Nathan. They’d then joined her sisters, and Elizabeth had ordered them, and him, to make all haste to Dovemark, pointing out that as many of them as possible should appear to be home when Colonel Forster returned Thomas, as he would undoubtedly do.

Miss Bennet and Miss Mary had agreed, but Darcy had refused. He’d given in earlier that evening, when Elizabeth had rightly ordered him to remain at the back of the house with her sisters. Then again, when he hadn’t interfered with Lord Franklin. But he would not leave her to face possible danger again, and especially not if it came in the form of Colonel Forster. There, Darcy could be of true assistance. If anyone needed to speak with the man, he would, with all the clout he could bring to bear, not Elizabeth, alone and dressed as a Boney Bandit.

So, his arm burning, Darcy had hidden alongside her while Thomas and Nathan waited before the cottage for Forster to arrive. Fortunately, Robert Collins had accompanied him and Elizabeth had agreed that, surrounded by soldiers and with Robert there, her brother would be safe enough. She and Darcy had slipped back into the trees to reclaim their mounts. Pulling himself into the saddle had reopened the wound on his arm, making each jolting stride on the journey back feel as if someone drew a hot poker across his bicep.

But now they were back in the stable and all he must do was get his mount’s tack stowed and somehow fumble his way to his chamber without being seen. He turned, arms full of bridle and saddle.

“Stop,” Elizabeth’s voice said from his left, low but commanding.

Halting, Darcy cast her a questioning look.

She secured Tuck’s stall door, having just led him in, and then walked in a slow loop around Darcy. She came full circle, her eyes seeming to traverse every inch of his frame. “Mr. Darcy, are you dripping blood on the stable floor?”

He looked down, then back to his mount’s stall. The wound had reopened yet again when he’d hefted the saddle.

Elizabeth nodded to the tear in the arm of his coat. “When were you going to tell me that you are injured?”

“I was not,” he admitted, the tack heavier than usual with his arm on fire. She sounded angry, but he suspected that anger not to be aimed at him. He dared to hope that her volatility might even mask another, softer, emotion…caring.

“Give me that.” She scooped the saddle from his arms. “Stay here. Every step you take is more for me to clean up.” Pivoting, she carried the tack away.

Darcy looked down at his torn sleeve, the fabric damp around the wound. In truth, the bleeding was slow. It was only the angle at which he’d turned his arm to lift the saddle that had permitted a few droplets to fall free to the floor.

Elizabeth returned from the tack room with a stool, a liquor bottle, and a bundle of clean cloths. She set the stool down before him. “Sit.”

“It is a scratch. Patrick can see to it. ”

“And I will what? Follow you to your bedchamber to ensure that you do not get blood on my mother’s floors?” Elizabeth shook her head. “You jeopardize a secret you want to keep just as badly as I do. Sit.”

He dropped to the stool, his mind awash with the idea of her following him to his bedroom.

Elizabeth set down the bottle, tucking the bundle of cloth under one arm. With gentle fingers, she peeled back the edges of his coat and shirt. He winced as more of the wound reopened.

“I do not believe it requires stitches,” she said. “Which is fortunate as Mary has already gone in.”

He should have known Miss Mary would be adept with that type of needle.

“Can you remove your coat?” Elizabeth asked, her cheeks pink, for all her even tone.

“I can try.” He attempted to shrug free of the article without further aggravating his arm, unable to contain a grimace of pain.

Elizabeth leaned forward, gentle hands sliding the coat from his shoulders, her cheeks aflame.

She caught the garment before it could hit the floor, and turned to hang it on one of the pegs that waited outside every stall, used for halters. She stood for a moment, her back to him. Her shoulders rose as she drew in a deep breath. When she turned back, her face was a somewhat more normal color.

Returning to his side, she said crisply, “Either your shirt must come off, or I will need to cut away that sleeve.”

The first time Elizabeth saw him in such a state of undress was not going to be in a stable with blood dripping down his arm. It would be on their wedding night, in a luxurious bedchamber, surrounded by candles. He would destroy as many shirts as required to ensure that. “Cut off the sleeve.”

Emotion flickered in her eyes. Relief? Disappointment? He couldn’t tell which, but she nodded and pulled a small knife he hadn’t realized she carried from her boot.

Her hands gentle and her motions precise despite the return of pink to her cheeks, she cut away his shirtsleeve, then took up the bottle she’d brought. The rich smell of fine cognac reached his nose as she wetted one of the cloths.

“Is that—” He broke off with a hiss as she pressed the cloth firmly to the gash on his arm.

“Cognac,” she said quietly.

“You could have warned me,” he bit out as the burning began to dull .

“Why? Being warned does not make it hurt any less.”

A different sort of pain stabbed through him that she would know that, but he imagined that with all her years of practicing with blades, she must on occasion have suffered injuries. Hopefully small.

“It is about to hurt again,” she said. Her gaze flicked up to meet his before she dropped it back to where she dumped more cognac onto the cloth. “I am warning you.”

He couldn’t contain a second hiss as she began to clean the wound, but the pain was less this time. The heady scent of strong drink reached him, a superior blend if he was not mistaken, and he peered at the bottle. Elizabeth’s long, fine fingers wrapped about his arm, turning it as she cleaned away blood that had dripped from the cut.

“Where did you get that?” he asked to distract from her touch.

“The cognac?” But she continued before he could reply, with, “I am certain you can imagine where. Papa Arthur kept it on hand for this purpose. He said cognac works best.” She glanced up, her hands stilling on his arm. “He would drink it as well, though we never do. Do you require any?”

Darcy shook his head. The last thing he needed was to be befuddled by drink. Elizabeth’s nearness was intoxicating enough.

She made quick work of cleaning his arm, and of rending one of the stark white cloths into strips. Her steady, capable hands wrapped the bandages about his bicep, then secured them with the sort of field knot he’d seen Richard use.

“Wait here. I will only be a moment.”

She stowed the extra bandages and cognac, then began cleaning up the few drops of blood on the floor. After a moment, Darcy rose. He flexed his arm, finding the bandage neither too tight nor loose, then took the stool to the tack room. When he returned, Elizabeth stood in the center of the now ordered stable, holding his coat.

She wrinkled her nose at the garment. “I am afraid you really should put it back on. We can hope to sneak you into the house unseen, but if you are spotted, your missing sleeve and bandaged arm will be a lot to explain.”

“Where did you put the sleeve?” he asked as he crossed to her.

“In your pocket, in case your valet wishes to repair the shirt before giving it away.” A smile tugged at her lips. “As Darcys of Pemberley do not wear mended clothes.”

He smiled back. She would never permit him to forget that bit of arrogance, would she? “You are quite skilled as a nurse.”

Elizabeth cocked an eyebrow. “I am moderately skilled as a surgeon, but not as proficient as Mary. I have not her dedication.”

“I believe you are quite dedicated to things that interest you. I have rarely witnessed such swordsmanship as yours.”

Mischief danced in her eyes. “I daresay that with some dedication of your own, you could rise to my level.”

“You honor me with your confidence,” he replied wryly.

“Yes. I do.” Her gaze studied his face.

He returned the scrutiny, enamored with the way tendrils of her hair had escaped the braid coiled about her head, falling free to frame her face in irregular wisps. The dark, shimmering strands emphasized the smooth, silken look of her skin. He brushed his knuckles across one cheek, reveling in the softness.

Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath.

Darcy blinked. He had not meant to touch her.

She came up on her toes, pressing her lips to his.

Emotions slammed through him. He brought his arms up, wrapping them around her. She twined hers about his neck. He drew her closer, deepening the kiss.

This was everything he’d dreamed about. Everything he wanted. Needed, even.

But he cared for Elizabeth too much to permit their kiss to continue. Not when she deserved so much more from him. Not after she’d waited for him to come to his senses, and forgiven him once he had.

Marshaling his resolve, he drew his mouth from hers. Her closed eyes and slightly parted lips, the corners curved upward, threatened to undo him. He stood, motionless, Elizabeth in his arms, knowing he should not keep kissing her and yet unable to pull any farther away.

She opened her eyes, her smile growing. “That was like…” She let out a long sigh. “Well, I have nothing with which to compare it, but I believe it was wonderful.”

He could not help but smile back. “Wonderful is not grand enough a word.”

She stepped away, and he forced his arms to open.

Looking down, she grimaced. “I dropped your coat.” She dipped, swiping it up. “You simply cannot put this on. It is torn, bloodied, and covered with straw and horsehair. We will need to be very stealthy.”

He nodded. “With you in those trousers, we need to be stealthy regardless.”

“In truth, after sending you in through the scullery, I had planned to climb up to the balcony of my stepfather’s vacant room, but with your arm, I am afraid you must take the stairs.”

Darcy flexed his arm. If she could climb up, he must be able to. After all she was only a slip of a— He halted that thought, rueful. He would need to work on adjusting his expectations when it came to Elizabeth. Still, he said, “I can climb.”

She studied him for a moment, then handed him his coat. “I will lead the way. Stay a few steps behind. You are rather louder than I am.”

He nodded. She extinguished the lantern, then led the way from the stable. Darcy followed, endeavoring to walk as softly as possible.

Once she neared the house, she crouched down behind a line of decorative hedges, motioning him to join her. He obeyed without hesitation. He loved her sureness, her ability to command when the situation warranted.

But what he truly loved was her, and there was one thing more he needed to know before he returned to his large, empty bed alone.

“You are certain you can climb?” she asked softly. “I have been counting as we have approached, and Forster’s men do not seem to be patrolling, but look at the light there, and there.” She pointed to several windows. “The house is awake, no doubt because of Thomas’s return. We dare not chance even the back stairway.”

“I can climb,” he said with certainty. In that moment, with a proposal hovering on his lips, he could fly if Elizabeth asked him to.

“This way. Stay close behind me.”

She slipped from behind the shrubberies and across the walk, then moved along the back of the house with her shoulders pressed to the stone wall. Above, Darcy counted balconies. By his reckoning, the first should be off General Oakwood’s room. The third must belong to Miss Mary and Miss Lydia’s sitting room, and the fourth to the sitting room that adjoined Darcy’s guest room to Richard’s. That left the second balcony in from the end as the one Elizabeth shared with her older sister.

Elizabeth passed under them all, going to the corner. She peered around it, then turned back to whisper. “We go up here, and pray my mother is not in her sitting room, which seems likely. The windows are dark.” She nodded to the corner around which she’d looked.

Using the decorative quoins, she went up the wall. Darcy watched for a moment, awed, then followed. The rough, decorative stone made the climb easier than he’d feared, though it still cost him effort, especially with his injured arm. But soon enough, slightly winded, he stood beside Elizabeth on her stepfather’s balcony. Retrieving the small knife she carried in her boot, she used the blade to slip open the latch and let them in.

They entered to total and complete darkness. Darcy stood still as Elizabeth closed the door. He heard the latch fall into place. A moment later, her warm hand clasped his.

“Walk with me.” She led him forward, murmuring softly, and after a moment he realized she counted her steps, turned them, counted again, and so on as they crossed the room.

When they reached the other side, she released his hand. Fabric rustled. He suspected she was kneeling to peer through the keyhole into the next room.

Another rustle sounded. She cracked open the door to a large sitting room with a banked fire. One Darcy had sought a glimpse into before, to take in the portrait of General Oakwood that hung over the fireplace.

Able to see now, though the room was shrouded in shadow, they crossed quickly. Elizabeth pressed her ear to the hall door, then dropped to a knee to peer through that keyhole as well.

Darcy’s heart thudded in his chest, but not in fear. He hardly cared if they were caught. He only cared about posing his question to Elizabeth.

She opened the door and ushered him through, then closed it softly. She hurried down the hall on silent feet, moving to the top of the staircase, across the hall from his room. After a quick look around, she turned and opened the door to the sitting room he shared with Richard, gesturing for him to go through.

Darcy did, then turned back to reach for her. To draw her in, away from prying eyes, where he could ask her to be his forever.

Elizabeth was gone. He stuck his head out into the hallway in time to see her door close.

His whole body jerked, wanting to follow, but he mastered the emotion. He glanced down at his ruined shirt. His trousers speckled with horsehair. The bandage on his arm.

He would ask her later today, when he looked the part of a proper suitor.

Smiling at the thought, he closed the door before anyone could come up the staircase and see him.