Page 6 of The Briar Bargain (The Rom Com Collection #3)

Elizabeth could not turn her head to see where they were bound, for holding onto Peter and keeping them both above the surface was enough of a struggle.

Thus, it was a surprise when her back hit another tree trunk with bruising force, the rough bark scraping her skin.

The impact knocked what little air remained from her lungs, but she managed not to lose her grasp on the boy .

"I have you," she gasped, wrapping one arm around his small chest while turning halfway to grasp a branch behind her with her other hand. His arms swung out, one small fist catching her cheek. "Be still, Peter."

The child stopped struggling, turning to cling to her instead with the desperate strength of the terrified. His small body trembled violently against hers, his skin icy to the touch, and he tried to climb onto her shoulders.

Elizabeth pushed him down, and with the back of his shirt twisted in her fist, she edged along the trunk towards the bank, pulling him along with her.

But the current was too powerful, pressing them relentlessly against the log, threatening to tear them away at any moment.

Her muscles screamed in protest, trembling with fatigue.

She would need help.

In the distance, she heard shouting. Male voices carried over the roar of the water, bringing with them a surge of hope. She tried to turn her head to look, but the branch she clung to creaked ominously, the sound traveling through her very bones.

They needed to hurry.

Elizabeth looked about for a better hold as she blinked river water from her stinging eyes. There was a cluster of long willow roots extending into the water from a standing tree on the Netherfield side, dark fingers reaching into the current.

"Listen carefully," she said into Peter's ear, feeling him shudder against her. She attempted to catch her breath before saying, "I am going to push you to those roots. You must grab them and pull yourself up. Do you understand?"

The boy shook his head and held on to her arm.

“Peter, you must. ”

“I can’t.” His arms moved, wrapping themselves tightly around her neck. “Don’t let go.”

The men were closer now, but still too far away. Elizabeth's strength, already depleted by the demands of the past week, was fading. Her limbs felt leaden, her fingers numb and clumsy.

“Peter!”

It was Mr. Farrow.

“Papa!” Peter cried. “Papa!” His grip loosened and she was able to turn him to face the shore.

With the last bit of energy she had remaining, Elizabeth held onto the log with one arm, placed both feet against Peter’s back, and thrust him forward.

The child lurched through the water and managed to grasp the exposed willow roots, wrapping several of them around one arm.

His head was above the water, and the men were reaching out to him, their shouts becoming distinct words now.

Elizabeth felt a surge of relief. She took hold of the trunk and began to inch her own way to the bank.

But just as she could see the men fishing Peter from the river, his father among them, the tree shifted beneath the pressure of the water, and with a sickening lurch, her precarious hold gave way.

The current seized her instantly, yanking her under the log and sending her tumbling downstream beneath the surface. Water rushed into her nose and mouth, and the world became a disorientating blur of brown and green, punctuated by flashes of grey sky when she finally broke the surface.

She gasped for air, her lungs burning as if she had swallowed fire. Through water-blurred eyes, she saw a figure running along the bank, his voice coming to her as if through layers of wool, indistinct but urgent.

The current spun her about, confusing her further. Each time she managed to surface, she glimpsed the running figure drawing nearer .

The cold seeped into her bones, turning her body to ice. She could no longer feel her limbs. More water crashed over her head, and when she broke through again, spluttering and coughing, the figure had vanished from the bank.

Elizabeth's mind grew sluggish, her thoughts fragmenting. She had saved Peter. That knowledge warmed her. Perhaps this was to be her fate, to perish in these waters, having done one truly noble deed. Her parents would be devastated. Her sisters would mourn. Poor Jane . . .

And what would Mr. Darcy think? Would he think her brave or foolish?

The absurd thought nearly made her laugh, which caused her to choke on more water. As if his good opinion mattered now.

A sudden splash nearby penetrated her dimming awareness.

Through the watery veil obscuring her vision, she perceived a large form cutting through the current with powerful strokes.

The figure drew closer, and Elizabeth saw with muted interest the visage of Mr. Darcy himself, his usually immaculate appearance utterly transformed.

His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, water streaming down his face as he made his way through the roaring river to her.

Languidly, she wondered why he was in the river. He would ruin his clothes.

But her thoughts drifted away, for the water had her now, drawing her down into its cold embrace, sweeping her around the bend where she could just make out a tangle of fallen trees waiting to catch her beneath the raging water.

Now she truly would be trapped, just as Miss Bingley had feared. She would be pleased to hear she had been right all along.

And Elizabeth closed her eyes, at last, to rest.