Page 66 of These Dreams (Heart to Heart Collection #1)

Chapter sixty-six

Cheapside, London

E lizabeth lifted her head from the pillow and listened. The sound came again—a low, rasping noise. She sat up and drew a blanket over her shoulders. It was decidedly coming from the next room, and she knew those sounds all too well.

Deciding to take the risk, she stepped from her own room and knocked softly on the door. “Senhora? Are you well?”

The door opened almost immediately to a young woman who was hastily wiping her eyes and attempting a brave face. “I did disturb you, Miss Bennet?”

“No,” Elizabeth smiled, “I could not sleep. It sounded as though you were also awake, so I hope you will forgive the intrusion.”

Amália stood uncertainly in the doorway, apparently wondering what was proper.

“Well,” Elizabeth faltered, seeing that her presence was not as welcome as she had thought it might be, “I wish you pleasant dreams. Good night.”

The other woman started then. “Oh, please, do not go! Do you wish to come in?” She stepped back and reached to the bed, tugging the counterpane neatly into place to make a more dignified seat for them.

Elizabeth accepted somewhat shyly. It had always been a matter of course to spend long hours of the night with her sisters, and she had even engaged in the practice with Georgiana on several occasions, but she barely knew this foreign lady. She could think of almost nothing they might have in common, apart from their mutual sleeplessness. She settled onto the bed, tugging her blanket more closely about herself, and tried to think of something to say. Amália was looking uncomfortably around the room, seeming to suffer the same difficulty.

“How are you finding London?” Elizabeth ventured. “Of course, perhaps you have seen very little of it, but has your stay so far been agreeable?’

Amália nodded jerkily, seeming relieved that Elizabeth had gone first. “Everything looks different here, but I like it. This house,” she nodded toward the walls, “it is pleasant.”

Elizabeth smiled proudly. “It is, but I believe it is more than wood and plaster and stone that makes it so. I have always loved spending time here, for I know of no more gracious hostess than my Aunt Gardiner.”

“Oh, yes, that is what I wished to say,” nodded Amália. “She is… gentle. She is like my nurse when I was a child. It is cheerful here.”

“I am glad you have been made to feel welcome.” Elizabeth hesitated, evaluating the fleeting expressions playing through the other woman’s features. “I hope I do not ask too much, but have you much family of your own in Portugal?”

A pained wince tightened her eyes. “My father… and my brother, Ruy.” She wetted her lips and struggled for a moment, but Elizabeth stayed her.

“You need not tell more. It was not my wish to cause you discomfort.”

Amália blinked and touched the corner of her eye. “My mother is gone, and I had no sister,” she offered.

“Oh, dear, I had five sisters! I am afraid our house never wanted for feminine companionship, but we had no brother. I think it would be a fine thing to have always a young man devoted to defending my honour and saving me from scrapes.”

Elizabeth realised her error when Amália’s shoulders rounded and her features crumbled. She was breathing in long, deep breaths, trying to retain her composure, but she was losing the battle.

“I am so sorry,” Elizabeth pleaded, searching about for something the young lady could use as a handkerchief. “Let us speak of something else.”

Amália swallowed hard and took two or three gasps. “No, it is good that I should tell someone. I have kept it secret.” She sniffled and dabbed her nose. “My brother killed a man defending me. He was to be put on trial, and I do not know what has come of it.”

“Oh, dear! My goodness, little wonder you are troubled. Killed a man! Has he anyone to vouch for him, that it was a matter of a lady’s defence?”

“My father was to go. I do not know… I wish I could know! My father told me not to write, but I wish I were a man and could give my testimony! I wish I could go to be with him!”

“You cannot go back,” Elizabeth guessed slowly, “because of your actions freeing Mr Darcy? You fear what your husband may do?”

Amália stilled, then nodded. “It is my own fault,” she wiped her cheek again. “I was not a proper wife.” She gritted her teeth, and a fire flashed in her eyes as she lifted her chin. “I was too stubborn. I am a disgrace now, but I would do it all again, because I will not love such a man.”

Elizabeth wanted to cheer such a saucy speech. It was something she could have heard herself vowing, but it had cost the young woman dearly. How did one applaud when another was forced to choose between living terror and shameful exile?

“At least,” Elizabeth mused, “you are safe now.”

Amália drew a ragged breath. “Safe, yes, but a stranger. I cannot stay forever with Senhor and Senhora Gardiner.”

“Indeed, I believe you could, but that is not your only alternative. Mr Darcy will certainly seek an establishment for you, for as long as you desire to remain in England.”

“No,” Amália shook her head, “that is not necessary. I would not expect—”

“I would, Elizabeth interrupted. “It is his way.” She smiled softly and toyed with the counterpane. “He is the most excellent of men, and he will not suffer a friend to endure hardship.”

Amália’s eyes fell. “You care very much for Mr Darcy, do you?”

“I do,” Elizabeth answered quickly, then regretted her prompt, effortless reply when the other woman drew a sharp breath and looked away. How could she flaunt her good fortune, to shamelessly adore the man who had twice offered her his hand in marriage, when this poor woman feared for her life because of her own husband? Elizabeth winced at her own insensitivity.

Amália drew her knees up and crossed her arms over them, laying her cheek upon her elbow. “He spoke of you.”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “He did?”

“In Portugal. Yes, I did heard him. It was how I found him.” She lifted her head and turned it the other way, away from Elizabeth. “He will be a kind husband to you.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes. She had hoped to offer some comfort to the displaced young woman, but it seemed that the longer she remained, the guiltier she felt for her own charmed life. Certainly, she had known crippling grief, had faced uncertain horizons, but now she had come into the full light of day, with the larger part of her worries behind her. What cheer could she offer to one whose past was a regret and whose future was a sorrow?

Amália was drawing pained breaths through her teeth, trying with all her might not to sniffle in earnest or gasp aloud. Elizabeth rested a hand on her shoulder. “Amália, do you wish me to go?”

There was no answer, save a muffled sob. Elizabeth felt the tears starting in her own eyes. How she longed to gather her new friend in her arms and promise that all would be well! But she could not, nor would Amália be fool enough to believe her if she did. Elizabeth nodded to herself in resignation, and began shifting her feet back to the floor.

“I did…” came a small, broken voice. Elizabeth stopped and looked back.

“I loved h-h-him.” She gave up on speech and turned her face into her knees, shielding it with her arms. There was a high-pitched squeak, and then her body gave way to sobs.

Loved him? Elizabeth felt her stomach knot. Amália was in love with… with William? Or her husband? Oh… she realised, with both relief and sympathy… the colonel.

Elizabeth watched the young woman helplessly. She did not seem to desire her presence, but each time she had offered to go, Amália had called her back. The poor girl must be terribly lonely, with none to share her burdens. Hesitantly, and not knowing if it were wanted, she touched Amália’s hair, stroking it back from her face.

Amália was already beginning to calm herself. The first bursts of agony had overpowered her, but she was fighting back. Elizabeth heard the forcefully modulated breaths, one final little cry of pain, then she lifted her head with a jerk, and began wiping her eyes with the hem of her nightdress.

“Would it give you relief to speak of it, or would you prefer not?” Elizabeth asked gently.

Amália drew one more sobbing breath, and nodded. Her mouth quivered as she tried to gather her voice.

“How long have you known him?” Elizabeth prompted.

Amália wiped her eye again. “Almost four years ago, he saved my brother in battle. My father wished to… to recognise his bravery. He was injured, and came to stay with us while he recovered.”

She stopped for a moment, twirling her fingers in the lace of her nightdress, then continued with a fatalistic lift of her shoulders. “We could not marry. My father would not allow it, nor would his family. I was only seventeen, and Richard was not Catholic. We could not even think of it.”

Elizabeth was the one weeping now. What if she had come to know her love, to see him for the match to her heart that he truly was, and then had been forced to give him up for some artificial stricture of society? What then if she had been obliged to marry another, and that not even a man of integrity?

Amália swallowed and continued in a ragged whisper. “I thought he would come tonight with Senhor Darcy, but he did not. He cannot bear to see me, I think.”

“Perhaps he thought it would be easier for you,” Elizabeth suggested.

Amália shook her head. “Nothing is easier,” her voice trailed off on high note, and her body trembled again with tears, but she drew a brave gasp to collect herself. “No, I must go, away from his friends. It is not right.”

“Where else can you be safe? He would not expect—” Elizabeth broke off, her brow furrowed. “Did you hear that?”

Amália’s face pinched. “It is the housemaid, no? She comes to stir the fires?”

Elizabeth pursed her lips. “Not usually, unless it is a very cold night. Perhaps one of my young cousins requires something.”

“Their nursemaid, she is not with them?”

“I do not—” Elizabeth started with a gasp when the door to Amália’s bedroom was quietly opened. She squinted into the darkness, for at first there appeared to be no one there. An instant later, her aunt stepped round the door frame, and Elizabeth prepared to welcome her to their feminine conversation. The welcome died on her lips, however, when she beheld the abject terror in Mrs Gardiner’s eyes.

Amália cried out—a wordless shriek of horror, and began scrambling backward on the bed. Elizabeth scarcely noticed the other lady’s reaction, for she could only see the man behind her aunt, whose left hand was at her throat, and whose right held a blade. Madeline Gardiner was sobbing almost beyond control, her hands trying desperately to pull his from her neck.

“ Minha querida! ” the man enthused. “ Senti a tua falta! ” He checked his captive harshly, jerking a tearful gasp from poor Mrs Gardiner. “It is the time for us to return home, yes?”

Elizabeth was trying to catch her aunt’s gaze. Who was this, and how had he entered the house? More importantly, if he held her aunt captive, what had he already done to her uncle?

Amália rose from the bed, shaking and extending a pleading hand. “ Por favor 324, Miguel! You must not harm her!”

“I shall do as my beloved wife wishes,” he replied with a sickening smile. “You are my wife still, my jewel. Come now, and she shall be unharmed.”

Amália was backing away, glancing behind herself toward the window facing the street.

“It is three floors down,” Miguel commented, with evident enjoyment. “You may go that way if you choose, my dear, but I had hoped you would come through the door with me.”

Mrs Gardiner tugged again at his hands, just enough to shake her head. “Do not! He will k—”

Miguel choked off whatever else she might have said, and crooned to his wife. “My precious, have I not always been a faithful husband to you? Have I ever harmed you?”

Amália was shivering from head to foot, racked with painful indecision. “Miguel, let her go! I will go with you, but please—” she shuddered, clenching her eyes.

Elizabeth had been all but ignored, but she had been slowly creeping her hands down toward the floor. Almost… there! Her fingers grazed the handle of the bed warmer. If she could reach but a little farther….

“You, there, wench!” Miguel spun upon her. He shoved Mrs Gardiner in the back with his free hand, pushing her tender throat against the tip of the knife. Elizabeth shrieked in fear, and her aunt closed her eyes to whisper fervent prayers. “I would have her throat slit before you were able to lift it!” he threatened. “Back away, over there… now!!! ”

Elizabeth dropped the handle and skittered away, but not without a desperate sweep of the room. So many things she might have used as a weapon! But he was right—he would be faster than she. “I beg you,” she added her pleas to Amália’s, “my aunt has done nothing to you! Let her go! Surely something can be arranged.”

“Silence, witch!” he hissed to Elizabeth. “This does not concern you, but speak another word, and I will cut you next!”

Amália had taken advantage of his momentary distraction to grasp a paper weight, the closest thing she could find. She threw at his head with surprising accuracy, but he twisted at the last second and pulled Mrs Gardiner into its path. Both girls cried out in horror when the dear lady was struck in the cheek and wilted, dazed, to the ground.

Miguel snarled in fury as his captive fell stunned at his feet. “You would defy me? I will show you how a wife conducts herself!” He pushed at Mrs Gardiner’s inert form, shoving her out of his way, and snatched Amália’s arm. “Come, my dear, let me see if my treasure has been plundered,” he spat. “There would be no purpose in bringing a defiled wife back with me.”

He swung her body to the bed and fell upon her, then pressed the knife under her breast, with the tip angled toward her heart. His other hand ripped at her nightdress and then clamped swiftly over her mouth. “Only a moment,” he jeered into her terrified eyes, “long enough to remember the taste of you, then we board our ship. It has been too long, my sweet.”

Elizabeth’s hands were already grasping for the lamp, already reaching to swing it at his head, but he looked up and angled the tip of his knife more deeply into Amália’s breast, pointedly mocking her. “If you startle me into killing her,” he hissed, “you may be her replacement. Have you ever felt a man, English whore? You may enjoy watching.”

Amália was screaming under his hand, shaking her head with tears streaming down her face. She kicked futilely against his legs and both hands grasped at the knife, but she evidently feared snatching at it too forcefully, lest it spring back into her flesh.

Elizabeth was dancing from one side to the next, prepared at any instant to lunge at him. He was distracted now, ravaging Amália’s garments and trying to pin her struggling form. Elizabeth closed in with her heavy lamp, drawing it back with silent, deadly fury, but before she could slash it forward at him, his body was lifted from the bed and thrown against the wall.

Darcy stood over him, his expression more horrible than Elizabeth had ever seen. He had discarded his jacket somewhere, and his unruly hair fell low over glittering eyes. His hands were tensed into vises, ready to jab, punch, or grasp in an instant. “Touch her again,” Darcy threatened, “and I will forget I am a gentleman!”

Miguel sneered from the ground, with all the bravado of one who feels an idle threat. “Did you dally with my wench as well, Darcy? Or is the other your whore? She was a sweet morsel,” he licked his lips.

Darcy glanced quickly to Elizabeth, fear for her and rage at the prospect stiffening his body. Elizabeth shook her head, and he blinked his relieved acknowledgment. He grabbed Miguel by the collar and lifted him from his feet, then threw him against the wall again. His head made a satisfying crack against the paneling.

Darcy was reaching to lift him once more, since he still appeared conscious, when his cousin dashed into the room. He looked first to Amália, who was slowly raising herself, trembling and gasping in delayed panic. Elizabeth was already at her side and wrapping her in a blanket, cradling her head against her own chest.

Richard started toward her, but Elizabeth shook her head and gestured toward the other men. The agony of denial flashed in his eyes, but he relented and turned. “Darcy!” Richard bellowed and caught at his cousin’s arm. “Leave him for me.”

Darcy narrowed his eyes.

“I will not kill him,” Richard promised in a low growl, “but he will wish I had. See to Mr Gardiner, for he is in a bad way.”

“Very well.” Darcy dropped Miguel. He returned to the ladies and knelt at the floor before them. “Are you unhurt?” he asked in a trembling, gentle voice.

Amália tried to respond, her head bobbing helpless gasps as she hid her face from him. Elizabeth pulled her closer, her eyes meeting those she loved so well with as much reassurance as she could convey. “We can walk, William, but my aunt!”

He bent immediately to Mrs Gardiner, who was beginning to moan. “Come, Madam,” he coaxed, “let us go below.” He gathered her in his arms and moved toward the door.

Elizabeth tried to urge Amália to follow, but the other woman’s eyes were fixed on Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had her husband by the lapels and was in the process of thrashing him senseless. He was alternately swearing and promising eternal damnation upon the other, but he looked back at them when they did not follow Darcy.

“Amália, go!” he commanded.

She stirred then. Weakly, she pulled her head from Elizabeth’s shoulder and struggled to the floor. Richard had halted his punishment of her attacker to see her safely away, and Miguel summoned his nerve. He cursed and threatened her in Portuguese, and whatever he said must have been truly vile, for it caused her knees to weaken.

“Not my father!” she whispered. “No, Miguel!”

“Even if your lover should kill me,” he warned, “my father will avenge me!”

“Amália,” Richard begged urgently, “do not listen. You must go now!”

“I have already killed once this night,” Miguel smiled through bloody lips. “I would not have hesitated to do so again, and nor would he.”

Elizabeth could not help a devastated shriek. Uncle Gardiner! She clapped a hand over her mouth and tears suddenly blinded her.

“ Miss Bennet! ” the colonel shouted.

Understanding, she and Amália clung to one another and made two steps toward the door.

“What of Ruy?” Miguel hissed. “My father will have him ordered to charge the canon! How many times must a man be shot with one of those balls before he dies?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam silenced the taunts with a dreadful blow, then threw the limp man on the ground. Amália, already more than sufficiently terrorised by her husband and fearful for her brother’s fate, staggered to her knees. Elizabeth tugged helplessly at her hands, but to no avail. It was the colonel who lifted her, drawing her into tender arms and murmuring words of consolation and encouragement.

Elizabeth gave way, taking a step back. The colonel could do what she could not for the poor woman. She turned to flee for the door, thinking only of her aunt and uncle, when her nightdress snagged on something.

She stumbled and fell, then was dragged back by her ankles. Kicking and clawing, she cried out for help, but was silenced when Miguel’s body crushed her. “If Fitzwilliam takes my wife,” he growled, “I shall have Darcy’s whore!”

Elizabeth wriggled one hand free, long enough to jab for his eye, but he caught her wrists and hoisted her roughly to her feet. He locked her arms up behind her back, wrenching them until she cried out in pain. William! The frantic plea shot through her mind. She could see his face, the fury at any who would do her harm. He was coming… but it was the colonel who now stood before them, pistol drawn and aimed at Miguel’s head.

“I will not miss, Vasconcelos!” he thundered. “There is no way from this room but through me. Release her!”

Elizabeth’s elbows were jerked backward, and she had no option but to comply. He dragged her, but she pushed back into him unexpectedly and tried to throw off his balance, at least enough to relieve his grip on her wrists. Unfortunately, he saw what she was about in time to prevent her. By way of discouraging further attempts, he twisted her and pinned both of her hands between her shoulders, pushing her body forward in a helpless posture.

“One escape, Fitzwilliam?” he taunted. Elizabeth cringed at the sound of shattering glass behind her. “There is always more than one escape. A military man should know as much.”

“Vasconcelos, let her go!”

Elizabeth felt herself jerked back to an upright posture, felt the hated man’s hot breath on her neck as he lowered his head behind hers… and felt herself take three reluctant steps backward.

“Which shall it be, Fitzwilliam? My own woman, or Darcy’s? She will never be yours, no matter how nobly you save her! Give me my wife, or watch this one fall. Which shall it be? ” Miguel’s voice rose to a shrill, mad pitch.

“Elizabeth!” Amália screamed. “ Miguel, n?o! ”

Elizabeth should have been begging for her life. She should have been blinded by tears, heaving desperate pleas, or trying in vain to cast herself on the ground and out of his power. Instead, an eerie calm settled over her. She would take one final step backward, through the window into darkness, would fall into the embrace of evil but rise to the light. William!

She closed her eyes, strained one more time against the hands that locked her so savagely, and felt herself being pulled back. Then, the crash of a fist sounded, followed by defiant shriek. The painful grip fell away, and there was nothing but William’s arms catching her, drawing her securely to his chest, William’s voice murmuring calm reassurance, and his hands covering her ears, blocking out the death scream of the falling man.