What happened next occurred so swiftly that Elizabeth could barely follow the sequence. Wickham, perhaps sensing the tide turning against him, lunged forward as if to seize her arm. Darcy’s walking stick whipped through the air, catching Wickham around the neck and yanking him off-balance.
Wickham’s pistol discharged as he fell, the bullet flying harmlessly into the air but causing already nervous horses to rear and bolt in panic. Lady Catherine’s carriage lurched forward as the horses broke free of Jenkins’s control.
The elegant vehicle careened wildly through the mud with Jenkins and Hobbs clinging desperately to the box as it slid toward the rain-swollen ditch beside the road. The impact when it hit was spectacular—a spray of muddy water, the crack of wood, and the ignominious sight of both men tumbling into the mire.
Wickham scrambled to his feet and bolted toward a gap between the carriages. But a particularly agitated dapple gray horse reared up. Its hooves caught Wickham squarely in the chest, sending him flying backward into a particularly deep puddle.
He lay gasping and mud-covered as two ostlers seized his arms, hauling him unceremoniously to his feet.
“Seems the horse has better sense than the man,” Bingley remarked, his usual good humor resurfacing as the danger passed.
A shout from the direction of the bridge interrupted their exchange. The crossing had been declared safe enough for limited passage, and carriages were allowed forward one by one.
“We should get you out of this rain,” Darcy told Elizabeth.
But Elizabeth wasn’t finished with Wickham. She was still wearing his coat, the one where he’d stowed Lady Catherine’s money.
“One moment,” she said, crossing to where Wickham stood subdued between the ostlers. She extracted the bulging envelope from the coat pocket. “Hey, Georgie, missing something?”
Wickham’s expression darkened. “That is my payment for services rendered.”
“Services?” Darcy’s voice was dangerously rough. “Is that what you call abduction and threats?”
“Her ladyship knew precisely what she was paying for,” Wickham insisted, a hint of desperation in his tone. Then, perhaps seeing an opportunity to sow discord, he added with vindictive satisfaction, “That money was to be Miss Bennet’s dowry. Lady Catherine was most specific—a suitable sum to ensure I would take a bride whose reputation was beyond repair.”
Elizabeth felt color flood her cheeks, partly from anger and partly from mortification at having her value so coldly calculated.
“How thoughtful of her ladyship,” she said, examining the envelope to count the bills. “To provide so generously for my future security.”
“Give me my money,” Wickham said, struggling between the two ostlers.
But Darcy tapped his chest with his cane. “How generous of my aunt to provide you with suitable reparations for cheating in a duel.”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth agreed, tucking the envelope securely into the pocket and not giving Wickham his coat back. “Though in this one instance, I cannot fault her generosity.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE SIX-SECOND ENGAGEMENT
The carriage doorclosed behind Elizabeth with a solid thunk. The sudden absence of rain, wind, and shouting created a silence so profound it seemed to ring in her ears. She settled on the dry cushions and watched Darcy confer with Bingley before climbing in to join her.
“Bingley has gone to sort out the wreckage of my aunt’s carriage. And to ensure Wickham is properly restrained.”
Elizabeth could only nod, a curious lightness filling her chest as the reality of her situation settled upon her.
She was safe. She was with Darcy.
Only then, with danger past, did she allow herself to truly look at him. His face was pale. His injured shoulder clearly caused him pain—she could see it in the careful way he held himself and the tightness around his mouth. Yet his eyes burned with an intensity that stole her breath.
“You came for me,” she said, the simple words inadequate for the emotion behind them.
“Did you doubt that I would?” Darcy’s voice was rough with feeling.
“I never doubted you would try,” Elizabeth replied honestly. “I could not be certain you would succeed.”
“Neither could I,” Darcy admitted, his gaze taking in her disheveled appearance and the bruises visible on her wrists. “Are you hurt elsewhere?”
The question brought a rush of awareness—the throbbing ache in her shoulder where her arm had been twisted, the soreness in her feet from running through the woods, and the raw patches on her palms from her fall. Yet none of it mattered now.
