Darcy leapt from Gracie and rounded the corner of the cottage. The horse was pressed against the far fence, his coat dark with sweat, his eyes rolling white with fury. Between Atlas and the railing stood George Wickham, whip in hand, his face twisted with rage.
Even from this distance, Darcy could see the welts marking Atlas’s shoulders, could see him flinched when Wickham raised the whip again.
“No!” The word tore from Darcy’s throat as he ran forward.
Wickham’s head snapped around. Then Wickham’s expression hardened into something uglier and more vicious. He raised the whip high and brought it down with all his strength.
Atlas reared up on his back hooves.
12
The move spurred every man in the clearing into action.
Darcy vaulted the paddock fence. Richard was right behind him, moving with a soldier’s deadly efficiency. Colonel Forster shouted orders to his men, spreading them around the perimeter to cut off any escape.
Wickham spun to face them, the whip still clutched in his hand. His face was flushed, his coat torn, and there was a wildness in his eyes that spoke of a man who knew he was cornered.
“Stay back!” Wickham raised the whip threateningly. “I will hurt him, Darcy. I swear I will!”
“Put down the whip,” Darcy said, his voice deadly calm despite the fury coursing through him. “Now.”
“Not until we have an understanding.” Wickham sneered as he pulled a knife from his belt. “You are going to give me money. A great deal of it. Or this horse dies.”
“How much?” Darcy asked, his eyes never leaving Wickham’s face.
“Two thousand pounds.”
“Gambling debts?” Richard demanded.
“To the wrong people.” Wickham’s voice cracked. “People who don’t wait for payment. If I don’t have the money by week’s end, I’m a dead man.” His laugh turned wild. “If you won’t give me what I need, Darcy, I’ll kill this horse and make you watch.”
“You do not want to do that,” Darcy said, still advancing. “Whatever trouble you are in, killing Atlas will not save you.”
“Won’t it?” Wickham raised the knife high.
Before he could bring it down, Atlas moved.
The horse was twenty-five years old, his joints stiff, his prime long past. But there was nothing old or slow about the way he lunged forward, ears pinned flat, teeth bared. Wickham stumbled backward with a cry of alarm, and Atlas pursued him with single-minded fury.
“Atlas, no!” Darcy shouted, but the horse was beyond hearing. Years of remembered abuse coalesced into this moment of defiance.
Atlas reared, his front hooves slashing the air. Wickham raised his arms to protect his face and stumbled. His feet tangled and he fell hard onto the packed earth.
The horse’s hooves came down.
Wickham screamed and rolled, but not fast enough. One hoof grazed across the face with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed across the dirt.
“Get the horse!” Colonel Forster ordered his men. “Carefully! Do not hurt him!”
But Atlas had already stopped. He stood over Wickham’s prone form, nostrils flaring, muscles quivering with spent fury.
Darcy moved toward Atlas, his hands raised, his voice low and soothing. “Easy, boy. Easy. You have won.”
Atlas’s ears swiveled toward Darcy’s voice. The horse’s chest heaved with exertion, sweat darkening his coat. Terrible welts marked his shoulders and flanks where the whip had struck. A gash dripped blood across his chest where Wickham’s knife had found its mark.
“Atlas,” Darcy said, moving closer. “It is over. You are safe now. He will not hurt you again. I promise.”
Slowly, Atlas’s rigid stance eased. His ears came forward. He turned his head toward Darcy, and in his dark eyes was a mixture of rage, pain, and a glimmer of trust.
