Elizabeth nibbled at the bread, its crust rough, almost too tough for her teeth; the cheese was salty, almost as hard as the bread. The men around her made little noise, save for the shifting of boots and the soft clinks of their belts and weapons. The riflemen, their green jackets stained with mud, crouched or leaned against stones, eyes always scanning the brush and the hillside.
Colonel Fitzwilliam returned from a brief exchange with Don Mateo. “We are to press on as soon as the litters are readied. The chasseurs are not far behind, but riding along a path in the valley. Mateo believes they may be northern Basque conscripts, and if so, they are as likely to melt into the hills as to pursue us. Still, we should not linger.”
Elizabeth found herself watching Darcy, who seemed restless, his gaze never lingering long on any one thing. “Do you think we are in danger, Mr. Darcy?” she asked quietly, not wanting to trouble Lydia, who was dozing, or Georgiana, whose pallor seemed to deepen by the hour.
He hesitated. “Not immediate danger, I hope. But we have much ground to cover, and these hills are riddled with fords and passes. A vigilant enemy might—” He broke off, as Colonel Fitzwilliam approached, his boots squelching in the soft ground.
“We will move in pairs along the next stretch,” the Colonel announced, his tone brisk, but gentle enough for the women’s sake. “Miss Bennet, will you walk with me? Darcy, you take the rear with Donnelly and Simms. I want our best eyes behind us.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed, but he nodded, accepting the order without complaint. Elizabeth rose, brushing dirt and leaves from her skirt, and took the Colonel’s offered arm. The company moved out, riflemen fanning ahead, their dark forms flitting like shadows among the ferns.
Overhead, the clouds thinned, revealing sudden blue patches. The path twisted up through chestnut groves, roots clawing at the earth, leaves trembling in the wind. The air was sharp, almost sweet, with the promise of rain or sun—or both.
Colonel Fitzwilliam walked steadily over the treacherous ground. “You are bearing up admirably, Miss Bennet,” he said, lowering his voice. “I confess, I did not expect an English lady to conquer the Cantabrian Mountains as you have done.”
Elizabeth smiled, though her legs ached. “You flatter me, Colonel, though I slow your men.” She paused, thoughtful. “If the hills are less steep on the morrow, ’tis likely that Lydia can walk, at least some of the way.”
A sudden cry from up ahead brought the party to a halt. The lead rifleman, Petersen, beckoned the Colonel forward. Fitzwilliam handed Elizabeth off to one of the younger riflemen, who offered her his arm with a shy, lopsided grin.
The column waited, breath held. Elizabeth could hear only the wind in the grass and the distant call of a bird. Then Fitzwilliam returned, his face grave. “A bridge ahead has been destroyed. We must ford the river. Darcy, can you assist with the litters?”
Darcy moved forward at once, and the riflemen set to work. The river was not deep, but swift, tumbling over rocks slick withmoss. The litters were borne across on the shoulders of four men each, while others held out their hands to steady Elizabeth, whose face was drawn with fear. Darcy and Fitzwilliam waded in, boots filling with icy water.
On the far bank, Elizabeth paused to wring out her skirts. The path now climbed steeply, the air thinning as they ascended. The riflemen grew quiet, every step taken with care. Above, mountains loomed, their crowns still dusted with late summer snow. An eagle circled, high and silent.
As the company wound upward, Colonel Fitzwilliam fell back to walk with Darcy. Elizabeth, free to listen, heard snatches of their talk. “—must keep the pace steady. If the French catch us in these passes—”
“They will not,” Darcy said, voice low. “Mateo’s men know every sheep path. We will be ghosts before the chasseurs find our tracks.”
Fitzwilliam nodded, but concern shadowed his eyes. “And the women? They are brave, but—this is no place for them.”
Darcy glanced at Elizabeth, who walked ahead. “Miss Bennet is as strong as any of us, Richard.”
By noon, the path levelled, and the company halted beneath a stand of pine. The riflemen passed round a flask ofaguardiente, its fiery contents sending a cheer through the ranks. Elizabeth pressed her back against a sun-warmed stone, grateful for the brief respite.
Darcy joined her, his hair damp, his boots caked with mud. “You are well?” he asked, concern threading his words.
“I am tired, but—” She broke off, searching for the right phrase. “I have never seen such country. It is wild and beautiful. I cannot help but feel—awed by its splendour.”
He smiled, a rare warmth lighting his features. “You would have made a fine soldier, Miss Bennet.”
She laughed softly. “Only if they permit me to complain along the way. Yet, there is something I wish to talk to you about.”
“Certainly, please, I will assist you if I am able.”
“You recall I spoke of my gift, that people’s thoughts press against me, that I have memories, other people’s memories of the future.”
“Oh, I had forgotten.” Darcy spoke gently. “How are you bearing up—with the riflemen, the partisans?”
“I have not felt them. No, it was different from the French sailors—theirs was a nothingness, a void. Oh, it is so difficult to explain! But, when I was walking with you, their thoughts receded, just a soft buzz in the background. Perhaps most people feel it, but it doesn’t intrude and is ignored.”
“When you walk with me?” queried Darcy. “But this morning you were walking with Richard.”
“That is when I noticed the thoughts pressing back. The young soldier, who took my arm when the Colonel was called forward—I could see him, Mr. Darcy, kneeling on a rocky slope, firing at French voltigeurs—a place called Salamanca.”
“Now? Do you have such memories now?”
She smiled hesitantly, blushing faintly. “No, sir. Just the slightest pressure, nothing more. Certainly, I have no unwanted memories, no visions. Do you think, if it is possible, that you could walk with me this afternoon? For I am so much more relaxed—it is as though I have awoken from a bad night’s sleep. Isn’t it strange, that for me, the most pleasant of dreams is no dream at all.”
