I was wrong to blame you. You did what you had to do, and you tried to protect both of us. I have been too distraught to think clearly.
Silence again, but she could tell Cerridwen was listening.
She tried again.I miss you. It was hard not being able to send to you in France, and then you were too far away.
I hated it.Now Cerridwen’s frustration poured through their connection.All those weeks of silence, of avoiding using my powers. It was horrid.
Yes, it was.And then, with her own feelings open to the bond,I wish you were here with me now.
Then I will come.The connection faded away.
Elizabeth let her head sink back into the pillow as relief washed over her. Then she called out to Chandrika, in her little cot behind a screen. “Cerridwen is coming. Would you let the others know? I would not want them to be taken by surprise.” The staff had erected a tent outside the cottage where an assortment of armed footmen and grooms took turns guarding her. Elizabeth had said it was unnecessary, but Mrs. Reynolds had enlisted the steward in her insistence that Mr. Darcy would not have it any other way. The one argument Elizabeth could not deny.
“Yes, Mrs. Darcy. It will be good to have her here again.”
“Yes, it will.”
Chapter 35
Darcy stood by thenarrow window slit in his cell, waiting for the moment when the sun would be low enough to stream in directly. It was just a crack of an opening, and the light through it was only strong enough for him to work with for a few minutes late in the afternoon.
There it was, casting sudden shadows in the cellar room serving as his prison. Quickly he gathered the rays of sunlight to him, braiding them together to create the energy he needed. Then he focused it all on his broken rib, urging it to knit together.
He had never healed a broken bone before, only cuts and scrapes, but he had to try. Another sleepless night from pain might leave him confused enough that he would blurt out the truth. The only thing protecting him was the soldiers’ belief that he was a Prussian gentleman lacking in Talent, and he needed to keep his wits together to manage that masquerade.
He kept pouring in the power he collected, little as it was, until the first tell-tale signs of giddiness appeared. Reluctantly he released the threads and sank down to sit on the dirt floor, leaning his head back against the damp wall. He took an experimental breath, first a shallow one, and then deeper. His side still ached, but the stabbing pain was much less.
It had worked, at least to a degree, and that would have to be enough.
He tore off a chunk of the stale bread they had left for him and began to chew it. Even if it was a far cry from the sugared tea and cake he wasaccustomed to using for magical replenishment, it was nourishment of a sort, and he could not afford to go without it. And it would give him strength to keep resisting the questioning from the soldiers. He had to keep delaying them as long as he could, to make certain Elizabeth had enough time to reach the Nest and get safely back to England.
He yawned, despite his swollen jaw. Three days in captivity, and he had plenty of bruises to show for it. A blow to his head on the second night had left him dazed and confused, thinking that the walls of his cell were talking to him in Elizabeth’s voice. His thinking was still not completely clear, and he had moments when he saw two of everything.
But Elizabeth was free. He would accept those blows gladly, if that was the price.
It could have been worse. The soldiers had not been as rough with him as he would have expected. They wanted him in good enough shape to ransom if they could not get directions to the Nest from him.
Thanks to Cerridwen and her bindings, they never would. But once they learned there was no aristocratic Prussian family to pay his ransom, things would get much uglier.
But he would not let his mind go there. Instead, he remembered the sensation of his baby kicking against his hand through Elizabeth’s skin. He was a real child now, not just a concept, and he desperately wanted to meet him. Or her. Somehow Darcy would find a way to freedom. And failing that, he would die a death his son could be proud of.
Thinking of that was the road to madness, though, especially since the light was fading completely away. He wrapped himself in a ragged blanket and found the least foul spot on the floor for his bed. Closing his eyes, he let the world fade away, imagining himself in the silent cottage at the heart of Pemberley with Elizabeth in his arms, and for a moment he almost felt free.
He woke to a hand shaking his shoulder. His cell was full of smoke that blurred his vision – no, not smoke, but fog. But why would there be mist indoors? Perhaps his vision was blurred from the head blow. But he could see the man leaning over him had a cloth wrapped around his face and a lantern.
“Get up,” the man hissed softly in French. “Come quickly and be quiet about it.”
“Who are you?” Darcy croaked.
“Your rescuer, at least if you cooperate.” He sounded exasperated.
A chance to escape? Darcy pushed himself to his feet and limped after him, out of the walls that had enclosed him, into even more clouds of mist. The man paused to replace the bar on the door to his prison. Then he was off again, Darcy doing his best to keep up, out into a fog-filled corridor, up rickety steps, past a pair of slumped bodies wearing French uniforms. Dead or drugged? He did not care, as long as he was free. Out the door into a dark night, the unnatural mist continuing even here.
A chill went up his spine. His vision was not the problem. This was magic at play.
“This way,” whispered his rescuer. “Time is short.”
Fortunately he slowed down, or Darcy would have lost him as he pushed through the pain that came with every movement, up the cobbled street until they reached a hay wagon. Finally the haze was starting to thin, and the waxing moon cast long shadows.
