“A special license?” Wickham said, examining the documents with evident delight. “Marriage lines? My, my, Darcy. You have been busy.”
Cold dread flooded Darcy’s veins. Those papers were Elizabeth’s security, the proof of her status as his wife. Without them, her position would be precarious at best.
“Return those immediately,” Darcy demanded, renewing his struggles. “The money is yours, but the documents are of no value to you.”
“No value?” Wickham tucked the papers into his coat with deliberate care. “I disagree. Information is often the most valuable commodity of all, especially when it concerns the great Master of Pemberley and his… unexpected alliance.”
One of the men still holding Darcy’s horse’s bridle spoke up. “What now? We’ve got his valuables.”
“Now we ensure Mr. Darcy doesn’t interfere with my plans.” He drew closer, voice pitched for Darcy’s ears alone. “You took Georgiana from me. My chance at fortune. Seems only fair I should take something of value from you in return.”
“If you harm Elizabeth—” Darcy began, fury overwhelming caution.
“Harm her?” Wickham laughed. “Now why would I harm the potential Widow of Pemberley? Such a tragedy that would be—the new bride, widowed before she even reaches her husband’s home.”
Darcy’s heart lurched. This wasn’t highway robbery at all, but something more sinister.
Revenge.
Darcy lunged forward, a desperate bid for freedom, but two men held him firmly while a third waved a heavy iron bar.
“Consider this payment for Ramsgate,” Wickham said, his voice hardening. “For interfering where you weren’t wanted.”
“You targeted a fifteen-year-old girl for her fortune,” Darcy spat, still struggling. “You deserve far worse than what I dealt you.”
“Perhaps,” Wickham shrugged, unmoved. “But it seems I’ll have the last word after all. Your lovely bride will need comforting when she hears of your tragic accident. I’ve always excelled at comforting distressed ladies.”
The mention of Elizabeth galvanized Darcy’s strength. With a desperate surge, he nearly broke free, managing to land a solid blow to one assailant’s jaw before the others subdued him.
“Enough!” Wickham barked. “Finish it!”
Darcy saw the iron bar rise in his peripheral vision. In that moment, his thoughts were not of his own safety but of Elizabeth—alone at the Red Lion, waiting for his return, vulnerable to whatever scheme Wickham had devised.
“Elizabeth!” he shouted, a desperate warning to a woman too far away to hear.
The bar descended with brutal force. Pain exploded throughDarcy’s skull, white-hot and all-consuming. He felt himself falling, darkness crowding the edges of his vision.
New voices emerged in the clouds—not Wickham’s men. He’d heard them ride off, but others. Travelers perhaps, drawn by the commotion.
“What’s happening here?” someone called.
Darcy tried desperately to speak, to warn them about Wickham, about Elizabeth. His lips formed her name, but no sound emerged.
“Highway robbery,” came Wickham’s voice, full of false concern. “This gentleman has been attacked. I tried to stop them, but they’ve fled.”
“He’s badly hurt! Someone fetch help!”
“Does anyone know who he is?”
“I’ve seen him at the Red Lion,” someone else said. “Something about his wife waiting there.”
“I’ll see to it she’s notified,” Wickham’s voice again. “I’m Mr. George Wickham, steward of Pemberley. I’ll take full responsibility for him and inform his wife of this unfortunate incident.”
No!Darcy’s mind screamed but no words sounded.
The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him completely was Wickham’s face, leaning close with mock concern, the marriage documents partially visible in his pocket. Then nothing but blackness, and one final, agonizing thought:Elizabeth. I have failed you.
CHAPTER FIVE
