Darcy reached for the trailing lead rope. His fingers closed around it, and the tension drained from the horse’s shoulders. “Good boy,” he whispered. “Such a good, brave lad.”
Behind him, Richard hauled Wickham to his feet. Blood poured from Wickham’s shattered nose. When he opened his mouth to protest, his front teeth were gone—broken off by the force of Atlas’s hoof.
“Thop! Pleath—” Wickham’s voice was thick, wet, barely intelligible.
“Shut your mouth,” Richard said coldly. “Or what is left of it.”
Two militia officers moved in to flank the prisoner. Wickham swayed between them, blood streaming down his ruined face, and Darcy understood that his greatestweapon—that charming smile, those handsome features—was destroyed forever.
“Wickham,” Colonel Forster barked, his voice cold with contempt. “Theft, cruelty to animals, assault—take your pick. You will face a court-martial at the very least. More likely you will hang. You have no one to blame but yourself.”
To his men he said, “Take the prisoner to camp and guard him well. He not only has no future in the militia, he has no future at all.”
Darcy continued his examination of Atlas, his hands gentle but thorough. The welts were painful but superficial—raised and angry but not deep enough to scar. Atlas flinched when Darcy’s fingers found a bloody spot on his foreleg, but he stood still, his trust in Darcy evident.
It was when Darcy moved to check Atlas’s chest that he found it. Blood. Running down his chest, matting the hair. Darcy’s stomach clenched. He parted the hair carefully and found the wound—a gash perhaps three inches long.
“Richard,” he called, his voice raw. “I need cloth.”
Richard was there in an instant, already loosening his cravat as Darcy was doing the same with his own. “How bad?”
“Deep enough. It needs binding.” Darcy accepted the cravat and pressed both cloths firmly against the wound. Atlas shifted but did not pull away.
If they could get the horse to Longbourn, if they could keep infection at bay?—
“We need to move him,” Darcy said. “The wound needs proper cleaning and binding. And Atlas needs water, rest, and care.”
“Can he walk?” Richard asked.
“I do not know.” Darcy ran his hand down Atlas’s legs, checking for heat, swelling, or any sign of injury beyond the visible wounds. Everything seemed sound. “Atlas, can you walk? Can you make it home?”
Atlas’s ears swiveled toward him. The horse took a tentative step, then another. He limped, favoring his left foreleg, but he could move.
“Sam,” Darcy called. “Bring Gracie. I will lead Atlas on foot. It will be slower, but I will not risk riding him in this condition.”
“Aye, sir.” Sam vaulted the fence and brought Gracie forward, her reins loose in his hand.
“Two miles back to Longbourn,” Richard said. “Maybe a bit more. Can he make it?”
“He will make it,” Darcy said, his voice carrying absolute conviction. “Atlas has never failed me. He will not fail now.”
“She will forgive you, you know,” Richard said eventually.
“Who?”
“Miss Elizabeth.”
“I do not deserve her forgiveness.” Darcy’s voice was rough. “I brought Atlas here to teach her to ride. Instead, I have caused him to be beaten by a man who should never have been allowed within ten miles of him.”
“You could not have known Wickham would do this.”
“Could I not? I have known Wickham all my life. I knew what he is capable of. And still, I was careless. I worried only about Georgiana and Elizabeth. I allowed my guard to drop.” Darcy’s hand gripped the lead rope. “Atlas has paid the price for my complacency.”
“And Wickham will pay the price for his cruelty,” Richard said.
They crested a slight rise, and Longbourn came into view. The figures in the stable yard all turned toward the lane, watching, waiting.
“Almost there, boy,” he said.
