“Little hellcat,” he spat. “Hold her tight, Jenkins. I’ll teach her some manners.”
“No marks, Hobbs,” Jenkins warned, struggling to contain Elizabeth’s thrashing limbs. “The boss was clear about that.”
“No marks where they’d show,” Hobbs corrected, reaching for Elizabeth’s flailing arm. “No one said nothing about?—”
Elizabeth’s foot connected solidly with his groin, doubling him over with a strangled howl. She renewed her struggles against Jenkins, biting and scratching with a ferocity born of pure terror. This was no longer about escape—it was about survival.
“Enough!” Jenkins roared, twisting her arm behind her back until pain shot through her shoulder. “Stop fighting or I’ll break it, I swear.”
The genuine threat in his voice gave Elizabeth pause. A broken arm would not only be agonizing but would severely limit any future escape attempts. Breathing hard, she forced herself to go still, though every fiber of her being vibrated with the need to flee.
“Better,” Jenkins grunted. “Now, we can do this civil-like, or we can do it rough. Your choice, miss.”
“Who sent you?” Elizabeth demanded, wincing as he maintained pressure on her twisted arm. “What do you want with me?”
“Questions ain’t part of our job,” Hobbs said, straightening with a grimace. “Getting you to the carriage is. Now move.”
They half-dragged, half-marched her through the woods, no longer bothering with the established paths. Elizabeth’s mind raced, cataloging landmarks and noting their direction of travel. They were heading west, away from Longbourn, toward a lesser-used road that skirted the far side of Oakham Mount.
A carriage waited in a small clearing, its black lacquer gleaming in the early morning light. A golden crest adorned its door—an ornate shield bearing a rampant lion and several fleur-de-lis emblems, topped with a baronet’s coronet. Elizabeth hadseen similar heraldry on expensive carriages in London, but could not place this particular design.
The door swung open as they approached, and Elizabeth’s blood ran cold.
George Wickham lounged against the cushions, his handsome face arranged in an expression of mock concern. “My dear Miss Bennet, you appear to have had a mishap. Fallen, have we?”
Elizabeth became acutely aware of her disheveled state—her dress torn and muddied from her fall, her hair escaping its pins, scratches on her hands and arms from the brambles. She lifted her chin, refusing to show the fear coursing through her veins.
“Mr. Wickham,” she said, infusing his name with all the contempt she could muster. “I might have known you were behind this outrage.”
“Outrage?” Wickham repeated, raising his eyebrows in feigned surprise. “I prefer to think of it as a timely intervention. Preventing a lady from making a grave mistake.”
“The only mistake was ever believing you possessed a shred of honor,” Elizabeth retorted. “Release me at once, or face the consequences.”
Wickham sighed dramatically. “Always so spirited. It’s quite charming, in its way. But I fear I cannot comply with your request. We have an appointment to keep and a rather long journey ahead of us.” He gestured to his henchmen. “Gentlemen, if you would be so kind as to assist Miss Bennet into the carriage.”
“I will not enter that carriage,” Elizabeth declared, renewing her struggles despite the pain in her wrenched shoulder. “You cannot force me.”
“Oh, but we can,” Wickham countered, his pleasant expression hardening. “Jenkins, Hobbs—the lady requires persuasion.”
Before Elizabeth could react, Hobbs seized her legs while Jenkins lifted her bodily from the ground. She fought with every ounce of strength she possessed, screaming for help though she knew there was no one to hear her.
“Now, now, Miss Bennet,” Wickham chided as they unceremoniously deposited her onto the seat opposite him. “Such behavior is hardly becoming to a lady in your… delicate condition.”
“The only delicate condition I’m in is being sick at the sight of you.”
“A fascinating condition,” Wickham replied with a nasty smirk. “The reason for our hasty departure. Approximately three months along or perhaps four by now? Such a pity that the child’s father refuses to acknowledge it.”
“This is madness,” she gasped. “I am not with child. How dare you suggest such a thing!”
“Denial serves no purpose, my dear.” Wickham’s tone was maddeningly patronizing. “Our mutual benefactor has been most specific about the details. Darcy’s child was conceived during your unfortunate dalliance at Hunsford Parsonage. Most improper, but passion often overwhelms propriety, does it not?”
“This is a lie,” she said, her voice shaking with fury and fear. “A despicable, baseless lie. I have never been compromised by Mr. Darcy or anyone else.”
“The truth matters little,” Wickham replied with a careless shrug. “Once we are wed in Gretna Green, with a child conveniently arriving six months later—or tragically lost due to the rigors of our journey—who will question the narrative?”
“I will never marry you,” Elizabeth declared, though fear knotted her stomach at the realization of how thoroughly her reputation would be compromised by this abduction, regardless of whether a wedding took place. “Not in Gretna Green, not anywhere.”
“You underestimate the persuasiveness of my arguments,” Wickham said, patting the pocket of his coat where the outline of a small pistol was visible. “Besides, what choice do you have? By the time your absence is discovered, we will be halfway to Scotland. Your reputation will be beyond salvage. Marriage to me will be your only recourse.”
