What kind of man am I if I cannot protect Elizabeth?
He looked at her and saw that her cheek was bright red and, although she had stopped crying, tears still streaked her face. Darcy dragged in a deep breath through his nose and briefly closed his eyes. His anger was what was useless. He could at least take care of her now.
Although he would never say so aloud, Elizabeth looked in complete disarray. There was a scab on her neck from where Steamer cut her yesterday. Her hair was falling from its pins, and there were tears on her face and saliva on her lips, but the most startling thing was the vacant look in her eyes.
Darcy moved to the washstand next to her, and she showed no outward sign that she saw him. She could probably hear him, unless she had retreated inward farther than he realised.
“I am getting a cloth. There is still some water in the pitcher.” He decided to narrate what he was doing, speaking as soothingly as he could. “I am going to clean your face; is that acceptable?”
She said nothing, but she did not pull away. Darcy lightly wiped her mouth, then waited to see if she reacted. Elizabeth still stared at nothing. “I am glad your lip did not split open when Steamer struck you.” No reaction at all. “I have never wanted to hit a man so badly, not even when?—”
Now was not the time to think about Wickham and his sister. He wet the cloth again and wiped away the tears on her cheeks. Elizabeth blinked her eyes, but she stayed silent. He wrung out the cloth and then took another look at her. Her hair was limply falling down one side of her head and, combined with the red splotch on her cheek and her dead-eyed look, it was haunting.
The need to do something for her, anything, felt like it was clawing out of his skin. He could at least help with her hair.
“I saw a comb in the washstand when I was looking for a weapon. It is a gentleman’s comb, and is missing several of its teeth, but it is better than nothing.” He knelt next to her and waited for any indication as to what she wanted. “Elizabeth, I am going to take out these pins. Is that acceptable?” No reaction. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
He took out a few hairpins. Her hair had lost its curl now. She probably wrapped it at night. It fell to below her shoulders andhad a slight wave. Darcy set the pins in her lap and tried to comb out the tangles without hurting her.
Darcy wondered what had hurt more: being backhanded by a boxer, or being yanked to her feet by her hair. Both had looked and sounded brutally painful.
He finished combing and moved to look into her face. “I am sorry, Elizabeth.” He knew he was pleading. He needed her to know how urgently he had wanted to preserve her from this suffering. “I wish I had protected you. I tried to get around the table to stop Steamer, but Conway drove his elbow into my stomach before I could get to you. And then Colton pulled a pistol and…I am so sorry.”
She was still silent, and he hung his head. It was not up to her to absolve him, and certainly not now when he should be taking care of her.
“Well, let us see if I can put your hair back up. You might laugh at my attempt. I will try my best, but I think it beyond my skills.” After a few tries to pin her hair, he decided he was only making it worse. He took out the pins he had managed to place and put them along with the comb back on the washstand. “I daresay you will do a far better job yourself when you feel ready.”
He gave a weak smile, but she still did not give any sign she heard him. It was as though the candle inside her had been snuffed out. Darcy regarded her with tender concern, although he doubted she noticed. He wished he was master of the art of bestowing consolation. What comforting words of his could afford her any relief after what had just happened?
Her hands lay limply at her sides, and he took her right hand in both of his. “Is it possible to withdraw your mind from the contemplation of your sorrows, my dear? How can I help you?”
After searching her face for some sign of alertness, he raised her hand to his lips and pressed a fierce kiss to her fingers. “I would do anything for your comfort, you have to know that.”
But what could he do? He was helpless to preserve her or protect her, everything was out of his control, and Markle was inclined to impulsive violence.
Darcy pressed a final last kiss to her hand before letting it go and placing it gently on her lap. “We will find a way out of this,” he whispered. He tried to hide the pessimism from his voice in light of Elizabeth’s clear despondency and shock at both their situation and the brutality she just suffered.
He wanted to put his arms around her, but his heart could not handle the loss if she pushed him away. Besides, wherever she had gone in her own mind, she seemed in no place to consent to his embrace.
He felt embarrassed that he had tried to take care of her at all, that he had actually touched her hair. His instinct had been to protect her, and now it was to comfort her, but he doubted she wanted it. She might be reluctant to be touched at all after what had happened downstairs.
Darcy rose abruptly and sat on the bed, not looking at her. He ran a hand across his coat sleeve, where underneath he had concealed a quill knife from the writing box while the smugglers were distracted. Who knew if he would have the chance to use it.
After more silence stretched, he laid back and stared at the ceiling to consider what he knew. Lady Catherine had been in league with smugglers, and she might not have the money to pay their ransom. How could he believe that his aunt, as officious and arrogant as she was, had aligned herself with criminals?
It could only have been for the money.
Had her eagerness to see him wed to Anne been because she had misspent her fortune and now had nothing left? He thought over his aunt’s complaints about expenses, about how eager she was to live mostly at Pemberley after he married Anne, at how adamantly she spoke of Anne and him being destined to unite their splendid fortunes.
A thought struck him. Lady Catherine might have spent Anne’s money too. His cousin might not have a fortune any longer, and who but a family connexion with his own wealth would marry a woman like Anne who also had not a penny to her name? That was why his aunt had pushed so hard for their union.
Darcy ran his hands over his face. His aunt must be desperate for funds to have entered this scheme. She had to have hoped to make money quickly and did not realise what these men were capable of. These smugglers were brutal. Markle was short-tempered and demanded respect. He was capable of violence, but had men like Steamer to cheerfully carry out that violence for him.
Darcy could believe Lady Catherine had mismanaged her money, and could believe her arrogant enough to think she knew more about smuggling than the smugglers themselves, but he could not imagine that his aunt had any notion they were capable of kidnapping. Or murder.
“We have to escape.”
He spun his head. Elizabeth still stared at nothing, her unfocused gaze somewhere far away from here.
