Page 8 of The Briar Bargain (The Rom Com Collection #3)

Darcy nodded tersely, his eyes never leaving the intermittent glimpses of Miss Elizabeth in the water. She was definitely weakening, her struggles less pronounced with each passing moment.

He could not wait for a better place to enter the river, and so he plunged in, the shock of cold momentarily stealing his breath.

The current immediately tugged at his legs, trying to sweep them from beneath him, but he pressed on, diving forward and beginning to swim, his arms burning with the effort it took to control his direction.

His shirt caught on something beneath the surface—a jagged branch or root—and he yanked it free with such force that he heard the fabric rip.

Another snag, and more tearing. He turned in the water and narrowly avoided another tree, though this one was smaller than the one Miss Elizabeth had been holding.

His boots dragged at his feet, threatening to pull him under. There had been no time to remove them as he ran, and he kicked harder against their weight. The river roared in his ears, along with the thundering of his own pulse.

His extremities grew numb. He kept moving.

Darcy spotted her at last, her dark hair entirely freed of any restraint, spread out in the water around her pale face. She was barely moving now.

"Miss Elizabeth!" he called, though the effort cost him precious breath. "Elizabeth!"

She gave no sign of hearing him. Her eyes were open but unfocused, her expression eerily serene as she was tossed about in the current. Then, as he drew nearer, her eyes closed, and she slipped beneath the surface.

Panic lent strength to Darcy's tired limbs. He reached the spot where she had disappeared and dove beneath the murky water. The world transformed into a brown haze as he fought the slowing current and searched desperately in the gloom .

His hand brushed against fabric. It was her dress, billowing in the current. He grasped it and pulled, following the material until he found her arm, then her waist. With one arm wrapped securely around her middle, he kicked hard for the surface.

They broke through together, Darcy gasping for air while Miss Elizabeth lay limply in his grasp, her head lolling back over his shoulder. Her eyes remained closed, dark lashes stark against her pallid cheeks.

The current continued to pull them downstream, and Darcy angled their bodies towards the shoreline where the river widened and slowed. With hard, desperate strokes, he fought against the water's pull until his feet found purchase on the riverbed.

Stumbling, half dragging Miss Elizabeth, he staggered onto the muddy bank.

Gently, he laid her on her side. Water trickled from her mouth and then she suddenly convulsed with a fit of coughing, expelling the river water she had swallowed before falling back into unconsciousness, her breathing regular but still laboured.

Her skin was cold to the touch, her lips tinged with blue, and there were numerous scratches covering her arms and legs.

The thorny briars had torn through her dress in dozens of places, leaving angry red welts across her pale skin.

Now that she was out of the water, small beads of blood welled up from the deeper cuts, stark crimson against her white skin.

It was only then that Darcy became aware of his own state.

His shirt hung in tatters from his shoulders, the fine linen reduced to rags.

The briars that had torn at Miss Elizabeth had done the same to him, though he had scarcely felt it in his desperation to reach her.

Now, with the immediacy of the rescue fading, he felt the stinging of numerous small cuts across his arms and face .

The scratches on Elizabeth's skin looked superficial. Painful, certainly, but not dangerous. What concerned him more was her stillness and the bluish tinge to her lips.

But she was breathing. He had reached her in time.

Without hesitation, Darcy gathered her into his arms, lifting her against his chest. She was so small, so light, despite the weight of her sodden clothing. Her head settled heavily against his shoulder, her face pale and still in the grey light of the fading day.

"Always rushing to aid others," he murmured, more to himself than to her. He felt a mixture of admiration and agitation. "You might have been killed."

He began to walk, searching for the clearest path back through the woods. The river had carried them some distance downstream, and he was not entirely certain of their position relative to Netherfield or the gamekeeper’s lodge.

As he picked his way through the underbrush, Miss Elizabeth stirred slightly in his arms. A small, pained sound escaped her lips, and her brow furrowed as if in the grip of a nightmare.

Her hand clutched reflexively at his ruined shirt, fingers tangling in a strip of the tattered fabric that hung loose from his shoulder.

Her eyes fluttered opened. “Peter . . .” she whispered.

"Shh," Darcy soothed, tightening his hold on her. "He is safe now, and so are you."

But she only grasped the fabric more tightly, a whimper escaping her as she twisted in his arms. Her eyes drifted closed, but her expression spoke of terror, reliving, perhaps, the moment when the current had pulled her under.

"Elizabeth," he said softly, using her Christian name without thought. "Elizabeth, be still. You are well. "

Her movements subsided somewhat, but her hand remained clenched in the torn shirt, as if it were a lifeline in the flood of her dreams.

Darcy continued walking, his arms beginning to ache with the strain of carrying her, his legs leaden after the exertion of the rescue. But he would not stop, would not relinquish his precious burden to anyone.

"Darcy!"

Bingley's voice reached him through the trees, followed shortly by the man himself, crashing through the underbrush with Johnson close behind.

"Thank God," Bingley breathed, his face lighting with relief as he took in the sight of them both, but then growing sombre. "Is she . . .?”

"She lives," Darcy said tersely, "but she needs warmth and dry clothing."

"Here, allow me to help—" Bingley began, moving as if to take Miss Elizabeth from Darcy's arms.

"No." The word came out more sharply than Darcy had intended. He moderated his tone with effort. "I do not know where we are. Which is closer, the great house or—”

“The gamekeeper’s lodge."

“Lead me there.”

Bingley nodded, his expression grave. "The lodge is not far." He walked slightly ahead to clear the path of fallen branches and thorny undergrowth.

Miss Elizabeth occasionally stirred, murmuring something too soft to understand, but she did not wake.

"Should I not take her now?" Bingley offered again after they had walked in silence for some minutes. "You must be exhausted."

Darcy shook his head, his gaze never leaving Miss Elizabeth's face. "I am perfectly capable of carrying her." The thought of relinquishing her to anyone, even Bingley, was unthinkable. He had nearly lost her once today; he would not let her go again until he was certain of her safety.

"At least allow me to help—"

"I said no , Bingley." The words were spoken softly, but with a finality that brooked no argument.

Bingley fell silent, though Darcy could feel his friend's concerned glance. He ignored it, focusing instead on placing one foot in front of the other, on the precious weight in his arms, on the slight rise and fall of Miss Elizabeth's chest against his own.

Through the trees, the solid stone structure of the gamekeeper's lodge came into view. Smoke rose from its chimney, a welcome sight that promised warmth within.

“I shall return in a moment,” Bingley said, turning on his heel and dashing back into the woods.

Darcy idly wondered where his friend was going but put it out of his mind. As they approached, the door flew open, and Farrow emerged, his son wrapped in a blanket and clutched tightly to his chest.

"Miss Elizabeth?" the man asked, his voice choked with emotion.

“She requires immediate care."

Relief washed over the farmer's weathered face. "Bring her in, sir. We've a fire going."