“And you, sir? Did you not then, with such breathtaking arrogance, methodically shatter the happiness ofmyown beloved sister by poisoning the heart of a good man against her?”
Darcy’s face now registered the dawning recognition of a different, and equally damning, accusation. “Your sister’ssituation was a matter of pragmatic considerations,” he began, his voice losing some of its earlier, absolute conviction. Rather, a note of defensiveness, almost of discomfort, crept in as he continued, “Your mother’s single-minded pursuit of the match, coupled with the...vivacity of your younger sisters, left no room for doubt as to the family’s primary interests. Beyond that, I had reason to believe your sister’s affections were not as deeply engaged — ”
“Indeed?” she cut in, her voice dangerously soft. “Let us put aside for a moment your unflattering assessment of my family. You must tell me, sir, how you came to have such remarkable insight into my sister’s heart. By what measure did you reach such a conclusion?”
Darcy seemed taken aback by the directness of her challenge. His tone had fully regained its former hauteur as he said, “My conclusions were based on careful observation.”
“A most careful observation of everything you wished to find fault with, I am certain. Then you saw nothing of the true affection between them, nothing of their genuine suitability for each other, nothing of the warmth and joy they found in each other’s company. You saw only what you wished to see, judged by your own pride and disdain for the feelings of others. And now you have the temerity to expect me to believe that your feelings for me – a woman you have consistently treated as an inferior, an irritant, a problem to be managed – are somehow sincere!”
Darcy flinched.
“Or,” Elizabeth said acidly, “is your confession of love a desperate attempt to feign an affection you are clearly incapable of feeling, in some misguided, manipulative hope that it will conveniently unlock our combined powers and save this country? Is that the game now, Mr Darcy? Has silent contemptfailed so spectacularly that now you must resort to the clumsy charade of a lover’s plea?”
He drew in a sharp, audible breath. As his hands tightened, the very air around them crackled with suppressed, almost violent, magical energy. The carriage wobbled precariously, as if buffeted by an invisible wind. For a terrifying, heart-stopping moment, Elizabeth thought he might actually unleash his power, that the confines of the carriage itself might not withstand the force of his fury.
But then, with a visibly painful effort of will, Darcy reined it in, his face once more a mask of cold control. “Your capacity for dramatic misinterpretation knows no bounds, madam,” he bit out, each word a sliver of ice, “My feelings, however unwelcome to you, are entirely genuine. I spoke not for my own sake, but for the sake of the Concordance, believing that honesty, however painful, was necessary. It appears I was gravely mistaken in that assessment. Rest assured I shall impose upon you no further.”
The carriage lumbered on, its soothing motion a mocking counterpoint to the violent emotions that raged within its confines. The silence that descended now was not merely heavy; it was toxic, filled with the acrid aftermath of their devastating, and perhaps, final, argument.
Darcy had turned away, his profile etched in stone, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists on his knees, his earlier brief moment of vulnerability now encased once more in layers of icy pride and wounded resentment.
Elizabeth’s gaze returned to the window, but the landscape outside was a meaningless grey blur. The initial shock of his words had given way to a satisfying rage. But as that abated, she was left only with a deep, burning shame. She had met his flawed sincerity with cruelty. In her incivility and unfeeling disregard for the heart of another, she had just committed the same vices she had condemned in him.
The journey to Buxton, to the corrupted, dying ley line they were supposed to somehow, miraculously, heal, now seemed a descent into the deepest, darkest circles of hell.
Any hope now felt like a bitter, taunting joke.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The remainder of the journey to Buxton passed in a glacial silence.
They arrived at the site of the faltering node late in the afternoon, as the sun began its descent towards the snow-dusted horizon. The location was even more desolate and more blighted than the stone circle in the High Peaks. Here, the land was not merely barren; it was actively decaying, the earth seeming to crumble and sour beneath their feet.
The former Roman settlement was now little more than a series of ruins, its wardstones dark and lifeless, their energies utterly extinguished. A small, struggling village huddled nearby, its cottages looking insubstantial against the harsh landscape.
Darcy made no attempt at conciliation. He issued his instructions with a clipped efficiency, his voice lacking any emotion save for a hard, almost contemptuous authority.
“We will attempt the same procedure as before. You will attempt to provide the energy. I will attempt to direct it. Given the advanced state of decay here, the power required will be considerable.” The implication was clear: he doubted her abilityto contribute anything useful, but he was bound by duty to go through the motions.
Darcy did not take her hands this time. He stood a few paces away, his arms crossed, his expression one of thinly concealed impatience.
Elizabeth struggled to banish the memory of his confession and her own scathing reply, to silence the warring voices of her anger and her shame. She tried to focus on the land, on the suffering villagers, on the desperate need for this towork.
She reached for that core of her magic, but it was frantic now, not just by its inherent nature, but by her own roiling emotions. It surged forth, a chaotic and utterly furious wave.
She felt Darcy’s magic meet hers, not with the guiding, shaping control of before, but with an almost frantic attempt to contain the overwhelming power she had unleashed. But it was too late. Their magics, already antithetical, now actively at war, fuelled by their mutual anger and humiliation, did not harmonise.
They collided. Violently and catastrophically.
Instead of the cleansing energy they had hoped to channel into the faltering ley line, a wave of pure destructive force erupted from them, a shockwave of uncontrolled magical power.
The ground beneath their feet buckled and split with an awful sound. The wardstones exploded outwards, shards of rock flying like shrapnel. And then, with a roar, the air around them seemed to ignite.
No, not seemed to.
Itignited.
A searing heat washed over Elizabeth, so intense it stole her breath, scorching her skin, blinding her eyes even through her closed lids. She stumbled back, a scream dying in her throat, recoiling in terror from the monstrous force they had unleashed.
