Page 38 of These Dreams (Heart to Heart Collection #1)

Chapter thirty-eight

Pemberley

E lizabeth drew her cloak more tightly about herself. The evening air was damp, and the night promised long, cold rain. She could not fathom a worse idea in this moment than to walk out alone, just as dark was falling, searching for a man she abhorred.

Drawing the shade from her lantern, she lifted it and walked briskly, hoping to warm herself. Just as she reached the bottom of the palatial steps to the house, a hesitant voice called out in greeting. “I beg your pardon, Miss Bennet, may I be of service?”

Her heart leaped into her throat in shock, and she spun about. Her lantern cast its glow over O’Donnell’s lanky form, and she placed a hand over her breast to still its hammering. “N-n-no, no thank you,” she stammered quickly. “I only desired a few moments of fresh air.”

The footman drew nearer. “’Tis not my place, Miss, but ‘tis not safe for a lady to be out about the grounds alone, after dark. Mr Darcy—well, that is to say, Colonel Fitzwilliam would never have approved it. I beg you would permit me to escort you.”

She raised her lantern slightly to scrutinise his face. “You are very kind, Mr O’Donnell, but I intend to remain close to the house. I am in great need of a few moments of privacy, do you see, and the night is not so very cold that I may not enjoy the formal garden before I retire.”

He cast a quizzical eye to the heavens. “I think it will rain, Miss. Perhaps the orangery would suffice?”

“I thank you, but no. Now, pray, do not concern yourself with me, for I am well accustomed to walking in all weather, and we have seen warmer days of late. I shall return directly.” He opened his mouth to object on her behalf, but she inserted firmly, “Good evening, Mr O’Donnell.”

She strode quickly away, glancing over her shoulder now and again. He remained watching her some while, and she did not gaze directly enough to study his expression. Odd, how that footman seemed to shadow every move made by the ladies of Pemberley! Either he was the most gracious, chivalrous manservant of her acquaintance, or he took an unhealthy interest in her activities. She shivered and hastened her strides.

The clearing was not far, but it lay apart from the main approach to the house. She was sorry now that she had taken so little time to explore the grounds she had grown to love, for the way was not as familiar as she would have liked. It was beyond that lovely little pond—Darcy’s pond—then there was a well-worn path through a stand of trees….

Elizabeth paused to catch her breath and looked about, thinking she had heard a voice. The trees gave way abruptly, and beyond them to the south she could see a gentle slope, bathed in tepid moonlight and softened by the rising fog. Her knuckles ached as she clutched her lantern. Was she really walking into Wickham’s noose? The last thing she had wished was to speak to him alone, and far from protection, but there was not now the time to wait for an intermediary—if, indeed, one could be found who would not suffer for acting as such.

As she stood waiting, the distant blowing of a horse reached her ears. Following the sound, she could just discern the silhouette of horse and rider against the fading rays of daylight to the west. Steeling her courage, she lifted her chin, and walked toward him.

H e ought to have stopped over in Chesterton. His eyes had slowly adjusted as the evening waned, but he could no longer deny that the road was grey and dim before him. Foolish, and he knew it—no sane man rode at a fast trot on muddy roads in the dark. Sanity, however, was the farthest trouble from his mind. Two more miles. I can make it that far!

Richard wriggled his stiffening fingers inside his gloves, trying to ward off the chill that had settled into them. Mercifully, the rain had held off during his mad ride to Derbyshire, but he knew it would not continue so for long. As if in confirmation, a cold drop found its way under his caped coat to the back of his neck. He swore—one more thing he didn’t need.

At least his horse was fresh. Richard growled when another drop tapped audibly on the brim of his hat. He glared at the leaden sky, then impulse seized him and he squeezed his right calf against his mount. The horse shifted into an edgy gallop, his strides choppy and irregular. Richard held the rein steady and stood in the irons to help his mount negotiate the wet road, but he kept his leg firm.

Not far now! He could see the prominence where the house stood etched against the moonlight. A silver glint just below it was the mirror of Pemberley’s lake, a dark shape the dusky hills where he had ridden with Darcy as a boy.

Darcy! Richard could hardly contain his anticipation. Could he already be returned home, and enthroned by a comfortable fire with his favourite hound at his feet? What a laugh they might have over the whole affair—once their bellies had been warmed and their minds mellowed by a well-deserved drink. Ah, to once again relish a quiet evening with his cousin, to once more raise a glass to the morrow, and to rest fearless that all could again be right with the world!

Of course, that was something of a rosy fantasy. Much would remain to be done—much wrong to set right, much justice to be served, and much harm to be healed. But Darcy was alive! Oh, he could scarcely wait to see the light in Georgiana’s smile when she raced into her brother’s arms once more. How the darkness of mourning would be thrown off the whole of Pemberley! And how the eyes of one particular maiden would again sparkle with all the sweet archness of former days….

Richard fell back in his saddle, allowing the reluctant horse to slip down to an unsteady jog. A sea of visions crowded his mind; of Darcy holding his Elizabeth for the first time, kissing her on their wedding day, cradling his first son, growing old with his love by his side. It was as a sound punch to Richard’s stomach.

Oh, Darcy could have Elizabeth Bennet. He would be the last man to object. They might just as well marry, for likely enough neither of them could ever be suited to any other. No! Quite the reverse—he suspected that after all they had endured, each would languish and suffer apart, but together they might share a passion and a partnership that could redefine the word “love” for those fortunate enough to know them.

Oh, yes, he would be pleased for them, but never would he be able to look on the happy couple without bitter envy casting a shadow over every smile he offered. Did not his own heart also possess another half? Was his love any less worthy of expression? And yet he must soldier on, stiff upper lip and all that, pretending that the woman he cherished was happy and safe where she was. That he was content with his life. That things were as they were meant to be.

Richard drew out his handkerchief, annoyed by the drops of rain that seemed to have fallen upon his face during his musings. Odd that his gloves were not yet damp, and that his hat had not caught those drips. You jealous old fool! he tried to laugh at himself. Lost in a reverie when Darcy must be near!

He clenched his jaw and put spur once more to his mount. Was this not the first thing he had learned in the Army—after shooting to kill? ‘Don’t carry your personal concerns to battle!’ Aye, and he would not do so now, if for no other reason than Amália’s memory was too precious to be worn upon his sleeve. He was a soldier, and if he were not mistaken, his cousin needed him now.

Richard began to drop down into the final approach to the house, and his horse’s hoof slipped beneath him. He grunted, slowing the horse so it could regain its footing. Perhaps he had been riding a bit too recklessly, and certainly without cause—after all, he was nearly to the house, and was that…? Indeed, in the rays of the moon he could see another horse and rider perhaps half a mile ahead, standing as if in wait. He smiled and unconsciously straightened his rather rumpled cravat. It seemed that someone was expecting him!

Near Porto, Portugal

H e would be waiting for her. Amália clutched her bonnet until her knuckles ached, as tears cascaded down her face. Terror did not nearly describe the desperation that seized her breath. Fear, loathing, impotence, and outrage at the injustice of it all—her heart swam with confusion and hurt.

How dare Miguel smile and take her hand and lead her back to her room, as she knew he would. She could see it already! Oh, yes, she knew him. He would greet her with sugar and honey, full of beneficence, but the moment they were behind closed doors, she would know precisely what her meddling had purchased her. A life of fear and emptiness, closed away from those few she did love.

She would not be permitted even a fraction of her former freedom, and she would never again be allowed to deny Miguel when he wanted her. And if she tried? A vision of herself, bruised and bloodied and lying senseless on the floor, caused her heart to pound in her stomach. She doubled over as a coppery tang filled her mouth. Gasping, desperately fighting against the nausea threatening to overtake her, she buried her head between her knees.

How could she bear it? Simply considering the touch of his hand was enough to make her skin prickle in dread. Even when she had been willing to tolerate his advances, the affair had always left her feeling soiled, used. Sacrificed. Yes, that was the proper description. She was the purchase price for her father’s political security, and a trophy for the tarnished Vasconcelos family honour. The alliance had lent distinction of different sorts to both families, but now an heir was desired—a scion to carry forth both the old Noronha nobility and the Vasconcelos power.

She trembled all over again, beads of sweat forming on her brow. It was no good; she could no longer battle the sick feeling in her stomach. Her head began to swirl, and before she lost her faculties completely, she put her hand outside the carriage to implore the driver to stop… but he was already stopping, and she did not think he had heard her yet. Amália pressed her face against the frame, sucking in a few sharp breaths for relief. A longer sigh followed, and she felt she could straighten to look out the window.

Three riders were before the carriage, speaking to her driver. The military escort had mysteriously vanished, and her driver was protesting with some alarm to the demands of the riders. She could not make out individual voices, but their intentions were clear; they wished to remove the carriage’s passenger.

Her pulse was racing now. What had been done to Richard’s cousin when he was first taken? Had not he been secreted away, where none knew his face, and then hidden almost in plain view? Was she, then, to be taken covertly, before she even reached the house and the servants knew of her presence? Ruy’s overly dramatic warnings of finding herself in Darcy’s cell rang in her ears. Miguel would never! Would he?

She listened with mounting alarm, helpless to object. She could not see the riders well in the growing dusk, but the one in the lead seemed to step back, apparently satisfied. She caught a breath to sigh in relief, but then her driver dismounted from the box. Eyes wide, she watched him approach with a grim expression, and open her door.

“Senhora,” he bowed, “please step down. The carriage goes no farther.”

Amália swallowed. There was nowhere else to go.