Page 34 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

TAKEN AT DAWN

The early morning air hung heavy with summer heat as Elizabeth climbed the familiar path to Oakham Mount.

Dawn had barely broken, the sun a pale smear of gold against the eastern horizon, yet already the day promised to be stifling.

She welcomed the solitude of this hour, when even the most industrious tenant farmers had yet to venture into their fields.

Sleep had eluded her entirely. How could she rest when her mind replayed every moment of Darcy’s renewed proposal in the garden? One she had, yet again, refused.

His pallor as he struggled to maintain his dignity, the intensity in his eyes as he spoke of love, and the near-collapse that had betrayed his physical weakness despite his emotional strength.

But most of all, his determination to correct his misunderstandings from the Hunsford proposal, to assure her that his feelings for her had evolved, and that he admired and appreciated her, not only through the sickroom and after the duel, but that he had always loved her.

She’d been so tempted to give in to her emotions, to seek the vindication of his renewed opinions, and reach for what her heart most wanted. But she had to know… he had to know… that their union was brought on by more than fevered companionship, heightened emotions, or the threat of death.

Perhaps she was too noble, but he’d given him hope, and she’d told the truth.

Most of all, her admission—“I have come to love you, I think”—words she had never imagined speaking to Fitzwilliam Darcy of all men.

And yet, he had truly changed. This Mr. Darcy was humble and thoughtful, passionate without being arrogant, and even friendly to her mother.

Elizabeth couldn’t deny the feelings that crept up on her during those hours at Netherfield. It went beyond changing bandages and wiping his brow to cool his fever. She’d confessed her secrets to him, asked for forgiveness, and been granted more grace than she deserved.

They’d read together, jested over silly ditties, and conversed by the language of flowers.

Before the duel, Elizabeth would never have imagined the stern gentleman, Mr. Darcy, giving names to swans and marveling at the stars.

And the truth? When he smiled, his countenance took on the most handsome and pleasing demeanor.

One that fluttered her pulse and made her unable to catch her breath.

She paused at a familiar outcropping of rock, settling on its worn surface to watch the sunrise.

The countryside spread before her in a patchwork of fields and hedgerows, Longbourn still slumbering in the valley below.

She had revealed more of her heart than intended, yet less than she now realized she felt.

Elizabeth rose, knowing she should return to Longbourn before her absence was noted.

Her family still knew nothing of Darcy’s proposal, and she intended to keep it that way.

Let her mother believe it was merely a courtesy call, a leave-taking before he departed for Pemberley.

Some things were too precious and uncertain to be subject to familial scrutiny.

She had learned to hold her tongue. To keep confidences, and most of all, to treasure the words that should only be savored between lovers.

Lovers. Her and Darcy?

She smiled to herself at the precious vision as she started down the path toward her disorderly home. Had Mr. Darcy truly overlooked the cracked flagstones, the tumble of bonnets on the settee, and the weeds peeking amongst the blooms in the garden?

Once he was back at the orderly domain of Pemberley with what she imagined to be well-maintained shrubbery and pristine floorboards, would he welcome his return to his grand position, or would he indeed return to the tumult and flurry of Hertfordshire and her overly lively family?

The crack of a twig behind her snapped her attention from her thoughts of Darcy and his perfectly ordered position. Perhaps Jane had followed her, eager to hear what her interview with Darcy was about.

Instead, two rough-looking men stood in her way.

“Beg pardon, miss,” said the taller of the two. “Might you be Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”

Elizabeth froze, her pulse racing. These men were strangers to the neighborhood, yet they knew her name. Even though they were dressed in footmen’s livery, they appeared more menacing than polite.

“I fear you are mistaken,” she replied, forcing her voice to remain steady. “I am not acquainted with any Miss Bennet.”

“Now, that’s a shame,” said the second man, shorter but broader, with hands like hams and a scar bisecting one eyebrow.

“Our employer was most specific about finding Miss Elizabeth Bennet on her morning walk to Oakham Mount. Pretty young lady, dark curls, fond of solitary rambles at unreasonable hours.”

The description was too precise to be a coincidence. Elizabeth’s gaze darted between the men, calculating distances and options. The main path lay behind the strangers, blocking her direct route to Longbourn. But to her right, a narrow deer trail wound through dense undergrowth.

“Your employer is misinformed,” she insisted, edging sideways as if merely shifting her position. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be on my way.”

Elizabeth darted toward the deer trail, her feet finding the familiar path even as shouts erupted behind her. She had grown up exploring these woods, had spent years running these hills while the men were strangers to the terrain. The advantage was hers if she could maintain her lead.

The deer trail narrowed, branches whipping at her face and ripping her hems. Her pursuers crashed through the foliage, cursing and swearing.

Elizabeth ducked beneath a low-hanging branch, losing her bonnet.

Just a little farther and the trail would emerge into a clearing, from which she could reach the main path to Longbourn.

She skipped over a bundle of roots and shuffled down a gully filled with pebbles.

She was about to make a break for the main path when her boot sank into a rotten log, sending her sprawling to the ground with a cry of pain.

She scrambled to her feet, but the moment’s delay proved fatal.

A heavy hand clamped onto her shoulder, spinning her around to face the taller man, whose face was now scratched and bleeding from the brambles.

“That wasn’t wise, Miss Bennet,” he growled, all pretense of civility gone. “Not wise at all.”

Elizabeth twisted in his grip, kicking at his shins with all her strength. The man howled in pain but didn’t release her. The second man arrived, breathing heavily.

“Little hellcat,” he spat. “Hold her tight, Jenkins. I’ll teach her some manners.”

“No marks, Hobbs,” Jenkins warned, struggling to contain Elizabeth’s thrashing limbs. “The boss was clear about that.”

“No marks where they’d show,” Hobbs corrected, reaching for Elizabeth’s flailing arm. “No one said nothing about?—”

Elizabeth’s foot connected solidly with his groin, doubling him over with a strangled howl. She renewed her struggles against Jenkins, biting and scratching with a ferocity born of pure terror. This was no longer about escape—it was about survival.

“Enough!” Jenkins roared, twisting her arm behind her back until pain shot through her shoulder. “Stop fighting or I’ll break it, I swear.”

The genuine threat in his voice gave Elizabeth pause. A broken arm would not only be agonizing but would severely limit any future escape attempts. Breathing hard, she forced herself to go still, though every fiber of her being vibrated with the need to flee.

“Better,” Jenkins grunted. “Now, we can do this civil-like, or we can do it rough. Your choice, miss.”

“Who sent you?” Elizabeth demanded, wincing as he maintained pressure on her twisted arm. “What do you want with me?”

“Questions ain’t part of our job,” Hobbs said, straightening with a grimace. “Getting you to the carriage is. Now move.”

They half-dragged, half-marched her through the woods, no longer bothering with the established paths. Elizabeth’s mind raced, cataloging landmarks and noting their direction of travel. They were heading west, away from Longbourn, toward a lesser-used road that skirted the far side of Oakham Mount.

A carriage waited in a small clearing, its black lacquer gleaming in the early morning light.

A golden crest adorned its door—an ornate shield bearing a rampant lion and several fleur-de-lis emblems, topped with a baronet’s coronet.

Elizabeth had seen similar heraldry on expensive carriages in London, but could not place this particular design.

The door swung open as they approached, and Elizabeth’s blood ran cold.

George Wickham lounged against the cushions, his handsome face arranged in an expression of mock concern. “My dear Miss Bennet, you appear to have had a mishap. Fallen, have we?”

Elizabeth became acutely aware of her disheveled state—her dress torn and muddied from her fall, her hair escaping its pins, scratches on her hands and arms from the brambles. She lifted her chin, refusing to show the fear coursing through her veins.

“Mr. Wickham,” she said, infusing his name with all the contempt she could muster. “I might have known you were behind this outrage.”

“Outrage?” Wickham repeated, raising his eyebrows in feigned surprise. “I prefer to think of it as a timely intervention. Preventing a lady from making a grave mistake.”

“The only mistake was ever believing you possessed a shred of honor,” Elizabeth retorted. “Release me at once, or face the consequences.”

Wickham sighed dramatically. “Always so spirited. It’s quite charming, in its way.

But I fear I cannot comply with your request. We have an appointment to keep and a rather long journey ahead of us.

” He gestured to his henchmen. “Gentlemen, if you would be so kind as to assist Miss Bennet into the carriage.”