“Donnelly, Simms. Take one more, your choice. Mr. Goulding will guide you to the gully. You are to go ahead, as far as you dare, and see what you may learn. No heroics. No gunfire unless you must. If you find their camp, mark it and return.”
Donnelly and Simms exchanged a look, then beckoned a wiry young man whose eyes glittered with nerves and excitement. Together, the three slipped away, Goulding following silent as a shadow, their boots crunching softly on the wet stones.
Darcy watched them go, every muscle taut. Fitzwilliam laid a hand on his arm. “We will have them back, Darcy. We must be patient now.”
Darcy shook his head, voice rough. “I have never been patient. Not where Georgiana is concerned.”
Fitzwilliam managed a tight, humourless smile. “Then let us hope our poachers are quick.”
The remaining men settled in among the rocks, lighting no fires, speaking in whispers. The cold crept in—first numbingfingers, then settling deep into bones. The night pressed close, each sound magnified: the distant crash of surf, the clatter of a loose pebble, the occasional call of a seabird startled from its roost.
Darcy paced the line of the cliff, eyes fixed on the dark defile. In his mind he saw Miss Bennet—her hair blown wild by the sea wind—something lurched within him, some nameless fear for her safety, someone who needed his protection. He saw Miss Lydia, tearful and frightened; and Georgiana, pale and silent, clutching Miss Bennet’s hand. He thought of Wickham’s smile, the cold, practised malice of it, and felt his jaw clench.
Fitzwilliam crouched by the base of the cliff, tracing the ground with his fingers. The earth was scuffed and gouged, the marks unmistakable. “They moved fast, but not fast enough to hide the trail. And see here—” He pointed to a broken sprig of heather, buried under a deep footprint. “They’re carrying something heavy. The girls, perhaps, or supplies.”
A faint sound—a pebble skittering down the slope—brought both men to their feet. Darcy’s hand went to his pistol, but Fitzwilliam caught his arm. “Wait.”
Out of the darkness, Goulding materialised, breathless. “Donnelly and Simms have reached the crest. There’s a path, narrow, but passable.”
“Did they see the women… the men?” Darcy demanded.
Goulding shook his head. “Not yet. They must have followed the trail further inland. ’Tis certain they’re carrying at least one, maybe two of the women.” He handed the Colonel a piece of lace, torn from a muslin skirt, caught hanging on a thorny bush. “Too high for a lady walking—she was being carried. Likely a big man.”
Darcy’s face tightened. Fitzwilliam nodded. “They’ll tire, and seek a safe place to rest. Go back. Tell Donnelly to follow as close as they dare and return. We’ll not risk losing them in thedark. If it’s safe, tell them to stay nearby. They can send the other man—Petersen?—back to us with their news. Goulding, as I’ve said, no heroics. You’re to return once you’ve spoken to them.”
Goulding nodded and vanished, swift and silent, up the gully.
The night dragged on. Every minute stretched, taut as wire. Darcy slumped to the ground, face in his hands. Fitzwilliam stood watch, eyes never leaving the cliff.
At last, just as the horizon began to pale with the promise of dawn, Petersen appeared, breathless and mud-streaked. “We found them, sir. Off the trail, camped by a rocky outcrop. Two men stand watch, but they’re tired. The rest sleep. There’s a path through the gorse. We can take them at first light.”
“Did they hear you?”
Petersen laughed. “Hear Simms? I’ve seen him crawl so close to a rabbit, he caught it with his bare hands.”
“You’re also a poacher?” asked the Colonel, wryly. “Get some rest, for we’ll move before dawn.”
* * *
The wind off the Bay of Biscay had teeth. It cut straight through Colonel Fitzwilliam’s coat; he squinted up at the escarpment—fifty feet of jagged stone rising sheer from the narrow shingle of beach, its flanks split with gullies and scree.
Fitzwilliam’s boots crunched on sea-wet pebbles as he paused, glancing back at the two men shadowing him: Darcy, tall and silent, jaw locked tight; and Goulding, the Rifle officer, whose green jacket and Baker rifle marked him for a hunter. Goulding’s dark face was taut with hunger and something harder—he wanted blood, and Fitzwilliam, for once, did not blame him. There were Frenchmen up there, and Wickham too, and three women who should not have been dragged into this filthy game.
He signed to Goulding. The lieutenant nodded, gesturing for his riflemen—hard-eyed lads, most of them swapping imprisonment or transportation for serving in His Majesty’s army. Two had already gone ahead, climbing the steep defile that wound up the cliff face, going ahead to join Donnelly and Simms.
Fitzwilliam wiped sweat and salt from his brow, breathing hard. “Well, Darcy?” he muttered.
Darcy’s eyes never left the shadows above. “We go,” he said, low and cold. “No more waiting.”
Goulding grinned, teeth white in his stubble. “Aye, sir. We’ll have ‘em.”
The three men moved, pressed flat to the stone, boots finding purchase in the loose shale. Fitzwilliam’s heart thudded in his chest, and he cursed himself for every glass of brandy and every soft bed since Portugal. He’d fought Frenchmen before, but never with so much at stake. Miss Bennet. Miss Lydia. Georgiana. He saw Darcy’s fists clenched tight, and knew the same names beat in his cousin’s heart.
They came to the crest, kept moving as quietly as possible along the narrow trail that led further inland.
A whistle—a thrush’s note, sharp and quick—came down the wind.
Goulding stopped, cocked his head, then nodded. “That’s them. Up ahead.” He grinned again, savage. “Ready, Colonel?”
