“Did you speak much with Wickham? For I cannot understand his motive in abducting yourself, Georgiana, and your sister.”
“He was a fool,” said Elizabeth, sighing deeply. “He thought that I knew the future, that I possessed some form of far-sight, that I could tell him where the French garrisons were. His intention was to take us—me—to Napoleon, for a large reward, no doubt. Of course, he wished to ransom Georgiana. Oh, that poor, poor girl. Why does she have to endure so much pain from that man!”
“He evaded us, but when we find the cur, he’ll not escape lightly,” Darcy growled, his anger palpable.
Elizabeth winced. “Perhaps his escape is partly my fault, for he questioned me closely about my gift. I told him I sometimes see future memories, dreams perchance. Yet, when I thought of the French sailors, there was nothing—it was then I realised they would die. In any town, people die, even as they are born. In Meryton those near death never pressed against me.” She paused in recollection. “‘Tis likely that Wickham slipped away during the night.”
Darcy looked down at the lady, her chestnut hair now free, hanging in long tresses down her back—she had lost all her pins someplace during the long chase from England. He was once besotted by her; then resentful. Now, he knew not, but she was unlike any woman he had known before.
They marched on. Night fell swift and black. They found a ruined shepherd’s hut among the rocks, and there they made camp—riflemen spread in a ring, flints primed and ready. The women huddled by the embers of a small fire, the wind howling through the broken roof. Lydia, exhausted, slept at once, while Georgiana lay with her head on Elizabeth’s lap.
Darcy sat beside the fire, cleaning his pistol. Fitzwilliam crouched beside him, eyes on the darkness. “She’s strong, Darcy. Stronger than you know.”
“I never knew her,” Darcy whispered. “Yet, I would tear the world apart for her.”
“But you didn’t need to. They’re here. And Wickham—” Fitzwilliam’s mouth twisted. “He’s a cockroach. He’ll turn up again, but next time, we’ll be ready.”
Goulding came in from the dark, rifle over his shoulder. “All quiet, Colonel. Spaniards have the hill. No French within a mile.”
“Good.” Fitzwilliam stood, stretching. His back ached from the climb, and his mind hummed with the memory of the Spaniards’ knives, the Frenchmen’s blood on the moss. He looked at his men, at the women huddled by the fire, and felt for a moment the weight of command.
He thought of the war, of the endless marching, the cold, the hunger, the fleeting moments of respite snatched from the jaws of chaos. And he thought of Miss Bennet’s face, lit by the fire, and the way Darcy’s hand never quite left hers.
There would be more fighting. The French would find the bodies, and Wickham—slippery as an eel—would not stop until he was brought to heel. But for tonight, there was safety, and victory, and the company of friends.
The wind rattled the stones of the crumbling walls of the hut. Fitzwilliam drew his cloak tighter, and let himself hope, just for a moment, that dawn would bring better things. Somewhere in the darkness, a rifleman began to hum a tune.
* * *
Chapter 14
Oviedo
Elizabeth wished to cry, to scream at the world that this was so unfair—all she had agreed to was to accompany Lydia to Brighton, to chaperone her and Harriet around the town.
Had she ever wished to visit Spain? Not that she could remember. She knew where it was, having snuck a look in her father’s precious atlas, and seen maps sketched in newspapers, describing some naval victory over the French. And here she was, walking the Camino de San Salvador, an ancient Spanish pilgrim route. Once, she would have gloried to visit the Cathedral at Oviedo to see the Santo Sudario, the shroud that covered the head of Jesus after his crucifixion. Now, she just wished to curl up and cry.
She laughed wryly, feeling so desperately sorry for herself.
“Miss Bennet, can I assist you?” Darcy stepped closer to the lady—she was worn, near the end of her endurance.
“Mr. Darcy, I was letting myself succumb to self-misery. I was recalling a passage my father once read from a book by Joseph Townsend,A Journey Through Spain—’To travel commodiously in Spain, a man should have a good constitution, two good servants, letters of credit for the principal cities, and a proper introduction to the best families.’He also warned travellers of delicate pride that they might be forced to accept the demeaning necessity of riding upon an ass. Do we have an ass, sir? For certainly my pride is no longer sodelicate as to forgo such pleasure! I trust you have appropriate letters of credit, and that Don Mateo is of excellent family.”
Elizabeth burst into tears. “Oh, for shame. Please ignore me, sir. I must see to Georgiana and Lydia.” She hurried away, sure in her distress that he disdained her tears and weakness.
Elizabeth trudged through the mud. She glanced behind her, where two makeshift litters bounced over the ruts and roots. Lydia, her face pale and lips parted, her chest rising and falling beneath a rough blanket. Georgiana looked worse, her eyes closed, her breath shallow. The sight of them—so broken and battered—made Elizabeth’s own aches seem petty. She put one foot ahead of the other and kept her complaints to herself.
Ahead, the path wound upward, following the ancient stones of the pilgrim trail. Don Mateo led the way, his boots silent on the moss. He moved with a purpose that brooked no dissent, glancing back every so often to check the company’s progress. Beside him strode Colonel Fitzwilliam, sword at his hip, his keen eyes scanning the trees. Fitzwilliam had the look of a man who had not slept for days and did not intend to, not while his charges were at risk.
Darcy walked behind Elizabeth, the muscles in his jaw bunched with worry. He did not speak unless spoken to, but Elizabeth knew he watched her, measuring every stumble, every wince. She found herself grateful for his silence. Words, just now, would be an extravagance.
The riflemen, green-jacketed and mud-spattered, moved in a loose column behind the litters. Will Goulding directed them with quiet authority. He had the knack of making men obey without raising his voice, and Elizabeth, watching him, sensed he would go far if he lived long enough. The other men were hard-eyed and lean, their faces tanned and scored by the sun andwind. They looked like men who had marched a thousand miles and would march a thousand more if the order came.
A second partisan joined them, carrying a bundle of clothing. He was young, cheerful, whistling a snatch of some local tune as he handed Elizabeth a woollen skirt and linen shirt to replace her torn muslins ruined beyond repair. Elizabeth muttered her thanks in halting Asturian, and the man grinned, showing a mouthful of broken teeth.
The new woollen skirt itched her calves, but she was grateful for the warmth. The linen blouse clung to her back, sticky with sweat, and her hair was tied in a makeshift knot, not for fashion but to keep it free of the thorns and trailing branches that crowded the path. The morning passed in a blur of footsteps and whispered warnings. The trail skirted the edge of a ruined village, its church spire broken, the houses blackened by old fire.
Fitzwilliam signalled for silence, and the company moved past in a hush, the only sound the scrape of boots and the creak of the litter poles. Elizabeth’s heart hammered. She had never seen the aftermath of war before—living in the safe green fields of Hertfordshire. But this—ever so close—real. Here, the air itself tasted of fear.
