Page 89 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘Arggghhhhh!’ I shriek.

Suddenly, without warning, Lightning lets out a loud whinny and rears up on her back legs.

‘Arggghhhh.’

Instead of a passionate embrace, I’m now being thrown backwards into the air. Clutching at the reins, I hang on for dear life as Mr Darcy’s coat slips from my shoulders.

Holy shit!

That moment in the air feels like for ever until – thwack – all four hooves hit the floor and I’m propelled forwards again. Relief floods my body. Oh, thank God, thank God, thank—

It lasts all of about two seconds.

Then she bolts.

‘Hold on!’ shouts Mr Darcy.

‘Argghhhh . . .’

That’s all I can do. Shriek at the top of my lungs in sheer terror.

‘Whoah, easy girl.’ Masterfully he swings his horse round and tries to grab the reins, but Lightning rears up again, knocking him off his horse with sheer brute force.

‘Mr Darcy,’ I scream with horror as he crashes on to the muddy ground.

‘Emily,’ he gasps, winded by the fall.

I glance back. I can hear him shouting something else, but as Lightning charges off his voice is whipped away by the wind and disappears into the night.

‘Help,’ I scream at the top of my lungs as we plunge deep into the woods and I’m thrown around in the saddle. ‘Help,’ I yell again. But it’s hopeless. There’s no Mr Darcy to rescue me.

And now we’re galloping out of the woods and across pitch-black fields. The moon seems to have disappeared behind a cloud and I can’t see a thing, just dark shapes in the distance. Dark, scary shapes that loom out at me like monsters. My stomach jumps into my chest. Jesus! What’s that over there? Brushing underneath branches of trees, I crouch down low, but it’s too late.

Whack.

I feel a sharp blow to my forehead. Then it all goes black.

Chapter Twenty-six

Where am I?

I wake up lying face down. Slowly I roll my head to the side. It thuds dully. Ugghh. Next I curl my fingertips into the palms of my hands, feeling crisp, starched cotton beneath them. I’m in a bed. I peel open my eyes a crack. My bed.

I experience a lurch of relief, swiftly followed by confusion. How did I get here? I don’t remember going to bed. In fact, I don’t remember anything since— I feel a slight panic – I can’t remember.

I try focusing, but my head doesn’t seem to want to work properly. Not the memory bit, anyway. Befuddled, I peer blearily through my eyelashes. My room is still in darkness but for a lamp casting a glow in the far corner.

For a few seconds I don’t move. I just lie here, doing nothing but breathing in and breathing out, cocooned in a snug of blankets and praying for this fog of sleep and amnesia to lift. And now, slowly, my eyes are starting to adjust. Fuzzy shapes are appearing out of the Anaglypta shadows and coming into focus: in the corner, the nylon jaws of my suitcase lie wide open, and there are items of clothing strewn everywhere – T-shirts, jeans, sweaters – a swathe of chocolate satin slung across the full-length mirror.

Of course. The dress. The New Year’s Eve ball. It’s all coming back to me now. Dancing with Spike, smoking that joint, bumping into Mr Darcy—

Mr Darcy.

Tentatively I roll my head across the pillow to the other side. My eyes follow like those in a haunted-house painting. My hangover starts thumping like a bongo drum. Slowly, slowly, slow-lee . . .

The pillow next to me is empty.

I stare distrustfully at it for a moment, almost expecting Mr Darcy’s dark head to materialise on the paisley cotton, then indignantly shove the thought aside. Of course I didn’t sleep with him! I’m not that kind of girl, and he’s not that kind of guy.