A man detached himself from a group near the stable wall. His hat sat crooked; drink had flushed his cheeks. “No need to fret, miss,” he said, stepping too near. “Rooms scarce tonight. But I’ve one to spare. Plenty of space.”
She shook her head. “I require only a small chamber. And privacy.”
The man laughed and reached for her arm. Darcy felt the motion as if it had seized his own flesh.
The militia officer barked a sound of amusement. “She’ll manage.”
The drunk man’s fingers closed.
In that same instant, the officer’s sword tore free of its scabbard.
Not drawn by hand.
Ripped.
The blade flashed between Elizabeth and the man, slicing air so close that cloth parted at the drunk’s sleeve. He staggered back with a curse. The officer stumbled as though shoved, staring at his own hand, which still hung empty at his side.
For a breath, no one moved.
The sword hung there—point angled toward the ground—quivering in the lantern light. Then it dropped. The clang against stone split the yard.
Laughter rose, loud and uneven. “Too much ale,” someone muttered. “A fine trick, lass!” someone else called.
The officer bent, fumbling for the hilt, face gone pale. The drunk swore and backed away.
Elizabeth had not moved. The innkeeper’s wife hurried forward, clucking in irritation, shooing the men aside with sharp words. “Enough of that. Girl, come along. You’ll have the attic. It’s cold, but it’s private.”
Elizabeth gathered her cloak around her and followed. At the threshold, she stopped. She turned, and her eyes met his. Not across a room now, nor across a field. Across a distance he could not measure. There was no sweetness in them. No illusion of safety. Just a word.
“Please,” she whispered.
Chapter Fifty-One
Darcy woke with thetaste of salt in his mouth.
He did not start upright; he lay still for one suspended instant, staring at the low plaster ceiling of the inn chamber, listening to the absence of wheels, the absence of voices, the absence of surf or carriage wheels or rocking. The bed curtains stirred faintly in a draft that carried only the ordinary chill of Hertfordshire morning.
His heart struck once—firm, deliberate. No staggering. No wrenching pull. The evenness felt wrong. He sat up.
The dream clung not as a fancy but as memory: the pull of her hands, the heat of her kiss… then the lantern light on wet gravel, the flash of steel between her and the man who dared lay claim to her arm. And finally, her face turning toward him, not in illusion but in recognition.
Please.
There was no question of what she asked. Only whether he would answer.
He swung his legs from the bed and crossed to the basin. The water was cold, and he splashed his face, neck, arms, as if the chill could do more to rouse him than the dream already had.
Brutus was already awake. The dog stood at the door, not whining, not pacing, but braced. The muscles along his back were taut, his head lifted as though scenting something no human could perceive.
Darcy drew on his coat and opened the door. Harrowe was still in the passage below, arguing with the innkeeper over the quality of the ale and not enough lanterns. He broke off when he saw Darcy descend.
“What is it?”
Darcy set his hat on his head. “Elizabeth has left Ramsgate.”
Harrowe’s face altered—not with surprise, but with confirmation. “Inland?”
“Yes. She’s coming for me.”
